MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  Life was unfair, though. And so Cal waited for dawn, not holding his breath.

  His wait was cut short by the knock on his cell door; it seemed whatever charade remained left in his life, however long or short it would be, would commence before daybreak. He was taken out and moved at gunpoint into the courtyard, where a large cargo truck sat idling. The cargo bed was covered with canvas, as was the back gate, so Cal figured they were going for a ride. He looked around the compound one last time, figuring he should remember the place where he’d spent his last night alive.

  Frank and Zippy were already inside the cargo area, along with a couple of Red soldiers who looked to be no older than sixteen—but they were armed with nasty-looking rifles, so he figured to behave.

  “’Morning, Cal,” Frank offered quietly.

  “Frank. Miss Zippy,” Cal replied. “Guess nobody went and flipped.”

  Zippy smiled. “I don’t think they had any intention of welcoming us into the fold. I think yesterday was more for the Russian Variants’ benefit than ours.”

  “Yeah, Beria knew,” Frank said as the truck began to move. “We’re gonna be the justification for whatever he’s got cooking next. I’m sure he’s got it all planned out.”

  Cal opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. Cal had orders—unique orders, given to him by Hillenkoetter himself—about what to do should they all be captured. He hadn’t had a chance to put them into effect yet because they’d been separated. It was an order Cal had sworn he’d never follow, one that probably meant ending up on the wrong side of the gate with St. Peter.

  But now, maybe he’d have to do it.

  “If you’re captured and it looks like they’re going to separate you for good, I’m ordering you to use your Enhancement on however many other American Variants are with you. We cannot let them fall into enemy hands,” Hillenkoetter had said on a brisk fall morning in Foggy Bottom.

  “Come again, sir?”

  The director had smiled sadly at Cal. “I know it doesn’t sit right with you, Mr. Hooks, and I’m sorry to have to give you this order. But if it’s the difference between letting a Variant fall into Soviet hands or not, then I expect you to carry this out. Deny the enemy any Variants who are with you. I don’t care if it’s Maggie or Frank or anyone else. Send ’em home to God, son.”

  Cal frowned. At the time, he’d just nodded. Hadn’t had the guile to lie or the courage to resist. Now he’d have to choose, and God help him, he didn’t know if he could do it.

  Or if he should do it.

  After several minutes of silence, the truck rolled to a stop with a screech of badly maintained brakes; Cal couldn’t help but notice that the Russians didn’t do a great job of caring for their machinery in general; seemed like the workers’ paradise didn’t leave much time to get any real work done. A few moments later, the back flap of the truck was opened, and the two boys with guns stood and motioned the Variants to exit.

  The sky was starting to lighten off to the east, and Cal found himself hoping to witness a sunrise just once more. He wasn’t usually this pessimistic, or romantic for that matter, but he supposed that was just what folks did and felt when their end arrived. He looked at Frank and Zippy as they stood there, Zippy hugging herself for warmth, Frank looking around earnestly, taking in everything, probably still trying to find them an escape route.

  Not yet. He wouldn’t yet. Not until Frank gave them a chance at something. Nonetheless, Cal went and stood between his friends, just in case.

  They were out in one of the big grassy fields well away from the old buildings, though Cal could see some lights up on a rise far off in the distance and figured that was where they’d come from; the drive was short enough. There wasn’t much there, just a rutted dirt road and a whole lot of grass.

  And a tower of some kind, made of wood. Had to be a hundred feet high, towering over them. At the top, there was a little shed, with power cables running out from it down the tower to a purring generator on the ground below. And it was busy. There were men in white coats climbing up ladders to the top, going inside the shed. Others were on the ground, standing around a series of makeshift tables, taking notes and watching a few different instruments with moving needles and dials and such.

  Cal looked over at Frank, who looked pale. Cal raised an eyebrow, and Frank mouthed a single word: “A-bomb.” Cal looked up again at the tower and saw a metal cone protruding from the bottom. An atomic bomb? Probably—Frank had enough expertise in his head to identify what was going on.

  Oddly, it was kind of comforting. If the Russians wanted to drop an A-bomb on them, Cal didn’t have to worry anymore about murdering his friends so they wouldn’t fall into Soviet hands. The Soviets weren’t interested in having them around anyways, it seemed.

  “Good morning, my fellow Empowered,” Lavrentiy Beria said, walking over to them. He had on one of his workers’ jumpsuits, and despite the early hour, he was animated. “I trust I don’t need to tell you what is happening here.”

  Zippy held her head high. “Somebody ordered a mad scientist kit?”

  Beria laughed. “Something like that. This morning, we change the world forever. Not only do we make the Soviet Union the preeminent power in the world, but we come to an even greater understanding of the Empowered condition.”

  Cal looked around again and saw that shadow figure off to the side, leaning against the tower in an oddly normal way, like it was waiting for the bus. A few of the other Variants—that scary girl, the speedster he’d aged last year—were also hanging around, observing.

  “I think I know what’s gonna happen,” Cal said. “Either we join up with you, or you’re gonna drop that bomb on us, see if there’s any changes in that white light you got locked up in Leningrad.”

  Beria nodded, smiling at Cal. “Very good, Mr. Hooks. You and your colleagues have obviously made the connection between nuclear blasts and the arrival of Empowerment. And yes, perhaps you even have a sense that death itself is a key. But what of actual Empowered deaths? We of course have not tested this yet, because we value the lives of our Empowered. And if you valued your own lives and sought to bring them to their full potential to help humanity, you would join us and avoid such a fate.” Beria’s face grew serious. “But yes, I do not think you will do this, as much as I would like you to. It gives me no joy to destroy such rare, talented people. But since you would oppose us, we should at least make your deaths a benefit to our scientific inquiry.”

  Beria looked Cal right in the eye, and Cal stared back. He desperately wanted to live. He had so much to live for, and he wanted to see his wife and boy again. But he was also tired of folks claiming to be better than other folks, something he’d dealt with his whole life. And this charming, smiling Russian was as Godless as they came, seeking to replace the Good Shepherd with his own oversight.

  “Best get your equipment ready then,” Cal said. “Ain’t signing up.”

  Beria looked over at Cal’s fellow Americans, who let their hard stares and silence do the talking. With a shrug and a look of sadness that almost seemed genuine, Beria stalked off toward the scientists. The three Variants were then manhandled over to the wooden tower—and placed directly under it, each one of them tied to one of the tower’s legs.

  Cal saw Frank’s head was still on a swivel, constantly looking and assessing, still trying to find a way out. Zippy was starting to look a lot worse for wear, though, as if the impact of her situation was just hitting her.

  “What you got, Frank?” Cal called out.

  The former Army man grimaced. “Not a lot. Ropes aren’t horrible; we could probably be free right after they pack up and leave. The trick, of course, is getting clear.” Cal nodded. Tough to outrun an atomic bomb. “Shelter nearby?”

  “Been looking, nothing really helpful. We’d need to put a lot between us and that bomb, whether it’s distance or shelter.” Frank shrugged. “We’re on an empty steppe.”

  “What can I do, Frank?” Cal asked.<
br />
  “Just … get ready. We’ll give it a shot. Help Zip when the time comes.”

  Cal looked over to Zippy, who had just begun to shed some quiet tears. “Don’t you worry, Miss Zippy. We gonna be moving soon.”

  She gave a brave nod and a half-smile, but Cal could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

  In the distance, Cal heard a helicopter. It was getting closer.

  He looked up into the brightening sky … and saw two helicopters. Coming from different directions.

  Cal turned to Frank, who had a look of disbelief on his face and maybe just a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Frank?”

  “That’s American,” Frank said quietly. “Looks like a HUP-1, if I’m not mistaken. Navy bird.”

  “Ain’t no Navy out here, Frank,” Cal said.

  “Trust me. Got a guy in my head who says he was overseeing the prototype testing a few years back. Question is, what’s she doing out here?”

  The other helicopter—Russian-built, Cal assumed, given the big red star on it—landed pretty close to the tower and all the scientists, while the first one circled about, as if to get a good look at things, before landing a bit farther away. It was unmarked, which certainly lent credence to Frank’s claim that it was American made. Couldn’t have a U.S. Navy aircraft enter Soviet airspace all marked up with the red, white, and blue.

  Several Russian jeeps approached from over the low ridge, each packed with soldiers. It definitely felt like the welcoming committee for that helicopter. Beria, meanwhile, was yelling out orders and the scientists were packing up quickly, at the same time as the soldiers present began to check their weapons. The Russian Variants were spreading out, and Cal lost track of a few of them in the hustle and bustle. Not good.

  “Work your ropes,” Frank said. “We gotta be ready.”

  “For what?” Zippy asked.

  “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  Cal began wiggling his wrists around, ignoring the rope burn as he tried to loosen his bonds. Meanwhile, the hatch on the side of the American helicopter opened up, and two people emerged, making their way toward the Russian encampment—and the big atomic bomb.

  “Well … I will be damned,” Cal muttered as the sun peeked over the ridge and illuminated the newcomers.

  It was Danny Wallace and Maggie Dubinsky.

  Cal was about to call out to Frank when he felt tugging at his ropes. He looked over his shoulder and saw … nothing? A little blur of movement?

  “Cavalry’s here,” came a distinctly American voice, seemingly out of nowhere.

  For a split second, Cal saw a white man in his thirties crouched behind him, untying his bonds. Then it was all blurry again.

  “You one of us?” Cal whispered.

  “MAJESTIC,” the voice responded. “Get ready to move.”

  August 29, 1949

  Maggie walked across the grasslands a step or two behind Danny, surveying everything she could and bringing all her training to bear. There were at least thirty people surrounding that derrick—which Danny had said likely contained a goddamn A-bomb—and six jeeps speeding down the road toward them, so anywhere from twelve to twenty-four more bodies in the mix. That would be too many for one go-round. She’d have to work in batches, and work fast, to incapacitate that many people. And the odds were good that at least two, maybe as many as four, would chose the fight option of “fight or flight” and make things even harder.

  “If this deal goes south, this is gonna get ugly. There’s too many,” she said quietly.

  “They’re not gonna deal,” Danny replied. “And I got a bead on … six other Variants besides our people. Confirming one of them appears to be Lavrentiy Beria.”

  “Super,” Maggie replied. “Any idea how they’ll affect the plan?”

  “Nope. ‘Best-laid plans’ never accounted for new Variants.”

  The Russian troops spread out across the field, rifles aimed, but at a considerable distance. At least half were beyond the reach of Maggie’s abilities, which was a pretty smart move, she had to admit. Of course, the more they walked, the more it looked like the Russians might catch themselves in a crossfire. Were they that dumb? Possibly. Or perhaps Beria didn’t care how many people died, so long as the Variants were killed or captured.

  Maggie felt her anger rise. This wouldn’t end well for them.

  “Maggie, ease up on the rage,” Danny hissed. “I … I can’t afford to just punch Beria in the face when I see him.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and made a conscious effort to rein in her emotions. After all this time, shit like that still happened. Frustrating. “Sorry.”

  “Not to worry,” Danny said. “I’m seeing movement at the tower. Looks like Sorensen is doing his job. If we make it out of here alive, we gotta figure out how to extend his camouflage to others.”

  “Shut up,” Maggie whispered as Beria began walking toward them, surrounded by at least six armed guards and officers. “It’s show time.”

  The two stopped about fifty yards from their helicopter—and a good hundred yards away from the tower and the Soviet scientists. The Red Army guys were taking positions about thirty yards away, with at least a dozen rifles aimed at them. Soon, Beria and his people were only about ten feet away. Danny held up four fingers—there were four Variants in total in front of them. Maggie instantly recognized the Illyanov siblings from their encounter in Czechoslovakia, but the abilities of the other two, including Beria, were a mystery.

  “You must be my mystery caller,” Beria said simply.

  Danny nodded. “That’s right. Your people are in our helicopter. Where are ours?”

  “Secured. I’m sure you know what’s going on here today.”

  “About time you guys caught up to us,” Danny replied.

  Beria frowned and looked down at his shoes a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. “Your people are stubborn,” he said finally. “I would make the same offer to you I made to them, but I feel as though this would be a waste of time.”

  “Let me guess,” Maggie chimed in. “Join up? Rule the world in the name of communism?”

  “Something like that,” Beria said, a half-smile appearing. “And I assume you have a plan to rescue them and leave, given that I have no intention of releasing them or you.”

  “Goes without saying,” Danny said as he evened out his stance. Maggie did the same, appreciating Beria’s lack of bullshit, if nothing else.

  “Many Empowered people could die because of this,” Beria cautioned. “There are too few of us to be wasted in such a way. We are stronger together than fighting each other.”

  Danny shrugged. “You and yours are more than welcome to come with us if that makes you feel any better.”

  “No, thank you,” Beria said. “Teper!”

  Beria raised his arms and a giant gout of pure yellow flame exploded out of his hands toward Maggie and Danny. Both of them hit the ground immediately and Maggie let loose with both proverbial barrels, sending abject fear out from her in waves of pure red terror. Danny moaned next to her—she was going more for brute power than accuracy, and no doubt he’d caught a whiff.

  Then the screaming started, and Maggie smiled, even as shots began zinging past overhead. The flames sputtered and died, and she looked up to see Beria running away as fast as he could.

  Maggie grabbed Danny and moved forward, away from the grass now completely engulfed in flames, diving to the right to use the remaining tall grass, the stuff that wasn’t yet on fire, as cover. The Russians that had been in front of them moments earlier were nowhere to be found.

  “Let’s go,” she said, letting the fear slough away.

  * * *

  Frank saw the flames erupt about a hundred yards off and knew that whatever Danny had planned, it had either just been shot to shit or it was going perfectly. He hoped for the latter.

  Weapons, then sabotage. Move.

  His hands free, Frank grabbed one of the distracted guards from behind and snapped his neck in one fluid motion—
an incredibly hard move that he wouldn’t have been able to pull off without the instruction in his head. Frank grabbed the poor soldier’s rifle before he hit the ground, and turned to find Cal gently laying another boy on the ground, looking a little bit younger for it. Cal handed the rifle to the blur—only to realize that this new Variant’s camouflage didn’t actually hide whatever he was carrying.

  “Zip, grab the rifle,” Frank said, quietly as he could. “Everybody down.” Frank hit the deck along with everyone else, then looked around. “New guy, where are you?”

  “Right next to you,” came a voice to Frank’s left. “Sorensen.”

  He’s good. “What’s the plan?”

  “The deal was to trade a couple other Variants for you three, but Danny always figured the Reds wouldn’t play according to the rules. So, it’s a rescue now.”

  When did we get two tradable Variants? “Who else you got?”

  “Yamato, who controls electricity, is working it from the left side there. Christina’s a leaper—she’s working her way around on the right to help us from behind. We also have null grenades.”

  “Come again?”

  “Null grenades. That crazy housewife managed to create grenades that’ll create those null zones on impact. Each one lasts about a minute.”

  Frank smiled, then gave a listen to the multitude of voices coursing through his head.

  Even the odds.

  Create distractions.

  Sabotage.

  Kill Beria if possible.

  “OK. We need distractions. Blow up a jeep or two, send some others running free. Take out as many soldiers as you can. We meet at the helicopter you came in on. If that’s damaged, head for the Russian bird. Do not damage either ’copter. Got it?”

  “Got it.” A moment later, Frank saw the faintest blur heading off toward one of the jeeps.