MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Cal, how we feeling?”

  The black man smiled at him. “A lot better than a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m putting you on Variant duty. Find ’em, drain ’em, take ’em out.”

  “Frank, I ain’t gonna—”

  “I know, I know. Just take ’em out of the game. Move. Pick up as much juice as you can along the way.”

  Cal nodded and hauled himself up and over to one of the legs of the tower, using it as cover. “Zip, you and I, we got trained for this. You can do it.”

  The young woman nodded nervously.

  Scared.

  First combat.

  Liability.

  “Shut up,” Frank hissed, then glanced back at Zippy, who was looking at him strangely. “Sorry, not you. You stay behind me as we go forward. You cover the right flank and the back. I’ll take left and front. These are AK-47s, thirty rounds, don’t waste bullets. You see some ammo on the ground, grab it.”

  Zippy held up a cartridge and managed a weak smile. “On it.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Frank crouch-ran toward another of the legs. Three Red soldiers were rushing toward the field where Beria had let loose; Frank stopped them in three shots, then swiveled and took out a scientist who’d been yelling, “They’re loose!” in Russian. Just what we didn’t need.

  Quickly checking to see if Zippy was still following, Frank then dashed over to one of the bigger cargo trucks, laying down cover fire as he went. They managed to get behind the truck just as bullets pockmarked the ground behind them.

  The truck.

  “Get in,” Frank said, yanking open the passenger door and motioning for Zippy to lead. She dove for the driver’s seat with the good sense to keep her head down, and Frank jumped in after.

  There was a shadow waiting for them inside.

  “What the—”

  A hand materialized and sent Zippy’s head into the steering wheel, knocking her senseless. Frank reflexively reached out to grab the arm it was attached to, only for it to dissolve into shadow once again. Then a fist caught him squarely in the jaw, sending him back out of the truck onto the grass.

  “You can’t fight me,” the shadow’s voice hissed in Russian as it climbed out of the truck. “You can’t even lay a finger on me.”

  Frank got up off his ass and, staggering slightly, began to throw punches at the shadow; all he got for his trouble was laughter.

  He may not risk materializing if you keep at him.

  Frank kept swinging, and the shadow kept laughing—but at least there were no more fists for the time being.

  Now it was just a question of what to do next, before his arms got tired. All the voices were pretty silent on that point.

  * * *

  Danny followed Maggie as they dashed across the steppe, crouched low. Bullets continued to whiz past overhead, but an explosion from around the tower told him that Sorensen had freed Frank, Cal, and Zippy—and that they were doing as expected. Danny figured he didn’t need to tell Frank what to do, given that he had a bunch of top military minds already in his head.

  A bolt of lightning grabbed Danny’s attention; Yamato had just fried several soldiers to their right. Immediately, Danny and Maggie took off at a dead run toward the light and met up with the young man just as he was gathering the dead Russians’ weapons. He tossed an AK-47 to Danny but hesitated when he came to Maggie. “You know how to use one of these?” Yamato asked incredulously.

  Maggie grabbed the rifle out of his hands, checked the action, then raised it and fired toward a soldier a good seventy-five yards off. He went down. “I think I got this, kid,” she said impatiently.

  Danny looked up quickly—there was a Variant coming toward them, and fast. “Down!”

  Too late. Yamato cried as a gunshot rang out and a blood-red stain appeared in his gut. “Fuck! Oh, fuck!” The teenager fell, and Danny fired his weapon off in the general direction of the Variant, the rapidly parting steppe grass giving him a feeble target.

  “He’s heading for the helicopter!” Danny yelled. “He’s going to get the others!’

  He took off at a dead run, leaving Yamato behind in Maggie’s care. The gut shot would be painful as hell, but he’d linger long enough for Cal to reach him. Probably. Maybe.

  As Danny ran, the rotors began turning. Boris Illyanov likely was in the pilot’s seat. If nothing else, at least that would keep the speedy bastard in one place.

  Just as the runners left the ground, Danny made it to the door and jumped in. Suddenly, there in front of him, was Ekaterina, the little girl with the big goddamn muscles.

  She smiled and threw a fist at his gut.

  It barely registered.

  Danny smiled back as her grin evaporated.

  “Null-generators,” he said, not bothering to find the right words in Russian. “Otherwise, our friends here would be free to escape.”

  Pushing her aside toward the still-bound captives in back—he kind of felt bad about that for a brief moment—he moved up to the cockpit and held his rifle to Boris’s head. “Take her up,” he said. “We have things to do.”

  * * *

  Cal moved through the shadows, relying on his Area 51 training and plain old luck to attack from the fringes of the chaos. He’d managed to lay six people low—just enough to age them a year or two and knock them out cold, while giving him the vigor of a healthy man in his thirties, give or take. Most of them were soldiers, though a scientist who turned around at the wrong time ended up aged a little more than Cal would’ve liked. But he’d live, and that was the most important thing.

  The problem was Beria was nowhere in sight. That was someone Cal wouldn’t mind grabbing more than a few years from, but with all the people running about—and a few jeeps careening around the camp—Cal could barely identify anybody.

  “Ne dvigat’sya!”

  Cal turned to see another young soldier—why did the whole damn Red Army look like a bunch of high school kids?—about ten feet away, pointing his rifle at him, his hands trembling. He didn’t need a translation to get the gist: if the kid wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Instead, cursing himself for not paying attention, Cal slowly raised his hands. “OK, son. I got my hands up,” Cal said quietly and, he hoped, soothingly. “You got me dead to rights. Let’s just take it easy, now.”

  The boy raised his rifle and started yelling in Russian—until a woman came out of nowhere and landed right on top of him, driving him into the grass. Hard.

  “What in God’s name?” Cal blurted.

  The woman—a petite young blonde wearing a flight jumpsuit and boots and carrying an assault rifle, just smiled. “I figure you’re one of us, yeah? Not many black men in the Russian Army.”

  Cal ducked as bullets whizzed by. “Get down!”

  Instead, the woman jumped high—about fifty goddamn feet high—and sprayed a nearby area with automatic fire. She was back on the ground in two seconds. “Sorry about that,” she said, finally crouching down next to Cal. “I’m Christina.”

  “Cal Hooks,” he replied. “You see Beria from up there?”

  “Hang on.” And up she went again, this time making it to the derrick holding the Soviets’ A-bomb. She grabbed hold about forty feet off the ground and looked around for several moments before leaping back down next to Cal once more. “Spotted him! Heading for the Russian helicopter!”

  “We just gotta get him before he sets us on fire,” Cal said. “Lord help me, never thought I’d say that.”

  Christina just smiled. “You just get over there, fast as you can,” she said, holding up an unusual-looking grenade. “I’ll take out his Enhancement.”

  And then she jumped once more—so high and so fast, Cal lost sight of her.

  Cal started running, dodging from cover to cover—behind trucks, tables, equipment. There was less gunfire now, for some reason. Maybe the others had put a nice big dent in the Russian numbers. Of course, somebody would have a radio, so they couldn’t bet on having the advantage
for long. No doubt there was already backup on the way.

  Finally, Cal saw the helicopter and Beria’s balding head as he ducked and ran toward it. Swearing slightly under his breath—he knew he’d feel bad about it later, if there even was a later—Cal took off at a dead run.

  Bullets skittered ahead and behind him, and Cal did his best to zigzag across the steppe, trying to cover the thirty or so yards quick as he could. He looked up just as Christina fell from the sky, landing right in front of Beria and dropping her grenade. There was a flash—and his power was gone.

  Then Cal saw the Russian pull a pistol and shoot Christina in the head.

  “NO!”

  Cal ran faster, fast as he could, and came up behind Beria just as he began heading into the helicopter, tackling the man to the ground. Cal put his hands on Beria’s face and willed his Enhancement to the fore with a prayer for justice …

  … and nothing happened. The grenade was still active.

  Beria lashed out with a fist, catching Cal squarely on the jaw, sending him reeling backward onto his ass.

  “You … you killed that girl!” Cal stammered as he struggled to get to his feet, his head swimming.

  Beria laughed and reached for his holster—but his gun had been jarred loose by Cal’s tackle. Turning, the Russian jumped into the helicopter. It began to rise into the air, leaving Cal no choice but to duck for cover as the gunners opened fire on him. Pain lanced through his leg—a stray bullet had caught him, sending him crumpling to the ground in agony.

  Cal crawled over to Christina’s body, hoping beyond hope that she’d survived, but the bullet hole in her forehead left no debate about it. Whispering a quick prayer for her soul, he drained her of what life he could—and felt the wound on his leg close up somewhat. The grenade’s effects must’ve worn off. He’d be limping, but he’d be mobile.

  He looked around to see much of the area deserted. There were bodies everywhere, mostly those Russian Army boys and a few scientists. And off about thirty yards, Cal could see Frank Lodge getting the living crap beat out of him by what looked like a demonic shadow from hell.

  Cal looked back at Christina, saw the pouch at her belt, reached inside, and found another of those queer grenades. He flipped a little thing on the side—it was the only button or switch he could find—and it gave off a shrill beep. Getting up on his knees, he flung it toward Frank as hard as he could.

  A moment later, the shadow coalesced into a very surprised-looking white man in his thirties. Frank wiped the look off his face with a right hook that looked like it could’ve downed a horse.

  Staggering to his feet, Cal limped over as quick as he could, watching as Frank sank to his knees, utterly spent. When he finally reached him, he could see Frank’s face was a welt of cuts, bumps, and bruises. He looked like he’d been fifteen rounds with Joe Louis.

  “Come on, Frank,” Cal said. “We gotta get up, get moving.”

  Dazed, Frank nonetheless managed to rise. “The others?” he mumbled.

  “We lost that girl, Christina. Where’s Zippy?”

  Frank nodded over to one of the trucks. “Inside there. Knocked out.”

  Cal rushed over to the truck, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and found Zippy in the driver’s seat, woozy and sporting a cut on her forehead. “OK, Miss Zippy. Time to get you out of there. Gimme your hand.”

  With some effort—including having to weather a great deal of pain from his leg—Cal managed to get the girl out and on her feet. Frank joined them at the truck; he’d even managed to pick up a stray AK-47 off the ground.

  “Now what?” Cal asked.

  Frank looked at the Russian ’copter heading off toward the horizon. “We need our ride. Let’s go.”

  It didn’t take long. Once they got out from under cover, they saw the American bird about forty yards off, Maggie and a now-visible Sorensen covering the door with rifles. Maggie spotted them and started waving and shouting.

  “Cherez dve minuty i podscheta golosov.”

  The Russian voice came from loudspeakers mounted on the tower.

  “Frank?” Cal asked.

  “Two minutes and counting,” Frank said, the color receding from his face. “Move!”

  Cal grabbed Zippy’s hand and ran—harder than he’d ever run in his life.

  August 29, 1949

  Maggie watched as her fellow Variants took off at a dead run. She wasn’t sure what the broadcast was all about, but she had an idea—and it wasn’t good.

  “Get ready to take off once they’re on board!” she shouted over the din of the rotor. “I think we’re in for it.”

  “Odna minuta, tridtsat’ sekund i podscheta golosov.”

  “Danny! What is that?”

  Danny poked his head out of the helicopter door. “Ninety seconds. Get in here and put a gun to Boris’s head. Now!”

  Maggie switched places with Danny, marching up to the cockpit and putting the barrel of her rifle right against Illyanov’s temple. “When I give the all clear, you get us out of here as fast as you can, you read me?”

  The recently elderly Russian just looked at her sadly. “I don’t want to die either.”

  The helicopter jostled as the rest of the team piled aboard. Faintly, she could hear the loudspeaker again.

  “Go! Now!”

  Boris needed no encouragement, pulling up on the controls and sending the helicopter into the air with a lurch, heading straight away from the bomb. It didn’t seem nearly fast enough.

  Maggie went back to check on the others. Yamato was sweating profusely and barely conscious, while the others looked a lot worse for wear.

  “Cal, we got wounded,” Maggie said, kneeling beside him. “Can you help?”

  He nodded, trying to catch his breath. “Null-generators,” he gasped.

  Maggie reached over to the hull of the helicopter and flipped a switch. She felt her emotional senses immediately snap back into action.

  “Maggie! No!” Danny cried out. But it was too late.

  The side door of the helicopter crumpled and flew across the compartment, barely missing Danny as it slammed into the wall.

  POSEIDON and Julia Meyer were still aboard, and Maggie had just let them loose.

  Immediately, Maggie latched onto the emotions of the two Variants, but they almost immediately disappeared out of range. POSEIDON flew out the open hatch, likely connecting with the ground using his telekinetic pull, while Julia just sank right through the floor of the helicopter, leaving her bindings and clothes behind.

  “Shit!” Maggie yelled, then wheeled around and flipped the switch back once again.

  But Boris Illyanov was gone, the pilot’s seat empty.

  A shot rang out inside the cabin.

  Maggie turned once more to find Frank Lodge with a rifle in his hand—and Boris Illyanov on the floor in front of him.

  Ekaterina screamed, as only a terrified little girl could.

  Danny pushed past Maggie and headed for the cockpit. “We got thirty seconds.” He settled into the pilot’s seat and pushed the ’copter forward as much as he could. “Everybody brace!”

  Maggie hunkered down onto the floor—they had stripped out the seats of the helicopter—and pulled the Russian girl close. It was the only thing she could think to do.

  * * *

  Julia Meyer sank deep into the earth from her fall, and had to claw her way up, finally reaching the steppe and gasping for air. About fifty meters away, she could see the Variant they called POSEIDON shaking loose from his shackles.

  She didn’t know why the Americans were so keen to leave, and didn’t really care. The scary woman, Maggie, had slipped up—and both she and POSEIDON had been ready to take advantage. They were free, and that was the most important part.

  “Desyat’.”

  The loudspeaker was faint—they were a good kilometer from the tower that had interested the Americans so much. Julia didn’t understand Russian.

  “Devyat’.”

  POSEIDON had
stopped and was staring at the tower now.

  “Vosem’.”

  Suddenly, the Russian began frantically pulling at the remaining bonds around his legs.

  “Sem’.”

  He was shouting something at her now, but she had no idea what he was saying. He seemed pretty agitated.

  “Shest’.”

  Finally, he seemed to give up and started flying through the air toward her, using his Enhancement.

  “Pyat’.”

  He landed next to her and grabbed her arm. A split second later, they were airborne.

  “Chetyre.”

  “What is it? What are you doing?” Julia demanded in English.

  “Tri.”

  They crashed to the earth some fifty yards away. Julia felt a bolt of pain in her arm—it felt broken.

  “Dva.”

  “Damn it! What are you doing?” she said, this time in German.

  “Odin.”

  They were airborne once more, the Russian nearly pulling her arm out of her socket, causing her to scream.

  But the sound never made it out before they were swallowed in light and heat. And then they were gone.

  * * *

  Danny pulled up higher as the sky went bright yellow all around him, then just as quickly darkened. He knew the shock wave would come at any—

  The helicopter surged forward and pitched hard, spinning round like a top. Danny jerked back on the controls, hoping that they’d at least stay airborne. He could feel the temperature around him rising quickly, even as the air suddenly became impossibly dry and harsh.

  And then everything went black.

  What the hell?

  Danny tried to move, but there was nothing to move. He tried to speak, then scream, but he had no mouth, no voice. Nothing.

  Jesus. I just died.

  There was a white light ahead, swirling in the darkness, growing brighter. Maybe that was the tunnel of light he’d heard about in church. His first thought was to go toward it, but as much as he willed himself to move, he was still formless.

  Instead, the light started to come to him. As did … voices.

  So many voices. As if the entire world was trying to whisper to him at once.

  Danny looked into the light as it neared, and saw it for what it was—the vortex. But now, he could see forms in the formlessness, swirling bodies of some kind inside it.