MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Are you sure they are there?” Katie asked. “In Kaesong?”

  Danny closed his eyes a moment and concentrated. “Yeah. They haven’t moved since last night. Huge concentration there—fifteen in total. I’m hoping our people are with ’em.”

  “That’s a long shot, boss,” Sorensen said. “We’ve had no word from Cal and Rick.”

  Danny shrugged. “I don’t sense any other Variants in the area. If they’re alive, I think they’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Cal woke up to a swift kick in the ribs, courtesy of Maria Savrova, the Soviet Variant whom he met long ago in some godforsaken forest outside Prague. Savrova had already given Cal a demeaning pat on the head the other day, which meant she could now easily track his whereabouts—that was her Enhancement, the ability to track anybody in the world.

  The kick was just for kicks.

  “Get up,” she said in Russian. “Let’s go.”

  Cal knew enough of the language by now to catch her meaning, so he slowly, painfully got up off the cool concrete factory floor and nudged Yamato, who was still asleep. Padilla didn’t seem to sleep much; he was already up, wide-eyed and worried. Hei Feng was slumped in a corner, and received another kick from Savrova to get him to his feet.

  “How we doing, old man?” Yamato muttered as he stood, warily eyeing the North Korean guards nearby, their rifles at the ready—but not, at least, pointed at them.

  Cal stretched and felt his bones shift a little. He was damn sure by now that he was getting worse, older than he should be. Back before he discovered he could harm, and not simply heal himself or others, Cal would age himself greatly in order to work his miracle. And after that, his body would eventually regress back to his real age. This, though, this was bad. “I’ve been better, you little whippersnapper,” Cal joked. “Gonna need me a fix if I’m gonna do anything useful.”

  Once everyone was up, Savrova and the guards led them into a different part of the factory, where a disused, rusting freight train car was sitting on equally rusted rails. There were several tracks here, each leading out from a train-sized hole in the wall. This was where they probably shipped from, or got raw materials from, back when this place was up and running, probably some twenty years ago.

  Then a cadre of folks came in wearing Russian uniforms, and Cal froze.

  “Aw, Maggie. No,” he whispered.

  She was walking right next to Lavrentiy Beria, in full NKVD uniform. Nobody had a gun on her. She even had her hair done up like Savrova’s, and put on some makeup, too—things that she very rarely did back at Mountain Home. She looked composed.

  “Please tell me she’s doubling,” Yamato whispered. “Otherwise, we’re fucked.”

  Cal could only shrug, even as he tried to fight back a tear. “I sure hope so.”

  The prisoners were brought forward and forced to their knees, their hands on their heads, while the other Soviet Variants gathered around. Savrova, Tsakhia, and Illyanov were all there, and the Russian they’d taken to calling the Shadow Man was there too, though in his inky black, wispy form rather than in person. There were four others he didn’t recognize, except maybe one who might have shown up in a surveillance photo he’d seen in some file long ago.

  Maggie walked over to Cal. “Your Russian still weak?” she asked simply.

  “Yeah,” he replied bitterly. “Bet yours gotten all kinds of sharp lately, though.”

  A flash of something ran across her face a moment, which took Cal aback—she was never one for showing any kind of emotion, even briefly. But then she recovered and arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ve been asked to translate.”

  Cal looked her in the eye for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Beria waved over the Chinese officer in charge and whispered something to him. A minute later, the guards cleared the huge, hangar-like room entirely, giving rifles to Maggie, Illyanov, and Beria. The rest of the Soviet Variants stepped closer, surrounding Cal and his fellow prisoners in a kind of semicircle.

  “My friends,” Beria began. “My fellow Empowered. Champions of the Proletariat. We have been together for a very long time now, and I am truly, deeply appreciative of all of your efforts and all you have done to further our true revolution—not the hollow, meaningless drudgery of Stalin and his cronies, but the real, the only revolution! The revolution in which the Empowered take their rightful place as the shepherds of the masses, the Champions of the Proletariat! Today is the day when we unleash the abilities granted to us, and grant them to so many more across the globe. Together, we shall help humanity rise up! Cast off their oppressors! We shall usher in an age of enlightenment! An era free from want! And all of you—yes, even you Americans—will have a beautiful role in this new future. You will indeed be the very cause of it!”

  Cheers rose up from Soviets, but Cal could only roll his eyes. The man sure loved to hear himself talk. Maybe it was a Russian thing.

  “Savrova, begin preparations,” Beria ordered.

  With two other Soviets by her side, Savrova entered the freight car from the side door and went inside. Meanwhile, Beria himself walked up to the four prisoners and addressed Cal directly in English. “I must ask you, Mr. Hooks, has your country improved its relations with your people?”

  Cal knew full well what the Russian was talking about, but wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. “What people? My fellow Americans?”

  Beria just sighed. “Stubborn. They say many of your fellow Negroes are like this. And yet you live in a country that continues to enslave you. Not in chains, today. No, much more civilized. But you work harder for less money, and your prospects are limited by the same capitalist system that keeps you down.”

  “It’ll get better,” Cal said, looking the Russian in the eye. “Already has. Truman desegregated the Armed Forces. Parts of the country are downright pleasant now for black folk. The rest, well, we’re working on it.”

  Beria motioned toward Tsakhia. “Here is a Mongol from the Russian steppe. He is our equal—not just in the Soviet Union, but here, with the Empowered. Your life, Mr. Hooks, could be so much better than it is. You can be an equal—more than an equal, with your gifts. There is a place for you with me, just as Miss Dubinsky has found.”

  Cal looked over to Maggie, who quite obviously decided not to meet his gaze. “That’s all right, Mr. Beria. You go on ahead. I’m an American, come what may.”

  Beria gave Cal a small smile, then walked off.

  “Hey, I don’t get the recruitment speech?” Yamato said. “Come on.”

  Maggie eyed Yamato coldly. “He doesn’t want you. Just Cal.” She then knelt down next to Cal and looked him in the eye. “This isn’t gonna end well, Cal. Come with us. For Sally. And Winston.”

  Cal’s heart just about broke. “Aw, Miss Maggie. You ain’t gotta do this. Help a fella out, what do you say?”

  She smiled at him and got to her feet again. “I’m sorry. You’re gonna die.”

  With that she walked off, and yet in that moment, Cal felt an incredible peace settle over him, as though the hand of God’s grace, in that moment, had decided to reach in and heal his heart and make him whole. A tear finally escaped his eye, but one that was shed with joy and hope, not sadness or fear. This, he thought, was what the Lord wanted, and He was giving Cal a touch of heaven in what would surely be his last moments.

  Cal looked over to Yamato, who was eyeing him strangely. “What the hell, old man? What’s with that look?”

  “I dunno … I just … It feels okay, you know? It’s gonna be okay.”

  Yamato only snickered. “Sure, Pops. There’s nothing okay about this at all.”

  They were interrupted by the pop of a rifle.

  Cal turned and saw Illyanov—with his rifle trained on another Russian. There was a flurry of angry shouting, and Maggie was a part of it, her rifle trained on the Russians as well.

  “Holy shit,” Yamato breathed. “It’s on! Let’s go! I—wait. I still got nothing.”


  Cal turned to the young man. “That Mongol fella?”

  “Dunno. I had a charge a second ago, but now nothing’s working.”

  Another shot rang out, and this time one of the Soviets fell to the ground, clutching his leg, the result of Maggie’s shot. The rest put their hands up, most of them looking downright pissed off as they were marched up into the freight car.

  “Is Maggie flipping back now?” Yamato asked.

  Then Illyanov walked over, and fixed Cal with a furious glare. “I should just kill you now,” the now-old man said in rough English. “But you no heal me. You are old as well.”

  Sweet Jesus, does everybody here hate me now? Cal thought. “Well, you know what they say, Boris. Old age comes for us all.” Maggie, if you’re really back, time to take care of this boy.

  Illyanov cried out and raised his rifle butt, striking Cal in the head.

  Everything went dark.

  * * *

  The building was little more than a barn, though a particularly nice one with a very Asian flavor. The slightly curved, four-sided roof hung over a large, nearly empty space with simple floors and white-washed walls. The windows were open—Korea in late spring could get pretty hot—and the hum of conversation filled the room. There were two groups of folding chairs, well away from each other, with a long rectangular table between them. Several seats lined the sides of the table, which had pencils, paper, and pitchers of water at the ready.

  It all seemed so very pedestrian. Frank expected a bunch of Madison Avenue types to come in, sit down, and start talking about the latest ad for Coca-Cola. But the room was full of military brass—Frank was one of the few there below the rank of colonel—and split into two very distinct groups. The first was American and South Korean, along with a smattering of Australian and British officials. The other was Chinese and North Korean. Aside from one or two brave souls who met in the middle to exchange pleasantries, the two clusters kept to themselves.

  “I’ve never been to an armistice negotiation before,” Mrs. Stevens said.

  Frank looked over at her and smiled. She was visibly uncomfortable in the uniform, constantly adjusting her collar and pulling on her skirt, and she looked wide-eyed and worried the entire time. Of course, she was probably more worried about making a fool of herself than anything else; Frank knew she had multiple contingency plans in place should things take a turn.

  “Major.”

  Frank turned and saw General Harrison; he saluted sharply, as did Mrs. Stevens—they’d spent an hour practicing last night. “General, sir.”

  “I assume you took a look at the perimeter already?”

  “Yes, sir. All’s well so far.”

  Harrison squinted a little at Frank. “I told Wallace this yesterday, and I’ll tell you today. Whatever you got going, you make sure it doesn’t affect this—what in God’s name?”

  The general’s gaze wandered over Frank’s shoulder to the entrance the North Korean representatives used. Lavrentiy Beria had just walked in.

  “Rose?” Frank said.

  She looked just as stunned as he felt. “Well, that narrows the contingencies down quite a bit,” she said, reaching for the little notebook she kept handy to take notes and make plans.

  “Major,” the general said, “is that who I think it is? And were you expecting him?”

  “Yes, it is, sir. And … well, this isn’t what we expected, no.” An ambush, sure. Some kind of sabotage. A diversion at the front. But walking right into the Panmunjom armistice talks? Not really.

  “Sir, if you’ll excuse me? Major Stevens, please feel free to answer the general’s questions to the extent you can,” Frank said before heading over toward the middle ground of the room. Mrs. Stevens would know just how much to tell the general. And Frank wanted a word.

  Beria spotted him and walked over—they met at the far end of the table. “Major Lodge.”

  “First Deputy—wait. I’m sorry. Mister Beria,” Frank said.

  The Russian Variant squinted slightly before smiling. “Ah, yes, well. Temporary, I assure you.”

  “Man with a plan,” Frank said. “What brings you to North Korea?”

  “The same as you, Major. An end to this war.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think we’re on the same page when it comes to how to do that.”

  “Likely not. You remember Miss Dubinsky?”

  Frank had been so focused on Beria that he hadn’t seen Maggie behind and to the right. “Hard to forget. Heya, pal.”

  “Heya, Frank. Hats off to the team. Bang-up job in Moscow.”

  Frank couldn’t help but smile. “And elsewhere.”

  Her eyebrows went up at that. “Oh, really? East Berlin?”

  “Good beer there.”

  Shooting Frank a look, Beria walked off, leaving Frank face-to-face with Maggie. “We didn’t know you were involved with that,” she said.

  Join them.

  The dead man’s voice slipped through Frank’s mental defenses, and a deluge followed.

  Join them. It makes sense. He’s got something going. He’s outthought you. Only way. Join them.

  Frank closed his eyes a moment and shunted the voices back into the lockbox in his mind. When he opened them, Maggie was looking at him oddly.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Unwanted opinions. You’re looking swell.”

  Maggie smiled. “The uniform’s not flattering.”

  “Better than you think. Like Rita Hayworth on a USO tour.”

  “I was going for Garbo.”

  “Really?” Frank said. “You don’t have the hair for it.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “But I got the chops. Left jacket pocket. See you later.”

  With that Maggie walked off and the crowd was asked to take their seats. Frank checked his pocket and, finding nothing, went to his assigned seat—front row, good sightlines, and right next to Mrs. Stevens.

  “Well?” she said as Frank sat down.

  “Garbo.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Anything else?”

  Frank looked over to Beria, who had taken a front-row seat behind the North Korean negotiators. “Left jacket pocket.”

  * * *

  The electrical hum coursing through the room was so loud, Detlev Bronk had to shout to be heard, and a few people on the team had managed to scrounge up earmuffs to protect their hearing. But after nonstop work for the past sixteen hours—starting before they even got the go-ahead from Washington—they were ready.

  They were going to try to shut down the vortex.

  The damn thing had been going absolutely crazy throughout the day, sending out pulse after pulse of low-level radiation, as if something inside it knew what they were up to. Likewise, the callbacks were increasing as well. Something was answering. More and more, Bronk felt that Schreiber was onto something big. Not bad for an insane Nazi.

  The first order of business was to get the vortex into a smaller space—but the magnetic field generators that contained the phenomenon were massive, and not easily put on rollers. So Bronk had built a room around the vortex inside the hangar—a slapdash box about ten feet all around, the walls coated with layers of metal and mesh, all designed to keep radio signals from penetrating inside.

  Then the jamming equipment had been brought in. They couldn’t shut out the entire electromagnetic spectrum, so they’d decided to drown it out instead, concentrating on the wavelengths that the phenomenon seemed to prefer, but ideally sending along a massive influx of waves across the entire spectrum. That meant everything from microwave emitters to bright lights to no fewer than three dozen radios and four televisions, all tuned to different stations.

  Bronk walked over to the jury-rigged control panel outside the box. Dozens of cables flowed out of it and down to the floor, and then into the box itself. The radiation detectors they’d used to ferret out the wavelength information were now tuned to the entire EM spectrum, as much as was possible, to see if a
ny recognizable signals could escape.

  With a last look around at his engineers, all of whom responded with nods, Bronk began flipping switches. Inside the box, the equipment came to life—and the noise was absolutely deafening.

  Let’s hope this works.

  * * *

  Cal woke up and felt, surprisingly … better.

  Sure, his head hurt like hell from where Illyanov hit him, but a lot of his aches and pains were muted somehow, as if someone turned down the volume dial on his aging body’s radio. And there were voices around him, speaking quietly, one at a time, in a couple different languages, it seemed. With all that, Cal figured he was still alive, which was a good start.

  But then he opened his eyes and wondered if he’d gone blind.

  “Rick?” Cal said. His words echoed slightly. “Rick, where you at?”

  The sound of footsteps echoed, and Cal felt the thump of each step under him. He turned to see Rick Yamato holding a lit cigarette lighter. “I’m right here, Pops. Welcome back.”

  Cal looked around and saw metal walls and the silhouettes of a bunch of people, and figured he’d been thrown in the boxcar with … well, who else?

  “The Russkies,” Yamato said quietly. “Me, Miguel, Hei Feng, and most of the Soviet Variants. All stuck in here. And they’re using null generators on us.”

  Cal slowly sat up. “Well, ain’t that something. How’s everybody feeling?”

  “Pissed off,” Yamato said with a grin, offering a hand to help Cal to his feet. “Seems like Beria turned the tables on ’em. Only ones not accounted for are Maggie and that speedy guy, Boris.”

  To Cal’s surprise, his body wasn’t protesting as much now. Maybe the null generators were having an effect on his aging—but then, that hadn’t happened before during testing at Mountain Home or Area 51, either. “What else?” Cal asked.

  Maria Savrova came over, rage on her face. “There is an atom bomb in here with us,” she said in English.

  “Come again?” Cal said, his heart starting to beat really fast.

  “Beria has taken an atom bomb. He plans to detonate it—with us sitting here next to it,” Savrova said.