MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Well, it’s my pleasure, Colonel,” Cal said slowly, desperately wishing Miss Maggie was still around. “It’s real nice to be able to help the Syrian people like this, and without any bloodshed. Can’t abide bloodshed when it ain’t necessary.”

  Cal knew it was ham-fisted the moment he said it, but he was no diplomat. Za’im looked at him curiously but then walked back toward the shower room. “Yes, my friend, only a lunatic or criminal would want blood to be shed. But there are times, unfortunately, when it is necessary.”

  Copeland took a step forward. “Colonel, you’ve won. The army is in control of Damascus. We checked everything—your plan was flawless and executed brilliantly. There’s no reason for the President to be tied—”

  “I am the President!” Za’im shouted, his humor evaporating.

  “Yes, of course, Mr. President. My apologies,” Copeland said, hands outstretched. “But there’s no reason for the former president to be killed here today. In fact, it may only make things worse for you if that happens.”

  Cal looked over to Frank, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest—and one hand burrowed in his jacket. With all the skills and memories Frank had at his command, Cal knew he could probably handle the situation on his own in a matter of seconds. But then all the effort Copeland had put into cultivating Za’im would be lost.

  Of course, Cal thought, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

  “Al-Quwatli is a traitor to the Syrian people!” Za’im said, practically shouting. “He gave us our independence only to squander Syrian blood in a fruitless battle against Israel. Had he given us the arms and men we needed, we would all be praying in Jerusalem by now! But he is weak and wants to see a weakened Syria when our country should be the most powerful nation in what you call your ‘Middle East.’ How can I let him live? How can I let him become the head of the opposition, Mr. Copeland, to have him sniping at me and biting at my ankles all the time? This is no way for a leader to run a country!”

  Cal thought furiously. By now, Za’im was standing just a few feet from al-Quwatli, who was sitting with his eyes closed, breathing exaggerated breaths. He’s preparing to die, Cal thought. He’s making peace with his Maker.

  There had to be another way.

  “Mr. President, if I may?” Cal said before he even realized words were coming out of his mouth.

  Za’im looked at Cal quizzically. “You disagree, African man?”

  Cal frowned. There was a time when being called a lot worse than “African man” was simply a way of life. But being a Variant, with his kind of power, made him a lot less tolerant of it lately. “My name is Calvin Hooks, Mr. President, and maybe there’s a third way here, between what had been planned originally and this … new plan.”

  “And what way is this, Mr. Hooks?” Za’im demanded. “How long have you even been in my country?”

  “Oh, about a month now,” Cal said, slowly walking toward Za’im and al-Quwatli, his hands out. There were half a dozen other Syrian Army men in the room, so Cal figured he’d be riddled with bullets if he made a sudden move to try to even touch Za’im. “But I’ve done my reading. That there former president is still a symbol to a whole lot of your people, even the ones who are out there celebrating right now that he’s gone. Am I right?”

  “What of it?” Zai’m asked.

  “Well, you kill him, even if you set it up to look like you didn’t, well, they’re gonna blame you. Now, I’m not a leader, but seems to me it’s easier to rule a country where the people like you, rather than a country where they think you killed their George Washington.”

  “Who? Who is George Washington?”

  Cal closed his eyes and cursed himself. “Sorry. Their hero. The father of their country. George Washington was the first president of the United States. This gentleman here is the first president of an independent Syria, am I right? You can’t kill a symbol, sir. It’s just … too big. Too big. They’ll get angry and they’ll blame you and then you won’t be able to do anything else except spend the rest of your days lookin’ over your shoulder in fear.”

  Cal looked over to Frank, who was staring right back, surprised. Cal thought he’d messed up somehow, but Frank gave him a small grin and cocked his head back toward Za’im. Keep at it.

  “So. Mr. Hooks,” Za’im said, walking toward Cal with the gun in his hand by his side. “You are not a leader. You are not even given full rights in your own country. But I respect this, because you know what it is like to be led, and led poorly. What would you have me do?”

  Well, damned if I know, Cal thought. “You can’t kill him. Doesn’t sound like you want him around anymore either, though. Right?”

  “This is correct, Mr. Hooks.”

  “Then kick him out. Exile him,” Cal said. “I’m sure the United States would be happy to put him up for a while. Get him out of your hair.”

  Copeland and Meade looked over at Cal in complete shock, and Cal realized he’d just made a serious promise on behalf of his entire country. Not how he thought his day would’ve gone.

  But Za’im was smiling again. “And I will tell the people he fled. Yes, Mr. Hooks … I like this. We can even show them! Shishakli! Get the film crew! We will show al-Quwatli getting into a car and driving off with our American friends here.”

  Frank stepped forward. “Um, Colonel … sorry, Mr. President … we shouldn’t really be captured on film, you know.”

  At this, Za’im actually chuckled and put a finger to the side of his nose. “I understand you, sir. I understand you! We will stage it, then. And then you may do whatever you wish with this traitor here. Untie him!”

  The Syrians scurried to release al-Quwatli, who had a look on his face that was part utter confusion, part immense relief. Copeland, however, appeared rather put out. “Mr. Hooks, that was not part of the plan,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

  “Neither was seeing that man executed in a shower,” Cal replied under this breath. “Go on and send me home if you want, Mr. Copeland, but I wasn’t gonna just sit there and let him do it.”

  Meade smiled. “Honestly? Best of a bad situation, Miles. And now we get a chance to chat with al-Quwatli for a few days of interviews before we pack him off wherever.”

  Copeland considered this, then nodded, even if it was begrudgingly. “All right. And yes, this is better than having him executed. Thank you, Mr. Hooks.” The OPC man then turned and started speaking Arabic again with Za’im and his officers.

  “That was pretty damn good, Cal,” Frank said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m impressed.”

  Cal looked down at his hands, which were trembling. “That was mighty stupid, I think.”

  “It was brave and it saved a man’s life,” Frank said quietly. “Solved everybody’s problems, too.”

  Cal shook his head. “Yeah, well, except for one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What are we gonna do the next time Za’im gets antsy?”

  Frank grimaced. “No idea. But we better be ready.”

  TO: DCI Hillenkoetter, LGEN Vandenberg, SECA Gray, MAJG Montague, LCDR Wallace, DR Bronk

  Gentlemen,

  It is my determination that the new Secretary of Defense will not be cleared for Operation Majestic Twelve. Gordon Gray, the Secretary of the Army, will join General Vandenberg as the military representatives on the project and will assist in the maintenance, upkeep, and research at Area 51.

  It is also my determination that any missions involving Variant individuals must be personally approved by the President of the United States. Any changes in the operations at Area 51 must also be approved by the President, to avoid additional security issues.

  Investigations of potential security breaches in the wake of Secretary Forrestal’s resignation are continuing under the Director of Central Intelligence.

  I would remind you all that sharing any detail of Majestic Twelve outside those previously approved is an Act of Treason against the United States, and will be dealt
with as such.

  April 7, 1949

  Maggie Dubinsky sat on the park bench in Lafayette Square, just across the street from the White House, appreciating the hell out of the location. Pennsylvania Avenue was the busiest street in Washington, generating enough noise and movement during the day to effectively shield anyone who was watching.

  Yes, there were some Secret Service guys in the park—a couple of all-too-obviously plainclothes mooks who wouldn’t pass muster as department store security guards. But they weren’t watching for a couple of guys sitting on a park bench. They were looking for active threats to the President.

  The threats Maggie was looking for were far more insidious.

  It had taken days of combing through Forrestal’s confiscated address book and calendar to find times and places where he might’ve met with someone outside MAJESTIC-12 or the Pentagon, but then that’s what Mrs. Stevens was for—finding patterns. She quickly determined that a trip across the river to the White House or Capitol Hill often led to additional business in the city, which made sense. And so they began looking for holes in the schedule—an extra fifteen minutes to half an hour where Forrestal could’ve made a side trip somewhere in between, off the books.

  There were a lot of stops in Georgetown, as it happened, which was on the way back to Virginia but also pretty close to Foggy Bottom, where both the CIA and State Department were. There were also some business cards from restaurants in the neighborhood in Forrestal’s address book. From there, they managed to find a hole in Forrestal’s schedule around dinner, and a restaurant reservation at the Occidental Grill for the same time.

  Then they got to play gumshoe, heading to the restaurant with a veritable who’s who of Washington in black-and-white photographs, along with freshly minted Secret Service badges. A waiter identified Frank Wisner as Forrestal’s most recent dinner companion there, just two nights before his last meeting with Truman.

  After that, they did surveillance on Wisner, who barely left his office—thankfully. When he did, it made it much easier to follow him. And he often came to this park to read a book and have a sandwich. Occasionally, Wisner would also get company—the first time it happened, Maggie wasn’t prepared.

  This time was different.

  A short man in a large fedora and greatcoat walked across the park, and Maggie made him immediately—the wisps of nerves coming off him gave the game away. That said, she admired the effort he took to hide his face, keeping his hat low and his eyes away from others as they approached. Though it wasn’t exactly surprising that J. Edgar Hoover would have known a trick or two.

  Maggie opened her purse and pressed down on a large button, then grabbed her makeup compact as the portable reel-to-reel started up. The machine was attached to an odd-looking microphone cleverly incorporated into the design of the oversized handbag—a Mrs. Stevens “special” that had taken her all of a day to whip up.

  She opened the compact and checked her face. “Eyes on Target One.”

  A short burst of static flooded her ear before she heard the response. “All right, then. I mean, roger that. Target One,” Mrs. Stevens replied. Maggie resisted the urge to look up at the second-story window of Blair House, the presidential guest house, where her fellow Variant was perched with a radio and a few other toys, including a small film camera.

  “Sorry. Talk normally. I’m just used to … Wait. Target Two confirmed, approaching.”

  “I see him. I’ll patch your audio into the mike so you can hear what’s going on,” Mrs. Stevens said.

  Maggie watched as Frank Wisner sat down next to Hoover, their backs to the White House. “How are you, Director?” Wisner said; Maggie could hear him in her earpiece clear as day.

  “I’m pissed off, that’s what I am,” Hoover said. “We haven’t got anything out of anywhere since Jim was fired. How’d those freaks do in Syria?”

  Wisner coughed once and cleared his throat. “Honestly, they’re pretty well-trained operatives. Nothing in the reports or follow-ups indicates use of strange abilities or events. One of ’em apparently talked Za’im out of shooting his predecessor in the head, but it wasn’t the girl. I guess he just made a damn convincing argument.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. She’d just listened in on the head of the State Department’s Office of Policy Coordination and the director of the goddamn FBI talking not only about her but her Enhancement as well.

  Suddenly, a flock of pigeons in the immediate vicinity took wing, and two dogs began barking frantically. Maggie realized that she’d let her guard down, and immediately clamped back down on her surge of emotion, doing her best to focus … even if she so very badly wanted to make both men die of fright in that moment.

  “If we’re going to expose these things for what they are, Frank, I need more than that. Where’s Forrestal now?”

  “He went down to his place in Florida, but he’s apparently had some kind of breakdown. The family’s circling the wagons. Can’t get through to him. He’s not taking any calls, not even when I pretend to be the President. Heard he may have gone to a hospital, but we just don’t know.”

  Maggie glared daggers at the two men but kept her emotions in check. She was a person, not a thing, despite what Hoover thought. In fact, she was far more of a person than he’d ever be. She was different, sure. But she was pretty damn sure she was better.

  “Visitors?” Hoover asked. “I could head down there for vacation.”

  “Doubt it,” Wisner said. “May be worth a try, but if you’re spotted …”

  “Right. Fine. What about Joe?”

  “They gave a short briefing on the Hill about the Syria situation, but it left out pretty much everything, including our office’s involvement. So, nothing there.”

  Maggie pulled out a notepad and wrote: WHO IS JOE? CAPITOL HILL.

  “Do you think your men in Syria could capture one of those agents? Lock him down somewhere? Might be our best chance to break this thing wide open,” Hoover said.

  Even from a distance, Maggie noticed that Wisner looked uncomfortable. “My guys aren’t soldiers, Director. They’re spies and negotiators and blackmailers and thieves, and they’re good at what they do. Word out of Damascus is that the agents supplied by CIA are highly skilled real combat types, even the women. Incredibly talented and dangerous. And, frankly, it raises too many questions.”

  There was a long silence before Hoover finally stood. “Tell Joe I want him to set up a meeting with some kindred spirits at the Pentagon. Seems like we may need some firepower here.”

  Wisner stood as well. “Director, I have to point out that the behavior of the agents in question, well … it was exemplary. Throughout this Syria thing, they’ve been right on point. No problems with them at all. They’re good at what they do and every indication is that they are patriotic Americans, just like you and me.”

  Hoover took a step toward Wisner and practically bumped chests with him. “And how do you know that’s not what they want you to think? Dammit, man, they are not human. They’re dangerous! The moment they truly realize just how dangerous they are, how do we stop them? What happens when they decide to join the Reds? Or decide to band together and take over both countries? Or all of humanity? Think about that the next time you get a report on how nice they are!”

  Hoover tromped off, steaming, and Wisner slowly walked away in the other direction about a minute later, leaving Maggie stewing on her own bench.

  “Well, that wasn’t very nice,” Mrs. Stevens said over the radio.

  Maggie snapped open her compact but caught her reflection before she replied. She never recalled her face looking so cold and angry before, even though that seemed to be her MO ever since she’d become Empowered. “Let’s go.”

  She jabbed her finger into her purse and stopped the tape, then slung it over her shoulder and made for the Capital Grille, a landmark restaurant a block away with large private booths and a discreet staff—perfect for politicking and semi-secret meetings. Much better than a publi
c park.

  Mrs. Stevens was waiting for her in a booth when she arrived.

  “I ordered highballs. That all right, Maggie? I love highballs. Thought we might celebrate!”

  Maggie plopped down in the booth and looked hard at the other woman. “Celebrate what, exactly? The fact that the director of the FBI not only knows about us but sees us as subhuman and wants to kill us because we’re a threat?”

  Mrs. Stevens’s smile evaporated. “Well, when you put it that way. But he didn’t say anything about killing us. Just sort of … stopping us?”

  The waiter came over with the two drinks, and Maggie took a long swig. “Mrs. Stevens … good Lord, I don’t even know your first name.”

  Her smile returned immediately. “It’s Rose.”

  “Rose. Look. We are different from all other people who’ve ever lived, OK? You’re literally the smartest person alive. I can control people’s emotions. Heck, how long do you think it would take just the two of us to assassinate the President if we really put our minds to it?”

  Mrs. Stevens looked blank for a moment, then raised her eyebrows. “Maybe about ten minutes? Depends on a number of variables, such as where Truman is in the house, the number of guards, how many—”

  Maggie held up her hand. “Rose. It was a rhetorical question. Nobody wants to assassinate the President. But you can see Hoover’s point, right? If we wanted to, we could be really dangerous. If the world found out about us, they’d hate us. They’d want to kill us.”

  “Some would. Maybe some wouldn’t. Maybe that’s why we’re doing all this, to prove our worth and to let people know we’re on the right side of things, you know?”

  Maggie couldn’t help but smile. “You’re smart, Rose, but let’s not be naive, OK?”

  Mrs. Stevens pursed her lips and took a sip of her drink. “All right. Anyway, what do we do?”