MJ-12: Shadows

8

Alexei Mikhailovich Petrov had heard of men during the Great Patriotic War, wounded men who had lost limbs — hands, arms, feet, legs. He remembered one in particular, a corporal who barely looked old enough to shave, in the bed next to his, shortly after the siege of Stalingrad had been lifted. This corporal had screamed in pain, saying his legs felt as though they were on fire. No amount of vodka or critically short-supplied morphine could bring relief.

All this despite the fact he no longer had legs.

Alexei Mikhailovich remembered this corporal now, because he too was suffering from a lost limb, though one that had always been invisible. His phantom reach, his pull, his Empowerment, as it was called at the Bekhterev Institute — gone. All he had was the memory of it, the mental urge he channeled through the ether that would draw things to him. Weapons, crates, men, even an automobile. All pulled toward him, such strong power at his beck and call.

But these Americans, they had taken it away from him with their infernal device. Alexei Mikhailovich had heard stories of such instruments, but only as rumor in the halls of the Bekhterev Institute, where the Soviet Union housed and trained its Chempiony Proletariata — its Champions of the Proletariat. Their intelligence had not been able to confirm that the Americans had discovered the means to nullify Empowerments, but Alexei, like most other Empowereds, had been operating under the assumption.

The Soviet’s Istanbul operation had gone horribly, horribly wrong — their intelligence had accounted for only three American Empowereds, and there turned out to be more. The woman in particular, the one who turned fear into a dagger and thrust it into men’s hearts, they had not accounted for her. Her anger and rage in the cisterns under the ancient city that night had been something to behold. It was a horror like Alexei had never felt, not even when a Nazi bayonet had pierced his chest, barely missing his heart. No horror was comparable to what that woman could weave.

And then water, a flood, and rock. That was all he remembered after the fear. The rest was a haze, a stupor unlike any other. Floating, barely registering sound and noise, only hunger and a need for light and movement that never came. Weeks, months — the Americans had told him it had not been very long, but he did not believe them. It was months, he was sure of it, because he had wasted away to barely fifty-five kilograms by the time they had revived him, allowed him to eat and talk, read and sleep normally. It took him a week before he could walk again and take a piss like a man should, standing up.

His fury far surpassed his physical condition, but he hid it well. There would be a time when the Americans would slip up, when their nullifying field would collapse or falter and he could reach out again. He would lay waste to all around him on that day, and he savored the possibilities of what he might do and to whom. There was the Navy man, Wallace, who continued to act like his friend — a laughable ruse. And the scientist, Bronk, with his team of white-coated lackeys, studying him like a rat in a maze.

Alexei always acknowledged them. He talked with them about the small things. But he would not divulge information. They knew of Bekhterev; they had even heard of Director Beria’s involvement. They had gathered some passable intelligence, he had to admit. But he would not tell them anything more. Not even when they brought that witch down to frighten him. He begged and pleaded, pissed himself, screamed in abject terror, tried to claw his own eyes from his skull — but still he did not relent.

It wasn’t for Mother Russia he did this, not really, though he would of course swear otherwise should he ever return. No, he held on because he hated these people and wanted them all to die for what they had done to him.

Even this one, who showed up today. Alexei Mikhailovich had never seen him before, and he suspected it was a new tack the Americans were trying in their attempts to break him.

“Mr. Petrov,” the man said in English, taking a seat across from Alexei’s cot in the cell’s only chair. “Do you know where you are?”

Alexei was startled to hear a German accent, an accent he knew well from Stalingrad. The man was thin and reedy, with slicked-back hair, balding, a cruel mouth and a Roman nose. He wore a suit and a lab coat — a scientist, or so they would have him believe.

“I am a captive of the United States of America, an unlawful captive. I was taken from a neutral country and brought somewhere. I was drugged for a very long time, and now I am kept locked away to be studied for my ability. The rest does not matter.”

“Does not matter?” The German smiled. “I should think it matters quite a lot. Would it surprise you to know you are in America itself?”

Alexei considered this and decided he would see what this man’s game was. “It would not surprise me. America is a large country, like Russia. Your people, when they visit me, they wear light clothing, they have dust on their shoes. I would say that not only am I in America but I am in the southwestern part of this country. I believe this would include the states called Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Utah, and Nevada.”

“Impressive, Mr. Petrov. You’ve been trained well. In fact, you’re absolutely right. But forgive me if I don’t tell you exactly where quite yet.”

“Yet?” Alexei asked, eyes narrowing. “I have no time for games. Whatever you’re here to do, get on with it.”

“You have all the time in the world, and I have something you want,” the German said.

“There is only one thing I want, and it is something you will not allow.”

“Prisoner exchanges happen all the time.”

“That is not what I want.”

The German’s smile grew broader. “Then it is vengeance. An admirable goal.”

Alexei stood up from his cot. “Who the hell are you?”

“Not important, though what is important is that you keep my visits here to yourself. Do not tell the others who see you here, Commander Wallace and Dr. Bronk.”

“Why?” Alexei demanded.

“Because our interests are not aligned with theirs, of course.”

“This is a trick. Another way to try to break me.” Alexei began to pace. “Have you not done enough to me yet, you bastards?”

The German rose and stepped close to Alexei, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. “There is a vortex here. You know of what I speak. It is here, and so are you. You will be visited by someone else. Something else. Soon. It calls itself Vanda. And you must listen to what it says.”

Without another word, the German walked out of the room, locking the doors behind him. It was only then that Alexei realized that he had come without guards, that this was the slip-up he’d been waiting for. How easy it would have been to overpower the mad German scientist, threaten his life, walk out. Such stupidity! He was a fool, caught off guard by silly mind games!

Then, of course, he realized that this, too, was some sort of test. Perhaps they’d have let him walk out of the cell, only to be tranquilized or even shot in the halls. Another test, another game.

This time seemed different, though. This German was either a canny player or deadly serious. And so when the doors opened and this “Vanda” appeared, Alexei would listen. And then find his advantage.

Maybe, when all was said and done, he would let the German live. He found the man’s intensity… intriguing.

“The microphones get fixed?” Master Sergeant Stephen Piscatelli asked the men on duty that night.

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” the young airman replied. “Not sure what happened, but seems like they’re picking up just fine now. Seems like the prisoner’s whispering to himself tonight.”

Piscatelli frowned. He’d just looked in on the sleeping prisoner a few minutes ago. There was nobody else in there, and all was quiet. “That’s new. You getting any of it?”

The airman picked up the headphones from his console and listened in. “Not really, Master Sergeant. A few words here and there.”

Taking a seat next to the airman, Piscatelli slipped on another set of headphones and tried to make something out.

“…release… pull… home… brothers… tall man…”

“Who do you suppose ‘Vanda’ is, Master Sergeant?” the airman asked.

“Probably the poor bastard’s girl back home. Maybe his mom. He’s been in there a long time. Hell, I give him points for not going cuckoo until now.” Piscatelli stood up and tossed the headphones back on the console. “Write it all down and put it in your duty report. Be sure to flag it for the higher-ups.”

“Anybody in particular to flag it to, Master Sergeant?”

Piscatelli smiled. “Son, you’re at Area 51. You’re not even cleared to take a piss next to half these people, let alone know who they are. Just flag it for the next watch.”