MJ-12: Shadows

36

So, basically, you want me to give ’em medals, then tell ’em they’re being shipped off to a remote base in Nowhere, Idaho?” President Truman asked as he finished reading Hillenkoetter’s report, tossing it down on his desk.

“I don’t think we’d do it consecutively like that.” Hillenkoetter smiled as he relaxed on the couch in the Oval Office. “We’re not cruel.”

“But that whole thing you wanted about getting them a normal life. That’s gone,” Truman said as he rose from his desk and began to pace — a sure sign he wasn’t happy.

“Sir, there are some very sneaky Variants out there. Julia Meyer couldn’t be controlled. That Russian shadow, he might be able to pop up in this very room if we didn’t have a null-generator in here. Until we figure out more security measures, we need to keep our assets secure.”

Truman frowned. “What about those devices? Those null things? Can’t they just wear ’em like a collar or something? Shut down their abilities until we need them?”

Hillenkoetter shifted in his seat a little; he knew this would be a hard sell. “The null-fields may produce some health problems after long-term exposure. We’re looking into it, but I’d like to minimize their use whenever possible.”

Putting his hands on his hips, Truman exhaled and looked at the floor for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “But you make damn sure they’re set up nicely out there in Idaho. They get officer housing, all of ’em. Full base privileges. And if they want a vacation, then give ’em one. Send along some chaperones if you have to, but I want them taken care of.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They didn’t ask for this. Any of it,” Truman said, pacing once more. “Jesus, can you imagine? You get hit with these strange powers, you get all kinds of side effects, and then your country rounds you up and puts you out there in the field. These people nearly got an A-bomb dropped on them.”

Hillenkoetter coughed a bit to interrupt Truman’s rambling. “On the bright side, we have excellent intel on the Soviets’ weapons program now. And their Variant program.”

Truman smiled a little and flopped down on the couch opposite Hillenkoetter. “Yeah, we need to brief Congress about their A-bomb. Probably go public soon.”

“Actually, sir, I recommend we wait on that.”

“Why?”

“The only way we’d know if the Reds tested an A-bomb out in the middle of Kazakhstan as of this date would be because we had an asset there. Which we did. But the rest of the world — including the parts of the MGB and Red Army that aren’t in on their Variant program — doesn’t know that.”

“You want us to look dumb.”

“Exactly,” Hillenkoetter said with a smirk. “Hell, you can even leak to the press that you’re pissed at me for taking so long to find out.”

At this, Truman barked out a laugh. “I just might do that. But what about your career?”

“What about it? You fire me as DCI, I’ll just go back to the Navy. Maybe command a nice quiet carrier group somewhere. Sounds nice, actually,” Hillenkoetter said.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Truman said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Does CIA have awards or commendations yet?”

“We’re working on a few things.”

“Get ’em up and running, and then I’ll sign off on ’em for your people. The move to Mountain Home is approved along with the rest of your recommendations. Let me know what that Dubinsky girl gets out of the PAPERCLIP man. I already feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t.”

“True enough. Anything else?”

Hillenkoetter stood. “Just one more thing. Didn’t want to put it in the report. You remember Mrs. Stevens?”

“How could I not?” Truman said, rising from his seat. “Fine lady. Kind of an odd duck, though.”

“Geniuses are like that. I want to put her on the vortex study in place of Schreiber.”

Truman’s good humor evaporated. “She’s a Variant.”

“She is. But she’s also the smartest person we have. She might just be the smartest person ever.”

“And if…” Truman paused, searching for the words. “Look, if there are people of some kind — aliens, whatever — on the other side of that white light, and they’re actually responsible for creating Variants, how do you know she won’t be compromised?”

Hillenkoetter picked up his briefcase from the floor, then just shrugged. “Mr. President, none of them have been compromised by any outside influence that we know of. But yes, that can happen. But if that’s the case, I can think of several other Variants far more dangerous than Mrs. Stevens. And I genuinely think she’s the best one we got to try to crack this nut.”

Truman locked eyes with Hillenkoetter for several moments, leaving the DCI feeling like he was a midshipman again, undergoing inspection. “Fine. But she answers to Bronk, and all major experiments or whatnot go through all of us — you, me, Bronk, Vandenberg, everyone. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Truman extended his hand. “Well done, all around, Hilly. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hillenkoetter walked out of the Oval Office, past the secretary, and out onto the veranda. He took a seat on a bench and sat down to admire the Rose Garden for a bit, trying to feel better about it all. The operation had been a success, and his people had landed him several prime intelligence coups. His position as DCI and the de facto head of MAJESTIC-12 was assured, for at least a little while longer.

But there were shadows everywhere now. The Russians and their A-bomb, Lavrentiy Beria and his “champions of the proletariat.” And even his own Variants… If he was being honest with himself, Wallace’s little revelation had cast a long shadow of suspicion over them as well.

Which was why they were all going to be moved to Idaho.

Frank walked out into the crisp morning air with a cup of coffee in hand, taking his now-customary seat on the porch of his little craftsman cottage. Idaho was warmer than he’d expected, and even in mid-October, he only needed a sweater to stave off the chill.

His house was one of many on a little block in a little neighborhood just off the main road inside Mountain Home Air Force Base. The units had been slapped together during the war, and there were enough little maintenance jobs to keep Frank busy, at least for the first few weeks. Now it was actually feeling like a home. He had even picked up a couple of knickknacks at the post exchange for decor, which Maggie — living three doors down — mocked him for incessantly. If she wanted to keep her house bare — “minimalist,” as she called it — that was her business.

They’d moved in about a month before. At first, Frank had resented MAJESTIC-12 for corralling them all together like this; they called it “operational efficiency,” but he and the others knew it for what it was — mistrust. They didn’t want all the Variants roaming around unsupervised. Even now, Frank had to check in with Detlev Bronk before driving into Mountain Home itself — population maybe two thousand on a good day — or making the hour-plus trek to Boise to get a decent restaurant meal. And he knew full well he was being followed, of course. It didn’t take CIA training to spot a government-issue vehicle in your rearview on the empty roads of southern Idaho.

But now, having settled in, Frank much preferred base life to his shoddy D.C. apartment. He’d made friends with a couple of the Air Force sergeants who ran physical training, and wrangled himself an invite to join up whenever he liked, as some of the younger officers did. He’d also got approval to work with Major Hamilton on training new recruits, and had been working with a team of four new Variants over the past couple weeks. He found himself enjoying the process of whipping them into shape while he waited for his next overseas assignment.

Cal seemed to be settling in pretty well too. Frank had just been over to his house, a block away, two nights ago for dinner. It all seemed very civilized, and Cal’s wife Sarah was an amazing cook. The community wasn’t all that welcoming — there were still some people who felt Negroes shouldn’t be posted in officers’ quarters — but Sarah was busy volunteering at the base hospital, and Cal of course was actively working with MAJESTIC-12. He seemed to be Mrs. Stevens’s go-to guy for experimental help these days.

Mrs. Stevens was being kept incredibly busy with her new responsibilities studying the vortex, which had been moved to Idaho using the same electromagnetic rig that originally got it out of Japan. She was so busy, in fact, that Frank would see her walking home down the street toward her house at nine or ten o’clock. This wasn’t really a problem for Mr. Stevens anymore, though. Word had it that he’d filed for divorce before the move to Idaho. Frank felt bad for her, of course, seeing as she was a devoted wife and all. But Frank could certainly understand the problems that might crop up, being married to a genius. It was a shame all around, but Frank figured that was how it was going to be for all of them. Being a Variant meant being different. Being normal was no longer an option.

Mrs. Stevens shared her house with Zippy Silverman, who had been an instant hit at the officers’ club on base, what with her being young and attractive and all. She’d become quite the regular there, already at the bar every time Frank stopped in for a drink. She’d wear a nice skirt, get all dolled up, and have those kid gloves on all the time — couldn’t blame her for the gloves, given her Enhancement. Frank had ended up walking her home a few times when she’d overdone it. He figured she was in the hopeless, get-drunk phase of coping with her ability. At least, he hoped so.

Maggie jogged by the house and waved at Frank, which he returned with a smile as he sipped his coffee. She’d been the most vociferously opposed to relocating, alongside Danny, but ultimately came around. She still spouted off now and then about unfair treatment and “Variant rights,” which Frank imagined could become a real thing at some point if more of them continued to crop up, but overall, Maggie seemed to be rolling with it now.

Of course, she had a much more interesting job at the moment than most of them.

“Good morning, Herr Doktor. What are we gonna talk about today?”

Maggie walked into Schreiber’s cell and plopped down on a chair, smiling right at the German scientist as he immediately retreated to the far corner of the room, opposite his government-issue bed, and balled himself up on the floor.

“Go away,” he whimpered quietly.

“Why?” she asked sweetly.

Schreiber pulled his legs closer to his chest and began rocking but didn’t answer. If he wasn’t a Nazi scumbag, even Maggie might have started to feel bad for him. But as it stood, she was perfectly fine with things the way they were. In fact, over the past five weeks, she’d rather enjoyed seeing just what her abilities could do.

They could do a lot, actually.

Kurt Schreiber, to his credit, had been a really tough nut to crack. His emotional discipline was absolutely impressive — so much so that Danny had had him tested to see whether he was actually a Variant, even though Danny couldn’t mark him as such with his Enhancement. But no, Schreiber was just a steely guy.

It had taken three weeks of intensive emotional manipulation to break him.

First, Maggie tried anger — anger at her, at MAJESTIC-12, at Variants, at the Nazis, at anybody she could think of. Anger and vengeance were powerful motivators, but while she managed to get Schreiber to rail at just about everybody she brought up, he didn’t spill. He even attacked her in a fit of rage, but her training was more than up to the task of fending off a pissed-off pencil-neck.

Then there was fear. So much fear. Even Maggie started having nightmares after a solid week of inflicting terror on the poor guy. He screamed, cried, soiled himself on several occasions, tried begging for his life, even begged for her to end his life a couple times. But when she asked him to spill his guts in exchange for safety, he shut down. He’d scream more or pass out entirely. But he wouldn’t budge.

The less said about lust, the better. Maggie only tried two days of that before she felt the need for a month-long shower.

Finally, she’d hit upon love. At first, she’d kind of gone for romantic love, but when that didn’t work, she tried a more maternal bent. Lo and behold, Schreiber responded just a little bit, giving a few details about how Julia Meyer had come to him during his house arrest, how they’d compared notes about the Variant condition, how they’d sought to escape together. It wasn’t romantic with Julia, Maggie found, just a shared interest.

More and more, Maggie had used that maternal approval thing to draw him out. It quite obviously messed with Schreiber’s head completely — he’d tried to cut his wrists with a sharpened toothbrush last week after Maggie had expressed her utter disappointment in him — but it was working.

In fact, she’d managed to piece the whole thing together at this point. Julia Meyer had just wanted out — she wasn’t a Soviet spy, just a manipulative opportunist looking to get back to robbing banks and living large. She’d convinced Yamato and Sorensen — not the sharpest tools in the shed, to be fair — to help her disable the null-generators at their Area 51 training area, then moved under the earth incorporeally to shuttle between POSEIDON and Schreiber. She’d even managed to convince Schreiber that a Soviet agent would meet him in Las Vegas so he could sell out for a ton of money, which they’d split and then go their separate ways. There was no agent, though. Their best guess was that Julia just wanted an ally on the outside, someone she could leverage to sell secrets to the Russians later on after her own escape.

Danny and the others had undertaken an exhaustive search but found no trace of any contact with a Soviet agent. It was suspect, of course, but Maggie believed Julia had played Schreiber’s greed and vanity like a Stradivarius. And when she’d told Schreiber that, alongside a healthy dollop of motherly disapproval, the man had folded like a bad hand.

Nazi as mama’s boy. It was only because Maggie was a Variant that she’d seen stranger things.

“I don’t think I’m gonna fuck with your head today,” Maggie said. “I need a break. And you, pal, you really need a break.”

Schreiber’s eyes darted toward her briefly before looking down at the hard, concrete floor once more. “Then why are you here?”

“I want to talk to you about your theories. About the vortex.”

There was a long silence for several seconds… and then Schreiber started to actually chuckle.

Maggie tamped down hard on her annoyance. “What’s so funny?”

“You have no idea. You really don’t,” Schreiber said amidst the little laughs. “Oh, no. You really don’t know.”

“Oh, I think you’ll tell me.”

Schreiber looked up, scared for a moment, but to Maggie’s surprise, he held her gaze. “You know, I think I’ll tell you anyway. It won’t make a difference either way.”

“Tell me what?” Maggie asked, trying not to sound concerned.

“The vortex is death.”

The words hung in the air for long moments as Maggie tried to wrap her head around it. “Come again?”

“The vortex… is death. It is death.”

Maggie frowned. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, Doc. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to go heavy on you again, and nobody wants that.”

Schreiber leapt to his feet suddenly, laughing and shouting. “Death! It’s death! And it will come for you! For us all!”

Before Maggie could react, Schreiber screamed incoherently and ran headfirst toward the metal cell door. Ran headfirst into the metal cell door.

There was a sickening crack and then silence. His body slumped to the floor.

Reeling, Maggie slowly got up and made her way over to him, bending down to take his pulse. There was none. For once, she was glad of the camera in the room recording everything, because she doubted anybody would believe her otherwise.

She stood up and banged on the cell door to get the attention of the guards outside. “We’re done here,” she called out, then looked down at Schreiber once more. “Probably for the best.”