MJ-12: Shadows

2

It’s amazing what a few curtains and some bunting can do, James Forrestal thought as he surveyed the National Guard Armory in Washington, D.C., where the capital’s movers and shakers were gathered to celebrate the inauguration of Harry S. Truman, he of the already legendary DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN headline. And only the armory was big enough to house all the folks Truman invited. The President wanted a celebration — not for himself but for the country. At least, so he claimed.

Forrestal, however, didn’t feel like celebrating.

As he hung back by the bar, Scotch in hand, Forrestal couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. Truman was his boss; the President had named him Secretary of Defense, the first man to hold that newly minted title now that “Secretary of War” sounded a little too aggressive in the horrible aftermath of World War II. Forrestal wanted to be loyal, he really did. But Truman could make it so very, very hard sometimes.

Hell, the whole title change was a symptom of the problem, in Forrestal’s view. There were still wars to fight.

“Even you look good in a tux, Jim,” came a voice from behind him, breaking him out of his reverie. Forrestal turned to see a big, slightly balding man beaming at him.

“Senator McCarthy,” Forrestal said, smiling and shaking the man’s hand. “Didn’t expect to find you here tonight.”

Joseph McCarthy, the junior U.S. Senator from Wisconsin, shrugged. “Only the senators from Utah pass up free drinks. Besides, I’m celebrating the institution, not the man.”

The two men clinked glasses at this. “I hope we can still count on you for our military modernization plans, Joe,” Forrestal said with a wink. Neither man was particularly keen on reducing the size and makeup of the U.S. armed forces, but that was the Truman administration’s stance and Forrestal knew he had to keep his mouth shut publicly, no matter how much he might disagree with the President.

McCarthy’s smile evaporated. “You know as well as I do that the Commies are still building up their forces. Why should we roll over? I don’t care that Truman and his crew — Acheson and Hillenkoetter and the rest of those idiots — think we can do more with covert action and intelligence-gathering. The Soviets are a threat. Especially if they have Variants!”

Forrestal stiffened at the word and looked around, worry on his face; with his luck, Secretary of State Dean Acheson or CIA Director Roscoe Hillenkoetter would be standing right behind him. “Dammit, Joe, I told you about that in confidence. The very existence of Variants is classified to hell and back, let alone the fact that the Russkies have them too! They could arrest us both for treason for just talking about it!”

McCarthy stepped in a bit closer and put his hand on Forrestal’s shoulder. “I know, Jim, but it’s not treason. Members of Congress have a right to know about a game-changer like this. You’re a true-blue American. And I am keeping it under my hat, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Forrestal hissed. The Defense Secretary had been deeply worried about the Variants and the implication their very existence had for the nation — and humanity at large — while Truman and Hillenkoetter were busy turning them into super-spies and giving these people, these weapons, incredible leeway in their daily activities. Forrestal had confided in McCarthy because he didn’t know who else to turn to, and the Wisconsin senator had always been a political ally. Now it seemed McCarthy had been blabbing about the nation’s best-kept secret program, and Forrestal felt a knot of worry growing in his gut. “Who else have you brought in?”

“Let’s get some air, shall we?”

Forrestal followed the senator as he weaved his way through the dancing crowd. There was a Negro woman on stage, singing her heart out. It was the first time Negroes had even been allowed into an inaugural ball other than to serve drinks. Once upon a time, Forrestal might have found the notion somewhat distasteful. These days, though, he had no choice but to admit that skin color was the least of humanity’s worries.

To Forrestal’s surprise, McCarthy didn’t lead him to the door. Instead, they turned right just before the coat check and headed toward a small, quiet area away from the crowds, where the Secret Service had set up a small command post.

And standing there, chatting with one of the agents, was a short, stocky man with a receding hairline and a face that could be generously described as pugnacious — J. Edgar Hoover, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“You really oughta think about applying,” he was saying to the agent. “What you’re doing here, it’s fine. It’s good and honorable and important. But out there, with the FBI, you’re gonna be where the action is, my friend. I promise you that.”

“I appreciate that, Director,” the young agent said. Forrestal had seen him around the White House before. Young, smart, obviously impressionable.

Hoover turned and nodded curtly at McCarthy and Forrestal. “Son, you mind giving us the room for a minute? Need to have a chat with these fine gentleman. National security. You understand.”

The agent scurried away as if he’d seen his shadow, reminding Forrestal just how much pull Hoover had in this town.

“Good to see you, Jim,” Hoover said as they shook hands. “Been ages. I’m glad Joe here brought us together.”

Forrestal smiled, but inside he wasn’t quite sure if he shared that sentiment. Truman had been absolutely insistent that Hoover be kept out of the MAJESTIC-12 project at all costs, a move with which Forrestal actually agreed. Nobody in the White House was sure whether Hoover would want his own Variants as agents, or if he’d simply round them up and throw them in a hole as a danger to humanity. He was capable of either option, and Forrestal felt Hoover was too much of a loose cannon and political empire-builder to be trusted. But here he was, and the knot in Forrestal’s stomach tightened up a few notches.

“I assume, then, that Joe has told you a few things,” Forrestal ventured.

Hoover raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Just enough. Honestly, Jim, it scares the crap out of me. This shit’s right out of the funny pages, right? Superpowered people — American citizens — being rounded up and turned into secret agents for Hillenkoetter and the CIA? It’s crazy, is what it is.”

“Director, please understand, there are less than a dozen people in government who know about these Variants,” Forrestal said. “If word were ever to get back to the President—”

Hoover cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I’m not doing anything with this right now, Jim. I promise you that. It’s just important that people know about it. Do you seriously think that Harry is prepared for when — and it’s when, not if — these Variants get the idea in their heads to do something stupid? To make a move that threatens America? To try to take over?”

“There are contingencies in place, Director. I’ve reviewed them myself. If the Variants do any of those things, they get put down. Simple as that,” Forrestal said with all the fervor of a politician protecting his turf — which he was.

“And I’m glad to hear it. Really glad. But all the same, the FBI is going to be looking out for these people now too. Wouldn’t hurt to have a few of them on our side. Checks and balances — isn’t that what we’re celebrating tonight?” Hoover said, barking out a laugh for emphasis.

McCarthy eyed the director with suspicion; it was obvious to Forrestal that this was news to the senator. “How exactly are you going to do that?” he said.

“Well, I was going to ask Jim here about that,” Hoover replied. “I mean, how many of these people do you have now?”

Forrestal shrugged. “We have eight fully up and running. More in the training program. Just brought one in a couple weeks ago.”

“And how do you find them?”

Forrestal knew then and there he had to decide just how much to trust Hoover, and whether he might eventually end up as ally, rival, or enemy. He hadn’t told McCarthy about Subject-1 and their ability to locate other Variants. He didn’t even know who Subject-1 was — only the President and Hillenkoetter knew that. And the very existence of this Variant homing pigeon was perhaps America’s greatest advantage against the Soviets and their own Variant program.

So, he lied.

“Analysis, mostly,” Forrestal said. “We keep an eye out for unusual reports in the papers. Strange activity, mysterious crimes, that sort of thing. Field scouts will then go and check them out. It’s police work, really. Your boys ought to be pretty good at it.”

Hoover nodded. “They are indeed, Jim. I already started looking. And I’m gonna keep you updated as we go. I hope you’ll extend me the same courtesy.”

“Of course, Director,” Forrestal said. “I’m glad you’re taking the initiative here. Appreciate it.”

The two shook hands as McCarthy beamed at them both, obviously pleased with himself. Forrestal would later give the ambitious politician as stern a talking-to as he could manage, knowing that the bastard had a vote on his budgets.

After some further pleasantries and the promise of fishing at some nebulous point in the future, Forrestal was left to his own devices and returned to the glittering hall. He watched the President and First Lady take a turn on the dance floor, Truman smiling that big, toothy grin of his. Forrestal grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one shot, trying to ease his nerves.

Truman wasn’t a bad man, not in the least. But he was a goddamn haberdasher from the middle of nowhere who got swept up in a two-bit political machine in Missouri. He got sent to Congress to do other men’s bidding, and Roosevelt had chosen him to be his vice-president for more of the same. Truman talked a good game, with that whole “buck stops here” nonsense. But deep down, Forrestal knew that he just wasn’t up to the task. Not with humanity’s position at the top of the food chain under threat.

Of course, Forrestal wasn’t a fool. He knew that Hoover would have eventually found out; the damn man had ears everywhere. And there were a couple of pertinent bits of information that Forrestal still kept to himself. He knew in his bones that Variants were a threat, but he preferred them in the right hands — his hands. Hoover would have to hit the jackpot to find a Variant before MAJESTIC-12 did.

But in case those Variants did wander off the reservation, Forrestal figured it was better to have men like McCarthy and Hoover — men who weren’t afraid to act — in his corner.

Overall, despite the initial surprise and with lingering reservations about Hoover, Forrestal decided he was fine with how the evening had gone. He grabbed another Scotch and headed outside for some air, not noticing the pair of eyes that had been on him the entire evening.