Michael J. Martinez
MJ-12: Endgame
Books by Michael J. Martinez
The Daedalus Incident
The Enceladus Crisis
The Venusian Gambit
The Gravity of the Affair (novella)
MJ-12: Inception
MJ-12: Shadows
MJ-12: Endgame
Dedication
This one’s for Sara.
Thanks for believing.
Author’s Note
As with the other books in the MAJESTIC-12 series, this novel includes viewpoints and commentary in keeping with the early Cold War era of the setting. Thus, you’ll find characters dealing with casual sexism and racism here that may, at times, seem disquieting to the modern reader. This isn’t meant to endorse such views in any way — quite the opposite. These views are included to honor those who suffered through such shortsighted times, and to remind ourselves today of where we’ve been, and perhaps how far we have yet to go.
Likewise, you’ll encounter historical figures who may hold different views than they did in reality. Given that these figures are reacting to the presence of superhumans in their lives — or in one case, that they themselves are superhuman — some departure from the norm should be respected. This is not in any way designed to malign those all-too-human figures, nor to justify their behaviors in real life. Dwight Eisenhower was a good president but had his failings. Nikita Khrushchev was the head of an antidemocratic Soviet regime, and he signed off on a variety of policies we would deem criminal today. And yet he wasn’t as bad as, say, Lavrentiy Beria, who does not need to possess superhuman abilities to earn history’s condemnation.
Long story short, this is a work of fiction. Please enjoy it as such, and if it gives you things to think about afterward, so much the better.
1
Three limousines sped down the two-lane road in the cold night, headlights illuminating the piles of dirty snow on either side, the work of the plows creating a canyon for the cars to slalom. Dark trees loomed on either side, but to one of the limos’ occupants, the destination loomed larger.
For Nikita Khrushchev, dinner with Josef Stalin was always a fraught affair. No matter how many times he went — and it was indeed a terrifying privilege he was granted with increasing regularity — he would never get used to the high-wire act they were all forced to perform.
When Stalin said dance, you danced. And for his four most trusted advisers, there was a great deal of dancing to do at these things. Khrushchev glanced at his watch, noting it was half past eleven at night. They wouldn’t eat before midnight, undoubtedly, and would be expected to drink for hours afterward. And even as they drank, they would somehow need to be in full control of their faculties — one misstatement could mean demotion. Or worse.
Khrushchev looked over at his companion in the limo, Nikolai Bulganin, the new defense minister, who was dozing in his seat, his head propped against the glass of the window beside him. Khrushchev wished he could sleep so easily; he imagined it would do well for his fortitude during the night ahead. But no, the head of the Communist Party for Moscow and one of the top advisors to Stalin himself had to settle for a solid afternoon nap, one that kept him from his wife and daughter more often than he liked.
Was this, then, what the October Revolution had wrought? Grown men performing for a puppet master in the middle of the night, their livelihoods and lives on the line, all for… what? A chance to succeed Stalin as the puppet master? Or maybe, just maybe, a chance to do what could be done to fulfill the goals of the Revolution, to improve the lot of the workers and peasants. Perhaps to preserve them as much as possible from the increasingly erratic dictates of their glorious leader.
Khrushchev’s silent musings — a death sentence if spoken aloud — were interrupted as the ZiS limousine ground to a halt in the snow outside a beautiful, ornate house. They were in Kuntsevo, at the Old Man’s dacha. It was a rare thing for Stalin himself to enter Moscow except to entertain himself, so the business of government was handled here now, awash in wine and vodka, rich sauces and obsequiousness.
Khrushchev poked Bulganin in the arm. “We’re here.”
The other man stirred and stretched. “Time to play the game, then.” With a yawn, Bulganin opened the door and braved the cold outside. Khrushchev followed suit. Behind them, the third limo was just coming to a halt. The doors opened and out came Georgy Malenkov, deputy chairman of the U.S.S.R.’s Council of Ministers, and Lavrentiy Beria, the first deputy premier and, many believed, the next supreme leader of the Soviet Union.
There was, of course, no finer mind for it, Khrushchev thought. Beria had the mind of an academician and the guts of a back-alley brawler. He looked like nothing more than a shopkeeper, with his balding pate and spectacles; only his piercing eyes betrayed this facade. Beria was, in Khrushchev’s opinion, the most ruthless man in the Soviet Union. Even more so than Stalin himself.
It was a good thing, then, that most of the Politburo was scared of what Beria might do should he take such power. If Khrushchev had anything to do with it, he would ensure that the cost of such power would be too high for Beria to bear.
“Where is Comrade Stalin?” Bulganin asked.
Khrushchev turned to see the limo in front of him had already sped off, and he caught a glimpse of the supreme leader already inside the foyer of his dacha. The Old Man could still move at a decent clip, at least when it came to getting out of the cold.
“He’s hungry,” Beria said. “Perhaps he’ll be easily sated tonight.”
“Wishful thinking,” Khrushchev said with a smile. “Come, let us see what he has for us.”
The four men entered, their coats taken by Stalin’s servants, a relic of the bourgeoisie that still troubled Khrushchev. Were they all not capable of managing their own coats? Or having their own wives cook their food? An army of servants, even for those of the proletariat honored with the heavy mantle of leadership, seemed counterrevolutionary.
Of course, Khrushchev wouldn’t say no to them, either, should he eventually ascend to Stalin’s position. Human nature would remain what it was.
The four — sometimes even referred to as “The Four” in the halls of the Kremlin, signifying their importance to the Soviet State — knew their way through the house and proceeded to the dining room. At least Stalin had opted to take in the picture show in Moscow, rather than here at the dacha, where the sound quality was bad and the movies were often Westerns smuggled in via diplomatic pouch from America. For some reason, Stalin loved Westerns. But since they weren’t subtitled, the Old Man would ask someone in the room to make up the translation as the movie played. It was, of course, another test. Stalin could easily have employed a translator, but he wanted to see how his protégés handled the duties. A fine story would bring toasts to your health and playful banter. A poor one would earn a stream of profane invective if you were lucky. The unlucky might be frozen out of the Soviet Union’s political structure for weeks at a time, and the other vultures would move in quickly.
But tonight was just dinner and drinking. Stalin’s dining room was a relatively modest affair — a table for twenty, another along one side for the buffet, couches on the other side for relaxation, a warm fire, wood-paneled walls, and fine carpets. Tonight was Georgian food, which Khrushchev didn’t particularly care for. He heaped food on his plate regardless.