After preliminary experiments it appears Padilla’s Enhancement allows for limited control of kinetic energy, along with enhanced hand-eye coordination. As a result, he is a superlative marksman with any firearm or thrown object. The upper end of his range is limited only by the weapon or object in question. His Enhancement does not seem to extend to any other applications other than marksmanship, broadly defined.
At this time, neither I nor Padilla has identified any particular side effects. However, his Enhancement seems to have occurred only a few weeks ago, and the circumstances in which a side effect may manifest might have yet to occur.
While I do not have the capacity or facilities necessary to conduct a full psychological profile, Padilla seems to be a well-adjusted individual under the circumstances. He has expressed a desire to continue fighting the Chinese on behalf of fallen compatriots, and while this is an admirable goal, I have convinced him that, for now, his newfound abilities may be better utilized as part of the MAJESTIC-12 program. Nonetheless, he remains a foreign national and, thus, I have given him very few details as to the nature of the program, other than the fact that there are others out there with various preternatural abilities. (He had already seen Agent Yamato’s Enhancement during his extraction under combat conditions, so shielding him completely from the existence of other Variants was not an option.)
I recommend he undergo further testing and evaluation prior to full indoctrination into MAJESTIC-12. However, I believe current circumstances require us to make use of Padilla on a probationary basis, and I recommend the following new operation, tentatively codenamed FLAPJACK.
OPERATION FLAPJACK PROPOSAL
At the time of Padilla’s combat extraction, Padilla encountered an individual in the uniform of a Chinese Army sergeant who exhibited abilities consistent with Enhancement. According to Padilla, this individual appeared to be able to redirect kinetic energy, to the point where he was able to deflect and redirect bullets and, in one case, a hand grenade.
Up until now, MAJESTIC-12 and its associated agencies had not discovered evidence of Variants in the employ of the Chinese government or military, but given the size of the Chinese population — over 500 million according to current estimates — it is likely that several Variants exist there. A program similar to MJ-12 or Bekhterev may or may not exist; we should find out the truth as quickly as possible.
I propose that PFC Padilla accompany Agents Hooks and Yamato and myself in an attempt to locate and capture this potential Chinese Variant. Doing so would give us critical intelligence into any Chinese effort to collect Variants, and whether any such program is being run in cooperation with Beria’s Bekhterev Institute, thus also furthering Operation TALISMAN.
Please advise on approvals for Operation FLAPJACK, as Subject-1 is continuing to track this potential Chinese Variant to the north of the front lines.
GET A TELEX TO WALLACE. FLAPJACK APPROVED WITH HOOKS, YAMATO AND PADILLA. WALLACE IS ORDERED TO STAY WITH TALISMAN AND PROCEED AS PLANNED.
— VANDENBERG
6
Frank gratefully sat amid the hustle and bustle of Moscow, resting on a park bench and smoking a horrible, acrid Russian cigarette with unabashed enjoyment as he waited for the next leg of his journey — a very long, boring, occasionally harrowing trip that was leaving him as tired as he’d been since his Army days.
His trip started, of course, at Mountain Home two weeks ago. He wished Danny would’ve let him commandeer a plane — he could fly damn near anything thanks to his brain full of memories — but the boss wanted to go as deep into cover as possible. So Frank played the traveling businessman. He hopped a bus from Boise to Denver, which was a horrible idea, then it was good old Delta Air Lines from Denver to Chicago and Chicago to New York. Two full days after the briefing and he hadn’t even left the United States, but from there he walked right onto the Pan Am headed for London — with stops in Newfoundland, Reykjavik, and Shannon, of course, which meant a twenty-hour commitment. Frank gave himself a day and a night in London to hit some pubs and sleep — on the CIA’s dime, of course — before taking off the next morning for Paris, then Rome, and finally Istanbul. One final evening of luxury awaited him in a decadent hotel in Sultanahmet. Frank couldn’t help remembering his misadventures in the cisterns below that venerable district five years prior, but this time he took the opportunity to see the Hagia Sofia and Blue Mosque like any old tourist. He avoided the Topkapi Palace, however… just in case someone there had a long memory. That diplomatic reception in 1948 didn’t quite go as planned for anyone, after all.
The next day, Frank grabbed the package he’d sent ahead at the hotel’s front desk, and carefully laid his freshly laundered, Russian-tailored, and horribly ill-fitting business suits in his suitcase, along with some more proletarian options, should the need for them arise. He chose a simple jacket, shirt, and khakis for the next leg of his trip, and had the front desk send his American clothes back to the States. He was going native now.
Frank crossed the Bosphorus by ferry and caught a bus for Ereğli, a small Black Sea port town on Turkey’s northern coast. It was mostly a steel town, though the bus passed a few little beach resorts as well, all of which looked ghostly and abandoned, out of season. The town was otherwise pretty much working class, like Pittsburgh with fezzes. He arrived just as first shift was heading home, and he grabbed dinner at a little tea house with a friendly waitress who complimented him on his Turkish.
At least language wasn’t a problem. He couldn’t imagine trying to do all this without all the languages at his disposal.
After dinner, it was time to make contact. He walked down to the docks, where most of the commercial vessels were brightly lit as crews conducted maintenance under the evening stars. There was some singing and laughter, and Frank felt a twinge of something at that — simple lives, lived well. No politics, no need to be constantly looking over your shoulder. He thought back to Cal, hoping that MAJESTIC-12 would indeed let the man have a retirement of some kind somewhere down the line. Because if Cal could, maybe he could too.
Frank stopped at a beat-up trawler near the end of the dock, owned by a man who once helped ferry supplies to the Red Army during the war, part of an O.S.S. program to help the besieged Soviets fighting the Nazis. Naturally, the CIA kept their contacts after the war, and from what Frank read in his briefing papers, the fisherman was more than willing to continue earning a few bucks on the side.
“Mehmet! Permission to come aboard!” he called out in Turkish.
A bearded man in a battered fez poked his head out from the small quarters near the bow of the trawler. “Who is it? What do you want?” the man demanded, sounding put out.
“I’ve come from Bezapan seeking work,” Frank replied, just as his brief spelled out. “The crops have been poor, and my uncle Baki says the sea will do me some good. He says you might have a job for me.”
Mehmet stood staring for several long moments before he could bring himself to reply. “I might, but only if you know how to fish and you don’t get seasick.”