"Snapshot 26:Prowl & Growl" Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and any other tangentially mentioned characters were created by Chris Carter, and remain the copyrighted property of him, TenThirteen Productions, and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. All characters are used without permission, and no infringement is intended. Archivists : Sure. Just make sure to keep my email address and this entire text as is without changes. Feedback : Please. Positive, negative, what have you. Address is drambo@sonic.net Classification : MSR, X, A Rating : R (Adult situations, gory violence) Geographical Note : There is no Court County in Montana, to the best of my knowledge, nor is there a town called Pave Creek. Readers that hail from Big Sky Country, I have created the entire town, it's population and customs out of whole cloth for the needs of this story. I have put Pave Creek in a place where there is no city, or if there is one there, it doesn't show up on my Rand McNally map. :) Enjoy! ----------------------------------------- Joint Special Operations Command McDill Air Force Base, Florida The klaxon blared loudly in the confined squad bay. The fourteen shooters that made up the Alert Platoon of SEAL Team Six froze where they stood, leaned or lied and listened for the words that they knew would soon be following from the loudspeaker. "Scramble! Scramble! Scramble!" the voice said. "Load out in T-Minus thirty minutes! Mission Profile is Zulu-Five-Oscar!" And with that, the fourteen SEALs moved as a single integrated unit. The Platoon XO, Lieutenant (jg) Walter "Muggs" Malone began barking orders, but they were unnecessary for the most part. The members of Juliet Platoon, SEAL Team Six had been training, living, eating, sleeping and partying together for the past six months. All their training had been focused towards a single mission: Counterterrorism. Within minutes, each man was dressed in all-black Battle Dress Uniforms (an oxymoron if ever there was one,) and had already shrugged into their load-bearing ALICE suspenders and vests, and had checked, double-checked and triple-checked every piece of equipment. Those that had qualified with personal sidearms moved to the small-arms locker at the end of the squad bay and retrieved them, at the same time grabbing as many magazines of Black Talon +P mankiller ammunition as they could carry. Magazines were slid home, slides were racked, and the pistols were put on safety and slid into ballistic nylon thigh holsters. Once the personal equipment and small-arms load-out had completed, they moved to the long-arms locker at the other end of the squad bay, each man drawing his assigned weapon. Two drew stainless-steel Winchester assault shotguns with duckbill attachments. Six drew Heckler & Koch MP5N-PDW 9mm assault weapons, the gun made most famous by the "Die Hard" movie trilogy. Three drew Winchester Model 700 sniper rifles, heavily modified by the JSOC Armorers, complete with heavy-steel competition-grade barrels, combination low-light and night-vision sniperscopes, and several boxes of handloaded sniper-grade ammunition. A SEAL sniper could normally, without stressing too much, put a single round through a target the size of a quarter at over 500 yards. Three SEALs checked out Stoner light machine guns, each carrying three 250-round box ammunition magazines. After loading the various assault, sniper and room-clearing weapons, the SEALs turned, en masse, and began trotting towards a pair of GMC Tahoe SUV's. Each was equipped with more weapons, ammunition and communications gear that could be used on any mission, anywhere in the world. It had taken less than seven minutes from the moment Walter Skinner had called the special JSOC number and ordered HUBRIS into action until Juliet Platoon was ready to move. The MCPO (Master Chief Petty Officer) of Juliet Platoon took the wheel of one, and the Executive Officer took the other. The remaining twelve SEALs piled into the sport utility vehicles, six inside each, and the trucks burned rubber as they turned and headed towards the tarmac of Runway 1-N. An Air Force C5A GlobeTrotter III was waiting, engines already turning, the rear loading ramp down as the SEALs drove up and in. The GlobeTrotter's loadmaster, an Air Force Chief Master Sergeant, hit the switch at the same time he toggled his intercom. "Go! Go! Go!" he shouted. As the huge plane turned and began to taxi, the rear loading ramp was closing tightly against the fuselage. "Air Force Serria Motel One requesting priority taxi and takeoff on runway 1-November," the pilot said. The tower, already expecting his call, had already diverted most military and civilian traffic from McDill. Those that could not be diverted were executing 2-minute racetrack turns at altitude, giving the C5A a perfect climb-out route, straight off the runway to 36,000 feet. The pilot advanced the throttles to maximum military power and released the brakes as he turned off the active threshold onto the runway, the huge cargo plane eating the tarmac as it gained speed and then leapt into the air with all the grace of a drunk elephant. The C5A was built for range and speed, not beauty. It would take less than four hours to make the transcontinental flight to Billings, Montana. Once the plane had leveled out at its cruising altitude, the green light went on in the cargo hold, and all fourteen SEALS released their seatbelts and, to a man, released a deep breath that none of them had been aware they were holding. They opened doors and exited into the plane, moving to check all the prepackaged and propositioned equipment that had been store in huge Conex containers. Everything they would need, from HAHO (High-Altitude, High Opening) flat-sail parachutes to Draeger bubbleless SCUBA rigs were contained in the containers, along with enough secure communications equipment, weapons and ammunition to wage the SEAL type of war for at least seventy-two hours. They would need none of what was contained inside the Conex containers for this mission, though. A Zulu-Five-Oscar mission profile was a simple E&E exercise. Their mission was to locate the hostage, and do what some wag at JSOC had coined a TRAFH: Tactical Recovery of Friendly Hostage. Once they arrived in Billings, Juliet Platoon would transfer their gear to a pair of RH-53D PAVE LOW Special Operations Capable (SOC) choppers. Then they would await the Zulu-Five-Golf message, the "go" order from the NCA (National Command Authority.) Once that order was given, and the target was identified and isolated, Juliet Platoon would swoop in, secure the perimeter, wax any bad guys, snatch the hostage, and be gone, all seemingly in the time it took to blink your eyes. It was what they had trained for. It was what they had prepared themselves for. But none of them had ever expected to deploy inside CONUS (Continental United States, to you civilian types,). Only after the Oklahoma City bombing at Congress very quietly added a rider to an education funding bill that slightly modified the Posse Comitatus laws to allow special operations forces of the United States military to conduct what amounted to preemptive law enforcement operations within the boundaries of the United States. And now Juliet Platoon was going to be the first unit to test the new law. The fourteen shooting, looting, hopping, popping, prowling and growling Navy SEALs couldn't wait to get the Five-Golf order. To a man, they were hunters. And they hunted the most cunning, most dangerous prey in the world:man. --------------------------------------- Hostage Rescue Team (West) Headquarters Denver, Colorado All across the city of Denver and its outlying suburbs, pagers attached to the belts of FBI agents started to go off. The sixteen members of the HRT (West) all glanced down at their Motorola alphanumeric pagers and read the single line: HUBRIS. To a man, they all gasped. To a man, they all stopped what they were doing at that exact moment, made excuses where necessary, and jumped into Bureau cars. Red bubble lights appeared on roofs, and fingers quickly dialed in sirens and electronic wonk-wonk air horns as they sped through traffic towards the airport. At Denver International, a white and blue-striped GulfStream II Executive Jet sat on the tarmac near a special entrance, its engines already idling. The FBI Special Agent pilot, who was assigned full-time to the airport, was also the HRT's number-two sniper. He was checking his heavily modified rifle when the rest of the team members began arriving, one after the other at about two minute intervals. It took less than twenty minutes for the entire team to assemble. Car trunks were opened, and large ballistic nylon gym bags were lugged aboard the GulfStream. The last man board closed the hatch just as the pilot revved the engines and turned towards the runway. Sixty seconds later, November Alpha Nine Six Nine was airborne and turning north. The pilot pushed the throttles to the firewall and felt the powerful engines responding, engines that had only recently been upgraded to increase the jet's maximum cruising speed. They were ninety minutes from Billings. --------------------------------------------- Headquarters, Federal Bureau of Investigation J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Walter Skinner pushed the door leading to the roof open and stepped out, the rotor wash from the Bell JetRanger III whipping his coat around his thighs. Ducking and running, Skinner headed towards the chopper. The crew chief held the co-pilots' door open as Skinner stepped inside, and then he, too, got aboard and slid the rear door shut. The pilot pulled pitch, and two seconds later the turbine-powered helicopter achieved transitional lift. As the rotors bit into the air, the pilot brought the nose down, letting the chopper sort of slide off the roof. Once there was nothing beneath him, the pilot nosed it over even more steeply and dove, trading altitude for speed. Once he had gotten the speed he needed, he brought the nose back up and pointed the helicopter towards Dulles. Inside the cockpit, Skinner quickly donned a heavy pair of earphones, his hands jerking the lip microphone to his mouth. He found the intercom button and pressed it with his foot. "How long?" he demanded. "Seven minutes. The Lear is on the ground, engines spooling. Crew is prepped, flight plan is filed. After we touch down, you'll be in the air in two minutes." Skinner nodded grimly and sat back, trying to ignore the memories of Vietnam that kept threatening to break through his intense concentration. It was definitely not time to play Memory Lane. His two best agents, indeed, his two favorite agents (although he would never let know that,) were in a deep pile of shit right now, and his place was with them, out in the field, facing down whatever was threatening them, not behind a desk moving paper from the IN to the OUT basket. He was going to catch hell when this all came down, even if Mulder somehow managed to pull off a spectacular win out of this one. He'd practically have to have Jimmy Hoffa alive and in person to justify the hundreds of thousands of dollars of taxpayer money that was financing this little jaunt into the country. Regardless of what his superiors thought, Skinner knew things that they either did not, or would chose to ignore when the time came. Fact number one was that he, Skinner, had gotten Scully and Mulder into this particular mess, and he was going to be damned if he was going to leave them twisting in the wind in Montana fighting with God only knew what. Mulder had, through a cutout that Skinner knew he would be unable to trace even if he tried, communicated that a code 65 was in progress. A 65 was just about one step short of a total Federal emergency. It meant that vital National Security interests were at stake, and that the compromise of aforementioned National Security interests were imminent, with loss of life expected. All of the 60-series codes referred to that basic scenario. But the addition of the second digit, the five, meant that there was a domestic terrorism incident about to unfold, and that unless massive Justice Department and military intervention were undertaken immediately, dire results were predicted. Say what you will about Mulder, Skinner thought, but he had never known the man to panic and call for the Calvary. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. Mulder had the tendency to go off on his own, ditching his own partner in pursuit of suspects of every color and description, more often than not having some connection to the shadowy conspiracy that fueled Mulder's nightmares and daydreams. Gritting his teeth, Skinner tried not to dwell on the fact that he knew, for a fact, that Mulder was much closer to the truth than he would ever imagine. He tried not to think about the compromises that he had made over the years in pursuit of what he considered a higher justice, a moral rightness that he would never be able to articulate to himself completely, let alone Mulder. He knew things, knew people, knew of events and missions and operations that would turn Mulder's blood cold, and he was powerless to do anything about it. There were larger issues at stake, things bigger than Mulder and his quest for Samantha. "We're about thirty seconds from touchdown," the pilot announced over the intercom, his voice distant and tinny over the roar of the engine. Skinner just nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. Mulder...what have you gotten your ass into this time? ------------------------ 22 Mon Bar Road Pave Creek, Montana "Ok," Mulder said. "That's taken care of. Knowing Skinner, he'll probably call out the Marines, the Navy, the Air Force and the entire Army to help us. That should take care of any military watchers." "I just had a thought," Scully said. "What?" "What about...others?" "Other whats?" "Well, we're being paranoid enough to admit that the military might be watching us. But what about the intelligence services? What about foreign agents? Our intelligence community isn't exactly known for being able to keep secrets." Mulder stroked his chin. "Who do you think is out there, Scully?" "Who knows, Mulder? But I think it's something we should be aware of. I know it's a phrase you're quite fond of, honey, but it's never been more true: We are not alone." ***** Starke's head shot up at Scully's words. He had never thought much about the idea of foreign penetration, but the bitch had a point. If OPSEC had been broken on this deal, he himself could walk into the trap he was trying to set for Mulder. Scimitar was in town. He was not one to be fucked with, Starke knew. His reputation was global in the intelligence community. No one fucked with Scimitar. Well, there was one way to fix that. As much as Starke would have loved killing Mulder up close and personally, there was a time to cut your losses, drop back fifteen yards and punt. His orders were clear and explicit. Under no circumstances was Starke to allow The Box to fall into FBI hands, or anybody else's hands for that matter. His sanctioning order, the one he had been shown, was signed by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff himself. He had absolute authority to be a heartbreaker and a lifetaker on this mission. The competition-tuned Remington Model 70 would see to that, Starke thought. At one time, he had been assigned to Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly known as Delta Force. And no one, not even the Secret Service, had better snipers than Delta. And Starke had been the best. He moved quickly. He'd already dressed in BDUs, a modification of the tiger-stripe pattern favored by the Navy SEALs. He closed his eyes, imagining the scene at the Mulder's house. The rifle was in his arms, his cheek pressed against the stock, his off-hand cupping the forestock, his eye sighting through the 10x Zeiss scope. The crosshairs were planted squarely on the front door of 22 Mon Bar Road. The moment Mulder stepped outside, Starke was going to send a full-metal-jacketed .223 round crashing through the bridge of his nose. Grinning, Starke moved towards the door. -------------------------------------- Aboard LearJet II, Tail Number NA11544 Somewhere above Ohio Skinner opened his briefcase and removed a slim device that looked very much like a standard cellular phone. It was that, in a way, but it was so much more. A secure, scrambled and encrypted telephone, it was about to prove very useful indeed. Skinner dialed the number from memory. "Hello?" "Call off your dogs," Skinner growled. "Walter? Is that you?" "You know who this is. Did you hear what I said? I want you to call of your dogs. Starke? Is that the asshole's name?" "I have so many assholes working for me, my dear. I can't be expected to remember all their names." "Bullshit," Skinner said. "Listen close and listen good. We've had a mutually beneficial relationship for a while now. If you do anything, and I do mean any-thing untoward regarding Agents Scully, Mulder or the Tarses boy, I >will< go public." The laughter at the other end of the phone only served to make Skinner angrier still. "Listen to me-" he started. "You will do nothing of the -" she started to say, her regal, triumphant tone more than Skinner could stand. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he screamed. He saw one of the pilots turn and look back towards him. Skinner pasted what he hoped looked like a smile on his face and turned his attention back to the phone. His voice was quiet, deadly, with an edge of steel to it that he hadn't heard in a long time. "You listen to me. I know more about you and your... operations than you give me credit for. I know all about Tel Aviv. I know all about Vladovistock. I know all about Thailand, Tokyo, and most especially St. Thomas. Are you reading me? I have it all. Files. Pictures. Dates, times, recordings of phone conversations. I have more dirt on you than you can imagine. One hair on their heads, and its public." He let his words sink in for a few moments, cupping the phone's mouthpiece in his hand as he took deep, calming breaths. "Walter..." the voice started. "You know what will happen if this becomes public...not those things you mentioned...but what the Tarses boy is hiding from me! He's taken what's rightfully mine!" Skinner had no idea what the woman was talking about. He wasn't about to let her know that, of course, so he fell back on an old interrogator's trick. He said nothing. And as expected, as panicked as she was, she rushed to fill the sudden void with sound, with noise, with her own words. "Walter, think about it! Think what would happen if the first genuine artifact from an alien intelligence were to be revealed to the world!" Skinner felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. H-o-l-y shit. Mulder had finally done it. He had finally found proof of life beyond the stars. "Walter...you can't threaten me! Not now! We're so close to getting what we want...what we need. What we must have." Again, he said nothing. Skinner kept playing out the rope, giving her enough slack to hang herself. "Do you have any idea what's on the other side? I need it back, Walter. I still have two agents on the other side. One of them is on a world where they've discovered a cure for AIDS, Walter! Think of it!" "I'm listening," he said, the mental image of a noose and gallows tripping across his mind. And then she did what he knew she would; she revealed her true colors. "Think of the money, Walter! The person that brings a cure for AIDS to this world will never have to want for anything! Think of the power you could wield! And it doesn't stop there. I sent an agent back to another vortex, just before that damn Tarses boy stole what's mine, what to me. He found a world...oh, Walter...a world where there is no energy shortage. A world where they have perfected cold fusion. Unlimited energy. Think of what the oil conglomerates would to keep that technology secret!" Skinner said nothing. Closing his eyes, he leaned back, running his fingers under the lenses of his glasses, gently massaging his eyes. How in the hell had he gotten involved with this woman? He tried to remember the twists and turns his career had taken, the Machevellian route his life had gone down...all leading to this moment. Put up or shut up. "Walter," she said, slowly, carefully. "If you go public with this, you'll be ruined. All our plans...all we've worked for will be lost! All for naught!" "I have no choice," Skinner said. "OH, GO TO HELL!" she screamed. "You first," Skinner whispered. He punched the END button and tossed the secure cellphone back into his briefcase. -------------------- 22 Mon Bar Road Pave Creek, Montana Zack returned from the bathroom and let himself into the office. Scully was once again seated behind the desk, idly doodling on her legal pad. Mulder was in his seat, slowly rubbing his hands back and forth on his thighs, staring off into the middle distance. "Well..." Zack said. "Do you want to see it?" Scully nodded. "Of course," she said briskly. "Where is it?" Zack looked at her as if she had lost her mind. "Listen very carefully, Agent Scully...I have no intention of telling you in this room where the box is hidden. I tell you that, and I would half expect this house to blow up. I have no idea who's listening to this conversation. Meet me tonight, in the woods behind my house. Midnight. Bring a pair of flashlights...and about ten feet of clothesline." Zack stood and moved to leave. "Wait!" Scully called. "Zack...aren't you...scared that someone will try and take...you?" Zack nodded. "Of course. But they won't. They don't know where the box is. If they kill me, they'll never get it. And they can't afford that." "They have ways..." Mulder started. "Of making me talk?" Zack, the sixteen-year-old going on forty, chortled. "Agent Mulder, I've already been through four separate rounds of chemical interrogation. They got nothing from me. Not even a hint. Don't worry about my resolve. I'd worry about your own if I were you." And with that, Zack turned once again to leave. "What did you mean by that?" Mulder asked, an edge creeping into his voice. Zack stopped at the door, one hand already on the knob. He spoke over his shoulder, slowly, softly. "Sometimes...the chase is better. Remember the proverb, Mulder. Be careful what you wish for..." "I just might get it..." Mulder finished. "Exactly, Mulder. You've been looking for so long, what are you going to do when you find the truth? The search will be over. Where will you go? What will you do?" Well, Mulder thought. I know one thing for sure. In about eight months and change, I'm going to be a father. That thought, which had only recently begun to worm its' way though Mulder's mind on a daily basis, did not bring the warmth to his heart that it usually did. Zack turned and spoke to the door, though his words were directed at the partners. "I'll understand if you're not there tonight. I'm not sure I would be if I had a choice." "We'll be there," Scully promised. Zack nodded to no one in particular and left the duo sitting across the huge desk from each other. Scully and Mulder heard the front door clicking closed behind him as Zack left. -------------------------------------- Aboard LearJet II, Tail Number NA11544 Somewhere above South Dakota The phone rang. Startled, Skinner looked at it for three full rings before leaning forward and grasping it. He punched SEND and lifted it to his ear. "You son of a BITCH!" she screamed. "I just got an email that JSOC scrambled a SEAL team out of McDill! The Denver HRT is on alert and is enroute to Billings. You stupid, fucking-" Sneering, Skinner punched END and threw the phone at his briefcase. -------------------- 22 Mon Bar Road Pave Creek, Montana "Any luck?" Scully was standing at the kitchen counter, forking the light-colored tuna fish apart in preparation for adding the mayo. Mulder was pacing in front of the table, the cordless phone planted firmly against his ear. "I keep getting the out of range message. He must be airborne." "The calvary's on its way, Mulder. What are you going to tell Skinner when he lands?" "I don't know," he admitted. "But knowing Skinner, if I do tell him what we know...or what we suspect, anyway, he's gonna have the HRT storm Zack's house and take the kid, kicking and screaming." Scully nodded, knowing that even if Mulder wasn't looking directly at her as she did, he would sense it. Somehow. "Well, nothing we can do about it until he lands," Scully said. "Let's have lunch and try and figure out what we're going to do. How's that sound?" Mulder smiled at the soft, even tone of Scully's voice. He knew what she was doing, and he loved her for it. Loved her more and more every day, if that was at all possible. Scully knew that he was getting close to the breaking point. He had never been this close to discovering the truth about Samantha. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty. Twelve and a half hours, and he would be on his way to knowing, finally, the truth. He walked over to where she was standing, his hands gently resting on her shoulders. Suddenly, he wished she was several inches taller, if only so he could do what she loved to do to him: Thread his arms around her waist and bury his face in her back. He was instantly ashamed at the thought; Scully was perfect just the way she was. Short, fiery, intelligent to the point of being scary, and probably the sexiest woman he had ever known in his life. AND, he added silently, she's carrying my child. Our child, he mentally corrected himself. Leaning down, he planted a soft kiss on the back of her neck, tickling the fine red hairs. Scully moaned, lifting her head slightly. "I'll give you two hours to stop that," she groaned. Mulder chuckled in her ear, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers running down her back. "Sorry, Scully...I can't say that I'm quite 'in the mood' right now." She nodded. "Me either. But...you never know. Maybe tonight, before we leave..." She left the thought hanging in the air. She'd said it for two reasons...first, because she did actually want to be next to Mulder sometime today, next to him in a way that they hadn't been since their first night in the huge house. Now that she had gotten a taste of their lovemaking, the incredible, combustible passion they were capable of generating, she felt herself developing a taste for it, a hunger...a craving that she had never suspected would ever dwell inside her. Face it, Dana, she thought. You're hot for his bod. She smiled, and then thought about the reason she had uttered those words. If Mulder thought he was going out to meet Zack by himself tonight, he was sorely mistaken. And just as she knew he would, Mulder took the bait. "Um...listen," he said, his fingers tightening on her shoulders. "I was thinking..." "Forget it, Mulder. I'll be there with bells on." She heard him sigh, defeat evident in the way his body suddenly drooped. But he knew she was right. "Lunch is ready," she announced. ---------------------------------------- Behind 18 Mon Bar Road Pave Creek, Montana Starke made his way into the woods as quickly as he could. He wanted to be in position for when Mulder left the house. He was going to enjoy shooting the bastard. He found a place to roost and set about making his nest. It took less than ten minutes. While Mulder and Scully were munching on tuna fish sandwiches six hundred yards away, Starke was preparing to kill them. He was finally getting into position when he felt his pocket vibrate. It was the secure cellular, configured to ring silently just like a pager, and just for times like this. He knew who was on the other end of the phone and, for a moment, he considered not answering. But he also knew that the ROSE TRAWLER satellite orbiting above his head would be able to mark his position just be the frequency-hopping nature of the secure cellphone, a signature as unique as a fingerprint. "What?" he growled. "Abort. Pull out. Retreat. Get lost. Go back to the hotel and await further orders," she said. "But-" "Starke, don't give me a word of shit, do you hear me? I've had a really bad day." He couldn't resist. Nastily, he asked, "That time of the month?" There was a long silence. "I'll forget you said that, Starke. Say something like that to me again, and I'll send you to that world where the lava runs like oceans. Remember that one?" Starke grunted. "We gotta get the fucking thing back first, ya know." "Yes," she agreed, "I know. But you are not to take Mulder or Scully or that little asshole out. You are to pull back and observe. You have new mission orders. The instant, and I mean the exact fucking second you know where that box is, I want you to call me. I'll decide from there what to do." Starke had a question he'd wanted answered for a while now. "What do I do if I run into Scimitar?" "Who?" "The Israeli." There was another pause. "Kill him." Starke's eyebrows went up. She knew the risks they were taking with that order. If he managed to kill Scimitar, his stock in the underground, shadowy world of covert intelligence would go up very much indeed. He would be the new Bad Boy on the Block. The only problem was, others had gone up against Scimitar...and lost. Sixteen, as far as Starke was able to piece together. And so far, the score was Scimitar 16, everyone else a big fat donut hole. "Starke, you're supposed to be one of the best snipers in the world. Whack the sonofabitch, will you for Christ's sake? I mean, if you can't handle it, maybe I should get someone else. Maybe Bob Lee Swagger." Starke chortled. "I doubt he's available, ma'am. The last I heard of him, he was retired, living in Arizona, married to his spotter's widow." The woman on the other end of the phone let out an annoyed sigh. "Listen...if you run into Scimitar, kill him. And then get rid of the body. Don't kill Mulder or Scully or the boy. Find the box. Call me. Have I left anything out?" Starke didn't say a word. "Fine. You have your orders." And then she was gone. Swearing a blue streak, using combinations of four and twelve letter words that would have made a Marine Gunnery Sergeant blush, Starke settled into position to wait for Scully and Mulder to emerge from the house. ***** Scimitar's rifle was pointed at the rear of the "Edwards'" house. He was positioned at an angle, and with a slight movement of his barrel to the right, he could make out Starke. Scimitar grunted silently to himself. Starke was known in the world that Scimitar inhabited, but not for the reasons that Starke might have thought. He was known as a blowhard, a loudmouth operator, a knuckle-dragging ex-Delta trooper who liked to brag about how good he was. And Scimitar had picked him out in the woods practically the second the man had entered them. He moved through the foliage like a cow on ice skates. Scimitar had no real desire to kill Starke. But, if the rogue DIA agent did try to interfere with Scimitar's mission, he would go down. Of this, the Israeli had no doubt. Unlike Starke, Scimitar was not on a global-reaching electronic leash. His orders, specific as they were, faxed over a secure line from Tel Aviv, were just as explicit and direct as Starke's had been until a few moments ago. Israel had a mission to carry out. They had history to change. They had 20 million murders to avenge. And Scimitar was their avenging angel. He'd already volunteered for the trip back through time to set the device or devices. He'd already made peace with his God, and looked forward to the chance to rid the planet of his enemies. With a smile on his face, and a song in his heart, Scimitar hugged the cold, hard ground and waited for what was to come next. ---------------------------- End Chapter 26