"Snapshot 28:Preparations"

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.


Rating : PG

Enjoy!

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Billings Municipal Airport

	The FBI Lear jet containing Assistant Director Walter F.
Skinner taxied to a stop between the Denver HRT Lear and the USAF
C17A. The pilot immediately cut the engines, and Skinner moved
towards the door, quickly twisting the handle and dropping the
fold-away staircase. He stepped down onto the tarmac, only to be
met by the Commanding Officer, Juliet Platoon, SEAL Team Six, and
an obviously disturbed HRT Team Commander.
	"What's going on?" they asked in unison.
	Skinner frowned. "This is a bit complicated," he started.
"We have a situation. I have two undercover agents in trouble,
and they're trapped inside a very dangerous situation. We also
have a hostage, or at least, a potential hostage situation,
involving agents of a foreign government, perhaps more than one
foreign government."
	The SEAL Team CO and the HRT CO exchanged a glance, and
then looked back at Skinner with expressions that seemed to say,
'OK, you have our attention, now what?'
	"Here's the deal," Skinner said. "I do not want a
jurisdictional piss fight. I, and only I, am in command here."
Skinner reached into his jacket pocket and returned with a folded
piece of paper. "As we were landing, I received a fax from the
NMCC. This order seconds the SEAL team to my command for this
mission." He handed the piece of paper to the CO of the SEAL Team,
who took it, opened it, and read it quickly.
	"I'll be damned," he muttered. "Everything looks right."
He glanced back up at Skinner. "With all due respect, sir, do you
mind if I confirm this?"
	"Not at all," Skinner said, reaching back into his jacket.
Offering his cellphone, he said, "I think you know the number."
	The SEAL CO dialed quickly. "This is Commander Matthews,"
he said. "May I speak to the NCA?" There was a brief pause, and
then, "Good afternoon, sir. This is Commander Matthews, CO of
Juliet Platoon, SEAL Team Six. I have in my hand an order
authorizing a temporary reassignment of command authority-" The
Naval officer never got to finish his sentence. He spent the next
two minutes uttering various combinations of "Yes, sir,", "No,
sir," and "No excuse, sir."
	Finally, after what must have been a monumental ass-
chewing by someone who wore a planetarium's worth of stars, he
punched the END button on the cellphone and handed it back to
Skinner.
	"It seems," he said dryly, "that I report to you until
the end of this mission." He drew himself to attention and
saluted crisply. "Commander Steven Matthews, Commanding SEAL Team
Six, reporting as ordered, sir. All men are present and accounted
for, sir!"
	Skinner looked at the man for a long moment, wondering if
he was being mocked. Deciding that the SEAL's gesture was part
ceremonial and deeply heartfelt, Skinner drew on his training as
a Marine and snapped to attention, returning the salute just as
crisply as it had been offered.
	"Thank you, Commander. Now that we've established who is
in charge, I will need your help coming up with a plan. If you
will both join me in the aircraft...?"
	Skinner turned and walked back inside the Lear. It had
started out life as an Air Force VC-20, the military equivalent
of an executive's business jet. There were only four seats. The
remainder of the passenger compartment had been converted to a
plush conference area. There was a large table bolted to the
floor, and Skinner had made use of it, quickly assembling United
States Geologic Survey maps of the operating area, and a basic
plan. It was his hope that the experience and knowledge of the
HRT and US Navy SEALs would contribute to creating a foolproof
plan for getting his two favorite agents, and whatever surprises
they held, out of Pave Creek and  the clutches of whomever wanted
what they had, or who they had.
	"The town is called Pave Creek. The house in question
sits on several acres of land, and is surrounded by wooded areas
on almost all sides. We have reason to believe that at least one,
but perhaps more, foreign intelligence or paramilitary operatives
are keeping the house under surveillance. The two FBI agents are
residing in this house undercover as man and wife." Moving his
finger to another position on the map, Skinner continued. "This
is the house of the Tarses family. Their son, Zachary, is the
hostage in question. He has in his possession either information
or materials that the suspected foreign agents want to take away
from him. It is also highly possible that the foreign operatives
have orders to kill the Tarses boy, our two agents... or all
three of them."
	Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Our mission is to
prevent that from happening. To use a tired, trite phrase,
gentlemen, 'Failure is not an option.'" He paused. "I want to
know what you both feel is our best options."
	The two hostage-rescue and anti-terrorist professionals
exchanged another silent glance. This was not a time for
jurisdictional infighting or petty mind games. There was a job to
be done, and they both instinctively knew several things:
	First, this was not a glory mission. Both men knew,
somehow, that no matter how this mission turned out, the results
were going to end up being highly, deeply classified. Men that
sat in positions far above their respective pay grades were going
to bury this as deeply as possible.
	That being said, they both realized something else almost
a second later. Inside the small, tightly-knit community of
special operations units, this op was going to become a legend.
Those with the security clearances to ask the right questions of
the right people at the right time could, and would hear about
this mission. It was a chance to enhance a career, to get an
early promotion, to move on to bigger and better things in their
chosen profession.
	It was time to go to work.
	"Sir," Commander Matthews said. "HRT is trained at
Hostage Rescue. I believe that we should station the team
here...here and...here, giving their snipers open avenues of fire.
They can reach both the Tarses house and the agents' house
without problem. Two assault teams should be staged, one by
helicopter, and one by SUV. We have two SUV's inside the C17A
that can be utilized by HRT. We also have a RD-53D on call if we
need it. It's SOC-configured, and the crew is SOC-certified by
JSOC. If we get a hostage situation inside either house, HRT can
be on site in less than sixty seconds.
	"Secondly, SEAL Six should infiltrate the woods as soon
as possible. We are the best in the world at moving low and slow,
sir. We can have the entire area covered and surrounded within
four hours, and not a single person would know we were there."
	Skinner nodded at the SEAL CO and turned his attention to
the Denver HRT CO. "Williams, isn't it?"
	"Yes, sir."
	"What do you think of the Commander's plan?"
	"It's a good plan, sir. I agree with every single concept,
with two qualifications."
	"Go," Skinner said, pointing his thumb and foreigner at
the man like a gun.
	"Firstly, we will need to modify our radios so that the
SEALs and my HRT shooters are on the same frequency. That way we
can all keep in contact."
	Skinner turned to Matthews, raising an eyebrow, asking an
unspoken question.
	"We use secure Motorola scrambled radios..." he started,
already shaking his head.
	"We have extras," Williams said. "Almost fifty of them."
	Matthews thought about it. "Done. What else?"
	Williams grimaced. "We need to practice fast-roping from
the RH-53D. We usually use JetRangers. I don't want my men fast-
roping from an unfamiliar aircraft. Especially under mission
conditions. We will need about two hours of load-out and fast-
roping practice."
	Skinner nodded. "Consider it done." Turning to the SEAL,
he continued, "Commander Matthews, contact the Air Force and have
at least four PAVE LOW choppers sent here ASAP. Special Agent
Williams will take his airborne assault team out to Billings AFB
and practice his load-out and fast-roping skills."
	"Why four?" Matthews wanted to know. "We only need one."
	"Several reasons," Skinner said. "First, redundancy. If
we have a chopper go down, we have extras. Second, with two out
at Billings AFB, Williams can get his entire team familiar with
the birds, not just the airborne assault team. That way, if we
have a personnel loss during training, we won't compromise the
mission. Any other questions?"
	"No, sir," they said in unison.
	"Good. SEAL Team Six will begin infiltration as soon as
they've been assigned radios. You two work out call signs and
frequencies. When you've gotten all that done, bring it to me."
	"One final question," Matthews asked. "What are our Rules
of Engagement?"
	Skinner considered this. He reached under the table and
returned with his briefcase. Opening it, he reached in and
extracted a slim folder. He withdrew two glossy color photographs
and slid them across the desk. "These are my two Special Agents,"
he said. "Mulder and Scully."
	"Which is which?" Matthews wanted to know.
	"They're interchangeable," Skinner said, and then
realized he'd actually spoken one of his frequent private
thoughts aloud. Tapping one picture with a finger, he said, "This
is Dana Scully. The other one is Fox Mulder. Any adult that is
not either of these two people, a SEAL or a HRT Special Agent is
hereby declared hostile. If they attempt to interfere with the
mission, your use of deadly force is authorized. Our mission is
to get the two agents and the boy, and whatever objects, material
or information any of the three are carrying as far away from
Pave Creek as possible. Towards that end, once we have secured
all three, one of the PAVE LOWs will land as closely as possible
to their location. They will be exfiltrated to this location,
where they will board the plane we are sitting in and fly to
Washington."
	He studied the two men. "Questions?"
	The two men exchanged another glance. "No, sir," Matthews
said, standing and coming to attention again. He waited
expectantly. "Dismissed," Skinner said. Matthews turned and
quickly exited the aircraft, shouting orders to his men as he ran.
Williams looked back at Skinner. "What the hell is going on,
sir?"
	"Just do your job, and do it right," Skinner snapped.
"Get your men trained on that damn PAVE LOW chopper and report
back to me no later than 1800 hours. Dismissed, Agent Williams."
	Angry, and more than a little hurt, Special Agent
Williams stood and turned on his heel, quickly exiting the
aircraft. The excitement of the upcoming mission was beginning to
get to him, too, but there were some nagging doubts in the back
of his mind. Dismissing them, Williams began mentally cataloging
the men in his unit, deciding who would be in which portion of
the assault.
	Skinner sat alone inside the Lear Jet, slowly stroking
his chin. His eyes had a distant, glazed look, and his thoughts
were a thousand miles away. William's' question hadn't nearly
been as inappropriate as he'd led the man to believe. Indeed,
what the hell <was> going on here?
	Mulder...what have you gotten me into?

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22 Mon Bar Road
Pave Creek, Montana
2250 Hours (11:50pm)

	"What do you wear to something like this?" Mulder
wondered aloud.
	"Basic black," Scully answered, exiting from the bathroom.
She was dressed in black denim jeans, black ankle-high climbing
boots, and a black cotton sweatshirt. She was carrying a black
baseball cap in one hand. When she put it on, she would all but
vanish in the woods.
	"Good idea," Mulder agreed, digging into the dresser for
a matching outfit.
	He dressed quickly, and moved to stand in front of the
mirror. "We look like cult members," he said softly.
	"Don't even <kid> about that, Mulder," she said softly.
Walking up behind him, Scully pressed her face against his back
and wrapped her arms around his waist. "It's going to be an
interesting night, Mulder, and I want you to know...no matter
what happens, I'll be there for you."
	"Me, too," Mulder said. "We're in this together, Scully.
Forever. No matter what the future brings...it's you and me,
kiddo."
	He turned in her arms and leaned down, kissing her softly,
gently.
	"Time to put our game faces on," he whispered.

---------------------------------------------------

Pave Creek, Montana
2234 Hours

	Scimitar, of course, had seen them coming. They were good,
of course.
	But he was better.
	Judging by the way they moved, the were Navy SEALs. They
had moved like the shadowy, life-taking, widow-making, silent
winds of death that they were, but they could not compare
themselves to his abilities, his experience, his judgment and
training. One of them, trying to move into position, had actually
stood no more than two feet away from Scimitar.
	He had remained motionless, breathing slowly, deeply
though his nose, imagining himself as part of the woods, part of
the grass and trees and leaves. He was invisible. They did not
see him.
	They were a hostage-rescue team, Scimitar knew. They were
there for the boy, for what he knew. The small device that Avi
had given him in New York was close at hand. He'd preset it for a
half-kiloton yield, with a two-minute delay fuse. Two minutes
after activation, the device would detonate. There would be
nothing left of Pave Creek, Montana but a smoking, radioactive
hole.
	But that was only a last resort, a final, desperate
attempt to keep The Box from the hands of Israel's enemies.
Scimitar knew that it was time to move, that the moment when he
would have to take decisive action, one way or another, was
closing fast.
	Grinning, he started, exiting from his hiding place and
moving towards the first SEAL, the one closest to him. The man
never knew what was coming. America, and America's military had
always been a friend to his homeland, so Scimitar didn't kill the
commandos. He just immobilized them, quickly, efficiently
applying a lead sap to the base of their skulls and then trussing
them with coils of rope he'd pre-cut for the job. They'd awake
with splitting headaches and have double vision for a few days,
but there were no lasting injuries.
	Except to their egos.
	Scimitar quickly neutralized over a third of the SEAL
Team, all the while making his way (in a roundabout fashion,)
towards Starke.

-----------------------------------------------------

	Starke had no idea that anyone was in the woods with him.
He suspected that someone was out there, or perhaps more than one
person, but his training had originally been as a police officer.
He little, if any experience out in the field, surrounded by
hostile entities, all wanting him dead.
	It gave him the creeps.
	Scimitar almost lost Starke.
	Boatswain's Mate Second Class (BM2) Tony Calandra, a SEAL
with four years experience in the Teams, found Starke first. Or
rather, practically gave Starke a heart attack.
	The rogue DIA agent was studying the front of 22 Mon Bar
road from his hiding place in the woods behind 18 Mon Bar road,
his attention focused on the two agents inside. He didn't hear,
feel, or sense BM2 Calandra coming up behind him. The first
indication that he was not alone came when Starke felt the cold,
hard barrel of Calandra's MP5-PDW 9mm rifle press against the
hollow behind his right ear.
	"Don't move, asshole," Calandra whispered. "Hands where I
can see 'em."
	Starke moved to comply quickly. He had little doubt that
the man holding the weapon had about as much compunction for
using it as a wolf had for using its teeth. "Easy, man," Starke
whispered. He had no desire to attract any more attention.
	"I'm going to handcuff you," Calandra said, moving one of
his hands off the weapon and towards a pocket on his assault vest
where he kept the nylon wrist-ties. For the briefest of moments,
Calandra fumbled, and he move his head a fraction of an inch,
trying to find the Velcro closure on the pocket.
	Experienced as he was, Calandra had made one huge mistake.
He was standing astride Starke's body, his feet on either side of
Starke's hips. With his attention diverted for that single
fraction of a second, Starke made his move. Twisting on the
ground, Starke kicked out, sweeping the SEAL's legs out from
under him. With a grunt, Calandra went down, rolling to the side,
his weapon already coming up, finger tightening on the trigger.
	The report of Starke's silenced Ruger .22 was whisper-
quiet in the dense woods. The only sound was the bolt sliding
back and forward again, chambering another round. A small red
hole appeared in the center of Calandra's forehead. His eyes
rolled back, and he slowly collapsed, falling face first onto the
soft blanket of grass and leaves.
	"Die, cockbreath," Starke whispered.

----------------------------------------------

	Scimitar had witnessed the entire thing, and he could
have predicted what happened the moment Calandra made his fatal
mistake of straddling his target's body. But he had expected
Starke to be as professional as he himself was. Shocked by the
rogue agent's action, Scimitar decided to change his operational
methods. He had originally planned to do to Starke what he had
done to the other SEALs guarding 22 Mon Bar Road.
	Now Scimitar saw that he would have to kill Starke.

-----------------------------------------------

	Starke moved to the dead SEAL and quickly stripped him,
taking the radio, his weapons and the assault vest. Shrugging
into the equipment, Starke quickly checked his load. He had five
more magazines for the MP5-PDW, and six magazines for the H&K USP
.45 that BM2 Calandra had been carrying. Quickly fitting the
radio's earpiece and lip-mike to his head, Starke turned, ready
to move out, and came face to face with Scimitar.

-------------------------------------------------

	"Hello, Starke," the Mossad agent said.
	Starke saw the silenced .22 Ruger, a duplicate to his own,
in Scimitar's hand.
	"Do I know you?" he asked, trying to buy some time,
trying to think up some options.
	"I doubt it. We have never met. But I know of you, and
you may know of me, if you have done your research."
	"Scimitar," Starke whispered, the fear coursing through
him.
	The Mossad agent's chin dropped for the briefest of
seconds, acknowledging Starke's identification.
	"Why did you kill that man?" Scimitar asked.
	Starke glanced over his shoulder at Calandra.
	"Him?" He shrugged. "He's in my way." Scimitar nodded.
Starke had just used up his last chance. Had the rogue agent
answered with a different phrase, a different emotion, Scimitar
had been prepared to cripple him instead of killing him. But the
man was not a professional. Starke was not of the same class as
Scimitar, not the same type of man.
	He was nothing but a common thug.
	The first shot took Starke in the left shoulder. Gasping,
the rogue agent fell to his knees, his hand automatically moving
to his shoulder to stanch the flow of blood.
	"W-why?" Starke asked.
	The second shot took Starke in the right shoulder, and he
spun from the impact, his face looking up at Scimitar, his eyes
wide and wild.
	"D-don't!" he cried.
	Scimitar, who had been born with the name of Avner, took
at last look at the man known as Walter Starke and grimaced. "Go
to your God," he whispered, firing four .22 rounds as fast as he
could pull the trigger. The first round hit Starke in the chest,
the next in the throat, and the last two impacted directly
against Starke's face.
	One in each eye.
	Starke collapsed against the ground, one arm draping
itself across BM2 Calandra's legs. His body hitched
once...twice...
	And was still.
	"Go in peace," Scimitar whispered. He considered
whispering the Kaddish for Starke, but decided that there was no
time. Later, in retrospect, he would say the Kaddish and remember
the death of Starke.
	But for right now, there was work to be done.

------------------------------------------------------------

	Skinner would have preferred to be on the ground with the
HRT unit and the SEALs, but his Marine Corps training had been
years ago, and designed more for taking territory with
overwhelming force, not for sneaking and peeking. As a good
manager, he knew to leave the operational detatchments alone, and
sit back at his hastily-constructed command post at the Justice
Court motel. He was in contact with both ground commanders by
radio, and had an open landline link to the Billings Field Office
in case he needed immediate backup.
	Picking up his cellphone, he dialed.

-------------------------------------------------------------

22 Mon Bar Road
Pave Creek, Montana
11:14pm

	Mulder lifted the reciever. "Hello?"
	"Are you ready for delivery?"
	"Almost."
	"The packages are in the neighborhood," Skinner said.
	"Good."
	"What's your signal?" Skinner asked.
	Mulder considered this. "If I scream 'Help, Help!' would
that be too subtle?"
	"Agent Mulder..." Skinner warned.
	"Sir, if this thing goes to shit, I doubt there will be a
question in anyone's mind."
	"Very well, Agent Mulder." Skinner paused. "Good luck,
Fox."
	Mulder stood there, touched beyond words. A nagging voice
in the back of his mind caused Mulder to commit yet another act
of insanity.
	"Sir, Scully is pregnant."
	Scully, who had been sitting on the couch, trying to read
a book, snapped upright, her mouth agape.
	There was a very long pause on Skinner's end. "I see," he
said. "Why did you tell me that, Agent Mulder?"
	"I think you know, sir."
	Indeed he did.
	"Very well, Mulder."
	"We will be leaving the house in about thirty minutes.
Watch our backs."
	"You got it," Skinner said, and disconnected the call.
	Mulder turned around to find Scully in his face. "Have
you lost your mind?" she demanded.
	"Dana-"
	"Don't 'Dana' me!"
	"Scully...if anything happens to me tonight...Skinner
knows what to do."
	"And what...exactly...would that be?"
	Mulder sighed. "About two years ago, I started making
preperations for my death. In case anything ever happened to me,
I wanted...certain things taken care of. My will is very specific
as to how my assets are to be distributed. Skinner is the
executor of my will. By telling him that you're pregnant, I was
asking him to break the law, tear up my will, and make sure that
you and the baby are taken care of in case anything happens."
	"Wait a minute," Scully said, holding up a hand. "Skinner
is the executor of your will?"
	"Say what you will about him, Scully, but I know that the
man is honest. He would do exactly what the will said, and if he
didn't personally agree with it."
	As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mulder
realized what Scully had really been asking. Why, she wanted to
know, hadn't <she> been the executor of Mulder's will?
	"Two reasons," Mulder said softly. "First...you're the
only benificiary of my will. You get it all, Scully. Everything.
And second, I knew that if you knew the first part, you'd never
agree to be my executor."
	Scully studied Mulder's face and saw the truth in his
eyes. Two years ago, he'd known his feelings two years ago. She
laughed once, a short, harsh little snort. "You're amazing," she
whispered.
	She kissed him.
	"Scully, let's leave now," Mulder said. "I want to see
how good they are. I want to see if I can spot them."
	"Why?"
	"Because if I can, you gotta know that whomever's out
there can see them, too."
	"OK, Mulder...let's do it."
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END PART 28