UMBRA 2:ELLIPSIS CHAPTER 1 By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions, and the property of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. The author believes that the use of copyrighted characters in the forum known as "Fan Fiction" is protected under the "Fair Use" statutes of US Copyright law. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters created by the author remain his property. Archive Title : ELLIPSIS 1/? Posting Date : 28 June 1998 Classification : SRA/MSR[m] Overall STORY Rating : NC-17 (explicit sexuality, violence) CHAPTER Rating : R Keywords : UMBRA, Mulder/Scully, Thriller Summary : Withheld at author's request. Enjoy! ------ Aboard Oceanic Airways Flight 210 Somewhere over Oregon April, 2003 Captain Gerald Holton finished punching coordinates into the autopilot's computer and hit the VERIFY button. "Confirm auto-pilot select," he said softly. His copilot, First Officer Ray Hyman, glanced at the readout, studied the numbers and mumbled, "Confirmed." "Coffee time," Holton smiled, checking his watch. He knew that he could count on the chief flight attendant serving the cockpit crew within twenty minutes of takeoff. Clarissa Anderson was a 15-year veteran of Oceanic Airways, and she knew how much the flight crew depended on their morning jolt of caffeine. +=+=+= Clarissa Anderson was in the amidships galley, checking the status of the four huge coffee brewers when she sensed someone behind her. Turning, Clarissa smiled at the neatly dressed young man standing there. He looks like a choirboy, she thought. Can't be a day over sixteen. "Can I help you?" she asked professionally. "I hope so," the young man said, a soft smile on his face. "I was wondering if you'd take me up to the cockpit." Clarissa felt her smile falter. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment, "but we don't give cockpit tours anymore." The young man's smile widened just a touch. "Even if I tell you it's my birthday?" Clarissa gave a small sigh and tried again. "It's company policy, I'm afraid. It's a security issue." She paused. "I'm sorry," she added. At that moment, Clarissa knew she'd somehow made a mistake. Something in the young man changed. Something in the eyes. One moment the young man was normal, smiling, innocent. The next... "I'm afraid I must insist," the young man said, dropping his chin slightly. Clarissa's eyes drifted downward, following the motion, and she gasped. He was holding a small black pistol in his hand. A Glock, she thought, but didn't know why. Clarissa didn't know much about guns. But she did know that if it went off in the cabin, and the plane depressurized... "This is a hijacking," the young man announced softly. Clarissa nodded. "I understand. I'll do whatever you say. Please don't harm the passengers." "I have no desire to harm anyone, miss," he said. "I just need to speak with the pilot. We have a small change in course to make. As long as everyone does exactly as I say, no one will get hurt, and this will all be over in a matter of a few hours." He pointed with the gun. "Now, please...take me to the cockpit." Clarissa nodded and left the galley, turning left and heading forward. +=+=+= Gerry Holton glanced at his watch again. They had been aloft for thirty minutes, and still no coffee. He was reaching for the intercom when the knock came. Ray unbuckled himself and stood, moving quickly to the door and unlocking it. A moment later, Ray stumbled back, his hands held chest high, palms out. "What the fuck-?" Holton spun in his chair and felt the blood drain from his face. Clarissa Anderson was being pushed into the cockpit by what appeared to be a homicidal chipmunk. "Son," Gerry started, "I don't know what you think..." Then Gerry saw the gun. The kid kicked the cockpit door closed with the heel of his foot. He held the gun like he was used to it, comfortable with it. "This," he announced, "is a hijacking." "Son," Gerry said, "you can't be serious." Without another word, the kid moved towards Clarissa. Pushing the pistol into her stomach, he pulled the trigger once, twice. The discharges were slightly muffled by Clarissa's body, but Gerry and Ray still flinched. Clarissa gasped and dropped to the floor, dead. "Do you think I'm serious now?" the kid asked. Ray got back into his seat slowly, buckling in. "What do you want?" Gerry asked. "I'm glad you asked," the kid said. Reaching into his back pocket, he returned with a 3x5 index card. "Before I tell you, I want you to know a few things. First, I'm a pilot myself. So when I give you our new course and destination, I will know if you try anything funny. Second, I have no compunction about shooting both you and your First Officer. I am more than well aware of the fact that the Boeing 767's autopilot is capable of flying and landing this plane safely. Third, if you do not follow my instructions exactly, after I kill you, my associates and I will begin killing passengers. When this plane finally does land, there will be no one left alive." He paused. "Clear?" he asked. Gerry nodded. "Perfectly clear, son. Just tell me where you want to go." The kid carefully extended the hand holding the index card. Gerry took it, reading the coordinates and quickly calculating. "Nevada?" The kid nodded. "An abandoned CIA airfield about a hundred miles north of Tonopah." "Can I ask a question?" The kid thought a moment and then nodded. "What happens then?" The kid smiled. "Once you land, several more of my associates will board the plane. Myself and a few others will be getting off. At that point, you will takeoff and resume your trip to Phoenix." Gerry sighed. Turning back to the controls, he hit OVERRIDE on the autopilot and began entering the new coordinates. "Portland ATC is going to see us deviating from our track. What do you want us to tell them?" "When they contact you, let me know, and I will handle that." "You got it," Gerry said, and hit the VERIFY button. +=+=+= Portland Air Traffic Control 2 minutes later David Marks swept his eyes over the radar scope three times, knowing that something was wrong but unable to pinpoint it. After a moment he noticed the small flashing triangle. OA210, it read. And beneath that, DVAT. "Oceanic 210, Portland ATC," Marks radioed. Almost immediately, the pilot's voice came back. "210." "Ah, we show you deviating from your course and heading, 210. Please turn right to your original heading and correct." There was a short pause, and Marks could imagine the panic that was occurring in the cockpit of Oceanic 210. Deviation from a pre-approved and programmed flight plan was not a serious FAA violation, but it would be recorded in Marks' log book. Too many course deviations, and someone would take notice. A new voice came back in Marks' headset after a full minute. "Portland ATC, Oceanic 210." "210," Marks replied. That voice sounds young, he thought. "Please be advised that Oceanic 210 has been given a new course, heading and destination by parties not responsible to Oceanic Airways and the FAA." David Marks blinked, trying to decipher the overly- formal language. "Ah, 210, are you advising us that you've been hijacked?" "That is affirmative, Portland. As of this moment, do not make any more attempts to contact this flight on this frequency. Failure to comply with these wishes will result in passenger deaths. We will contact the appropriate ATC in approximately three hours. Is that understood?" "Affirmative, 210," Marks replied. There was silence, and then the pilot's voice returned. "Portland, I've been instructed to send one last transmission. The young man who you just spoke to has asked me to indicate to you the seriousness of his intentions." Pause. "He's already shot and killed the chief flight attendant." The radio fell silent. David Marks watched, eyes wide, as Oceanic 210 began descending. Diving, he thought. And then he understood why. Oceanic 210's hijacker knew something about flying. 210 was diving underneath radar coverage. David reached for the Red Phone, the FAA Crisis Hotline. He didn't even need to dial. A moment later, a voice in Washington, DC answered. +=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters Undisclosed location Virginia 12 minutes later Lieutenant Commander Pete Nelson picked up the slide from the disassembled Colt Commander on the table in front of him and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. Finding nothing wrong, he began reassembling the pistol, the slightly fruity odor of gun cleaner and solvent filling his nostrils. He and the rest of the UMBRA team were on an Alert-5 status, and had been for the past six hours. Alert-5 was the next-to-highest possible alert, the highest being Alert-1. Alert-5 meant that the entire UMBRA team had to be ready to roll within five minutes of the call-up order. Alert-1 meant they would actually be aboard the C17A jet transport aircraft, engines running, waiting for taxi and takeoff instructions. Pete was sure that the call-up wouldn't be coming in today. For one thing, it was just too gorgeous a day for them to be called out. For another, the commanding officer was nowhere to be found, and everyone on the team knew that he wouldn't miss any action if he could help it. And he seemed to be able to somehow sense when they would be called up. But, somewhere, somehow someone had developed intelligence that indicated the services of the UMBRA team might be needed, and so they were on Alert. Pete's head snapped up as he heard the phone ring. It wasn't the normal phone. It was what Pete thought of as "the" phone. It rang once, and then stopped. Scully, Pete thought. She'd gotten the phone. +=+=+= Nelson's intuition had been correct; Special Agent Dana Scully, executive officer of the UMBRA team, had been standing next to the Alert phone in the command center when it had rung. She'd snatched it up, knowing in her heart that this was it, that the team was being called out. "Umbra Five," she answered. "Good morning, Dana," the voice of the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation greeted her. "Good morning, sir." Walter S. Skinner paused and then plunged right in. "We have a go order, Dana. Oceanic Airlines Flight 210 has been hijacked by a person or persons unknown. They dove beneath radar coverage about six minutes ago." Without hesitation, Scully reached down and pressed a large red button on the console in front of her. In the squad bay, a klaxon began sounding. Scully watched through the glass as the men and women of UMBRA responded, jumping to their feet, grabbing weapons and dashing out of the building. Four GMC Yukon SUV's sat waiting outside. "Our destination, sir?" "Get up in the air and head west, Scully. As soon as we know where they've landed, we'll get word to you. At this point, we don't know much." "Talk to you soon," Scully said, hanging up. Without a word to the rest of the staff in the command center, Scully turned and dashed towards the door. She jogged across the cavernous squad bay and hit the far door, pushing out into the beautiful Virginia spring day. The closest SUV was waiting for her, the front passenger door open, engine already running. Scully hit the vehicle running, slamming the door behind her as she shouted, "GO!" The SUV peeled out, heading towards the 10,000 foot runway less than a half mile away. Sitting on the runway, looking very much like a prehistoric bird waiting to pounce, was a huge, black USAF C17A jet transport. Scully glanced over at her driver, Pete Nelson. "Ready for another one, Pete?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am," he answered. If he had any reservations about going out on a mission without his commanding officer, he didn't voice them. They made the trip to the plane in less than sixty seconds. Scully and Nelson jumped out and ran towards the plane. The forward loading door was open, the ladder down, and they both scampered up and in. The C17's crew chief quickly raised the stairs behind them and locked the door. "Go," he radioed via the intercom to the pilot. Scully sat down in one of the tight, cramped seats and buckled up. She felt the plane turning towards the runway and glanced out the window, her thoughts thousands of miles away, with the team's commander, her partner and husband, Fox Mulder. I hope he's all right, she thought. +=+=+= 100m NNE of Tonopah, NV "I have the runway in sight," Gerry told the young man. "There's no other traffic in the area," the boy replied. "Just turn on a short final and put this thing on the ground." "Roger that," Gerry muttered, heeling the huge plane over into a tight banking turn. Three minutes later the wheels squealed as they bit into the tarmac. Gerry immediately reversed thrust on the Boeing's engines and began toeing the brakes, trying to get a feel for the runway. As the plane slowed, Gerry spotted two black sport utility vehicles parked next to what had once been the control tower. They turned onto the runway after the plane and began following it. "Stop here," the kid ordered, pointing out the window. Gerry all but stood on the brakes, bringing the plane to a stop. "Now what?" he asked. "Now we wait," the kid said. +=+=+= It took less than five minutes. One of the kid's associates opened the forward passenger door slowly, taking care not to deploy the rescue chute. Gerry watched through his window as the SUV's approached his plane. The doors opened and five men spilled out. Boys, Gerry thought. Not men. Not a one of them was over sixteen. But they were all dressed like soldiers, or police SWAT team members, complete with short, ugly- looking assault weapons, pistols strapped into tactical thigh holsters, bulletproof vests, and God only knew what else. One of them raised what looked like a caving ladder against the side of the plane, and Gerry watched as they scampered up the ladder and into the plane. A moment later there was a knock at the cockpit door. The kid moved back and opened it, never taking his gun from Gerry. "I relieve you," the second teenager said. "Thank you," the first replied, and then to Gerry: "Thank you for your cooperation, Captain. Please follow this man's instructions as you have mine, and no one will be hurt." "No one else, you mean," Ray growled. The first youth's eyes dropped to the dead form of Clarissa Anderson. "Yes," he amended. "No one else" And then he was gone. The second youth held his assault weapon easily, keeping it pointed somewhere between the two pilots. "My name is Kevin," he said softly. "I am also a pilot. We will be taking on some additional... supplies in the next five minutes. After that, you will turn this plane around, take off, and continue on to Phoenix as originally planned. Once we enter Arizona airspace, you will climb to an altitude that will allow the FAA to reacquire us on radar. Any attempts at communication from Phoenix ATC will be ignored until I say so." He glanced at both men. "Are there any questions?" "I have one," Ray said. "What supplies are you bringing on board?" "Why is that important?" Kevin asked. "Weight," Ray explained. "We need to know how much additional weight you are bringing on board." Kevin nodded, accepting this. "We are taking on board approximately 100 additional pounds of supplies. Six people got off the plane, and six more got on." "A hundred pounds of what, exactly?" Ray asked. Kevin's eyes narrowed. "Why is that important?" "I'm just curious." Kevin considered the question. "I will tell you, but the only reason I am doing to is to convey to you the seriousness of our intentions." He hesitated. "We are taking on approximately 80 pounds of military C4 plastique, plus detonators and associated equipment." Ray Hyman closed his eyes and suppressed an audible groan. "You're going to kill us all, aren't you?" Kevin didn't answer for several seconds. "If I have to, I will," he finally said. "But at this point, I have no plans to. Follow my directions to the letter, and this will all end without further loss of life." +=+=+= As soon as Oceanic 210 climbed back into radar coverage, things began to happen quickly. The Flagstaff ATC contacted the flight, wondering who the hell they were and why the hell hadn't they filed a flight plan. Once it was established that the unknown blip on the radar was indeed Oceanic 210, the FAA was contacted and told that 210 had reappeared and was heading to Phoenix as originally scheduled. As was the established procedure in such cases, the FAA immediately contacted the FBI Operations Command Center in the basement of the Hoover Building, requesting immediate assistance in Phoenix. The OCC responded as they'd been trained, alerting the Phoenix Field Office of the FBI that they had a hijack situation at Sky Harbor. Their orders were slightly modified, however: Respond, secure the perimeter, and await further orders. Another message left the OCC on a secure, scrambled frequency. That message was transmitted by the Director himself. +=+=+= Dana Scully was sitting quietly with her eyes closed when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Opening her eyes, she found the crew chief standing in the aisle, pointing at his headset. "Message for you!" he shouted over the noise of the engines. Scully nodded, unbuckling and standing, following the crew chief forward and up the short ladder to the flight deck. Scully found the spare pair of headsets that the crew chief pointed out and quickly donned them. "Scully," she said. "Agent Scully," Skinner came back, sounding distant and tinny. "Your orders are to divert to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix ASAP. Upon arrival, secure the scene from the local FBI HRT team and await further orders." "Roger that, sir," Scully said. Switching to the intercom, Scully called to the pilot. "Randy, we're going to Phoenix. Best time?" There was a pause as the pilot did the math in his head. "Two hours, about fifteen, twenty minutes." "Do better than that," Scully ordered, and then removed her headset. Sliding back down the ladder, she moved back to the passenger spaces and made a "form on me" sign with her hand. Instantly, the six members of the UMBRA assault team gathered around her. "Phoenix!" she shouted. "Two hours, plus a bit." They all nodded, grim-faced and serious. "Time to get your game-faces on," Scully said. +=+=+= Immediately after concluding his conversation with Special Agent Scully, Skinner picked up another phone. "Yes?" a voice asked. "Mr. President, this is the Director," Skinner said. "Walter. How are things?" "Sir, I've just ordered the UMBRA team to divert to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport. We've heard from Oceanic 210. I just wanted to keep you apprised." "Very good, Walter." "Sir, I'll need written confirmation of the ROEs within the hour." Skinner heard a hand cup the phone and a mumbled conversation in the background. Five seconds later the fax machine to Skinner's left beeped and began slowly spitting a page out. "It should be there now, Walter." Skinner glanced down at the paper and saw that it was. "Thank you, sir." "Good luck, Walter. Please let me know as soon as this business is finished so that you, your team and I can sit down for the postgame." Skinner hung up without another word. President Matheson was a busy man, after all. +=+=+= The response to the Oceanic 210 hijacking continued unabated. The Phoenix Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) responded as they'd been trained. Sixteen FBI Special Agents arrived in three black Chevy Suburbans and quickly set up a command post in an abandoned hanger. Shortly after the arrival of the HRT unit, a FBI helicopter appeared. The HRT SAC immediately boarded and the chopper took off again, allowing him to quickly survey the airport, looking for the best place to position his men. His orders, as much as he personally disagreed with them, were clear: Secure a perimeter and await further orders. The SAC, Tom Dixon, was sure that his orders meant that the FBI was currently pleading with the Department of Defense to send one of the military counterterrorist squads to take charge of the situation. As it turned out, Dixon was almost as right as he was wrong. +=+=+= Joe Nickell, Senior Air Traffic Controller, Phoenix Air Traffic Control Center, donned a lightweight headset and punched the XMIT button on the console. "Attention all aircraft in the Phoenix ATC area. Please begin two minute turns at your present altitude until further notice. We have a declared emergency. All aircraft on the ground, please hold your position until further notice." "Call for you, Chief," someone said. Nickell held out his hand and a phone was slapped into his palm. "Nickell." "This is Walter Skinner, Director of the FBI," Nickell heard. "In approximately thirty minutes an Air Force C17A is going to request priority landing clearance. Aboard is a specialized hostage rescue unit from FBI headquarters. I'd appreciate-" "Done and done, sir." "Thank you." +=+=+= Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport 1410 Hours Local Time Hot, Feder thought. Hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of a car. Hot enough to... Feder blinked the sweat out of his eyes and tried to focus on the image in his Leupold 10x scope. The Boeing 767, Oceanic Airways Flight 210, jumped back into focus, bigger than life. The plane had landed less than thirty minutes ago. Following the tower's directions, it had simply stopped after its landing roll, shut its engines down and parked. Next to Feder, his spotter, Donny Muller asked, "How hot do you think it is?" "Gotta be 110, at least," Feder replied. "120. Gotta be," Donny said. "I bet Loftus is losing his mind," Feder said. Donny snickered behind him. SAC Warren Loftus, head of the Phoenix HRT, was a known hard-charger who was looking to make a name for himself inside the Bureau. Successfully concluding a hostage situation at a major airport would be a massive feather in his cap. Having to obey an order commanding him to secure a perimeter and await the arrival of some hotshot military hostage-rescue team most certainly would drive the SAC straight up the wall. "I wonder who's coming?" Donny asked. +=+=+= "Four minutes out," Randy called out over the intercom. Scully removed her headset and turned to her team. "OK, we all know the drill. As soon as we finish the roll-out, the loadmaster is going to drop the back hatch. The BlackHawk Load Team will push the chopper out and get moving on it. Ground Security will disperse around the plane. The assault team will move the Yukon to the tarmac and begin final weapons check. As soon as the BlackHawk is ready, we'll head over to the HRT Command Post. As soon as I make contact with the HRT SAC, we'll take command of the scene. We'll have..." Scully checked her watch and did some mental calculations. "...about twenty minutes before we move in." She looked from face to face, searching for hesitation or doubt. "Skinner has faxed me the ROEs for this little party. Our mission objective is clear. Under no circumstances can we allow them to detonate the C4 aboard the plane. We're going to use assault plan Delta Six. You all know what to do. We will forcefully breach the plane's fuselage from above, descend into the cabin, and terminate the terrorists." She glanced into each face again, looking for dissention. "We all know what we're up against here. We've trained for this. You were all hand-picked for this mission. If anyone has a problem with our ROEs, I need to know now." No one spoke. Scully smiled. "OK...let's get ready." +=+=+= The C17A landed with the requisite squeal of tires against cement and rolled to the end of the runway, quickly turning onto the taxiway and heading for the most remote location possible. Pulling in between two pairs of abandoned hangers, the plane stopped, the engines falling silent. Almost immediately, the back ramp dropped. Two platoons of USAF Air Police descended from the ramp and surrounded the plane, moving out to a distance of fifty yards. Several of the APs were tethered to German Shepherds by long leashes. They all carried automatic weapons and pistols. Immediately after that, the BlackHawk's ground crew began pushing the huge chopper out of the C17's belly. At once, several mechanics climbed up on top of the chopper and began unhinging the rotors from the transport position. They worked quickly and professionally. They had trained this maneuver until they could do it in their sleep, until they could do it exhausted, cold, tired, wet, in the desert and at the North Pole. It took them less than ninety seconds. A GMC Yukon drove out of the C17, piloted by Pete Nelson. It parked about thirty feet from the BlackHawk. Dana Scully, followed by the remainder of the UMBRA assault team, walked down the ramp. They were all dressed for action: Black cotton ripstop BDUs, combat boots, assault vests packed to the limit with tools and equipment. They carried weapons of various descriptions and sizes. During the creation and original staffing of the UMBRA team it had been decided that each member should carry whatever weapon they were most comfortable, proficient and accurate with. Most of their planned actions wouldn't last long enough to warrant worrying about ammunition compatibility. Dana carried her favorite weapon, a Heckler and Koch MP5-N. After almost two full years of training, she could hit a dime firing from the hip while at a dead run. "Mount up!" she called. The UMBRA team climbed into the SUV and pulled away. After a moment, the BlackHawk lifted off, nosed over and gained thirty feet in altitude, shadowing the SUV as it drove towards the HRT CP. +=+=+= Warren Loftus was standing in the doorway to the hanger, peering at the Boeing 767 through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He wondered how much longer it was going to be before Washington got off its ass and did something about this impossible situation. Since the plane had landed, there had been a single communication, a short message that had sounded utterly prepared. Ten minutes after the engines had shut down, a radio transmission had been picked up by the communications section of the HRT squad. "You have two hours to comply with these demands. You will locate and deliver unto us the MindWalker. Failure to comply with this demand within two hours will result in one hostage being executed every minute for the next hour. Failure to comply with this demand within three hours will result in the destruction of this plane and all remaining hostages." What the fuck, Loftus thought, is a MindWalker? "Chief," a voice said behind him. Loftus pulled his eyes away from the binoculars and followed the pointing finger. In the distance, Loftus could just make out the approaching SUV and BlackHawk. "Cavalry's on the way," the voice said. Annoyed, Loftus shot the man a glance. Returning his attention to the SUV and helicopter, Loftus wondered who, indeed, was arriving. SEAL Team Six? Delta Force? HRT East from Washington? Whoever they were, they made a hell of an impression. There was something oddly threatening about the way they were coming towards the CP, Loftus thought. The BlackHawk looked like some kind of predatory insect, as it flew nose-down, easily keeping pace with the speeding SUV beneath it. The waves of heat rising off the tarmac blurred the SUV, and its deeply tinted windows only made it look more ominous. As the chopper got closer, its rotor wash began kicking up dust and debris. Loftus raised a hand to shade his eyes as he walked out to greet the arriving glory-seekers. The SUV pulled to a stop thirty feet away as the BlackHawk roared above Loftus' head, vanishing behind the hanger. He heard change in the pitch of the chopper's rotors as it prepared to land somewhere out of sight behind him. A figure stepped out of the front passenger seat of the SUV, and it took Loftus a moment to realize that it was a woman. Well, he thought, that rules out a military unit. Which meant that it was HRT East. Frowning, Loftus tried to remember any female Special Agents assigned to HRT East. He couldn't think of a one. So who the hell were these people? The woman spotted him, correctly assumed that he was the SAC, and walked towards him, offering her credentials. "Special Agent Dana Scully...?" she said, obviously asking him a question. "Special Agent in Charge Warren Loftus," Loftus replied, hands on his hips. "May I ask what you are doing here?" Oh? Scully thought. Going to be like that are you? "Sir, we're here at the direction of the Director. We'll be taking over tactical command of this situation." Loftus grunted. "You won't mind if I confirm that, Agent Scully?" Scully reached into a thigh pocket and found her cellphone. Handing it to Loftus she smiled warmly. "Of course not. Speed dial six, sir." "I'll just dial the number myself, if you don't mind." "Not at all," Scully replied, turning away and walking back towards her truck to give Loftus some privacy. She had some idea of what was about to happen, and really didn't want to be a witness to the man's humiliation. After all, she thought, he still has to command this HRT team after we leave. Ninety seconds later Loftus was at her side, his face drained of all color. Well, Scully thought, he's still alive. Skinner couldn't have chewed his ass that bad. "Sir?" she asked. "The Director...confirmed that your unit is to assume the primary tactical role in this situation, and that my team and I, for now, report to you." "Thank you, sir," Scully said, taking her phone back. Reaching inside the SUV, she found a pair of binoculars and moved around the door. Propping her elbows on the hood, she leveled the binoculars at the plane and took a good, long look. "So what's the plan?" Loftus asked. "In about thirty minutes, my team and I will insert by helicopter onto the top of the aircraft. Using low- powered shaped charges, we will blow seven holes on the roof of the fuselage, drop into the plane and take the terrorists out." Loftus gasped. "There are over one hundred passengers aboard that plane! Hostages! Can you guarantee their safety?" Scully lowered the binoculars, stepped back from the hood and turned to face Loftus. "I certainly hope so," she said softly, casting another glance at the plane over her shoulder. "My husband is aboard that plane." ------------- END CHAPTER 1 ------- QwikGloss(tm) "Umbra2:Ellipsis" Glossary For Chapter 1 CP - Command Post ROE - Rules of Engagement. Written statement by the command and control structure of a military or police unit specifying under what circumstances certain actions can be taken, such as the presumptive use of deadly force. SUV - Sport Utility Vehicle. Note: The entire Umbra2:Ellipsis glossary can be found at: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/ghome.htm ----- NEW FEATURE! Because of so many requests that I get for a "formatted" version of my novels, I am announcing a new service to my readers. Individual chapters of Ellipsis can be obtained, in Word97 format ONLY, from my webiste. Additionally, as each chapter is added to my personal archive, a ZIP file containing ALL chapters to that point can also be obtained from my website. The direct links are: Chapters - http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/u2xx.doc where xx is the chapter number. (For example, chapter 1 will be u201.doc and chapter 12 will be u212.doc.) Novel-To-Date: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/u2.zip Sadly, I will be unable to support any other word processing formats. I am of the understanding that the newest version of Microsoft Word for the Macintosh can read Word97 documents.