UMBRA 2:ELLIPSIS CHAPTER 4 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 4/? Posting Date : 24 July 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. Spoilers : "Deep Throat", Umbra Casting : "LtCmdr Pete Nelson" Abraham Benrubi "CPO Ramon Cruz" John Leguizamo "GySgt Oz Vance" Lou Diamond Phillips "Capt. John Brooks" Tom Siezmore "Sgt Tim Clark" Matt Damon Please read the personal note at the end. ENJOY! += "It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time." - Sir Winston Churchill UMBRA Headquarters The briefing had taken almost three hours, during which every member of the UMBRA team had asked countless questions, offered suggestions, and done everything his considerable experience would allow to refine the plan down to the most minute detail. Scully had asked the hard questions, the questions no one else had dared ask Mulder. How could Mulder be sure that no innocents would be hurt? What would they do if an employee or customer decided to play hero and intervene? What if the local police arrived and attempted an assault on the bank? Mulder had answered those questions that he could and had dismissed the rest. She had a dozen more questions, questions she dared not ask in front of the team. Mulder's authority to command the team was granted by law, signed by the President. However, the ability to lead was different than the right to command. A subtle difference, understood by few. Loyalty was earned, not granted by any piece of paper or the edict of a governmental entity. "OK," Mulder finally said, glancing at his watch. "It's 1730. Take an hour, and then we have a mandatory social interfacing session." He paused. "Hell, take an hour and a half. McGoo's, 1900. See you there." The team stood and filed out of the room, leaving Mulder and Scully alone. Sensing her reluctance, Mulder sat down and folded his hands on the tabletop. "Talk to me," he said softly. She shook her head, arms crossed, seated across the table from him. "I have a very bad feeling about this, Mulder. There are just too many unknowns. Too many things that can go wrong." Mulder nodded, accepting her logic. "If you have an alternative, I'm all ears. You know our mission, our needs. We have to get a hold of those bodies as soon as possible after death. We can't compromise our sources, or our ability to meet this threat will be crippled. We have no *choice*, Scully." Mulder punctuated his statement by jabbing the tabletop with a finger. She nodded. "I'm not disagreeing with the objectives, Mulder, just the implementation." Mulder spread his arms. "What would you have me do? If we don't show up, if we don't respond to the demand for the MindWalker, I know that over a hundred people are going to die. And we need a cover operation in place so that we have plausible deniability in case someone gets suspicious. Remember, we're running operations on several fronts at once, Scully. We have to protect as many innocent people as we can, as well as our intelligence source. I don't want to sacrifice the people in that school, and I sure as hell *won't* sacrifice our source." Scully stood, her arms dropping to her side. "I love you," she announced, "you know that. It should go without saying." She hesitated. "I had to say that first, before I say what I'm about to. Mulder, this is a bad plan, a plan I cannot support, a plan that is destined to result in casualties. Either some innocent person in the bank, a police officer or SWAT team member, or someone at the school." Mulder nodded. "I Know, Scully. But danger is our middle name." "No," she pointed out. "Mine is Katherine and yours is William. Danger is most certainly *not* our middle name, Mulder. I can accept that our lives are more dangerous than the normal person's. I can accept that we've been charged with a mission that brings us into dangerous situations, situations that would make most people turn tail and head for the hills. I can accept that if we fail, the consequences will be felt for a thousand generations. All that I know. All that, I accept. But I will not accept putting innocent people in danger just because this is the only plan you can come up with on the spur of the moment." Scully stood and left Mulder sitting at the conference table. += McGoo's Falls Church, VA 1910 Hours They drove separately to the bar. Mulder's "social interfacing sessions," served several purposes. They had started almost two years ago during initial staffing and training of the UMBRA team. Those first field exercises has been brutal, designed to separate the true operators from those that thought they had what it took and were wrong. A night spent relaxing, drinking beer, shooting pool, every member on the team getting to know each other, was an invaluable leadership tool in Mulder's eyes. And beneath that, it had another benefit. The men that Mulder had selected for the team were of a specific type: Headstrong, confident in their abilities, possessed of the certain knowledge that they were the best in the world at what they did. Which was good, to a point. But none of the UMBRA members would be operating alone. They were a team, and as such, they needed to get used to each other in ways that normal units never did. They had to know *everything* about each other, good _and_ bad. And nothing brought out the secret demons, the rough edges, the personality conflicts more quickly or effectively then getting drunk with one's teammates. He believed the team that drank together, fought together, took on all comers together would be a team that would do anything to succeed. He and Scully had enjoyed almost ten years to build up such a relationship; the UMBRA team had no such luxury of time. Mulder wandered in just past seven, and was glad to see that three-fourths of the team was already present. Pete Nelson and Oz Vance were seated at the far end of the bar, deep into a discussion about 9mm versus .357 Magnum pistols. Judging by the tone and volume of the discussion, neither of them was making their point clear to the other. Tim Clark and John Brooks were playing a semi-friendly game of pool. Scully was seated by herself, nursing a single beer. Sliding into the seat next to her, Mulder motioned for a draft and waited. Scully shifted slightly away from him, taking a sip. "Nothing is carved in stone," Mulder said softly. "Up until the moment I give the order, the plan can change." Scully nodded after a very long moment, accepting his olive branch. "I know," she replied, just as softly. "I'm just terrified, Mulder. If...the plan goes to shit, I know you. You'll be torn apart with grief. You won't be able to function. And the team needs you functioning. The world needs you functioning, Mulder." She left the last part of her statement unsaid, but not unheard. [*I* need you functioning,] Mulder heard in his head. "HOW can you SAY that?" Nelson objected. Vance shrugged and took a sip of his own beer. "I carry the MP5," Nelson went on loudly. "If I run out of ammo for that, I can always reuse my pistol ammo. With your shiny little wheelgun, if you run dry on your long arm, you're FUCKED!" Vance shrugged. "If I run dry, Petey my man, I want the most stopping power possible. And that little pea-shooter you call a sidearm... well, let me put it this way. If anyone ever shoots me with a nine, and I find out about it, I'm gonna be really pissed." "Uh-oh," Scully muttered under her breath. "This looks like it could get ugly in a hurry." Mulder shrugged, dismissing her concerns. He counted on the fact that Oz and Pete would end up tussling at some point during the evening. It wore the rough edges off, he thought. They might end up out in the parking lot exchanging punches. To the outsider, it would look like two men settling a disagreement. To the team, it was something different, and God help anyone who tried to intervene; Pete and Oz would turn on them in a heartbeat and pound them into mush. Ramon Cruz entered the bar and took a seat next to Scully. Angling his chin over at Nelson and Vance, he asked, "Are they still fighting about pistols?" "Better than *with* pistols," Scully observed. Cruz nodded. "Got *that* right, XO." He laughed. "Nelson is a black belt or some damn thing in one of those martial arts things. Vance is not too shabby a street fighter, either. I doubt they'd ever feel the need to resort to handguns." Scully rolled her eyes, offering a silent prayer to a God she devoutly hoped was listening that Cruz's words would be heard. "Boss," Cruz said, directing his comments at Mulder, "I have a question about our little party on Monday." "I'm listening," Mulder said, his eyes shooting a warning at Cruz. "There's an old saying where I come from," Cruz said. South Central? Scully thought. "...you don't need to kill the dealer to steal his crack," Cruz finished. Mulder frowned, not getting it. "Let me put it another way. One time, back when I was a kid, the local shitheads wanted me to join their little gang of thieves. Now, I was too smart for that, or so I thought, and I turned `em down. They decided to teach me a lesson." He paused. "What do you think they did?" "They beat you up?" Mulder asked. "Just like a white boy to think that," Cruz grinned. "You grew up where again?" "Martha's Vineyard," Mulder said. "Right, right. All that money. I forgot. Anyway, that sounds like something that would happen in a place where fear...where your biggest fear was someone stealing your lunch money. Well, let's just say that where I grew up, there was real fear. Fear of getting killed. Fear of getting shot." Scully felt her husband tense and knew that he was about to give a lecture to Cruz about "real" fear. She placed a soothing hand on his thigh and squeezed, her eyes telling him to let Cruz finish. "The way to motivate me, they thought, was to beat my little sister up." He paused, looking off in the distance, remembering. "And maybe a little more than beating her up." "See, I can take care of myself," Cruz continued. "And they knew that. They knew that they couldn't get to me by threatening me. But they also knew I couldn't protect my sister all the time. And the threat of her getting hurt was supposed to be enough to motivate me to give into those bastards." Mulder nodded. "So what did you do?" Cruz glanced over at his CO, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Off the record?" Mulder spread his arms. "When we're here, everything is off the record. You know that." "Even capital crimes?" "Even federal felonies," Scully said, smiling. "Everything except treason, anyway." Cruz grinned. "I...removed the problem. I made it clear that if anyone fucked with me, my sister or any of my friends and family that retribution would be...swift and sure, to turn a phrase." Mulder grinned, remembering back to the first time he'd met Cruz, at Ft. Bragg almost two years ago. He had no doubt as to what Cruz had done to `remove the problem.' If the boy had been anything like the man, Mulder almost felt sorry for the gangbangers that had crossed Cruz. "I still don't know how this applies to our...party." "The fact that they never knew when I might strike was threat enough to keep my family safe, Boss. I think you made a mistake in assuming that we need a...reason to have the party." Mulder stood and moved around Scully to stand on the other side of Cruz. "Come with me," he said, pointing at the door. "I want to talk about this outside." He glanced around. "Never know who might be listening," he mumbled. Cruz got up and followed Mulder outside to the parking lot. Glancing around, Mulder made a "come on" gesture with his hand. "Lay it on me," he said. "We don't need a cover op," Cruz hissed. "The team doesn't even need to go. We'll stay behind. You call us in if things turn to shit. We'll remain on Alert 5 during the entire time. You and Scully go in covered as teachers or something. Then, when the kids strike, you wait for your opening and do your thing. Don't worry about compromising your source. You already almost did that by being on that damn plane. They already *know* they have a leak. Let them worry about who it is. Your greatest weapon, for right now, is that *they* don't know when or where you're going to strike, or where you get your intelligence from. The more time they spend worrying about your leak, the less time they have to fuck with us on other matters." "You're forgetting something," Mulder pointed out. "They know who we are. We can be sure of that. If we become too much of an annoyance, they can just take us out. We'd never see it coming." Cruz nodded, agreeing. "Sure. That's always a possibility. When you recruited me at Bragg, you told me the same thing, with almost the exact same words. But think about this...if they can do that, and want to, why haven't they already?" "Time," Mulder said. "If they strike too early, the forces arrayed against them, the same men that created this team would have time to create another. They have to wait until it's too late to answer the threat they pose. Then, and only then, can they strike." "So why give them an excuse?" Cruz asked reasonably. "Why provoke them if we don't have to? Like I said, they know they have a leak. If they strike now, trying to take you out, they'll never know who the leak is. If they try and take you or Scully, we'll be on them like stink on shit. You and Scully go to Montana. Do what has to be done." Cruz hesitated. "Mulder, I've never said this to a CO before, sir." Mulder heard the respect in the man's voice and tried to hide the fact that he wasn't one-hundred-percent sure he deserved it. "Sir, you and Scully don't *need* us. I know you're my CO, but I also know your military experience is...limited. But I've never seen anyone so...born to this, to this way of life. You're a warrior, Mulder, in the truest sense of the word." He hesitated again, wondering if he was about to go too far. Fuck it, Cruz thought. "I did some checking up on you, sir, when I was originally selected." Cruz saw the flash of anger in Mulder's eyes and hurried to explain. "I know you checked up on *me*, sir, probably for the same reason I checked up on you. You wanted to know with what kind of man you'd be serving with. My reasons were the same. And I know how you've operated over the last ten, fifteen years. You don't give up. You keep coming. Like a sunrise after the storm, pal. No matter how battered you get, you just keep on coming." The respect and awe was evident in Cruz's voice, and Mulder blushed. "Go to Montana," Cruz whispered. "Alone. You and Scully. Do your fucking job...sir." Cruz stopped, seeing that Mulder was lost in thought, digesting the information. Clapping his hand on Mulder's shoulder, Cruz turned to leave. Over his shoulder, he said softly, "I know Scully isn't down with this...party thing, Boss. And I hate to say it, but I think she's right." Cruz left Mulder standing in the lot. += Mulder reentered the bar ten minutes later, sliding onto the stool next to Scully. "Cruz convinced me," he whispered in her ear. "The heist is off. I have a new plan." Scully rotated on her stool, her smile wide and genuine. [Tell me,] Mulder heard in his head. Without words, Mulder told her his plan. Scully nodded as the words flooded her mind, looking for holes. [I like this,] she thought. [I'm glad.] += Sterling, VA 0100 Hours Mulder unlocked the front door and led Scully inside. She was more than a little tipsy from the beer she'd consumed at McGoo's, but not quite roaring drunk. "I need to make a call," Mulder said, heading towards the den. Scully didn't answer, and in his preoccupation, Mulder didn't notice. Seating himself behind the desk, Mulder picked up the phone and dialed. "Six two three," a voice answered. "UMBRA Six for scramble," Mulder said. "Stand by," the voice said. After a minute it continued, "Engage now." Mulder hit the two buttons to engage the voice encryption system. Hollow pops and hisses filled his ear. When the voice spoke again, it sounded distant, electronic. Cleansed. "Omega six, please," Mulder requested. "Stand by." After about thirty seconds of waiting, the once-dreaded and now- familiar voice hissed in Mulder's ear. "Fox?" "There's been a change of plans," Mulder said, quickly filling the man in on his decision. "Whatever you think is best," the Smoker replied. "But was it wise using this channel?" Steeling himself, Mulder said, "I need your help. I need you to identify the two teachers Scully and I will replace, as well as... pulling whatever strings you can so that when we show up at the school, it doesn't appear suspicious." "Very well," the Smoker said. "I will do what is required. I will contact you when I have details to share." Mulder hung up without another word. Sighing, he leaned back in his high-backed judge's chair and closed his eyes. Circles within circles, he thought. Scully needs the tissue samples, needs them to discover what, exactly, is going on. Once we have that piece of the puzzle, we can move on to the next phase. Active resistance. Until then, the Project is a ticking bomb. "How did it go?" Scully asked, entering the office. She'd shed her work clothes for a soft pair of track shorts and a Quantico T-shirt. "He agreed to find the teachers," Mulder said. "And chastised me for using the military communications system to contact him." Scully nodded and walked around Mulder's desk. Climbing into the chair, she molded herself into his lap. "Thank you," she said, kissing his chin. "For what?" "For listening to Cruz," Scully said. "He was right. You were both right. I was just too blind to see it." Scully shook her head. "Most men, in your position, would have been too bull-headed to listen to reason. I love the fact that you're convinced you don't have all the answers." "I hardly know the *questions* Scully!" She laughed. "My mother wants us over to dinner tomorrow." Mulder made a face. "Is your brother going to be there?" Scully considered her answer carefully. There was indeed *no* love lost between Bill and Mulder. "Yes," she finally said. "But you must admit, he's been behaving himself." Mulder nodded. "Only because he tried to find out what our assignments were and was told in no uncertain terms-" "Be that as it may," Scully interrupted, "he hasn't called you any names in at least-" "To my face," Mulder pointed out. "Well, you can always...walk his mind, Mulder, and find out what he really thinks of you." "I don't need to be a mind reader to discover that," Mulder snorted. "So that's a yes?" Scully asked. "Sure, what the hell. But you owe me one." Scully, mockingly indignant, looked at her husband. "You would have your wife trade sexual favors for familial duties?" "In a heartbeat," Mulder said. +=+= New York City The Next Afternoon The man known as John addressed the group. "I have located a potential asset to rectify our Mulder situation," he announced. The twelve men opened the folders in front of them and as one, gasped. The Smoker slowly lowered his cigarette from his mouth and glanced towards the head of the table. "Surely you can't be serious!" he objected. "Why?" John asked. "It's perfect." "I share your love of irony," another voice spoke up, "but even so...this is going too far." "I fail to see your concerns," John replied. "Explain to me why this idea causes such reactions!" "If he fails," the Smoker said, pointing a finger at the photograph in the folder, "the result would be a doubling of Scully and Mulder's devotion to their duty. They would stop at nothing to uncover us." "I know," John said smugly. "That's what is so perfect about this selection. If he does fail, Mulder and Scully will become sloppy. They will reveal themselves to us in a way that we can use another asset to remove them. And if he succeeds, then the problem is solved. Either way, we cannot lose." The Smoker closed the folder. "This is insanity. I refuse to be a part of this." "Remember your place," John said, steel creeping into his voice. "You report to us, my friend. You do our bidding. Not the other way around." The Smoker remained silent. If the others could have read his mind, he would have been forced to kill them all where they sat. "The man before you has fulfilled many such contracts over the years," John continued. "He has never missed, to our knowledge. He has access. He has the correct...political correctness, to use a common phrase. He understands certain aspects of our objectives, even if he is not privy to the intimate details of the Project. He has proven useful in the past for our needs, even though he was unaware he was doing our bidding. I have no doubt that he will be eager to perform this service for us." The Smoker kept his own counsel. His mind was whirring, making plans, testing his logic, looking for gaps and holes. "So it is settled," John said. "We will use him," another voice agreed. +=+= Pave Creek, Montana Saturday Martin Grimes had been selected. The Smoker's search had uncovered the fact that before Grimes had obtained his teaching certificate, he'd spent half a dozen years in the military, rising to the rank of sergeant before being forced to retire for medical reasons. His psychological profile, on record with the VA, had indicated that he harbored a deep patriotic streak and was frustrated at his inability to fight for his country. He comforted himself by teaching history, "real history" to his tenth-grade students. He didn't sugar coat the truth. When the topic of World Wars I and II came up, when talks turned to issues relating to Korea or Vietnam or the Gulf War, he took the opportunity to truly teach, to share with his students his vision of the world. His students thought him weird. His fellow teachers, a bit unstable. For the Smoker, he was perfect. He was approached on Saturday morning. Men with credentials identifying them as agents of an intelligence agency obscure to civilians but known in certain military circles gained entrance to Grimes' apartment. Your record has not been forgotten, he was told. Your country needs you again, he was flattered. This is classified, he was informed. You can never tell anyone of your participation in this affair. You will be sick Monday morning. You will arrange for coverage for your classes through this specific substitute- placement agency. You will accept whomever they suggest, and you will do it without comment or complaint. Payment was offered and refused, loudly and indignantly. An honor to serve once again, Grimes proclaimed. How could anyone do less? We knew you could be counted on. A suitable female teacher was harder to locate. Finally, it was determined that one Angela Watters had a grandfather who had been blacklisted during the 50's. A promising screenwriter, his questionable participation in Communist activities had all but ended his career. Here is a chance to redeem him, she was told. To show the country, the nameless, faceless masses that watch and never forget that your family is true-blue, one-hundred- percent-American. Do what we ask, and all will be forgiven. Your grandfather's name will be cleansed. The additional information had been put forth that a monetary remuneration could be arranged, if Watters was so inclined. Barely making ends meet on a teacher's salary, Angela Watters had jumped at the opportunity to make a few extra dollars by calling in sick. How much? she'd asked. The man in her living room had scratched his ear, glanced at his partner and asked her the same question. How much? Angela had thought about it and offered a number, a number she thought reasonable, considering the circumstances. "You're asking me to *lie*," she'd said. The men had exchanged a glance between them, and Watters had been sure she'd gone too far, that she'd highballed herself out of the game. Perhaps you don't understand, she'd been told. The man had written a number down on a small piece of paper and handed it to the teacher. As a calculus teacher, Angela Watters was used to dealing with quantities that could only be described in theory. The number on the piece of paper fit that description quite nicely. "Where's the decimal point?" she asked. There isn't one, she was told. Angela Watters was in. +=+= Norfolk, VA The man known inside the covert opations community as The Plumber opened his front door to find an officer courier standing on his doorstep holding a slim manila envelope in one hand. "Sir," the courier said. "May I see some identification please?" The Plumber dug out his wallet and offered his military ID for inspection. "Very good, sir. Please sign here." The Plumber took the clipboard and affixed his signature where indicated, and then exchanged it for the envelope. The brown paper bore the imprint of the Department of the Navy, but by the small red symbol next to the postmark, The Plumber knew the contents had not originated inside the Navy. "Thank you," The Plumber said, closing the door. The Plumber heard his wife in the kitchen. "I'm going downstairs," he called, opening the door to the basement. "Lunch in half an hour," she called back cheerfully. Smiling, The Plumber descended into the finished basement, closing the door to the stairs behind him. His office was down here, and more importantly, so was a safe certified by the NSA to hold documents classified Top Secret and above. Sitting behind his desk, the Plumber decided to open the envelope before placing it in the safe. Four things slid out. Two photographs, a short typewritten page describing what was needed and by when, and a printout from a wire transfer. Six million dollars had been transferred to a numbered offshore account according to the printout. The Plumber grinned. Retirement was looking better every day. Catching sight of the photographs, The Plumber turned them right- side up... And gasped. Two faces, as familiar to him as his own, stared back. "Two months," the typewritten page commanded. "By any means at your disposal. Contact upon completion." The Plumber sat back and folded his hands in his lap. Several thoughts occurred to him at once. First, if he was to pull this off, (and that was by no means a surety at this point,) it would most certainly be the end of his life as he currently knew and understood it. There could be no going back. Secondly, for these two...targets to have incurred the wrath of these men...they must have tromped on some very sensitive toes indeed. Plumber, he thought. They call me that because of what I do. I fix leaks. When the flow of information from a compromised source grew too large to tolerate, they call me in and I... Plug the leak, he thought grimly. All the wonderful metaphors that his code-name inspired flew through the Plumber's mind. Tighten the screws. Plug the leak. Stem the tide. At first, twenty years ago, it had seemed necessary, even noble. During those intervening years, something had happened, a change so subtle that it had taken the Plumber years to notice it. He had gone from doing what he thought was his country's business into what he imagined to be some gray area between the military and private sector. By the time he noticed what had happened, it had been too late. He was too deeply involved to extricate himself. He had become that which he had hunted. The Plumber shook himself and sat forward, reaching out to turn his computer on. It booted quickly. Launching a very special communications program, The Plumber quickly composed a message. "ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED. TERMS UNACCEPTABLE. PAYMENT IN FULL OF SIX TIMES OFFERED RATE REQUIRED. RETIREMENT AT CONCLUSION. TRANSPORTATION REQUIRED FOR FOUR; THREE ADULT, ONE INFANT. CONTACT ON ACCEPTANCE OF TERMS." The Plumber sent the message and sat back, wondering if he had the guts to pull this one off. "Lunch!" his wife called from the top of the stairs. "Coming, Tara," The Plumber called. +=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 4 Personal Note: Over the last eighteen months I've had several people beta reading and editing my work; At first, my writer's ego wouldn't allow me to see that my work _did_ need the second look, the careful and deft application of a virtual blue pencil. "Snapshot" shows that lack of editing. In the middle of writing "Umbra," Suzie Hamm offered to edit and beta read; her time became much more valuable than I was able to afford, and Tamara Kauffman took over without a look back. She remains editor-in-chief, but I've added several other people to the list of those that get to (gleefully, sometimes,) tear my work to shreds before you all are tortured with it. I'd like to take this opportunity to once again thank Tamara, Scott Carr and Hank Lee, without whom my writing would still look like those first early chapters of "Snapshot." I owe all three of them a debt I will never be able to fully repay.