UMBRA 2:ELLIPSIS Chapter 10 By Dawson E. Rambo Edited by Scott Carr 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 10/? Posting Date : 15 August, 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 : Umbra, "Piper Maru/Apocrypha" +=+=+=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters "Think we can get a subway car airlifted here so Pete can train?" Mulder asked his wife. Scully glanced up from the never-ending paperwork on her desk and shot Mulder a tolerant smile. "It might raise some eyebrows," she said. "And we're trying to refrain from making public waves, if you remember." Mulder nodded, frowning. "Just an idea." "Have you given any thought to how we're going to deploy to New York?" Scully asked. Mulder nodded again. "A lot, as a matter of fact. We know that they're probably going to be watching a lot more closely than they would if this were going down in a rural situation. The crowds will allow them to be slightly more anonymous than usual, which means that a fully-deployed team would stick out like a sore thumb." He paused, then plunged ahead. "So, it's going to be me and Pete." "That's it?" Scully asked, surprised. "Yes. And there's another reason, too. I want you here with the rest of the team, ready to deploy in case another situation comes up." Scully put her pen down and pushed away from the desk. "You think something might happen?" Mulder see-sawed a hand in midair. "Possibly." He hesitated. "What bothers me is that they're following the rules you see in movies. Take your basic action adventure movie, Scully. Steven Seagal, Van Damm, any of those guys. What happens? When the good guy is surrounded by bad guys, they always helpfully attack one at a time so he can kick their butts." Scully nodded, seeing the logic. "Why are they attacking one at a time? It makes more sense to attack on several fronts, to stretch our resources, to really test our ability to respond to these situations." "What does our friend say?" "Nothing. I haven't asked him yet." Scully made a "go on" gesture with both hands. "Well, to be honest, here's what I'm thinking. Our friend seems to be still in this Obi-Wan mode. Teaching, guiding, watching me grow, watching me learn to use the Force or whatever the hell it is he turned on inside our heads, right?" "So anyway," Mulder continued, "part of what he wants me to learn is strategic decision making. Tactics, I think I pretty much have knocked. I can always learn, but when it comes time to put the bullets into the target, we're doing ok. We're better than ok, as a matter of fact. But strategy...strategy tells me that if we concentrate our forces in one place, we open ourselves up to a real catastrophe. What if something else goes down while we were in New York? We'd be unable to respond because we would have come there fully loaded-out." "But you would have learned from that experience," Scully pointed out. "I'm not willing to bet innocent lives on a classroom exercise, Scully. The job we have before us is not to win these little battles individually, but to win them all." Scully didn't mention the fact that Mulder had been more than a little willing to bet innocent lives when he'd come with his original idea to deal with the Pave Creek mission. That, she decided, would be tacky and counterproductive. Scully leaned forward. "Mulder...sooner or later, we're going to lose a hostage. We already lost the janitor in Pave Creek." Mulder nodded. "I'm aware of that, Scully. That was a tactical decision that I hated to make. But the situation required it. Having the entire team standing around New York watching and waiting for Pete to do his job serves no purpose." He hesitated and then decided to come completely clean. "Also, while we're gone, I have some things I want you to do." "Second-in-command type things? Or wife type things?" Scully asked. "You did a hell of a job in Phoenix, Scully," Mulder started. Uh-oh, she thought, waiting for it. "But I want you to train leading the team on more missions. There may come a time when I'm leading half the team on one job, and you're on another. I want the team to get completely comfortable with you in command." He took a breath and finished his thought. "In about three weeks, I'm going to be leaving for about a week." "Where are you going?" Mulder stood and walked to the window, peering out at the squad bay. "I can't tell you that, Scully." Dead silence. "The reason I'm can't to tell you that, Scully, is that if something were to happen, if you were to be...taken..." He couldn't finish the thought. Scully did it for him. "I can't reveal what I don't know," she said softly. Mulder nodded sadly. "Yeah, that's about the shape of it." "Is it dangerous?" Scully asked, standing to join her husband at the window. "I don't think so. I'm meeting someone, someone who is doing much the same thing we are, only somewhere else." "When did you find out?" Mulder hung his head. "About a month ago." "Why are you just getting around to telling me now?" Scully asked quietly. "Because I was still deciding how much to tell you, for one. And once I decided not to tell you much, I didn't want to tell you anything." He turned to face her. "Our relationship has always been based on communication. I know...early on I wasn't the best at it. You helped me change that, and the way we are together now, the way our marriage has turned out...I didn't want that to change. Even for this. Even knowing all that can happen, I wanted to keep that part of my life... our life, separate and distinct from the rest of this shit." He took a breath and let it out slowly. "But I knew, somewhere along the line I realized that this *is* our life, Scully. And our life together doesn't play by the rules of a normal marriage, as much as I would love to have one." Scully reached down and took Mulder's hand in both of hers. "It's ok," she said gently. "I think I understand." She was silent for a moment and then asked, "Will you be able to call me?" He nodded, smiling. "I think so." "Good," she said. "It's settled. I'll stay here with the rest of the team so you and Pete can go play cowboys and Indians in New York. We'll be ready to take on any threat, anywhere in the world at a moment's notice. Then, when you go to...?" "Nice try," Mulder grinned. "ANY-way," Scully continued, "when you go to whatever mysterious foreign port it is you're going to, I'll stay here, keep the team trained to a razor's edge. It's ok. I don't mind." "Self-pity does not become you, even when you're kidding," Mulder teased. "And I never said it was overseas." "But it can't be here, Mulder. We're the only team in the United States." Dammit, he thought. "Ok, I am going overseas. But that's the last you're going to get out of me." "Don't count on it, G-man," Scully grinned. "I have ways of finding these things out." +=+=+=+ Undisclosed Location Somewhere within the Continental United States The Smoker descended into the complex, the elevator taking him several hundred feet beneath the surface. Into hell, he thought. The doors slid open to reveal a metal walkway stretching through a rock tunnel that had been blasted clear for this specific purpose. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the walls as he strode into the control room. "Good afternoon," he said softly, taking another drag on his ever-present cigarette. "Sir!" one of the engineers said. "We weren't expecting you!" The Smoker didn't reply to this. He'd found it useful over the years to just arrive unannounced at the various projects and sites he was charged with administering. It kept people on their toes. "What can we do for you?" the engineer asked. "I wish to see the status reports on the training," the Smoker said, claiming a seat. "Of course, sir," the engineer said, turning back to his computer. "Any particular course?" "I want to see the hotel unit." The sound of clicking keys filled the Smoker's ears as the engineer hurried to fulfill his request. A few moments later the screen in front of the Smoker changed. It showed what appeared to be the ballroom of a four-star hotel. Tables had been turned over and pushed against the double doors leading to what must have been a hallway. A crowd of people, numbering fifty or so, were herded against the far wall, on their knees, hands clasped behind their heads. In front of the hostages, six heavily-armed young boys paced back and forth. "What program is running?" the Smoker asked. "Gamma six," the engineer replied. Jamming the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, the Smoker bent over the keyboard and began entering commands into the program. He paused and then hit ENTER. Almost at once, one of the "hostages" drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and began advancing on the terrorists. The Engineer watched, fascinated. First, the leader of the terrorists ordered the hostage to drop his weapon. Then they shot him. He fell to the ground, the gun spinning out of his hand, blood pouring from a gaping head wound. "Not bad," the engineer said. "But not good enough," the Smoker said. Reaching for a microphone, he adjusted the frequency and pushed the transmit button. "Next time," he ordered, "shoot the youngest hostage you can find. Put a gun to her head and order the other hostage to drop his weapon. If he does not, shoot the young one, and then the hostage with the gun." On the screen, the six boys were looking at the ceiling. "Again," the Smoker said to the Engineer. The dead hostage slowly dissolved into nothingness and then reappeared with the rest of them at the rear of the room. Once again he stood and drew his weapon, advancing on the terrorists. The second in command found a young woman of no more than 17 years old and placed the barrel of his pistol against her temple, shouting to the hostage to drop his weapon. The Smoker typed some more commands into the keyboard. The hostage with the gun shot the young girl in the forehead, and then turned his weapon on the terrorist next to her. Six shots impacted against his body, dropping him like a proverbial sack of potatoes. "Better," the Smoker grunted. "I'll say," the engineer grunted. The Smoker stood. "I have new orders for you," he said casually. "Repeat these tests with the hotel team. Think of as many variations as possible and implement them at once. Your duty is to make them as vicious as possible, and to react to any threat posed by a hostage not by immediately shooting that hostage, but by threatening another. The younger, the more innocent...the more pathetic, the better. Second, repeat these kinds of tests with the nursing home team." "Gonna be hard to find someone young in that simulation," the engineer pointed out. "Must I spell everything out for you?" the Smoker asked. "In the nursing home simulation, make it the most pathetic person you can find. Our point here is to make these teams respond instantly to certain kinds of threats. When confronted with this situation, a hostage that carries a certain emotional impact, the sudden and violent death of that hostage will give us a fraction of a second advantage." He paused. "Hopefully, that will be all we'll need." "Do you understand?" he asked the engineer. "Yes, sir." +=+=+=+= The Pentagon, Arlington, VA Lieutenant Commander Mike Watts, Jr. waited for the call to go through, wondering what the hell he was going to tell his mother. His abrupt departure from his last duty station had startled and upset her. Adding to that the fact that he was prohibited from telling her just about anything regarding his current assignment, and he knew she would be worrying about him for weeks. And with good cause, he reminded himself. Just what the hell have you gotten yourself into, Mike? "Hello?" "Mom, it's Mikey." "Oh, I'm so glad to hear from you!" his mother cried. "Where are you?" "I've been transferred," Mike said. That wasn't a lie. Not exactly. But if he told her he'd been essentially shanghaied into this, he'd never hear the end of it. "TDY?" his mother asked. "No, Mom. PCS." "Oh." Being a Navy wife for over thirty years, Betty Watts knew the difference between temporary duty (TDY) and a permanent change of station (PCS.) PCS meant she wouldn't be seeing her son anytime soon. "So what do they have you doing now?" she asked. Of course, Mike thought. A concerned mother always asks. "Uh, it's classified, Mom." A long silence was finally followed by a chilly "I see." Betty Watts still had memories about "classified" activities that her husband had been involved in, activities that had brought dishonor to the family name. "Can you tell me anything?" Watts tried to estimate the chances of his line being tapped. He'd just gotten here, had just been assigned an office. Knowing the way the Navy worked, it would take days if not weeks before any request for "routine telephonic observation" went through the Defense Communications Agency and was implemented. "All I can say," Watts hedged, "is that it has to do with what Dad was involved with." "MICHAEL!" his mother wailed, her worst fears confirmed. "Mom, listen to me. Listen very carefully. I've been talking to someone in...someone who would know about what really happened. It turns out that what we think went on might not have. In fact, there's a good chance..." Watts glanced around, knowing he was taking a huge chance, but unable to do anything else. "...there's a good chance I might be able to clear his name and get my hands on the people responsible for his death." Another long, chilly silence, again followed by "I see." "Mom, please," Mike said, using the same tone sons had used for centuries. "Michael, listen to me carefully. I was married to your father for over thirty years. I know you thought the world of him, and I know that his death changed your entire worldview. I'm no dummy, Michael. I saw how you changed. And when the truth came out about his involvement in that...affair, it only made matters worse." "Mom!" Mike protested. "Listen to me. I am still your mother." Mike sighed and waited. She always knew how to push my buttons, he thought. She should, he answered himself. After all, she installed them. "All I'm going to say is this: Be careful. Things may not be exactly what they seem, Michael." "Mom, I saw...documents. Proof." "Documents can be manufactured, Michael. The Navy will tell you anything in order to get you to do what they want. All I am saying is think. Whenever they show you something, ask yourself: Who benefits? If they're trying to make you think that you benefit or the Navy benefits or the country benefits, don't take them at their word. Think it through. Think for yourself." She paused, and Mike could hear her bitterness clearly over the line. "Don't make the same mistakes your father did," she said darkly. "Fine, Mom," Mike said, eager to end the conversation. "As soon as I know anything, and I can tell you, I'll call." "Please," she said, and hung up. +=+=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters The Next Day Mulder was in the armory, watching as Pete Nelson examined the Glock pistol he was considering taking on the New York mission. "So?" Mulder asked. "I'd love to take this one, but when the NYPD examines it, they'll notice that it's had an armorer's trigger job done on it. And I seem to remember a case a few years ago when some guy did what I'm about to and got tagged because his trigger pull was so light. The jury saw it as if the guy were some kind of gunslinger or something." "You are," Mulder pointed out with a grin. "Yeah, but they don't need to know that," Nelson retorted, selecting another weapon. "It has to be accurate, but not too accurate," he mused aloud. "Powerful, but not too powerful." "Average," Mulder helpfully supplied. "I don't want to trust my life to an "average" gun, if it's all the same to you, sir." "Knock off the "sir" crap, Nelson." "Yes, sir." "Wiseass." Scully entered the armory, interrupting the banter. "You're still here?" she said loudly. "I thought I was finally in charge around here." "Yeah, yeah," Mulder said, waving a hand at his wife. "Dead-Eye Nelson here just needs to find some pig iron that won't raise cop eyebrows in the Big Apple." "Take a .45, Pete. Something stock. If you hit him anywhere, he'll drop like a rock." Nelson nodded thoughtfully. "I seem to remember someone I know very well getting shot at close range with a .45 not too many years ago and living to tell the tale. Shot in the head, as a matter of fact." "Grazed in the head," Mulder said pointedly. "Not like it could do too much damage there anyway," Scully observed. "Hah," Mulder said. "No," he paused, "Wait. I feel another one coming on. Hah." All three UMBRA members chuckled. "Fine, a .45 it is," Nelson finally said, reaching for a stock Colt Government. "Standard .45 ball ammo, and I'm set." "Not hollowpoints?" Scully asked. "No, for two reasons. First, a stock Colt tends to have feed problems with hollowpoints, and a polished feed ramp would stick out to the NYPD like the proverbial sore thumb. And secondly, hollowpoints would also raise some eyebrows. No, standard ammo should do it." He paused. "I'll just have to make sure I shoot him right between the eyes." "Dead-Eye," Mulder muttered. "That's why you chose me for this mission, right?" Something like that, Mulder thought. "Ok, we're outta here," he said to Scully. "Try not to go mad with power while I'm gone." "Oh, be prepared for a coup when you get back, G-man." She stepped close, up on her toes, planting a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. "Watch your ass. It's a particularly nice one," she whispered. Turning to Nelson, Scully said "Take care of my husband. Anything happens to him, don't bother coming back." Nelson paled at Scully's harsh tone, then realized she was only half-serious. "Hey what about me?" he asked. "I'm the guy going down into the tunnel!" "Take care of yourself, too," she said, smiling. "We need you. Both of you." Turning to her husband, she mouthed, "Some of us more than others." With that, she took her leave of the two operators. "Ready?" Nelson asked. "As I'll ever be, I suppose." +=+=+= As Pete Nelson and Mulder drove up to New York, several things began happening in other parts of the country. A team of six converted entities left the training facility the Consortium had built for this phase of the project and headed for Oahu. A chartered plane was used to ferry them from Los Angeles to Hawaii, the better to slip certain...items onto the island. At almost the same time, another private plane left the facility bound for Chicago with four converted entities aboard, the youngest having just past his fourteenth birthday. Two Consortium operatives, one on each plane, rode along to issue final instructions. On the Hawaii-bound plane, the operative waited until the team members had settled comfortably into the flight. "If I can have your attention," he said softly, just audible over the whine of the engines. "I have been instructed to give you some final thoughts." The six young men waited patiently. "Your first mission, and the true reason for these actions, is to force the MindWalker into the open. If he arrives, your first, last and only mission is to eliminate him." The operative paused and then continued, taking the time to look each member of the team in the eyes, hoping to drive his point home. "If that requires your death, then so be it. If you die on this mission, and the MindWalker perishes as well, you will be forever remembered as a martyr to the Project. Your name will be known to the people whose lives you changed." The operative waited for that to sink in and then continued. "If the UMBRA team responds, we have a new set of objectives. These men are dangerous, people. They threaten our future. The future of the Project is paramount. We cannot fail. Therefore, your mission objectives in the case of the UMBRA team responding to this incident are to eliminate as many of them as you can. This can be accomplished by forcing them to act quickly or hastily. Their primary objective is to save innocent lives. Therefore, start taking some." He paused again, once more taking the time to stare at each member of the team for a moment. "Pick hostages with high emotional impact. The very young or the very old. The sick. Pregnant women. Anyone that will cause the UMBRA team to move before they are ready. That will give you the advantage you need to take them out." He paused. "One last instruction. One member of the team will exchange clothes with a hostage and pretend to be one of them. If the UMBRA team assaults the hotel, that member will wait, biding his time, until he can strike without warning. His job will be to take as many of the UMBRA members as he can." The operative went over the words he'd just spoken, trying to decide if any points needed clarification. The converted entities were good, very good, but they lacked the real-life experience that a mission like this required for success. They had the skills if not the history. "I suggest," he finally said, "that the best shot amongst you be chosen for the undercover assignment." +=+=+=+= The Pentagon Arlington, VA The Plumber had a very high-placed mole within the UMBRA loop, a man he had cultivated for many years on the off chance that the he would find himself in such a situation. "Unusual Tasks, Duty Officer speaking, sir," the Plumber answered the phone in the required manner. "It's me," the voice said. "Go secure." The Plumber engaged the phone's electronic cryptographic gear and waited for the two systems to synchronize. "Go," he finally said. "Your subject is moving. He just called in. He's enroute to New York with one member of his team. The only other thing I know is that whatever it is, it's going to happen at Grand Central sometime tomorrow." "Thank you," the Plumber said, meaning it. They hung up. +=+=+=+=+= Grand Central Terminal Later That Day Mulder and Nelson took a quick look-see at the station, charting access and egress routes. "At least they don't have metal detectors," Nelson observed. "The paperwork you carry would get you past any of them," Mulder replied. Nelson shook his head. "Not the point. Remember, the cover story is that I've been doing this for years, and just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Concealed carry permits for New York City are as rare as hen's teeth. If they did have metal detectors, it'd be safe to assume that the same officer of groups of officers would be manning the checkpoint to verify credentials. And I'd be a new face, a fact that someone would remember. And that would cause some raised eyebrows and a little more digging into my cover than I'm comfortable with." Mulder nodded, impressed. "Very astute, Pete. But you forgot something." Nelson turned, curious. "What?" "There are over four hundred separate entry points into the New York transit system. That means four hundred different officers, if it was a straight-shift assignment, of which there are very few in the NYPD. Which means there would be a rotation of different officers. Couple that with transfers, reassignments, attrition and new-hires, the numbers say that no one would think twice if you were a new face." "If I was involved in a shooting, you can be sure that everything would be looked at twice. At least twice." Mulder pursed his lips, two fingers pulling on the bottom ones. "What worries me is the assignments officer." "The what?" "You know the rules, Pete. When you apply for a concealed carry permit in New York, you have to get ten sets of fingerprints taken by the police department. You know that the Permits and Licenses section of the NYPD has a small staff. You're the one that told me that, as a matter of fact." Mulder paused, waiting for Pete's confirming nod before continuing. "It's a small unit. They tend to remember faces. I'm worried about it." Nelson shrugged. "We'll handle it as it happens." They were standing in the middle of what appeared to be a huge ballroom. The ceilings were almost two hundred feet high. A virtual sea of humanity walked to and fro inside the station, reminding Mulder of his time in Hong Kong. There had been more people in Kowloon, by several orders of magnitude, but GCT was still crowded. Electronic tote boards covered one wall, reporting the status of trains arriving and departing on the commuter train lines that GCT served. "Stamford Local?" Pete asked, pointing at the board. "They serve Connecticut from here?" "It's about forty, maybe fifty minutes away from here," Mulder said. Mulder turned back to look at Nelson and realized he was being watched. Keeping his head steady, Mulder swept his field of vision, moving his eyes from side to side. There. A Port Authority cop was staring at them strangely. He can see the outline of my pistol, Mulder thought. "Don't look," Mulder said, not moving his lips, "but we're being watched. Nod and smile and shake my hand as if we're business people, and then vanish. I'll let him follow me." Nelson nodded and held out his hand. Mulder shook it, smiling. "Back at the hotel, four hours," he said. Nelson nodded again and turned to leave. Mulder waited two seconds and then deliberately reached inside his jacket in such a way to make the pistol tucked under his arm visible to the cop. Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder noticed the cop's eyes widening. Smiling, he turned and walked off in the opposite direction Pete Nelson had taken. Two minutes, Mulder estimated. Right now the cop was calling for backup, reporting a man with a gun. All over the station, PA cops were leaning closer to their radios, transmitting confirmation that they were on the way. It took just over ninety seconds. "Excuse me, sir?" a voice asked. Mulder stopped and turned, finding himself quickly surrounded by uniformed Port Authority Police officers. "Yes?" he asked. "Sir, back there I noticed that you were carrying a concealed firearm. I was wondering if I might see your permit?" The cop was polite, but wary, and Mulder noticed that the officer's right hand hovered only inches away from his holstered Glock. "I don't have a permit," Mulder said. The cop's eyes narrowed, and Mulder felt the crowd press in a little tighter. "I'm on the job," Mulder said, remembering the term NY cops liked to use. "Some ID, please," the cop said, not so polite anymore. Mulder held up his left hand in a "stop" motion. With his right, he carefully peeled back the lapel of his jacket and slowly reached inside with his left, returning with his FBI credentials folder. "Mulder," he said, opening it, "FBI." The PA cop took the leather folder and quickly verified that it was authentic, and then compared the picture to Mulder's face. Handing it back, the cop smiled. "Sorry, Agent Mulder. We've had some problems with guns on the trains. You understand." "Of course," Mulder nodded. And you're about to have some more, he thought. +=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 10 Author's Note: VERY IMPORTANT - Ellipsis is a little over a third done. Today's date is August 13, 1998. During the month of September, due to prior commitments on the part of several people associated with the creation of Ellipsis, publishing will be very slow and very intermittent. I will try to get as many chapters done as possible between now and the end of August. I will ALSO attempt not to leave you all in a total state of panic during the month; i.e., not leaving the last chapter posted in August with a major cliffhanger. Publishing will resume on it's normal schedule in early October.