UMBRA 2:ELLIPSIS Chapter 11 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 11/? Posting Date : 26 October 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, WOTC. "Military glory-the attractive rainbow that rises in showers of blood." Abraham Lincoln (1809-65), U.S. president. "You say it is the good cause that hallows even war? I tell you: it is the good war that hallows every cause." Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), German philosopher "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" "War is regarded as nothing but the continuation of politics by other means." Karl Von Clausewitz (1780-1831), Prussian soldier, strategist. "On War, Preface" -11- New York City The Next Day Pete Nelson got on the number 3 at Grand Central and settled down for the ride. It would be just over thirty minutes before the eight-car train neared the Bowling Green stop at the southern tip of Manhattan -- plenty of time to mentally prepare for what was to come. Above ground, Mulder was driving down Tenth Avenue in the garment district, whistling tunelessly as he contemplated what was about to happen. Can't be helped, he thought. The words repeated themselves in his head, over and over again. Who you trying to convince, Mulder? he asked himself. The answer was painfully obvious. Three people, as the old joke went: Me, myself and I. Mulder had purposely avoided learning anything about Shawn Hopkins. He had no desire to find out whether the teenager was a star student or a slacker. Whether Hopkins liked to play basketball or Nintendo. Whether he played a musical instrument. What his hopes and dreams for the future were. Mulder was distancing himself from the target, from the assignment. He was aware of the process, and in a way, welcomed it. It allowed him, and the rest of the team, to operate more surgically. Shawn Hopkins, at one time perhaps the apple of his mother's eye, had become something else. He'd been changed by forces beyond his control and understanding. He wasn't human anymore. He was...an entity. A bipedal, carbon-based transportation entity for a presence that lived within him, an evil presence that didn't subscribe to any understandable morality. Like insects, Mulder thought, turning into Battery Park Plaza and parking his rental. Like...cockroaches. And there was only one thing to do with cockroaches, Mulder thought, a certain statuesque entomologist notwithstanding. Exterminate them. +=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters Undisclosed Location "Again," Scully said, breathing deeply. The remaining five members of the UMBRA team glanced at their Executive Officer and rolled their eyes. The evolution they were practicing was grueling and exhausting. They'd done it four times already. "Begging the Captain's pardon," Oz Vance gasped, "but how many times do you expect to do this today, Ma'am?" "Until we get it right," Scully growled, hefting her MP5. "Now, take five, catch your breath, and then we go again." Glancing from face to face, Scully held their gazes. "Questions?" she asked. They had none. +=+=+= Pine Bluff Nursing Home Chicago The four converted entities infiltrated the nursing home with ease. One posed as a vending-machine repair technician. Two others as an ambulance crew there to transport a kidney patient to dialysis. The last, the team leader, waited until he'd received confirmation that the other three were in position and waiting before moving. Drawing his sidearm, the leader walked straight in the front door and marched up to the receptionist's desk. Leveling the pistol at her face, he asked, "The Director's office?" +=+=+= New York City Pete Nelson glanced at his watch. Four minutes. He'd identified Hopkins ten minutes ago. A tall kid, carrying an Army duffel bag that, to Nelson's trained eye, obviously contained some kind of rifle. Taking care not to glance directly at Hopkins or the bag for too long, Nelson tried to determine what kind of weapon it was. He decided that Mulder was right; it was either an AK or a CAR-15. Either was bad news in the hands of a trigger-happy converted entity. There were perhaps forty people in the car, some sitting, other standing, all of them studiously ignoring everyone around them. Mulder's orders had been clear. Due to the number of the witnesses and the nature of the target, Nelson was to wait until he saw a weapon, then stand and order Hopkins to drop it. When Hopkins turned the rifle on him, Nelson was to fire, immediately, and without pause. Pete took a deep breath and stretched, checking his watch again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Hopkins again. The teenager was seated about ten feet away, on the opposite side of the subway car, the duffel bag between his legs. He was quietly talking to himself. Talking himself into it, Nelson realized. Psyching himself up. Which was odd, Nelson thought. The intelligence they had on these teenagers was that when they went operational, they were one-hundred percent committed to the action. They acted without hesitation, without fear...without thought. They were machines, automatons that performed the functions they'd been programmed for with the mindless efficiency of a computer. Only Shawn Hopkins looked like he needed to be re-booted. Anticipating his arrest after the shooting, Nelson had elected not to bring along any communication equipment. He had no way to get a hold of Mulder, to ask his opinion on the changed situation. I'm on my own, Nelson thought. Shit. +=+=+= Chicago The leader's directions to the nursing home's management were clear and concise. Any patients capable of ambulatory movement were to be herded into the day room at the end of the hall. The sick, the bedridden and the emotionally or mentally dysfunctional were to be left where they were. They, the leader promised, would be released. The director of Pine Bluff Nursing Home complied with the leader's wishes as best he could. A nurse on the second floor, realizing that something was amiss, tried to contact the police via telephone, and was frustrated to discover that one of the two "ambulance attendants" had already cut the phone lines. Once all the ambulatory residents and staff had been herded into the day room, the leader of the teenaged terrorists produced a cellphone and made a brief call to the Chicago Police Department. +=+=+= FBI Communications Command Center J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Special Agent Chuck Clinton (who endured no end of ribbing over his surname,) glanced at the teletype printer to his left, his gaze narrowing. The standing orders of the C3 unit were clear: Any hostage situation, anywhere in the country, was to be brought to the Director's attention immediately, without fail and without delay. Chicago, Clinton noticed. A nursing home? Who the hell would take a nursing home hostage? Tearing the sheet off, Clinton quickly exited the C3 room and headed towards the express elevators that would open onto the eighth floor. +=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters 15 minutes later Scully felt the vibration of her pager against the small of her back and froze. "HOLD IT!" she ordered. The five-man UMBRA team froze in place, each of them silently groaning. Whenever Scully used that tone of voice, it meant that something had gone dreadfully wrong, and they were about to be forced to start the whole damn thing over. All six UMBRA members were hanging upside down seven stories above the ground. Current counterterrorist doctrine for tactically assaulting high-rises included Australian-style face-first repelling techniques, and Scully was a stickler for procedure. Scully slung her weapon as best she could and struggled to reach the pager. Noticing the code in the small LCD display, she began moving instantly. "On the ground, NOW!" she ordered as she flew away from the team. After a second of stunned silence, the rest of the team slung their weapons and followed suit. +=+=+= New York City Fuck it, Nelson thought. My orders are clear. Take the target out. Terminate, as the old Vietnam-era saying went, with extreme prejudice. Salvage the target. Service the target. Kill the fucker, Nelson snorted. No matter how many polite and politically correct terms you came up for it, it all boiled down to the same thing, he mused. Putting lead into the target. Drawing the pistol, bringing it up, taking the slack out of the trigger and sending a 120-grain ball of lead hurtling towards another creature at 1200 feet per second. The lights flickered as the chain changed from the express to the local tracks. Time, Nelson thought. Time to hunt. +=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters "Yes, sir," Scully said into the phone. "I understand." She hung up and turned to face her team, taking a deep breath. "As our fearless leader predicted, our friends have decided to attack on multiple fronts. That was Director Skinner. There is a hostage situation that fits our profile in Chicago." She paused. "A nursing home," she finished, casting a sideways glance at Oz Vance. She knew his own mother was in such a place in the Maryland countryside. His gaze never wavered. "Ok, as tempting as it is to go balls-to-the-wall, we're going to do a partial load-out. Oz, pick two other members and perform a contingency loadout just as soon as you can." Scully reached for the phone, punching numbers as she spoke. "I'll have a VC-20 warmed up and ready to go. Take only as much equipment as you need. I'll also get the Director to alert the local HRT team that three specialists from DC are flying in to take command of the scene." Gunnery Sergeant Osborne Vance nodded. "Orders?" he asked. "Take `em out," Scully said. "No survivors. Don't worry about biological samples. This is just like Nelson's mission in New York. Terminate." Vance nodded and pointed, taking Cruz and Clark with him. That left John Brooks and Toshiro Douglas with Scully. The two remaining UMBRA teammates didn't look happy at being left behind. "Look on the bright side," Scully said, on hold for Skinner. "Maybe they'll strike on three fronts." "We couldn't that lucky," Tosh said darkly. Then, realizing what he'd said, he quickly added, "Sorry, Ma'am." Scully waved it away, turning her attention to Skinner. "Sir, I've decided to split the team in half and send three operators to Chicago. The other two and I will stay here in case...another incident arises." "Good idea, Scully," Skinner said. "The day young, after all." +=+=+= New York Hopkins was beginning to lose it. Nelson watched, fascinated, as Hopkins began to melt down. The teenager was leaning forward, his hands clasped over his ears, softly rocking. "Gotta do it," the youth moaned. The passengers on either side had begun to move away. The situation, Nelson realized, was turning to shit in a hurry. A few people caught Nelson's eye and made "What can you do?" expressions. We're about to find out, Nelson thought. Hopkins reached down and opened the bag, reaching inside. As the rifle came up and out of the bag, Nelson's mind slowed to a crawl. AK, he thought. Paratrooper version, folding stock, 30 round clip. Cheap Chinese SKS knock-off copy. Probably loaded with 140-grain FMJs. Nelson was surprised to find himself standing in the middle of the car with his pistol in his hands, leveled at Hopkins The first scream broke the air, coming from somewhere behind Nelson. Resisting the urge to turn and see where the scream was coming from, Nelson forced his mind to concentrate on the task at hand. He saw the front and rear sights aligning in the foreground, and he let his eyes defocus quickly, turning Hopkins into a blurry shape twelve feet away. Pete was waiting for the trigger to break when he was tackled from behind. +=+=+= Chicago The Chicago Police Department's Hostage/Barricade Team (HBT) was as world-renowned as the NYPD's Emergency Services Unit or the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. Perhaps only the LAPD's SWAT team was better known, and mostly because they had invented the concept of a special response team. Commander Leroy Thompson sat in the HBT communications van, staring at the floor plan for the Pine Bluff Nursing Home. Whoever had instigated this action knew what he was doing, he realized. The day room was in the physical center of the bottom floor. There was only one exterior exposure, and those windows had been closed, the shades drawn, effectively removing his team's ability to peer inside and see what was going on. Thompson had positioned his spotter-sniper pairs to give them the best angle and widest lanes of fire possible. Each spotter had reported in turn that the windows and doors facing the street were wired with what appeared to be several pounds of C4, which meant that a tactical assault through the front door was out of the question. Air Support had a chopper circling slowly above, and they reported that the door leading to the stairway looked as though it had been tampered with, and Thompson didn't want to even consider how many pounds of plastique might be wired to . And the only communications from the "terrorists" had been a cryptic message delivered by a voice that didn't sound old enough to shave. "Sir, call for you," his communications officer said. Thompson took the offered phone, making a mental bet with himself. It was either the mayor or the commissioner. Probably the mayor. "Thompson." "This is Director Skinner with the FBI," a voice growled in Thompson's ear. "I'm kind of busy here, Director," Thompson said, trying to add a growl to his own voice. "I'm sure you are, Commander. I am calling to ask you to hold your position until some of my men can get on scene with you there." "This isn't an FBI matter," Thompson said. "As far as I know, no federal laws have been broken, sir." "I am aware of that, Commander. I've already spoken with Mayor Daley and the Commissioner, and they have agreed to turn tactical command over to one of my men, a Special Agent Vance. He's flying in from Washington as we speak." Thompson's vision dimmed as the full impact of Skinner's words hit him. "Am I to understand that the police commissioner of Chicago has agreed to turn over tactical command of a local hostage situation to the FBI?" "That is correct," a new voice on the line said. Thompson immediately recognized it as that of Commissioner Czernak. "There are...things going on here that we're not at liberty to discuss over an open line, Commander. Your orders are to contain and hold fast until the FBI can arrive and take control." "Yes, sir," Thompson said through gritted teeth. Handing the phone back to his specialist, Thompson wondered what arm-twisting tactic the FBI had employed to pull this off. CPD had never been known for cooperating with the Fibs on organized crime or narcotics cases, let alone a high-profile hostage situation. Reaching to his throat mike, Thompson cringed as he anticipated the reaction of his team to the order he was about to issue. +=+=+= Aboard VC-20, Tail Number N492195 Approaching Chicago O'Hare (ORD) Airport Gunnery Sergeant Osborne Vance, USMC, tapped his fingers on the fax machine impatiently as the page slowly oozed out; it was a crude, hand- drawn layout of the Pine Bluff Nursing home, indicating the front and side doors, and the relative position of the dayroom. A hand-scrawled note at the bottom added that plastic explosives had been spotted on the front and side doors, and on the roof-access door. "Buttoned up tighter than a virgin on prom night," Vance muttered. "Say what?" Cruz asked. "Take a look," Vance said, offering Cruz the page. Cruz studied it for a moment. "Hoochiwawa!" he muttered. "I'm open to ideas," Vance said, plopping down in an empty seat. Cruz stood and began pacing in the cramped compartment. "Up from underneath," he finally said. "We need sewer access maps. See if we can get in through the cable access tunnels, like that." "That'll take forever," Vance groaned, but he knew his partner was right. "I'll make the call." +=+=+=+= Oahu, Hawaii 0710am Local Time The six entities infiltrated the hotel as a single unit. They looked like a high school golf team on an outing in the islands, and with good reason; they each carried their long arms in a golf bag. The front desk clerk looked up with a smile. "Yes?" he asked. "Can I help you?" The lead entity nodded and smiled, stepping up to the counter as the remaining five continued walking, turning left and proceeding down the hallway to the master ballroom. The fact that the hotel was hosting a gathering of members from the Landmark Forum, a personal-productivity and self-realization seminar, was in no way a coincidence. "Yes," the lead entity said to the clerk. "Could you do me a favor and call the police?" The clerk's professionally cheerful expression darkened a bit. "Is there a problem?" "No," the lead entity said, smiling. "But there is about to be." Raising the Glock pistol he'd secreted at the small of his back, the entity shot the clerk in the face before continuing on to join his comrades in the ballroom. +=+=+= New York Shit, piss, fuck! Nelson thought, twisting in the unseen assailant's grasp. "Lemme go!" Nelson screamed. "He's got a GUN!" the man grappling with him shouted to the crowd. "HELP ME!" Jesus H. Christ, what a goatfuck! Nelson fumed. He twisted in the man's grasp, bringing his elbow around in a wide arc. He felt a satisfying crunch! as he connected with the bridge of the man's nose. Nelson turned his attention back to Hopkins.... And felt his blood run cold. Hopkins was staring at him, the barrel of the SKS pointed right at Pete Nelson's face. I, Pete thought, am well and truly fucked. Nelson's practiced eyes slid over the weapon and he saw Hopkins' finger tightening on the trigger. Goodnight, Gracie, Nelson thought. +=+=+= Oahu, Hawaii Hawaii is different from most states; there is only one real police department, the Hawaii State Police, locally known as "Five Oh." Although they do have a SWAT team, theirs is not as well known as the NYPD's ESU or the Chicago PD's BHT. Hostage and barricade situations are few and far between in the Aloha state. Which is why it took the HSP a good twenty minutes to swing into gear. Once the situation was understood, the commander on the scene made a wise decision; he put out an immediate call for help to the FBI and to the US Army Military Police station at Hickam Field. The on- scene commander was more than aware that he was completely, utterly out of his depth, and he didn't want the death of what was being reported as up to 40 tourist hostages on his hands. The FBI Field Office on Diamond Head made note of the request for assistance and dashed off a teletype to headquarters in case the HRT Team West, stationed in Los Angles, would be needed. +=+=+= FBI Communications Command Center J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Special Agent Chuck Clinton heard the bell of the teletype go off and wandered over, a cup of coffee grasped loosely in one hand. He saw the message, swore loudly, tore it off and slammed his cup down on the nearest flat surface as he dashed out of the room, heading towards the express elevators. Two today, he thought. Not a record, but definitely heading in that direction. +=+=+= UMBRA Headquarters 20 minutes later Scully, Brooks and Douglas were in the middle of hand-to-hand practice when a strange noise stopped them cold. "What the fuck is that?" Tosh asked. Scully froze, tipped her head and listened. After a minute, she realized what the noise was: A pager set on vibrate rattling against a wooden floor. Jogging over to the towel she'd tossed on the floor next to the mat, she lifted it to reveal her pager dancing merrily back and forth. "Oh, Jesus Christ, I don't believe it," she breathed, turning to run to the command center. After a minute, her stunned partners turned and followed her. They found her in Ops twenty seconds later on the phone. "Hawaii, sir?" she asked. Brooks and Douglas exchanged a smile. Surfing, sand, bikinis. Could be worse. "Forty hostages possible, but unconfirmed, understood." She glanced at her two partners and frowned. "Well, sir, try and hold them off as long as possible. We're going to have to jump a military transport on this side of the country to make it to LA as quickly as we can. Can you have three F-15s waiting for us at Los Angeles Air Force Base?" She nodded and hung up without a further word. "Get ready," she said, lifting the phone again. "I'm going to rustle us up some fast-movers to get to the coast. Minimal load. Personal weapons, sidearms, ammo and breaching plastique. Nothing else. We don't have the space or the weight to spare." She paused, and then snapped her fingers. "Get moving!" Brooks and Douglas turned and vanished back into the squad bay just as Scully heard "Paxtuent River Naval Air Station, Operations, Petty Officer Collins speaking, Sir." "Collins, this is Captain Scully. My authorization code is Alpha Four One Four, please confirm." After a moment, the voice came back. "Confirmed, Ma'am. What can I do for you?" "I need three Foxtrot One Fours fueled and ready to go with pilots but no RIOs within the next forty minutes. Two other officers and myself will be arriving by helicopter. Our destination is Los Angeles Air Force Base." She hesitated. "Get all that?" "Yes, Ma'am," PO Collins replied. "Three Foxtrot One Fours, pilots, no RIOs, destination Los Angeles AFB, in four zero minutes. You and two other officers will be arriving by chopper within that time frame. Is that correct, Ma'am?" Scully was impressed. Most junior Navy NCOs would have freaked out when given such an order by a woman they'd never heard from before. She made a mental note to send a letter of commendation to the man's commanding officer. "Thank you, Collins." Scully pressed the switchook down and counted to three before lifting it. She punched four numbers. Twenty seconds later Carol Kusche was on the horn. "Air Ops," she answered. "It's Dana. I need the BlackHawk warmed up in the next ninety seconds." "Where to?" "Pax River, then LA, then Hawaii." "Jesus." "Let's hope He's along for the ride," Scully said. "Get moving." +=+=+= New York Nelson closed his eyes, waiting for the impact of the .223 FMJ round on the bridge of his nose. After two agonizing seconds, Nelson opened his eyes and found Shawn Hopkins carefully examining his rifle for detects. Safety, Nelson thought wildly. He forgot to take the safety off. "OH MY GOD HE'S GOT A RIFLE!" someone screamed. Dragging his gun hand out from underneath his body, Nelson raised it and steadied the pistol. A sudden realization struck him. I can't shoot him. Not until he's pointing that thing at someone. Too many witnesses...there has to be a threat. Hopkins found the safety, flicked it off, and raised the rifle towards Pete again, sealing his fate. "DROP IT!" Pete shouted, more for the witnesses than anything else. Hopkins ignored him. Pete fired twice. The first round took Hopkins in the heart, the second right between the eyes. Blood, bone and brain matter exploded out of the back of Hopkins' head, spraying several passengers with the gore. They screamed, sure that they were hit, that they were injured and dying. Hopkins crumpled to the ground, the rifle sliding from his dead grasp. Nelson wriggled out from under his attacker's grasp and stood, his pistol held in two stiff arms, sweeping it back and forth among the passengers, looking for an accomplice. "RELAX!" he shouted to the car. "It's over! Everything is ok!" A few people peeked up from the crouched positions they'd taken. "Are you a cop?" a woman asked. "No," Nelson said, moving slowly towards Hopkins. "I'm a courier." Get the cover story in place, Mulder had said. Let the witnesses tell the cops the same story you will. "Thank GOD!" she said, standing and throwing her arms around Nelson. +=+=+= Chicago Gunnery Sergeant Osborne Vance knocked on the rear door of the CPD BHT communications van. After five seconds, it opened. Commander Thompson peered out. "FBI?" he asked. "Yes, sir," Vance smiled. "Special Agent Vance." "Well, c'mon the hell in, then." Vance climbed inside and whistled. The van was equipped with the most modern surveillance equipment he'd ever seen for a local police department. "Nice gear," he said. "Thanks," Thompson replied dismissvely. "Not that it's doing to do us a hell of a lot of good on this gig. The assholes have the place buttoned up and wired to the gills. We've confirmed that the roof access door is wired to blow, just like the front and side doors." He fixed Vance with a baleful eye. "So, if you wouldn't mind telling me exactly what the fuck the FBI is doing here, fucking up my hostage situation, I'd much appreciate it." "Commander," Vance said, grinning, "I'm a grunt, just like you. I was at headquarters, and I got called out here to take control of the situation. More than that, I can't tell you. But I will tell you that my two associates and I have been developing some new tactics to resolve hostage situations in a more...direct way than you're probably accustomed to." This got Thompson's attention. "Spell it out, boy." "As of this minute, this entire scene has been federalized. This means several things. First, if we fuck it up, your hands are clean. Second, we're not hamstrung by your rules of engagement. Our ROEs are slightly different than yours. They permit us...more direct action." "There's that phrase again. What, exactly, does it mean?" Vance grinned. "No negotiation. My men and I are going in and take these fuckers out." Commander Thompson, who had been prepared for a long siege, smiled. "Well, shit...why didn't they tell me that?" Then his features darkened. "But how the hell you gonna get through all that plastique?" Oz Vance withdrew the folded up sewer plans he'd acquired a scant twenty seconds before knocking on the van's back door. "We're gonna come up from underneath, Commander, like the holy fires of Hell itself. And we gonna burn those fuckers right out." Thompson quietly, grudgingly admitted to himself that he liked the cocky little FBI bastard. A lot. +=+=+= New York The train lurched into the station and came to a brake-squealing and hissing stop. The doors remained closed as Nelson watched the New York City Transit Police surround the car. This is not going to be fun, he thought. He walked to the door with the pistol dangling from his left pinky by the trigger guard. The slide was locked back in the open position, and he carried the magazine in his other hand. The doors slid open. "FREEZE!" a voice shouted. Nelson froze. "STEP OUT OF THE TRAIN, HANDS IN PLAIN SIGHT!" the voice ordered. Nelson carefully stepped outside, keeping the pistol pointed in a safe direction. "DROP IT!" Nelson slowly crouched and placed his Colt on the platform. Stretching as far as he could without taking a step, he placed the magazine as far away from the pistol as he could, and then stood, his arms held high. "TURN AROUND!" "HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!" A moment later Nelson felt his arms being wrenched behind his back, and then the cold slap of the cuffs against his skin. "You are under arrest," a voice intoned into Nelson's ear. "You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right..." As the voice continued the Miranda warning, Nelson watched as the passengers began emerging from the train. A few smiled at him. A young man barely out of his teens came up and said, "I'd shake your hand, but..." "That's OK," Nelson smiled. "They're just doing their jobs." "Did you see what happened?" one of the officers asked the passenger. "Sure as shit, man." The officer lead the passenger away to take his statement as Nelson was turned and hustled up the stairs to the surface. He was tucked into the back seat of a waiting TPD patrol car. And so it begins, he thought. +=+=+= Chicago God, Vance thought, it smells like shit in here. Which was appropriate, considering the suspicious looking logs floating in the ankle-deep water he and his team were wading through. The buzzing at the small of his back froze Vance in his tracks. Reaching behind himself, Vance grabbed the pager and raised it to his face. Wonderful, he thought. Scully wants to know what's going on. Nothing like a little micromanagement to screw up an operation. Deciding to ignore it until after the bad guys had been taken down, Vance replaced the pager on his belt and continued moving down the pipe, playing his flashlight against the ceiling, looking for the entrance he needed. He took two steps before the pager buzzed again. Swearing, Vance checked it again. The same code as before, but "911" had been added to the end. Vance held a closed fist at head-height. Behind him, Cruz and Clark froze. Reaching into one of his pockets, Vance found the satellite cellular telephone he'd been issued. I sure hope it works down here, he thought, or Scully's just going to have to wait. There ain't no way I'm crawling down into this cesspool . He dialed the number and waited. "Operations, Kusche." "Carol, it's Oz. What the FUCK? We're in the middle of the op!" Vance whispered. "Sorry," she said, automatically dropping her voice to match his. "I have a message from Scully. As soon as you're done there, get to Los Angeles on first-available basis, then off to Oahu. They've got a gig there with forty hostages." "Roger that," Vance said, snapping the phone closed. Turning to his team, he made the "form on me" signal. Turning to face his teammates, Vance delivered the news. "Scully and the rest of the unit are enroute to Hawaii. They have a job with forty hostages, unknown number of bad guys. As soon as we're done here, we need to move out." The other two men nodded, and for a moment Vance wondered if he'd done the right thing by telling them. The situation in front of them was critical and required complete concentration of all involved. Giving them something else to think about wasn't what they taught in the USMC NCO leadership courses. But, he thought, I also need them thinking about missions beyond this one, so they don't take the sometimes stupid chances that SpecWar operatives tended to on missions like this. "Move out," he whispered, turning to move back down the tunnel. +=+=+= New York The interrogation room was just as Nelson had imagined it would be: Tiny, cramped, and the vague odor of stale urine drifting over from the corners. He was alone, his hands still cuffed, waiting for whatever came next. He didn't have long to wait. The door opened, and a huge, mean-looking detective sauntered in. Nelson noticed immediately that he the man's sidearm was still in his holster. That was a good sign. If he was being treated as a suspect, the cop would have been required by regulations to remove his sidearm. "Mr. Nelson," the cop said, smiling. "Oh, they still have you handcuffed? I'm sorry..." The cop dug into his pocket and found a ring of keys, and then stepped closer, reaching down to unlock the cuffs. "Sorry," the cop repeated. Pete sat back, rubbing his wrists. "So what happens now?" "We just need to clear a few things up," the cop said. "By the way, I'm Detective Samson." They shook hands. "We've checked out your pistol permit, and it's valid, and your employer confirmed that you were on your way to pick up a shipment of negotiable instruments for transport today, so you had cause to have your weapon with you." Samson paused, and reached inside his jacket, returning with a slim, spiral-bound notebook. "I just need you to tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened today." Pete nodded, took a breath and began the story that he and Mulder had concocted the night before in their hotel room. "As you just said, I was on my way to make a pickup-" "Where was that again?" Pete faltered, but only for a second. "Um, 123 Wall Street." Samson nodded, making a note in his pad. "Please, continue." +=+=+= Chicago Oz Vance emerged into the furnace room of the Pine Bluff Nursing Home slowly, an inch at a time, his eyes sweeping the enclosed space. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat, he slithered on his chest to the far corner and waited for his teammates to join him. First Cruz, and then Clark emerged from the sewer, repeating his movements. Vance unfolded the crude, hand-drawn map he'd brought along. "One last time," he whispered. "We're here," he said, pointing. "We go out, turn left, and sixty feet down the hall, we come to the day room." Pointing to Cruz, he continued, "You go up into the ceiling. Listen for my signal. When I give the order, you set off the flashbang and drop in. Clark and I will come in the front. Bing-bang-boom." He glanced at his teammates. "Questions?" They had none. Pointing to Cruz, Oz ordered, "Get going." +=+=+= Los Angeles Air Force Base "Los Angeles approach, this is Sky Surfer Zero Zero, turning on final." "Roger Zero Zero," the tower called back. "Please report on the ground." The pilot of the lead F14-D didn't reply to the tower's perfunctory command. With over 4,000 hours in combat aircraft of every description, he knew the drill. Toggling the intercom, he spoke to his passenger. "Captain, we'll be on the ground in approximately thirty seconds. You might want to tighten your straps." Special Agent Dana Scully touched the foot switch that allowed her to answer. "Thank you, Commander." Reaching up to her chest, Scully tightened the five-point restraint to the point where she could feel the wide cotton straps digging painfully into her shoulders and thighs. True to his words, the pilot put the plane's tires on the tarmac twenty-nine seconds later. Scully heard the roar as the pilot threw the engines into full reverse. Better than landing on a carrier, she thought. Talk about sixty-to- zero in one second... Anyone that was even mildly associated with flight knew that the hardest thing in the world was landing a sixty-ton aircraft on the pitching deck of a ship at sea. Add in inclement weather and night operations, and Scully didn't know how these men didn't go stark raving mad within a week. "Commander, would it be within Navy regulations for you and the other two pilots to continue on to Hawaii with us?" Scully asked. "Ma'am?" "We're on a priority mission to get to Oahu as soon as possible, Commander. How long would it take this plane to get to Hawaii?" "Approximately three hours, Ma'am, if we go supersonic." Scully nodded. "Are you agreeable? I mean, if I can get the clearance?" "I am at your service, Ma'am," the pilot said. If she could get the clearance, he thought with a smile. He had no idea who the petite redhead in the RIO's seat was, but he had little doubt that she had but to pick up a phone and mumble a few words before he'd be on orders to fly her and her two friends all the way to Moscow, if necessary. The F-14D taxied to the transient ramp and parked. A moment later two ladders were slapped against the side by ground crewmen, and a second after that the canopy hissed open. "Welcome to California, Ma'am," the pilot said. +=+=+= New York "So, in your opinion, there was no other option but to shoot?" Sampson asked. "Detective, I know you deal with a lot of irresponsible people that carry guns in this city. I'm aware of how hard it is to get a gun permit, let alone a concealed carry permit. But the legalities for using deadly force are quite clear. My life was in immediate danger. The...boy, had an AK47 pointed at me-" "It's an SKS copy, as a matter of fact," Sampson interjected. "Cheap Chinese knock-off." My exact words, Nelson mused, hiding his smile. "I'm sure you're right," Nelson said. "But the fact remains that I was in immediate mortal danger. I had the means to defend myself. I ordered the...victim to drop his rifle, and he refused. He pointed at me. I shot him." "Yes," Sampson said, stroking his chin. "Once in the heart, and once in the head." He paused. "Why did you shoot him twice?" Nelson smiled. "Sir, if someone were to carry a gun in your city, wouldn't you want them to be trained on its use?" Sampson nodded, indicating that he would. "Well, doesn't the NYPD teach its own officers to...what's the term? Double-tap?" Sampson smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact we do. But we're charged with enforcing the law, Mr. Nelson. You, on the other hand, are not." Pete nodded, accepting the mild rebuke. "That is true, Detective. But the doctrine still holds. I had no idea if my first shot was going to incapacitate the...suspect? Can I call him that?" Sampson didn't reply. "Anyway, I had no idea if he was on drugs or anything like that. As I told you, he was acting strangely before the incident: Talking to himself, holding his head, rocking back and forth. He could have been on PCP for all I know, and you, as a police officer, should know that sometimes people under the influence of such things don't always go down with the first shot." Sampson wrote a few more things down and then closed his notebook, folding his hands on top of the table and regarding Nelson evenly. "Mr. Nelson, your statement has been taken. You are free to go." Pete stood to leave, and made it almost to the door before Sampson's next words stopped him dead in his tracks. "You didn't ask," the detective said. Pete turned to face him. "Detective?" "You didn't ask the three questions that every single person I've interviewed who has been in your position always asks." Nelson felt something shift in his stomach. "And those would be?" "First," Sampson said, ticking them off on his fingers, "Is the victim really dead? Second, what was the victim's name? Third, can I have my gun back?" Sampson folded his arms and waited. Nelson nodded. "First, I shot the victim through the heart and through the bridge of his nose. If he's still alive, we have bigger fish to fry, because the Second Coming is upon us. Second, I'll read the victim's name in the Daily News, the Times and the Post tomorrow morning, or I can turn on any television station in the city and discover that information immediately. And third, yes, I get my gun back as soon as ballistics is finished with it, because I'm not being charged." Sampson didn't say anything. "Detective, I would like to ask you something, though. Two things, actually." "Go ahead." "First, have you established any kind of motive?" Nelson saw Sampson's jaw muscles tightening and relaxing. "No," he finally said. "As of now we are treating this as your standard random act of violence. Since you...took care of the problem, we will be unable to interview the perp." "Parents? Friends?" Sampson looked away. "We've been unable to locate the parents," he said softly. I bet, Nelson thought. "And your other question?" Nelson smiled. "Yeah. Is there a back door to this place? I really don't want to have my face plastered all over the evening news." +=+=+= Chicago It went like clockwork. Ramon Cruz positioned himself where he thought the physical center of the day room would be and waited for the signal. He took a M24 Flashbang grenade from a thigh pocket and loosened the pin. With a smile, he remembered the first time he'd ever used one of them; taking his lead from the movies, he'd put the ring in his mouth and tried to pull. Six hundred bucks. That's what the military dentist had told him a civilian DDS would have charged Cruz to repair the damage to his teeth. Lesson learned, though. Six minutes later, the voice came through his earpiece. "Umbra Two." Cruz clicked his mic twice, saying nothing, afraid to make any unwarranted noise. "Sixty seconds," the voice said. Cruz started his watch and then clicked his mike three times. With five seconds to go, Cruz removed the pin, gripping the grenade's spoon tightly with one Nomex-gloved fist. When his watch beeped, Cruz lifted the ceiling tile and dropped the grenade through, turning his face away. The bang was incredibly loud in the enclosed space, and the flash was blinding. Just as it was supposed to be. Dropping through the ceiling, his MP5 slung in combat attack position, Cruz began identifying and removing targets. Four, he thought, but didn't know why. Four bad guys. The nearest two were guarding the door, their faces turned away from him, weapons pointing towards the hallway. Cruz took the one on his left first, stitching three rounds into his back. He was already aiming at the one on the right before the first one crumpled to the ground. Four more rounds dropped the second one. At that moment, Vance and Clark burst into the room. "CRUZ, DOWN!" Vance shouted. Behind me, Cruz thought, ducking and tucking. Six shots from two weapons flew by. Cruz identified one of the weapons as being a bad guy from the sound. "I'M HIT!" a voice called. After a second, Cruz realized it was Tim Clark. Five seconds later the shooting stopped. Cruz crawled to his feet and began moving amongst the hostages, looking for wounded, checking to make sure all the bad guys were down. Out of the corner of his eye, Cruz saw Vance bending over Clark, working on his leg. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," Vance was muttering. "We need a medic up here right now..." Cruz moved to Vance's side and looked down. Clark had taken a single round high up on his inside right thigh. Femoral, Cruz thought. The blood was bright red, and pumping steadily from between Vance's fingers. The bullet, Cruz realized, had nicked the artery. Slinging his weapon, Cruz reached for his assault vest, hitting the snap-lock releases and shrugging out of it. Reaching to his pants, he quickly unthreaded it and bent over Clark, looping it around the injured leg and tightening it. "He'll lose the leg!" Vance protested. "He'll die otherwise," Cruz grunted. +=+=+= END CHAPTER 11