"Umbra" 1/?
By Dawson E. Rambo

Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other
tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his
copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions, and the property
of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. The author believes
that the use of copyrighted characters in the forum known as "Fan
Fiction" is protected under the "Fair Use" statutes of US Copyright law.
No infringement of any copyright is intended.

Characters created by the author remain his property.

Original Post  :April 24, 1997

Classification :Action Adventure
		Scully / Other Romance
		Mulder / Scully Romance (Eventually)
		Mythology

Rating	       :PG-13
		Adult Themes
		Violence

Summary	       :The first chapter(of the first part) of my new novel,
		"Umbra." This one may be a little long, and it may
		take a while for Our Favorite Duo to make an
		appearance, but please bear with me. :) I'm trying to
		create some groundwork here.

Author's
Notes	       :Please see the end notes.

	 ==============================================================
				      Umbra
			       An X-Files Novel by
				 Dawson E. Rambo


				     Book I
				Of Faces & Places
	 ==============================================================


"He had white horses
and ladies by the score
all dressed in satin
and waiting by the door...

He went to fight wars
for his country and his king.
Of his honor and his glory
the people would sing,
`Ooh what a lucky man he was
Ooh what a lucky man he was'

A bullet had found him
his blood ran as he cried.
Nobody could save him
so he laid down and he died."
	--"Lucky Man"
	  Emerson, Lake & Palmer


				       -1-

Little Creek, Virginia
May 20, 1995

	The killer reached down and pressed the `pause' button on the
portable CD player he had carefully balanced on the windowsill. Using
just the forefinger and thumb of each hand, he gently pried the
headphones off, scooting just a little closer to the window at the same
time. A pair of binoculars sat perched on the same sill as the CD
player, and the killer reached for them, bringing them up to his eyes in
a single, practiced move.
	His field of vision narrowed and magnified itself. He watched as
his target moved down the sidewalk across the street. The killer felt
the earliest tugs of a grin starting on his face, and he shivered in
anticipation. This was going to be fun, he decided.
	One of the hands holding the binoculars moved to the sill yet
again, this time for the third item he had placed there. It looked like
nothing at all, really. Just a small black plastic box with a toggle
switch and a red push-button on it. A small rubberized antenna poked out
of the top. At first glance the device looked like a garage door opener
or something like that. Something totally innocent.
	Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth.
	The target continued to move, and the killer took a moment to
wonder why he felt it so necessary to watch this happen. He had killed
before, and never had he felt the need to witness the culmination of his
actions. His methods were both obtuse and flagrant, but never had he
felt this particular emotion only moments before finishing a job.
	Amusement.
	He wondered if it was a sign that he was losing his mind.
	The killer watched as the target moved closer to his car, digging
a hand into a pocket to find his keys.

				       ***

	Petty Officer Second Class Anthony Calandra stopped in his tracks.
Something was not right. His head came up and he took a slow look at the
world around him. Little Creek, Virginia had been his home for almost
two years now, and he knew the rhythms of the city as well as anyone
could, and he definitely sensed that something was amiss.
	He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, something above
his normal sight line. But when he let his eyes drift towards where he
thought he'd seen something...there was nothing. Just a window.
	Calandra snorted. Must be getting jumpy in your old age, he
thought. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had less than ten minutes
to get back. Most bosses wouldn't get upset if someone was ten minutes
late, Calandra knew, but his boss wasn't like most bosses.
	His boss was Captain Eric Prescott, USN, Commanding Officer,
NAVSPECWARDEVGRU, which in the eternal alphabet-soup of Navy-speak stood
for NAVal SPECial WARfare DEVelopment GRoUp. That was a very nice, very
official sounding title for something that had very little to do with
developing anything, and had a lot to do with killing people.
NAVSPECWARDEVGRU was the `cover' name for the US Navy's top-secret
counterterrorism unit, SEAL Team Six. And Anthony Calandra had been a
proud member of what the other Special Operations units in the US
military humorously referred to as the "Jedi Knights" for almost six
years. He had no desire to anger his boss and risk being reassigned back
to one of the `normal' SEAL teams, or worse, one of the UDT Teams.
	Calandra quickened his pace, casting one last glance around before
bending over his car, keys in hand.

				       ***

	The killer smiled. Calandra was as advertised; the experienced
Navy commando had sensed his presence, and had reacted to it as he had
been trained: Stop, look and listen. But, as he had other issues and
matters on his mind, he hadn't taken that extra second to really look at
his surroundings, and as a result, was about to die.
	The killer reached down with his thumb and flicked the toggle
switch from OFF to ON. The push-button began to glow red. The killer
waited until Calandra was inside the car with the doors closed and the
windows rolled up against the hot Virginia summer sun.
	With a shiver of anticipatory pleasure, the killer's thumb
depressed the red push button.
	An instant later, the explosion filled the killer's view. It was
not the most powerful charge the killer had ever placed, but it had been
built and placed with care. The small wad of Semtex he had placed under
the seat of Calandra's car had its desired effect. The only obvious sign
that anything had happened were the shattered drivers' and passengers'
windows, and the plumes of white smoke slowly trailing up towards the
cloudless blue sky.
	Taking his time, whistling as he worked, the killer collected his
CD player, headphones and binoculars.
	He picked up the transmitter with his right hand, and thought for
a long moment. He weighed the options both ways, and made his decision.
Un-tucking his cotton T-shirt, he carefully wiped the transmitter down,
front and back, until he was sure that there wasn't a fingerprint on it.
	Then, very slowly and very carefully, the killer turned the
transmitter over so the smooth plastic back faced him. Biting his bottom
lip in concentration, he rolled the ball of his right thumb across the
surface. Tilting it into the sunlight, he saw that he had left a perfect
impression.
	Giggling, the killer carefully placed the transmitter back on the
windowsill, turned, and left.

				       ***

Sterling, Virginia
July 25, 1995

	Geoff Sanders checked his reflection in the rearview mirror one
more time before cutting the engine to his cherry 1966 Corvette and
stepping out.
	Perfect, he thought. Melissa was one very lucky lady to be going
out with me. And she knows it.
	Grinning, Geoff walked from the parking lot towards Melissa's
apartment. He was glad that he remembered where it was, because for the
life of him, he couldn't remember her last name. They had met at one of
the dozens of bars that dotted Georgetown, had instantly hit it off, and
had returned later that night to her place for a `nightcap.'
	Things had gone well; Melissa had turned out to be an eager,
attentive lover, something that Geoff preferred and tended to seek out.
He liked his women aggressive without being pushy, and horny without
being slutty. Melissa fit the bill on both counts, and he was looking
forward to spending another evening with her.
	Of course, it didn't hurt that Melissa was very turned on by the
fact that Geoff was an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. He
had given her one of his business cards, the ones that said he was an
analyst in the Economic Research Division. She had seen the red, white
and blue seal that had been made famous in the movies, in books and on
television, and had practically dragged Geoff from the bar in her
eagerness to bed him.
	As Geoff turned up the walkway leading to Melissa's front door, he
wondered what her reaction would be if she knew what he really did for
the CIA.

				       ***

	The killer sat on the couch, legs casually crossed, one hand
draped over his knee, the hand comfortably holding a suppressed .22
Ruger pistol loaded with specially designed subsonic rounds. The single
best close-quarter silent killing instrument ever designed, the .22
Ruger was the choice of professional assassins the world over, which was
ironic, since the killer was here to execute an assassin.
	The killer's finger stroked the safety he would not need, would
not use. This one was not going to be as fun as the first, he decided.
Calandra had been a blast, no pun intended. But waxing someone from a
building fifty feet away with a wad of Semtex as big as a golf ball was
one thing. Safe, fun, easy to manage. The man about to enter Melissa's
apartment was another matter altogether. He, too, was a professional,
just as the killer was, and if asked, Geoff Sanders would probably think
he was the better of the two.
	Of that, he was sadly mistaken.
	The killer heard the knock on the door. Smiling, he reached with
his free hand to the coffee table in front of him and pressed the PLAY
button. Melissa's voice, loud and clear, came out of the speaker. "Come
in!" she called, her voice eager and hungry, sultry and promising, all
in the same breath.
	It sounded perfect, just the way he wanted it to. The killer had
spent four hours coaching her on the voice before shooting her in the
face and dumping her body in the spare bedroom.
	Raising the pistol, the killer watched as the knob turned.
	Geoff Sanders stepped inside, his eyes open, eager, searching the
room for his expected conquest. He was so distracted by the thought of
the coming nights' activities that his eyes passed over the man on the
couch pointing a gun at him. It took only a half-second for his brain to
react to what he had just seen, and that was all the time it took.
	The killer's first two shots took Geoff in the chest, the bullets
impacting so close together that they would later look like a single
hole during the autopsy. Geoff fell to his knees, his eyes focused on
the man sitting on the couch.
	"You!" Geoff wheezed.
	Good, the killer thought. He recognized me.
	The killer's only regret about the first killing was that Calandra
hadn't known who had pushed the button that had ended his life. At least
now he had the satisfaction of seeing the look of pain, confusion and
betrayal on Geoff's face.
	"Yes," the killer whispered. "Me."
	The next two shots took Geoff in the face. He fell, face-first,
onto the carpet. Standing, the killer walked over and stood over the
body.
	"Pity, Geoff, old man. I thought at least you'd be more of a
challenge."
	Once again, the killer carefully wiped his instrument of murder
down, and then just as carefully, made sure that he left a single
thumbprint for the police...or whomever...to find.
	The killer looked down at the body, taking care not to step in the
rapidly-growing pool of blood. "Ta-ta," he said, tossing the gun so it
landed in the middle of the corpse's back.
	Whistling, the killer left the apartment, closing and locking the
door behind him.

				       ***

Marine Corps Air Station Twentynine Palms
Outside of Palm Springs, California
April 18, 1997

	Peter O'Mally jumped into his Jeep CJ-7 and fired it up. It was
the end of a very, very long duty day and he was looking forward to
downing a few brews and relaxing. It was Friday, and he had the next two
days off. The peacetime Marine Corps was just another nine-to-five jobs,
even for a specialist like him.
	Pete's specialty was high-security communications, with a
concentration in microwave systems and burst transmitters, something
quite in demand in the "new" Marine Corps.
	He cleared the post with a quick salute from the guard and punched
the gas, reveling in the feel of the wind in his hair. Well, what the
Marine Corps called hair, anyway. Still, it felt good, it was Friday,
and there was cold beer and warm women waiting in Palm Springs. Smiling,
Sergeant Peter O'Mally wondered if he should go to that new place...
what was the name?
	Snapshot Grill.
	Pete had heard a lot about the place, but he wasn't in the mood
for a new experience tonight. He was in the mood for some country music,
some cold beer, some pool, and perhaps a slow dance or two with a cute
girl.
	Marty's it was.

				       ***

	The killer sat at the bar, slowly twisting the bottle of MGD.
Lifting if off the coaster, he would give it a precise one-quarter turn
and replace the cold, sweating bottle back onto the cardboard square.
With his other hand, he massaged the depression where his eye socket met
the bridge of his nose.
	His target was late. Not that it mattered in the great scheme of
things, but the killer was a meticulous man, and any deviations from a
planned schedule tended to upset him. And this was most definitely a
schedule deviation.
	The killer had been tracking O'Mally for six weeks. Every Friday,
at exactly 18:30 sharp, O'Mally would enter Marty's bar and order the
same exact thing: A Coors and a shot. For six straight weeks, the killer
had been tracking O'Mally's every move, on base and off. It hadn't been
nearly as hard as the killer had planned to get onto the base, and once
there, it had been a simple matter to wait for the perfect opportunity.
	That opportunity was supposed to have presented itself to the
killer over twenty minutes ago. It wasn't as if the killer were afraid
of missing his target altogether. After all, he had all the time in the
world, and none of his targets knew he was coming. Even after five of
them, the sixth still had not been told that he had been marked, that he
was targeted. They were like that, all of them, the killer knew. Like
ostriches. Heads in the sand, asses up, never caring what happened to
the other guy. Just as long as they were protected, they didn't care
about anyone else.
	Well, the killer cared. He cared a lot. And that was why he was so
angry at Peter O'Mally. Deviation from the schedule was not acceptable.
	The killer thought about just doing it anyway. It would only cost
a quarter, and then O'Mally would be out of the picture and there would
only be two left. Stone and the Haynes woman. Once O'Mally was out of
the way, things could get interesting. He had saved the Haynes woman
because he had never had a woman as a target before. Yes, he had killed
Melissa, Geoff's lover of the week, but that had been different. Her
death had not required any planning, and the killer had taken little, if
any, satisfaction from it. Haynes would be different. She was one of
them; she was a target deserving the killer's full attention and
creativity.
	And she was going to get it, just as soon as O'Mally presented
himself so the killer could detonate the four ounces of carefully shaped
and placed C4 plastique he had put in the target's cellular phone.
	The bell over the door signaled that someone was entering the bar.
The killer glanced up into the face of his target and fought not to jump
up and throw his arms around the man.
	The killer glanced at his watch.
	One last drink, O'Mally. One last Coors, and your one, final shot,
and then I will make the call that will end your life.
	The killer raised his MGD bottle and signaled the bartender for
another.

				       ***

Headquarters, Naval Investigative Service (NIS)
Washington Navy Yard
Monday, April 21, 1997
0900 Hours

	Vice Admiral Jake Karn read the telex one more time and fought the
wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. The name on the telex
was one he had been expecting to cross his desk sometime within the last
thirty days, but he had never expected it to be like this.
	The explosion in Marty's Pub had taken out two innocent bystanders
and seriously wounded another four. The press was starting to sniff
around, asking why the cellular phone of a Marine Sergeant had exploded
inside a bar. For now, the Public Affairs Division of HQ, USMC at Eighth
& I streets were trying to create the conception in the press that the
murder had been a racially motivated incident precipitated by a harsh
word spoken in a squad bay months ago. The fact that the Commandant was
willing to risk the bad press that admitting the USMC still had race
relation problems would create testified to the importance of covering
the truth.
	Karn reached into the second drawer on the left hand side of his
desk. There was a small secure safe built into the drawer with a seven-
button cipher lock. Quickly unlocking it, he withdrew a unremarkable
manila folder.
	Unremarkable, except for the fact that it had seven purple
diagonal stripes running from the upper right hand corner to the lower
left, signifying to those that knew about such things that the contents
of the folder were so highly classified that if one had to ask what was
inside the folder, they more often than not didn't have clearance to
even look at the contents.
	Vice Admiral Karn opened the folder stared at the single page
inside. It was nothing but a list of names, ranks and current
assignments. A small red checkmark had been placed next to five of the
eight names. Taking a red pen from his middle drawer, Karn carefully
placed a red check next to the sixth name: O'Mally, Peter, Sergeant,
USMC, currently assigned as a Communications Technician, MCAS Twentynine
Palms, California.
	Sighing, Karn studied the two remaining names on the list:

		Stone, Matthew, CMDR, USN	NIS-SLUDJ
		Haynes, Heather, Major, USA,	DIA-DCSINTEL

	The first name, Matthew Stone, was assigned to the very office
that Admiral Karn commanded, the Naval Investigative Service, and was
currently tasked in the Sensitive Legal (Upper Deck) Jurisdiction
(SLUDJ, pronounced `sludge') division. The elite of NIS, SLUDGJ
investigators normally were assigned such cases that so sensitive that
no one else at NIS wanted to touch them with a Mark I Mod 0 ten-foot
pole.
	The second name, Heather Haynes, was a Major in the United States
Army, and was currently serving in the Pentagon as a liaison officer
between the Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence (DSCINTEL) and the
Defense Intelligence Agency. A highly capable Military Intelligence
officer, Heather Haynes was the only female name on the list in Karn's
folder.
	Karn had a decision to make.
	He had to call one of the two names on the list, to at least give
them a chance. It was unfair to wait any longer, as he had with the
other six names. The first had been an obvious hit, but Karn hadn't
picked up on it right away. The car bomb that had killed Tony Calandra
hadn't blipped Karn's radar at all. Geoff's bullet-riddled body had
caused an arched eyebrow here and there, but it wasn't until the third
murder, Gerry Smith down in Florida, until Karn started putting the
pieces together.
	He was scared; Karn wasn't afraid to admit that. Something was
going on, something horrible, something no one had ever expected,
something no one had ever been able to prepare for, to plan against.
	The next three murders...Dorson, Adams and now O'Mally had all
happened so quickly that Karn hadn't had a chance to really stop and
think about the overwhelming implications of what was taking place.
	But something had to be done, and done now.
	A thought had been tickling the back of Karn's head for about a
week now, as he had struggled with the decision of what to do about the
GOBLIN problem. An old friend, someone he had known a lifetime ago in
Vietnam, was still in the federal government, in the law enforcement
arm. At the FBI, as a matter of fact.
	Karn wondered if he could count on a friendship that had gone
untested for almost twenty-five years.
	Well, he thought, no time like the present. He'd already looked
the number up himself, straight out of the Federal Registry. Picking up
the phone, Karn dialed the seven numbers quickly, before he could change
his mind.

				       ***

FBI Headquarters
J. Edgar Hoover Building


	Assistant Director Walter Skinner glanced over at the ringing
phone and then through his office door at his secretary's desk. Abby
wasn't on the phone, and seemed to be ignoring the ringing. He was just
about to suggest, more than a little loudly, that Abby get the damn call
when he noticed that it was his private line that was ringing.
	"Skinner," he said.
	"Walter Skinner? How are you, you old son of a bitch!?"
	Skinner's ears recognized the voice, but his mind couldn't match
it with a face.
	"I'm sorry, you have the advantage."
	There was a pause. "Ah, shit...well, I was hoping that a blast
from your past wouldn't exactly be unwelcome. This is Jake Karn, Walter,
and I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have a nice-"
	"Admiral Karn?" Skinner interrupted quickly.
	"Yes."
	Skinner was amazed. He'd seen the story in Jane's Defense Weekly
about his old friend Jake getting promoted to Vice Admiral, but he'd
never, ever expected a call from him. Some things, Skinner knew, were
better left buried. Dead and buried. No use pulling the scab off a wound
that had all but healed.
	"What can I do for you, sir?"
	"This is unofficial, Walter. I mean it."
	Skinner considered the debt he owed this man. "I'm listening."
	"I have something strange going on here, and I don't know what to
do about it."
	"Nutshell, sir."
	"Here's the dump, Walter. I have a dead man killing people."
	Skinner paused. "Excuse me, sir?"
	"Walter, knock off the `sir' crap! It's Jake. It was then, it
always has been, and it always will be!"
	"Yes, sir, Jake, sir," Skinner said, unable to resist. "Besides,
you know that all Marines are trained to call flag officers by their
first names: Admiral."
	The answering laugh was music to Skinner's ears. It was just as he
remembered it, full and throaty, deep, from the belly, where a laugh
should come from.
	"Talk to me, sir. For a minute there, you sounded like one of my
agents."
	"What do you mean by that?"
	Skinner sighed. "I've got an agent that believes in...extreme
possibilities. I thought I heard you say that you had a dead man
committing murders, and that's something this particular agent would
just love to sink his teeth into."
	Karn paused. "That is exactly what I'm saying, Walter. I have
fingerprints left at the scene of six murders over the past two, two and
a half years...the same print, right thumb, from a man that died in a
rocket attack at Da Nang in 1969. I have a ghost committing murders,
Walter."
	Skinner thought about it for a moment. "Think about it, Jake.
There were a lot of dirty, private little wars going on then. Lots of
people were supposedly killed in action when in reality they were
double-dipping for the CIA or the Phoenix Project or the CIDG or
something like that."
	Karn sighed. "Normally, I'd agree with you, Walter, but there's
two little twists. The first is that I, myself, personally identified
the body of this particular murderer. I was there when the rocket attack
hit, and I saw the doctors pronounce him dead, and I saw him buried. I
was his escort officer back to the states. So I know this man is dead
and buried at Arlington National Cemetery."
	"What's the other point?" Skinner asked.
	"I know who he's going to kill next."
	That brought Skinner up short. "So what's the problem, Jake? Just
call them up and warn them!"
	"Not that easy, my friend. Actually, I don't know who's going to
die next, exactly, but I do know that it's one of two people."
	Skinner tapped his fingers on his blotter, twisting in his seat to
look out the window. "Who?"
	"One of the two surviving members of a commando team that was sent
into Bagdahd to assassinate Saddam Hussein during the height of the Gulf
War."
	Karn paused. "Listen, Walter...I know this is way, way out of
policy, but I need help. Is your agent that good?"
	Skinner felt his jaw tightening. "Yes, he's that good. But I have
to warn you, he's a bit of a loose cannon sometimes. He doesn't much
trust the military. He thinks you guys are all covering up alien
abductions and things like that."
	That brought Karn up short. "He's a nut?"
	"No...like I said, he believes in extreme possibilities. But the
fact of the matter is that he's a brilliant investigator. He has a mind
like a steel trap, and he remembers every single thing he reads."
	"I want him, Walter. I need him."
	Skinner considered a moment. "I can't do it, Jake. Before you get
whipped up, hear me out.
	"First reason, he's got a partner. And not just any partner, but
the kind of partner that would go to the ends of the earth to find out
where he is and what he's doing if she feels that I'm lying to her about
his whereabouts. Since I assume you want this done on the QT, she could
create problems.
	"Second, she's the second half of the partnership, like I said.
Alone, Mulder is one of the best agents I've ever seen. When he and his
partner, Dana Scully, get together, there isn't a better investigative
team in the entire FBI."
	"What are their stats like?" Jake interrupted.
	"About a ninety-percent closure rate, with an about 80 or 85
percent solve rate, Jake."
	Admiral Karn whistled through his teeth.
	"I told you...best team I have. I can't, for a lot of political
reasons having to do with my position here, let them be seconded to the
Navy. But I'll tell you what...you send me someone."
	Karn thought about it for half a second. "Good idea, Walter. I
have just the man. Commander Matthew Stone. He's an investigator for the
SLUDGJ team, so he's used to tiptoeing around important people. Maybe he
can teach your Agent Mulder some manners."
	"I doubt it," Skinner said, glad that Karn couldn't see the smile
on his face.
	"Listen, Walter, there's something you need to know."
	"What?"
	"Stone's on the list. He's one of the two people left."
	Skinner drummed his fingers on his blotter a few times. "I
understand. Tomorrow morning, early, have Commander Stone report to me
at the Hoover building. I'm on the eighth floor."
	"Thanks, Walter. I owe you one."
	Skinner hung the phone up and drummed his fingers on the blotter
some more. Picking up the phone again, he dialed four digits.
	"Scully," the familiar voice answered.
	"Agent Scully, I'll need to see you and Agent Mulder tomorrow
morning, about eight, in my office."
	He could almost hear Scully changing mental gears. "Is there a
problem of some kind, sir?"
	"No, Scully. No problem." Skinner hung the phone up and turned
once again to stare out his window. This one was going to be bad. He
could feel it in his bones, and his bones never lied.
	Well, Skinner thought. No use worrying about it today. Turning
back from the window, Skinner grabbed his pen and dove back into the
never-ending pile of paperwork that was the life of an Assistant
Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

=======================================================================

END CHAPTER 1

"Lucky Man" Music & lyrics by Greg Lake. Produced by Greg Lake. From the
ELP album "Emerson Lake & Palmer", Copyright 1971, Atlantic Records. All
rights reserved. Used without permission. The author believes that this
quotation constitutes "Fair Use" under the applicable US Copyright law,
and no infringement was intended.