"Umbra 31/?" 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. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters created by the author remain his property. Original Post : August 19, 1997 Archive Entry : "Umbra 31" Classification : Action Adventure, MSR Rating : PG-13 (Language) Casting : Val Kilmer "Commander Matthew Stone" : Glenne Headley, "CMDR Maggie King" : John Glover, "Danny Graves" Timeline : Fourth season, prior to "Momento Mori." Author's Note : The unimaginable has happened. My home hard drive has crashed beyond repair; I am going out tomorrow to secure a new one. This means that I have lost my one and only copy of the complete Umbra outline. It may be a few days before I am able to reconstruct the complete outline from my original notes. I apologize for the problem. Enjoy! ------ The smoking man sat in another of the many offices he used, his thoughts far away. His craggy, lined face was creased in concentration, his considerable mind working overtime, trying to foresee every possible outcome of what was about to happen. One of the problems of serving so many different masters, he thought, was the impossibility of keeping all of them happy. Control, he knew, and more importantly, control of information, was the key. He'd worked long and hard to earn each group's support and trust, and each thought that he was working for them, helping them further their objectives, helping them obtain their goals. While it was true that he helped most of them in small ways here and there, the smoking man's true agenda was his own, and it was secret. There were perhaps two or three people on this forsaken planet who knew his true agenda, and those people he trusted with more than his life: He trusted them with the truth. He smiled wryly around the cigarette in his mouth. The truth. The truth, as one of his operatives had once remarked, didn't exist. It was created from whole cloth, bent and shaped to fit needed circumstance. There were known outcomes and possible outcomes, and the smoking man's job was to make certain possible outcomes into the only outcome. He opened one of the slim file folders on his desk and reviewed the notes he'd made in the margins. The next few hours were critical. Everything had to go according to plan. It was interesting, he thought, that he found himself having to trust and encourage a man that he had tried to kill on more than one occasion. Then again, he mused, if those that seek the reasons, the explanations behind my actions were to know the truth that I know, they might agree with the decisions that I've been forced to make. Take New Mexico, he thought. When the full scope of the project was revealed to Mulder, the smoking man was sure the young FBI agent would at first refuse to believe. As much as he professed to, when confronted with the ultimate truth, he would do what he always did, return to the past to try and predict his future, to try and fit the facts of his life to his own paranoid interpretation of that same life. On the one hand, it had looked like a cold-blooded attempt to murder a federal agent who had gotten too close to the truth. And, viewed through the prism of other events, such as the murder of his partner's sister, it might seem as though Mulder's death had been preordained. But, when viewed through the prism of reality, of the true facts, it was just another step towards the ultimate objective. Or, seen through yet a third view, it was an attempt to control a rogue element that had learned too much too quickly. The smoking man sighed. That had always been the problem with this project. Mulder. Too eager, always ready to throw caution to the wind, ready to ditch anyone at anytime in his efforts to discover that malleable entity he called the Truth. But they'd known that. Or, they thought they had. Projections had been performed, risks and dangers calculated, options weighed. And of all the possible choices, Mulder had been the best option. Before he'd been a zygote, before he'd been a genome, Mulder's choice as the savior of this world had been made. And shortly on the heels of that, the choice of Scully had been made as well. And then the plans had been set in motion; plans that had to be in place before either of them had been born. The staged `crash' at Roswell, public hysteria carefully encouraged and then quashed, the thin veil of suggestive conspiracy delicately placed over the entire affair, giving just enough information to tantalize and hiding the rest. Creating what intelligence agents called a "legend," enough of a background to give something credence, weight, believability. But it was all smoke, he thought, and then grinned again. They thought him weak, because he always smoked the damn cigarettes. Had they known that he needed the mixture of poisonous gasses, the life-giving carbon monoxide, they would be stunned. For that would set him apart, make him different. He would be chased, caught, dissected and studied. They would be amazed at what they found were they ever to x-ray him. When Mulder, and shortly thereafter, Scully were brought into the project fullfold, when they were told and shown what had been done on their behalf, he knew they would not be grateful. They would hate him, curse his name, wish him dead; they might even try to accomplish the task themselves. Mulder had almost succeeded, once. Appearing in his apartment, a wrathful God of vengeance, pointing a gun. He'd almost wanted to let Mulder shoot, if only to spring the trap early. Imagine the federal agent's surprise when the bullet passed through his body like smoke through air, leaving no blood, no wound, nothing to mark its passage through his body. The stunned look, the sudden understanding...it would all have been so delicious, such a wonderful twist to the entire affair. But it had been too soon. Mulder might have snapped, might have finally given in to the demons that tortured his dreams and waking hours both. Scully had been weak then, on the brink of death to all outward appearances. O'wan had been sent, `her' gifts needed at that time. She had done what had been asked of her, had guided the Scully woman back from the brink. There had been a few tense moments, when the curious customs of this brave race had almost caused them to use the legal intricacies available to them to give up on a life that was nowhere near being ready to end. O'wan had made sure that she had come back before the wrangling over what was `compassionate' and what was `justified' had finished. The smoking man glanced at his watch. Funny how time matters so much to these people, how they'd managed to concoct an artificial system based on planetary revolutions and celestial mechanics. To the smoking man, time had little meaning, because for him... For him, time had no beginning and no ending. Time just was. *** Dana Scully's Apartment 0630 Hours Sunday Scully turned over in her sleep and snuggled closer. Mulder, awake for hours, smiled and tightened his arms around her, reveling in her warmth, her softness. This could be the last morning we greet the day together, he thought. One wrong move today, and either or both of us could be dead. Or Skinner. His mind had been chewing on something all night, trying to poke holes in something that Mulder just couldn't reach, even with his formidable mind. It was tantalizingly out of reach, on the tip of his mental tongue, and the wasted effort was frustrating. "Morning," Scully muttered, kissing his chin. He tipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. "Good morning, I guess." She smiled softly. "We should get up." Mulder nodded, casting the bedcovers aside and swinging his feet to the floor. He stood, moving to the window and parting the blinds. "Looks like it's going to be a bright sunny day," he remarked. "Yeah, right up until the moment that thing blows," Scully replied. "Happy thoughts, lover. Happy thoughts." Scully blushed, and wasn't sure why. The fact that Mulder had used that forbidden term of endearment so casually, with such a soft, familiar tone in his voice? Or the fact that he had pleased her so inordinately? "Whatever. Haven't had my coffee yet," she grumbled. She stood and joined him at the window, her arm sliding around his waist. She tipped her head against his shoulder, wondering if this was going to be the last peaceful moment of the day. Of her life. "Shower," Mulder said. "Thought you'd never ask," she smiled at him. *** 45 minutes later "Look!" Mulder whispered urgently, his expression making it clear he was making a monumental effort at not laughing. Scully tiptoed over to where Mulder stood, behind the couch that Skinner was sleeping on. Her boss was deep in the zone, Scully realized. His mouth was open and a small trickle of... Drool? Scully clapped a hand over her mouth and ran back towards her bedroom, fighting the giggles with every step. Mulder joined her and they closed the bedroom door softly, gently, and then collapsed against it, silent laughs wracking their bodies. Nervous laughter, she thought. Stress relief, he thought. In the living room, Walter Skinner awoke. Where the hell am I? he thought. *** Sterling, Virginia Danny Graves was looking at his last sunrise, and the thought filled him with sadness. As with all driven men, he had waited for this day for the majority of his adult life, and now that it was upon him, he didn't know quite how to feel. The fact that he knew with utter certainty that he would be dead within ten hours felt strange rolling around in his mind. He glanced back at his desk. Two envelopes waited, one addressed to Mulder, the other to Scully. He'd been up a good part of the night writing them, laying out his life story for them, filling in some of the blanks. Despite the smoking man's assurances, Graves wanted to be sure that someone knew his story. Two identical copies of a safe-deposit-box key were inside the envelopes. In the boxes, Scully and Mulder would find the truth they had been seeking. The will he'd completed was already in his attorney's hands, and the details were quite specific. The safety-deposit box could not be opened until the year 2001. Until June 20, 2001, to be exact. And on that day, if the smoking man had not kept his promise, Mulder and Scully would be able to find the truth. Time to go, Graves thought. He took one last look at his workroom and sighed. He'd spent so many hours here, and in Hawaii, building this dream, fighting this dragon, that seemed anticlimactic to have it all end with a whimper instead of a bang. Six bangs, to be exact. And, as with all men who did what he did, or had done what he'd done, Graves had left himself an escape hatch. If the smoking man decided to take him out early, the devices would detonate, no matter what anyone did to them. The fail-safe code had to be entered remotely. If the code wasn't received by a certain time, each of the devices had a specially crafted, almost undetectable subroutine that would doubly arm them. First, with a collapsible virtual circuit, so any attempt to clip wires or remove blasting caps would instantly detonate the device. And secondly, a heat-proximity detonator. Anyone that got within two feet of the device would trip it. Insurance, Graves thought. Insurance by one madman to check the moves of another. *** "Let's go," Skinner said. They were dressed. Weapons had been checked and double-checked; ditto for the radios. Maggie King had checked in by telephone. The knock surprised everyone. Scully moved to the door and leaned up to peer through the peephole. "I don't believe it!" she gasped. Twisting the lock, she flung the door open, revealing a very pale, weak Commander Matthew Stone. "Stone!" Skinner barked. "What are you doing here?" "Graves," he croaked. "I came to help you with-" Skinner shook his head. Mulder looked at the man and saw the feral intensity in his eyes and knew what was going to happen next with the same certainty that he was sure the sun would rise the next day. Mulder was reaching for his pistol when it happened. Moving faster than anyone had thought possible, Stone snaked out an arm and caught Scully around the neck, twisting and pulling her against him in an effective choke hold. The pistol he'd kept hidden behind his right thigh came up, the barrel leveling against her temple. "Either I help, or you're going to be short one member of this little team," Stone gasped. Mulder's pistol was up and leveled at Stone, as was Skinner's. Mexican standoff. "Jesus, I feel like I'm in a John Woo movie," Stone said dryly, his grip on the pistol tightening. "Drop `em." "Not-" Mulder started. "A chance," Skinner finished. Mulder took six steps to the entwined duo and quickly jammed the barrel of his pistol into Stone's face. "Let her go. Now." Stone looked at Mulder. Mulder looked at Stone. Scully's free hand came down and found Stone's testicles. She gripped, twisted and pulled. "Augh!" Stone cried, dropping the arm around her neck. Scully pivoted and brought her knee up, finishing what she'd started. Stone collapsed in a heap, his hands going to his groin. "What a fucking idiot," Skinner exclaimed. "Yeah, he shouldn't have left the hospital," Scully said, almost as an afterthought. "I meant for screwing with the two of you. Shit! You'd think he would have learned by now." Scully smiled over her shoulder at her boss and, with Mulder's help, dragged Stone into her apartment. "Mulder...dresser, top drawer, in our bedroom...handcuffs." Skinner rolled his eyes, not wanting to know. Mulder grinned. "The regular ones, or the fur-lined ones?" "MULDER! GO! NOW!" she ordered. Turning to her boss as her partner trotted off to the bedroom, her face flushed, Scully attempted to explain. "Sir-" "Scully, I do not want to know," Skinner said, holding up a hand. "Sir-" Mulder returned, carrying a standard-issue pair of Smith & Wesson stainless steel handcuffs. "Sorry, I guess the fur-lined ones are at my place," he said, a smile still on his face. Scully spun on him. "Asshole!" she hissed. Seeing her expression, Mulder pulled out his kicked-puppy look. No go. He tried for contrite. Nothing. "Sorry," he finally said. "You will be, believe me. If we live through this, I'll KILL you!" Skinner grinned. Watching the two of them was somehow uplifting, he thought. That in the middle of all this they could make...sex jokes. "Cuff him," Skinner ordered. Mulder quickly cuffed the still- moaning Stone and dragged him to the couch. "Stay," he said, as if talking to a recalcitrant pet. "Fuck off," Stone mumbled. Scully looked at her watch. "Time go to," she said. Mulder leaned down into Stone's face. "Be a nice boy, and I'll bring you a present," he said softly. "Graves' head. On a platter," Stone requested. "See what I can do," Mulder said. The trio left. Stone counted to five hundred in his head. Mulder had cuffed his hands behind him. Moving slowly to minimize the pain, Stone rolled off the couch onto the floor. Bending his legs to his chest and lifting his ass off the floor, he brought his arms around his waist and then over his legs. Now the hard part, he thought. Grimacing against the flash of pain he knew was coming, Stone carefully dislocated his left thumb and then quickly slid the cuff off his hand before snapping the joint back into place. Repeating the process with his other hand, Stone stood and worked both his hands, trying to rub feeling back into his fingers. "Handcuffs," he muttered. "Amateurs." *** Sterling, Virginia Graves loaded the last and the largest of the CBX devices into the back of his PathFinder. He had to smile; the entire Tomahawk deception had worked like a charm. They thought that the ultimate CBX delivery vehicle would come raining down from the skies, airborne death from above. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. He patted the device, wondering if they would ever figure it out. *** Washington, DC 0840 Hours "In position," Skinner radioed. "Roger that," Maggie called back. "All frequencies showing nominal." She'd been equipped with six or eight police scanners, all of them programmed to different departments. The Secret Service were on one, Park Police on another, FBI tactical on a third, DC Metro on a fourth. "We have a few fender benders on the beltway, and DC Fire-Rescue has several ambulance calls. Park Air 1 is on standby, and Secret Service is on stand-down since the President is at Camp David this weekend." "First lady?" Scully asked. Skinner glanced at her. "If Graves is anything like Stone, he has a problem with women," she explained. "Especially...uh, powerful women." Mulder hid a grin behind his hand under the guise of wiping non- existent sweat off his brow. They were inside the four-door Suburban Skinner had requisitioned for the mission, parked near Capitol Hill. Skinner nodded at her logic. "Check on the status of the First Lady," he ordered. "And the First Daughter." King radioed an acknowledgment and went to work. She'd been instructed on how to contact the various federal, state and local authorities. She was to identify herself as Special Agent Maggie King, and Skinner had made arrangements so that anyone calling the Hoover building to verify her identity would receive the correct, reassuring answer. "So now we wait," Mulder said, beginning to sweat for real. He was behind the wheel, Scully to his right, Skinner in the back seat. The AD had decided he'd man the radios, since he had experience coordinating such missions in the past. And Mulder always drove anyway. Skinner glanced at his watch. 8:45 "Mulder...time for your call." Mulder nodded and reached for his cell. He dialed quickly. "Lone Gunmen." "It's me. You ready?" "As we'll ever be. You going to tell us what this is all about?" Byers asked. "When it's over...as much as I can." "Mulder..." the warning tone was clear in his friend's voice. "Byers...if you ever wanted to make sure you and your two cronies will earn your junior G-man badges...this is the time." "Ok, we're set up to cell-trace. We have some other toys in place in case you need them. We'll keep this line open." "Roger. Start tracing any call that any of the three of us get. Page me when you have a fix." "Got it." *** Naval Observatory Northwest Metro DC Area Graves parked the Suburban and got out. His Navy uniform was impeccable, as were his credentials. No one would question him, and since no one would see him enter or leave with any devices, witnesses that were questioned later wouldn't remember him. He made his way inside to the men's room. The device was hidden where he requested, in the duct work above his head. He pulled a small USR Palm Pilot from his pocket, specially modified for this mission with an RF modem. He interrogated the device. All systems normal, it reported. He keyed in the first sequence and checked his watch. 8:55. Close enough. He pulled a small flip-fone from his pocket and dialed a number he'd memorized. "Skinner." *** Capitol Hill "Good morning, Assistant Director Skinner. I assume you are ready to begin?" Skinner nodded to his agents. Mulder started the engine and shifted into drive, his foot on the brake. Scully's hands were poised over the controls for the blue-and-red lightbar and the electronic siren. *** Headquarters of the Lone Gunmen "Got a tickle," Frohickie said, fingers flying on the keyboard. "Localizing..." Byers picked up the phone and dialed six digits, his finger itching to dial the seventh. "Naval observatory, or thereabouts," Frohickie said after a minute. "Lock to the roam signal," Byers ordered. "If he leaves it on, we can track him." "Doing it now," Frohickie added. "Call Mulder." "Just did," Byers replied. *** Capitol Hill "Where are they?" Skinner demanded. He knew the answer would be worthless, but he had to play by the script. Not a script that he, Graves or the Guardians had written, but a script that all involved knew by heart. "Tut-tut, Skinner. All in due time. Ask Mr. Mulder what his dearest wish is." "His dearest wish is to get his sister back," Skinner said without asking Mulder. "Point granted. Ask him what his second dearest wish is." Skinner gritted his teeth. "To marry Special Agent Scully." Both agents twisted in the front seat to stare at their boss. He waved them off, pointing to his watch. Time. Playing for time. Mulder nodded, and then wondered: How did he know? "Skinner, I grow tired of these games. Ask Mr. Mulder where he would go to discover what which he's searched his entire life-" Mulder's pager went off. Quickly, Mulder hit SPD 3 and SEND. "Lone Gun-" "Byers! Who else would be calling?" "Naval Observatory," Byers said. "Or thereabouts." "Got it." Mulder pulled into traffic and waved Scully's hand away from the siren controls. "Not until he's off the phone," he whispered. She nodded, understanding. The lights did most of the work, the blue and red rotating beacons clearing the light Sunday morning traffic quite nicely. Mulder figured time and distance in his mind. About thirty minutes to the Observatory. "Graves...why are you playing this game?" Skinner demanded. "Because it's so much fun. You have exactly twenty minutes to get here, dear boy. Or you know what happens." The line went dead. "Hit it!" Skinner ordered. "We have twenty minutes!" Scully hit the siren at the same moment Mulder hit the gas. *** Naval Observatory Moving quickly, Graves exited the Observatory and headed towards his truck. Climbing in, he turned south, towards Arlington. He waited fifteen minutes, and then dialed again. "Skinner." "Mr. Skinner. Time for device number two," Graves said. "But we haven't found the first one yet!" Skinner yelled. "Well...that's not my problem," Graves said solicitously. "I'm listening," Skinner said. "Since this is the last sunrise that any of you will ever see, I wonder if your thoughts have turned to what lies beyond this world, what will happen when the light dies? Do you rage?" Skinner frowned. "I need more." "Sorry. That's all I have," Graves said, and disconnected. Mulder's pager burred. He dialed again. "Lo...Byers," Byers answered. "Where?" "Near Arlington!" "The cemetery!" Mulder said. Skinner nodded. That made sense. "He said something about the light dying and raging," Skinner said. "Rage against the dying of the light," Scully offered. Skinner's phone rang again. "Skinner." "Graves. Oh, and by the way, the second device is timed to go off in...oh, my...fifteen minutes after the first." He paused. "Have fun." "Shit," Skinner said. "What?" Scully asked. This is it, Skinner thought. This is where I have to let Mulder make the decision. "The second device is scheduled to go off fifteen minutes after the first. There's no way we can make it to both of them." Mulder frowned. "Hand me the radio!" he said. Skinner handed it to him. "Maggie, this is Mulder," he radioed. "Go ahead." "Have Park Air 1 meet us at the observatory, forthwith. Tell `em to run the red lights!" "Roger that," Maggie radioed. "What's your plan?" Skinner asked as another thought ran through his mind. Mulder didn't even hesitate; he'd demanded the radio and formulated a plan in the half-second it took me to tell him what the problem was. Maybe that black-lunged asshole is right; maybe Mulder was chosen for a reason. "We all know what we're going to have to do," Mulder said. "As soon as we find the device, we have to figure out how to disarm it. Each of us has about the same skill level, so it doesn't matter which of us goes where. When the chopper gets to the Observatory, you take it to Arlington. It's only a two or three minute flight across the Potomac to Arlington. We'll meet up with you later." Skinner nodded; this was working better than he'd planned. Mulder was taking control of the situation without being asked or told. Skinner was almost proud of him. *** Naval Observatory The Suburban screeched to a halt in front of the building, and three very heavily armed FBI agents swarmed out of it in full assault gear, MP5's cutting the pie and sweeping every corner. The ran into the building. "Where is it?" Mulder asked the air. "How big is it?" Scully asked. Mulder stopped. "Let's think: How big does it have to be? Remember, he wouldn't be able to stroll in with a Tomahawk missile housing; he'd be noticed. So it has to be small enough to carry, and look like something else, like a briefcase or something." Skinner nodded; that made sense. "Building search! Go!" he ordered, glancing at his watch. Six minutes. It took them five and a half. Skinner found the device in the men's room ductwork, and radioed Scully and Mulder to join him. They skidded into the men's room ten seconds later, weapons clattering onto the counter. "Where is it?" Scully demanded. The noise of the rapidly approaching helicopter rattled the building. "Up there!" Skinner pointed. The grille covering the duct was swinging open on its hinge, swaying gently. "Go!" Mulder screamed at Skinner. "The chopper!" Skinner glanced at his two agents and nodded. "Good luck!" he called, sprinting out of the room. Scully glanced at her partner and used her chin to point at the duct. "Lift me up!" Mulder thought about debating her but decided he didn't have the time. He moved into the stall and cupped his at knee level. Scully grabbed his shoulder, stepping into his hands and he lifted her straight up. Her arms found purchase in the duct and she twisted, spotting the device instantly. 00:19, the display said. "Twenty seconds!" she called. "What do I do?" "Look for the power supply! There has to be some kind of power supply!" Scully looked at the device, not concerned about a proximity detector at this point; the entire purpose of this game was to make them run around DC until they were mentally and physically exhausted. Graves wanted his fun; he wouldn't want the game to end quickly. "I don't see one!" she called down. "What's it look like?" "A laptop computer, connected to a metal box. The box has two latches..." She reached over and snapped the latches and lifted the top. "Inside are two canisters of liquid, one red, one white. There's some kind of intermix chamber between them. What do I do?" Her voice was starting to sound panicked, Mulder thought. "What's the laptop's screen say?" Scully glanced at it. "Enter Disarm Code!" she called. Mulder thought. What the hell was the code? It would have to be something Graves knew that he, Scully and Skinner would all know, but not something obvious. Not something- "Ten seconds!" Scully called. Mulder's mind raced. Code! What was the code?! Where was this device? The observatory. What did the observatory do? It looked to the stars. Stars. Outer space. Aliens. Samantha- "Samantha!" he called. "Type in Samantha!" Scully hesitated for a fraction of a second; it seemed like a stretch, even for Mulder. Then she decided to trust him, to trust his instinct. Reaching out, she typed, hoping that the password wasn't case- sensitive. S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A...ENTER. There was a momentary pause. The counter moved to 00:04... And stopped. *** Aboard Park Air 1 "What the hell is going on?" the pilot asked the moment after Skinner, assault gear and all, climbed aboard. "Walter Skinner, FBI," Skinner said. "Get this bird to Arlington, now!" "I'm not going-" The pilot felt the cold steel press of Skinner's weapon against the back of his head. "Fly now, talk later." Skinner said. The chopper lifted off seconds later, nosed over and headed southwest, gaining speed. *** Naval Observatory Scully gingerly handed the device down to Mulder, who took it and carefully brought it over to the vanity counter. Gently placing it on the counter, he returned to the stall and helped Scully down. She hit the floor and threw her arms around him, kissing him, hard. "What was that for?" he asked when it was over. "For saving my life, dummy!" He smiled at that and turned to look at the device. "What do we do with that?" he asked. Then he had an idea. He reached for the radio on his belt. "Maggie...come in, Maggie." "Maggie here. Go ahead, Mulder." "Call the DC Bomb Squad. Tell `em they have a device at the Naval Observatory second floor men's room. They'll know what to do." "Where are you going?" Maggie radioed back. "Nowhere," Mulder said. "We're going to drive about a mile away and park and wait to hear from Skinner." Maggie radioed her acknowledgment and the duo quickly walked outside. It was a good idea, Scully knew, to be as far away as possible when the Bomb Squad showed up. Too many questions to answer otherwise. "Why are we only going a mile away?" Scully asked. "Shouldn't we head back to Capitol Hill?" "That's what he thinks we're going to do, Scully. He thinks that we'll want to be centrally located. My bet is that the next site is going to be close to here, so we'd get frustrated at having to drive all the way back again." Again, Scully's first impulse was to argue, to point out that if the next site was on the other side, the far eastern side of DC, then they would be in poor position to get there quickly. Then, again, she decided to trust Mulder's instincts. He might not look it, she mused, but he had a knack for this stuff. Skinner radioed in. "I'm about twenty seconds from landing... how did it go?" "Aces," Mulder radioed back. "You just have to figure out the password." "Any ideas?" Mulder thought about it. Arlington, where the war heroes were buried. The last time he'd been at Arlington had been... "Deep Throat" Mulder radioed back. "Mulder!" Skinner's warning tone could clearly be made out over the radio. "It was the code name of a contact I had...before your time. Trust me." *** Park Air 1 Approaching Arlington National Cemetery "Any idea where I can find it?" Skinner asked. There was a pause. "My guess would be Tomb of the Unknown Soldier...since I never knew his name." Skinner nodded; Mulder's capacity for wild leaps of logic never ceased to amaze him, even when they infuriated him. The chopper put down in a grassy knoll a hundred and fifty yards from the tomb. Skinner erupted from the chopper at a dead run, the MP5 carried at port arms. He made it in twenty seconds. The sharply-dressed guard walking post at the Tomb saw the armed man coming at him. Not just show troops, the members of Company E of the United States Army 3rd Infantry were crack soldiers. They reacted as they'd been trained. The lone soldier marching sentinel duty stopped, spun and leveled his weapon at Skinner. "HALT!" the man called. Skinner froze, raising his arms. "FBI!" he called, out of breath. "Advance and be recognized!" the solider called. Slowly, Skinner stepped forward. His assault vest had FBI stenciled in four-inch-high gold letters across the back, and a stenciled representation of his badge above the left breast. "Sergeant," Skinner started. "I have no time to fool around. I have reason to believe that there is an explosive chemical weapon located in the immediate vicinity. I need your help locating it." As Skinner spoke, the First Sergeant of the Guard came running up, carrying not the ceremonial M14, but a much more sinister-looking M16A1. He was trailed by a corporal carrying a Baretta 92F. "FREEZE!" the Sergeant called. Skinner moved slowly, keeping his hands in view, and repeated his message. The Sergeant took one look at Skinner and realized he was serious. "Corporal Ricks!" he called to the sentinel. "Keep marching! We'll go look for this...whatever it is." The sentinel saluted and resumed marching. Shaking his head in amazement, Skinner turned to the sergeant. "Four pairs of eyes would be much better than three," he said. The Sergeant looked at Skinner as if he were insane. "Even in times of war, sir, there is always a guard marching in front of this tomb. That ain't gonna change on my watch. Now...what exactly are we looking for?" "Briefcase, something about that size, may look like a laptop computer. Would have been left here in the last day or two." The Sergeant's face paled. "I think I know what you're looking for, sir. A man came here last night and left a box for our CO, Colonel Brooks. Said not to open it until the Colonel returned." "Where is it?" "Guard shack," the Sergeant replied, the confusion evident on his face. He turned and started walking towards it, Skinner following closely on his heels. "I remember thinking it was pretty damn strange, when I heard about it." "Why?" Skinner asked. "I wasn't on duty last night, and the duty officer told me that the man that had left it here flashed some pretty high-powered ID. Told us that the Colonel was expecting it and not to open it. Strange, because the CO has an office over at Ft. Belvior. I'da thought it'd be delivered there." Skinner nodded. "Ok, get your men out of there. I'm going to go in and try to disarm it." "Negative, sir," the Sergeant said. "This is a military reservation. Army EOD will be called to disarm that device." Skinner shook his head. "We don't have time. It's set to go off in..." he checked his watch. "Less than two minutes!" The Sergeant's face paled even more, if that were possible. He debated with himself for only a moment. "Do it," he finally ordered. Skinner entered the guard shack, which was more of a small shed. The box, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to "Colonel G. Brooks, Commanding Officer, 3rd Infantry, US Army, Arlington National Cemetery," sat on a table in the corner. The ZIP code was even written on the brown paper. Skinner took out a folding Emerson CQB knife and slit the paper off. It was an aircraft-metal briefcase. He tried the locks. They opened. He lifted the lid and saw the cover of the laptop. Lifting it, he saw the same screen that Scully and Mulder had. ENTER DISARM CODE. Gritting his teeth, Skinner typed DEEP THROAT and hit ENTER. The clock on the screen stopped at 01:12. Skinner sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Mulder...you did it again. He returned outside and motioned the guard over. "Call EOD now. Tell them this is a federal matter, and agents from the FBI will be over to collect the device soon." "It's disarmed?" the Sergeant asked. Skinner nodded. "Sure, but I wouldn't screw with it if I were you." The guard nodded; sounded like good advice. Skinner picked up his radio and transmitted. "Mulder, Skinner." "Go, sir." "Where are you?" "A mile or so, eastbound of the Observatory, waiting. How'd it go?" "You were right on with the password," Skinner radioed back. "What now?" "Wait until Graves calls you. We'll decide from there." No we won't, Skinner thought. You will. Shrugging, Skinner started trotting back to the helicopter. He was halfway there when his phone rang. "Skinner." "Ah, Walter, my good man. I can see that you managed to find and disarm the first two devices. My compliments on the use of the helicopter. Very good thinking. Ready for the next three devices?" Three? Skinner thought. Of course. He was going to split them up. "Go ahead," he growled. "Ok...here are your clues. Tricky Dick was a man filled with purpose that almost felled the constitution. Have fun!" Skinner stared at the phone, ready to throw it at the whirling blades of the helicopter. He turned the phrase over in his mind. It made no sense! How could Graves expect him to...? Then he remembered. Graves didn't expect Skinner to figure it out. He expected Mulder to. "Mulder!" Skinner radioed. He repeated the phrase and waited. *** One mile east/southeast of the Naval Observatory Mulder chewed his lip. "Ok, you've got the fastest transportation," he radioed back. "You're going to the Supreme Court. Scully is going to the DOE. I'll head for the Watergate Hotel." Scully sat back, amazed that he had taken less than two seconds to figure it out. "How did-?" she started to ask. "Tricky Dick. Nixon. Watergate. Watergate hotel. Purpose, filled with purpose, filled with energy. Department of energy. Constitution? Only one place that document could have been felled, the Supreme Court." "Or the Senate," she pointed out. "Impeachment hearings. Or the National Archives, the actual document. Why the Supreme Court?" "Gut feeling," Mulder admitted. She nodded; she'd learned to trust his gut. "Drop me at the Watergate and head for the DOE building." Mulder reached for the radio. "Maggie, I need another chopper!" "Where should I-?" "I don't care! Find me one! Have it meet me at the Watergate in...twenty minutes." Maggie radioed that she'd try, and Mulder hit the gas. "What are the passwords?" Scully asked. "I don't know yet," Mulder admitted. "Think fast." -------------- END CHAPTER 31 ------------ PathFinder(tm) is a registered trademark of Nissan Corportation. Suburban (sm) is a registered Service Mark of Cheverolet of America. The 3rd U.S. Infantry, traditionally known as "The Old Guard," is the oldest active-duty infantry unit in the Army, serving our nation since 1784. As an infantry unit, it maintains tactical and technical proficiency, as well as providing security for key national leaders in times of emergency or civil disturbance. The unit received its nickname from Gen. Winfield Scott during the victory parade at Mexico City in 1847 following a valorous performance in the Mexican-American War. Fifty campaign streamers attest to the 3rd Infantry's long history of service, which spans from the Battle of Fallen Timbers during the Revolutionary War to World War II to the Vietnam Conflict. Since World War II, The Old Guard has served as the official Army Honor Guard and Escort to the President of the United States. In that capacity, 3rd Infantry soldiers conduct military ceremonies at the White House, the Pentagon, national memorials and elsewhere in the National Capital Region. Old Guard soldiers also maintain a 24-hour vigil at The Tomb of the Unknowns, provide military funeral escorts at Arlington National Cemetery and participate in parades at Fort Myer and throughout the National Capitol Region