Umbra 34/? By Dawson E. Rambo Author's Note : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his property and the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. All rights are reserved and these characters are used without permission. Any characters created by the author remain his property. Original Posting : August 27, 1997 Archive Entry : Umbra 34/? Classification : MSR, Action Adventure Rating : R (Adult situations, language, themes) Spoilers : None Casting : Val Kilmer, "CMDR Matthew Stone" : Glenne Headly, "CMDR Maggie King" : John Glover, "Danny Graves" : Ed Harris, "Ron Burke" : Judge Reinhold, "Teddy" Enjoy! ------ Washington, DC Scully glanced over at Mulder, concern written all over her features. Her eyes seemed to beg the question: You aren't really going to kill him, are you? Mulder glanced at her, feeling a wave of love and concern washing over him. She was just so beautiful, he thought. I can't believe she's chosen me of all people to give her heart to. To give her life to. She's given me so much and asked for so little, and every time she asks for something I resist, a mule, stubborn to the end. No more, he thought. He sent a silent message back: No, of course not. Scully visibly relaxed and set about checking first her weapons status and then his. Light bar flashing and siren wailing, the Suburban turned west on Constitution and sped up, weaving in and out of traffic. Mulder reached down to the siren console, using the electronic air horn to clear traffic. The wonk! wonk! coupled with the siren, the blue and red lightbar and the alternating high-beams scattered the cars to the curbs. As the Suburban cleared 3rd street, it hooked a little to the left and Mulder hit the gas harder, wanting to make the right turn onto Pennsylvania as tightly as possible. "Mulder, look!" Scully called, pointing. At the corner of 6th Street and Pennsylvania avenue there was a small fender bender. That was not so bad, but the four DC police cars, the huge fire truck and the two DC Fire-Rescue ambulances a big deal. Traffic was snarled for almost a full block, and Mulder hit the brakes, twisted the wheel and called, "HOLD ON!" as the Suburban left the street and bumped over the curb in front of the United States Court House, roaring across John Marshall Park and then, just before he would have hit the Canadian Embassy, Mulder wrestled the Suburban back onto the sidewalk, careening down Pennsylvania towards the 6th Street intersection. A DC police officer directing traffic saw the unmistakable shape of a Secret Service unmarked truck roaring down on him code 3 and did what any prudent law enforcment officer would do: He got the hell out of the way. The Suburban piloted by Mulder flew through the intersection at over fifty miles per hour, firemen, cops and paramedics watching with mouths agape as it bumped over the curb and hit Pennsylvania with a screech of rubber against tarmac. The back end fishtailed before Mulder regained control, and then it straightened, roaring towards the White House. Inside the Suburban, Scully was holding on for dear life as she glanced across the cockpit at her partner. His face was tight with concentration, his eyes narrowed as he kept one eye on the road and the other in the rearview mirror, scoping Skinner as he drove. What is he thinking? Scully wondered. Judging by the expression on her lover's face...not good thoughts. *** Maggie King dialed her telephone hurridly, double-checking each digit as she punched them. "Secret Service, White House Office." "Watch Commander, please," Maggie requested. "Stand by..." There was a series of clicks and pops, and then a new voice. "Watch Commander." "This is Commander Maggie King, US Navy." Maggie took a deep breath. This was something she'd never thought in a billion years she'd have to do. Karn had given her a phrase, a very specific phrase to use with the Watch Commander, a phrase that would guarentee instant cooperation with the Secret Service. "TOPHAT sends: Juno One. Juno One." There was only a slight pause. "Understood. Status?" "We have three agents heading your way in a black suburban. From my understanding they're going to want to get in the East Entrance. Is there going to be a problem?" "Stand by..." *** The White House Special Agent Ron Burke glanced at his watch. "How long until they arrive?" he asked the telephone. "Stand by," Maggie said. He heard her using a radio in the background. "Base to Unit One...ETA to the House?" There was a garbled reply. "Three minutes, tops," Maggie said into his ear. "Understood. East entrance in three minutes. Stand by." Ron Burke, Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Executive Protection Detail, Washington Field Office, United States Secret Service, closed his eyes and prayed. "This is Bruke. East Gate, lemme hear from you." "East Gate." "East Gate, you're going to be seeing a big-ass black Suburban heading your way with lights and sirens running in about three minutes. You are to let it in the gate unmolested. Is that clear?" "Uh...roger that, sir. Sir, is that unit part of the NSC contingent that came in a while back?" Burke's head snapped up. "Excuse me, East Gate?" "Sir, about ten minutes ago, another black truck came in. Guy flashed NSC credentials and went up to the House." Burke was incensed. "Why wasn't I notified?" "Sir, the driver had a 99 clearence. The Regs say-" "I'm aware what the Regs say, young man! Shit! Did he say where he was going?" "Affirmative, sir. He said he was going to the NSA's office." "Ok, East Gate. Keep an eye out for that Suburban." "Roger that, sir." Ron switched back to the telephone. "Tell your friends that the front door is open. Can you tell me what this is all about?" "Stand by," Maggie said. *** Secret Service Suburban Approaching Pennsylvania and 12th "Base to Unit One," Maggie called. "One," Mulder said, fighting with the steering wheel. The traffic congestion was increasing as they approached the White House. Still about four blocks away, it was getting harder and harder to maintain his speed. "Secret Service reports that the East Gate will be open for you. No need to slow down or stop; just blast right through. Got that?" "Affirmative," Scully radioed back for her partner. "Uh, Scully...the Secret Service is asking what this is all about. Can I tell him?" Mulder sent her a glance as he twisted the wheel to avoid a bus full of tourists. "Only if the First Family is in the mansion," Scully radioed back, correctly interpreting Mulder's expression. In the backseat, Skinner and Stone exchanged a look that communicated their individual senses of awe at what they had just witnessed. "Roger that," Maggie radioed back. *** The White House "Sir?" Maggie asked. "Go ahead," Ron Burke prompted. "Is any member of the First Family in the mansion or on the grounds at this time?" "MCNUGGET is on the grounds," Ron replied, using the Service's radio call sign for the First Daughter. He heard Maggie's sigh in his ear. "Ok, listen up. We have an intruder on the grounds. From my information, he has ID listing him as a member of the NSC. He has a device-" "What of device?" Burke prompted, suddenely woozy. His worst nightmare was coming true. It was his job and his job alone to make sure that nothing happened to the First Family when they were actually on the grounds of the White House. He had over two hundred agents, plainclothes and uniformed both, reporting to him. He had two platoons of USMC Force Recon at his disposal; he had Stinger missles on the roof and hidden machine gun emplacments around the building. He had everything he needed to stop an attack. Except an attack from inside. "Stand by," Maggie said. *** Secret Service Suburban Approaching Freedom Plaza "They want to know what kind of device," Maggie radioed. Again, Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. This time, even Skinner and Stone could decipher it. "No way, Maggie. Just tell 'em you don't know." *** The White House "We're not sure, but we know that it's pretty bad." "Who is coming in the suburban, anyway?" Burke asked. Far off,in the distance, he could hear the rise and fall of a siren. "Three FBI agents and a Navy SEAL, all hand-picked and specially trained for this mission," Maggie lied. "What kind of training?" Burke asked. "Chemical warfare," Maggie said, carefully pretending to slip. Fuck Mulder, she thought. This shit wasn't worth screwing with. Ron Burke thought for sure that he was going to faint. A checmical weapon on the grounds of the White House? For an agent, there was no greater nightmare. Nightmare, he thought. That's it, I'm dreaming! He reached down with one hand and pinched his thigh as hard as he could. The rocket of pain that flew up his leg into his brain confirmed the fear; he wasn't dreaming. He was awake. "What should I do?" "Wait until the team gets there, and then do whatever they tell you." She paused. "Trust me, Mr. Burke...they're the best. If anyone can make this have a happy ending, they're the ones." *** Secret Service Suburban Approaching Pennsylvania and 15th Street "Hold on!" Mulder called again, turning the wheel hard right. The Suburban screeched around the corner and fishtailed again. Mulder added power and let the huge truck steer itself out of the turn. Up ahead, there were cars pulling to the curb. A uniformed Secret Service agent stepped out from the driveway into the White House, and spotting the Suburban, waved it in, motioning to the guard still in the shack to hit the gate release. It slid open slowly as Mulder navigated the truck through the traffic, winding in and out of the stopped cars. "Move! Move!" he yelled at a cab who refused to budge. Mulder watched in amazement as the driver's arm appeared from the window, displaying the Mr. Digit Hand Puppet. "Hold on!" he called again, reaching down to shift into Low. The front bumper of the Suburban contacted lightly against the rear of the cab and Mulder applied gas, pushing it out of the way with a loud screech of metal-against-metal. The smell of cooking brakes was in the air, and the cab started to move. "Hold on!" Stone said, jumping out, the CAR-15 held in his hands. He took the six steps to the cab and jammed the rifle into the driver's face. "MOVE THIS FUCKING CAB NOW!" he screamed. The cabbie looked down the barrel of the CAR15 and nodded, shifting his car into drive and edging to the curb. As Mulder drove by, Stone stepped onto the running board, grabbing part of the roof rack for support. Good idea, Mulder thought. "Scully, Skinner...get on the outside of this thing." They nodded and mounted up; Skinner and Scully opened their doors and stepped onto the running boards, holding the roof rack as Stone was. As the Suburban turned into the White House driveway, it made quite a sight: Black, sleek, moving at quite a clip, blue and red light bar flashing, siren wailing, and three extremely pissed-off and heavily armed people hanging off of it. The suburban screeched to a halt just inside the gates. One of the uniformed Secret Service officers came running up. "What's going on?" he shouted. Oh what the hell, Mulder thought. One last one, in case this IS my last one. "Domino's," he said lightly. "You ordered one with onions?" The guard blinked at this man, his jaw hanging open. Skinner stepped down and glanced at Mulder, who nodded. For the time being, he needed Skinner's rank to make the Secret Service heel. A man in a suit came running up, out of breath, his sidearm in hand. "Ron Burke," he gasped, "ASAC-EPD." Skinner stepped towards him, a hand reaching for his shoulder. He guided Burke away from the commotion. "Listen very closely. I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner, FBI. We have a situation inside the mansion. There's a device, a chemical weapon in there. We have to go in and get it, and the man who brought it in." He turned to face Burke head on, turning his Command Voice up another notch. "I may be assigned to the FBI, Burke, but right now I have no loyalty to them. I don't care who gets credit for this, and as a matter of fact, I want you and your guys to take the credit for this. I don't want the FBI's name involved in this at all." Burke frowned, not getting it. Skinner stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I don't want any fucking around with jurisdiction, Burke. You call your fucking dogs off, because in about thirty seconds, me and my team are going into the mansion and we're going to find that fucker. And I don't need nosey, prima-donna Secret Service Agents pissing and moaning about how the White House is their detail. Until this is over, this fucking piece of Real Estate belongs to me and my team." Skinner paused. "Do I make myself clear?" "Clear," Burke said. "But you may want a piece of information from me." Skinner looked at him. "Well?" "Your NSC imposter told the front gate he was going to the National Security Advisor's office. Second floor." "First Family?" Skinner asked. "MCNUGGET will be leaving in about..." Behind the mansion, near the Rose Garden, a huge racket could be heard. A moment later, Marine Air One lifted off, dropped its nose and headed south, towards Camp David. "...now," Burke finished. "No more members of the First Family are on the grounds, Skinner." He stepped back, sweeping his arm towards the White House. "She's yours. Bring her back in one piece." Without turning, Skinner shouted over his shoulder. "Mount up!" Mulder climbed back behind the wheel; Burke, Skinner, Scully and Stone all jumped up on the running boards and Mulder peeled out. Skinner was on the radio. "Three to Base. Get the two air units here, pronto. I want them on the South Lawn ASAP." "Roger that," Maggie radioed back. *** The White House National Security Advisor's Office It was amazing, really, Graves thought, that you could fit so much into such a tiny little space. The device, the device, fit into his inside jacket pocket. A HP Palmtop PC coupled with a piece of engineering that was so diabolically simple that it still amazed him, even though he had built it himself. The actual device was a small metal box, about the size of an old-style Sucrets tin. If one were to open it, they would find two small cannisters, about the size of the CO2 cartridges you'd use in a pellet gun. Two halves of a binary agent that, once combined, would render most of the metro Washington DC area inhabitable for four to five generations. CBX was some very nasty stuff, Graves knew. Only this wasn't CBX. This was the next generation of biochemical warfare. The existence of this agent was classified code-word secret, and the code name for it was classified even higher than that. During the life of the program created to design and implement it, the agent had undergone several name changes; when Graves had come across it, the code name had been MEDUSA. Just like the mythological creature, MEDUSA was one hard bitch to kill, Graves thought. It was designed to attack on several fronts at once. Most biochemical agents were designed to attack a specific body system; some were nerve agents that stopped the life-giving impulses in the body, some affected the lungs and respritory system. Some caused massive internal hemmorages. MEDUSA attacked on several fronts at once. And that was only half the story. Graves smiled. He was waiting for a call from the smoking man. HE would have the final decision as to whether or not this device would actually be armed. Or detonated. *** Washington DC Undisclosed location The smoking man glanced at his watch. Time, he thought. Time to make a decision. And it was a decision that he didn't relish, a God-like decision that had been coming for years. And it would not be the last, but in fact was one of the first in a series of decisions that he would have to make. He lit the thirty-sixth smoke of the day, took a drag and exhaled, watching the smoky tendrils rising lazily towards the ceiling. He'd been thinking about this day, this particular day, for close to six years. He had two choices. On the one hand, he could let things play out as they would and see if Mulder had it in him to make the tough decisions. Not the everday tough decisions, the shoot-don't-shoot decisions that every law enforcement officer was faced with. Not the decisions that Mulder routinely made to place his own life and Scully's life in danger. Those were cupcakes compared to the decisions he was going to have to make...if this all worked out. The smoking man's thoughts turned to Graves. It was going to be a shame to lose one of his best operatives. Graves' death was preordained, something that could not be changed. Graves had been loyal, and the smoking man almost felt regret for lying to him. Regret was not an emotion he was equipped to handle very well. Reget slowed you down, made your decisions that much harder. The smoking man opened his desk drawer and pulled out a metal container the size of a cigar box. On the top of the box was mounted a glass plate. Placing his hand on top of it, the smoking man waited for his palm print to be recognized. There was a soft hum, and then a beep, and the box unlocked. Opening it, the smoking man took out two devices. The first was a standard long-distance radio transceiver. The other device was something that hadn't seen the light of day for close to twenty years. In one sense it was a photo album. In another sense it was something completely different. The smoking man touched a control on the second device. A three dimensional transparent image appeared at chest height above the device, slowly spinning and rotating. Home. the smoking man thought. So far away. So long ago. To anyone else looking at the image, it would not have seemed like much. The image was of what appeared to be a desert landscape. But where one might expect to see brown, beiege sand it was red, deep red. The smoking man frowned. That was not what home had looked like...before. Before, it had looked much like this place, with lush, green grass, deep blue oceans, mountains, forests...all the things needed to sustain life. And there had been life there, rich, florusing life, a civilization so far beyond what this puny little rock held to be almost laughable. At times, the smoking man had to fight not to feel superior. He knew that his attitude was percieved by many as being cold, aloof, even evil. And, viewed one way, some of his actions did seem evil. One day, he knew, one day the people of this planet would understand what he had done, and more importantly, why he had done it. By that time, of course, he would be long gone, off to the next world that needed him. And need him they did. So few people knew of what was coming. And of those that did know, so few of them understood what it meant. At first, decades after he'd arrived, he'd listened to the men that ran this country after explaining and showing them what was coming. To a one, they'd all scoffed. They'd promised weapons, more advanced than the nuclear arsenal they currently posessed, weapons that could destroy any invader. Patiently, the smoking man had explained that yes, their plans for particle beams and phased-array lasers were good ideas, wonderful defenses against weapons that the other side, the Soviets, might build and deploy. But to think that you could use those weapons against... against...Them was to invite disaster. It was suicide on a global scale, he explained. They hadn't listened, even after they'd believed. They'd come to accept what was coming, and in their typical smug arrogance, believed that they would prevail. "Fools," he muttered. They didn't understand that to defeat Them you didn't use weapons. You didn't fire guns or launch missiles at Them. You needed something else. Something deeper, something these people didn't understand. But one of them did. Mulder. Mulder understood, even if he didn't know it yet. And what he didn't understand, the missing pieces inside him, were found inside Scully. Together, correctly trained, properly motivated, Scully and Mulder could save this world. They would have to. There was no other choice. The smoking man grunted as a trite phrase from a recent movie wound its way though his mind. It was overused by now, adopted into the national lexicon like all popular phrases. Failure, he thought, is not an option. *** Washington Dulles Air Traffic Control Tony Craig glanced at his scope and did a double take. Without glancing away he reached over and hit the switch that would illuminate a special light on his supervisor's console. "What's up?" his supervisor called over. "Two aircraft converging on the White House," he reported. "One of them has a military transponder...Navy...and the other is civilian, law enforcement, Park Police." "So what's the problem?" "We haven't heard from the Secret Service yet. And they're within the five-hundred-yard zone." Tony's supervisor frowned. "That's odd." "You're telling me," Tony said. "If the Secret Service isn't expecting either of those birds, in about twenty seconds they're going to be flaming balls of twisted metal on Pennsylvania Avenue." Tony's supervisor made a snap decision. "Get the Service on the phone and find out what the fuck is going on; I'll take your flights." Sitting down at a nearby console, the supervisor quickly assumed control of all of Tony's flights. Tony Craig lifted a special phone and dialed six numbers. *** The White House The four Secret Service agents assigned to the roof of the White House all moved to the north wall and almost in unison raised four matching pairs of binoculars to their eyes. "Get ready," the detail leader called. Two of the agents moved away from the ledge to a series of black Anvil shipping cases. Opening them, the agent quickly assembled two Stinger anti-aircraft missiles and returned to the North ledge. "Roof One to EPD One," the detail leader radioed. No response. "Roof one to EPD One," he called again. Nothing. "Sir," one of the agent said. "Five hundred feet and closing; they're almost over the outer perimeter!" The detail leader gritted his teeth, wildly calculating the times, distances and probabilities. "Roof One to EDP One, we have inbound unauthorized aircraft! I'm getting ready to release the batteries!" he screamed into the radio. "Four hundred feet," one of the agents called. "And closing." "SHIT!" *** Burke glanced down at his shoulder and saw the dangling radio earpiece; in all the excitement it had fallen out. Jamming it back into his ear, holding onto the speeding Suburban with the other hand, he heard the end of the roof detail leader's transmission. "...the batteries!" Burke's mind froze. What the hell was he talking about-? Ohmygod! The Navy and Park Police Helicopters! *** "Navy bird first, fire when ready," the leader called. The agent manning the first Stinger touched the trigger. The body heat sensor set off the tracker head and it began seeking, looking for a heat bloom. It took half a second, and then the tone was high, clear and loud. "Good tone," he called. "Good tone....3...2..." *** "ROOF!" Burke transmitted. "ABORT! ABORT!" *** "HOLD FIRE!" the detail leader called. Too late. The Stinger fired. All four agents watched in horror as the missle lept from the launcher, tracking directly towards the US Navy helicopter. *** "Jesus H. CHRIST!" Burke screamed. In unison, four other heads turned and followed the missile. Mulder's mouth opened and he winced, trying to prepare himself for the image of the Stinger destroying the Huey. He knew he should look away, but his mind screamed that there was no time, no time, no TIME! *** Aboard US Navy Bell UH1-N Tail Number N934882 Helicopters, rarely the target of missiles, are not equipped with either countermeasures or warning systems. Unlike US Navy jet aircraft, the pilot had no warning that one of the Secret Service agents manning the roof of the White House was pointing a heat-seeking missile at him. There was just a flash of light and a puff of smoke. A Stinger missle travels at two times the speed of sound, roughly 1,400 miles per hour, or 19 miles per minute. It would take less than a second for the missle to cross the four hundred feet between the roof of the White House and the fat, white-hot bloom of the Huey's engine. The pilot didn't have time to think. If he had hesitate for even the smallest fraction of a second, he would have died in an explosion of flame and metal. Instead, some random neuron in his brain fired, and he reacted without thinking. His hand pushed forward on the cyclic stick, and the aircraft nosed over, trading altitude for airpseed. The Stinger, still accelerating, didn't have time to register the aspect change of it's target. It sped on, looking for a new target, its heat-seeking head scanning the area directly in front of it. The Navy helicopter was dangerously low now and gaining speed. The pilot pulled hard on the collective, trying to unload some of his airpseed, trying to gain some altitude. The stall warning blared a moment before he felt all his transitional lift vanishing; the Hyey stopped being aerodynmic and began to fall towards the East Lawn of the White House. Glancing out the window, the pilot saw that he had less than a hundred feet to work with. After a moment, the blades stopped turning as the engine died. One chance, he thought. He waited until he was at about fifty feet and began emergency autorotation procedures. The technique and concept are easy to understand: The rotating blades of the helicopter are a wing; their motion forces air over them in the same way that air flows over the the wings of a normal airplane. The resultant lift brings the helicopter along with it only because it's attached by the rotor mast. When a helicopter is in free fall, the only way to save it is through autorotation. Basically, it's like letting the clutch out of a car after pushing it downhill in an effort to jump-start the engine. Just before impact, you rotate the pitch of the blades in the air, hoping that the air will catch them and spin them back up to speed; then at the last moment you use the lift to slow your descent. Easy to describe. Not to easy to do with a seven-ton aircraft falling towards the lush green lawns of the White House. "Hold on," he radioed his co-pilot. "This is going to be close." *** "Gonna be close," Skinner shouted. Burke looked over and nodded and felt an instant kinship with Skinner. Only someone who had been in the 'nam would be able to glance at a Huey autorotating and know a) what was going on, and b) what the chances of survial were. *** On the roof, the detail lead shouted to the missileman, "DESTRUCT!" The shooter glanced at his boss with a dazed, shocked expression, not fully understanding what he'd meant. Then he remembered; the Stinger was equipped with a small radio-detonated auto-destruct device. A Stinger searching for an airborne, heat-generating target in the Washington DC Metro area was not a good thing, he realized dumbly. He reached for the autodestruct button and pressed it. The other three agents were trying to track the Stinger with binoculars. Only two seconds had passed since it was fired. It was almost thirty miles away. The powerful Zeiss binoculars they used only provided the barest glimpse of the missle. "Climbing," one of the agents called, slowly leaning back as he tracked the missle. "What's it doing?" the detail leader asked. "It will climb to altitude and then detonate. Hopefully out of range of any commercial carriers," one of the agents explained. "Oh my God," the detail leader said, his face white. "What about when it falls down? The pieces?" The four Secret Service agents glanced at one another, none of them speaking, none of them ready to deal with what had just happened. The leader keyed his radio. "BURKE!" he called, disregarding standard Service protocol. "WHAT THE FUCK?!" *** Below, near the East Entrance, Ron Burke winced at the shout in his ear. "STAND BY!" he called back. He glanced at the door to the East Entrance and smiled. There were no Secret Service agents in sight. Seeing the Suburban screaming up the driveway with what appeared to be three insane, heavily-armed militiamen hanging off of it, they'd done what they'd been trained to and vanished inside. They were probably breaking out the heavy arms right about now. "East Door 1, this is EPD-1," he radioed. After a moment there was a hesitant, "Uh...come back, One." "Open the East Entrance." "Uh...sorry, boss. No can do." Burke sighed. Again with the training; they were trained not to listen to anyone, repeat, underline, bold, italic...ANYONE on the other side of a door when there were guns involved. Most especially machine guns. "Teddy, it's Ron. Listen to me. You have to open the door. I swear to God I am not kidding and I am not under duress." A pause. "What the fuck is going on?" "It's a long story. Open the door and we can talk." "Uh..." "Teddy...have I ever lied to you?" Ron radioed. Teddy was about to reply when Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner grabbed the radio from Burke's hand, ripped out the earpiece connector and microphone and raised it to his lips. Burke could see the throbbing vein at his temple and winced, knowing what was coming. One Marine can always recognize another, and Burke knew what a Marine officer looked like moments before he was about to open up a can of whoop-ass on some poor grunt. A can? Make that a 55-gallon drum, Burke thought. "TEDDY?!" Skinner shouted into the radio. "Who the fuck is this?" "This is Lieutenant Colonel Walter Skinner, United States Marine Corps, Teddy. We have a situation inside the mansion that you are not aware of. I am out here with..." Skinner thought fast. "...SOG Omega Detachment NBC-Xray." There was a pause. "What the hell was that again?" Good, Skinner thought. At least he wasn't saying no. "Speecial Operations Group, Nuclear, Chemical, Biological warfare. Listen to me, Teddy. There's a chemical device inside the White House. We were sent to get it. Things just happened to fast for us to tell you." Skinner started walking towards the East Entrance, his hands in sight. He still carried the MP5 in one hand the radio in othe other. "Look out the window, Teddy. Do I look like some limp-dicked militia man hell-bent on starting World War III?" There was a pause, and Skinner detected movement inside the White House. "Your body armor says FBI," Teddy radioed back. "I am also an FBI Agent, Teddy. I'm an Assistant Director as a matter of fact." The laughter could be heard through the door without aid of the radio. "Wait a minute, let me get this straight. You're a United States Marine in some elite special-forces-nuke thing, AND an assistant director in the FBI? Right, and I'm Barney!" Skinner snapped. "AGENT, YOU WILL OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR I WILL CLIMB THROUGH IT, FIND YOU, BREAK YOUR GODDAMNED NECK AND EAT CORNFLAKES OUT OF YOUR DEAD SKULL!" Still seated in the Suburban, Scully and Mulder blinked, looked at each other and then back at Skinner. Holy... Mulder thought. Shit... Scully finished. Stone, in the backseat of the Suburban smiled. He'd heard the cornflakes line from a Command Master Chief in Coranodo a long time ago. Shaking his head with admiration, Stone realized that the classics never truly went out of style. A moment later the door opened and Special Agent "Teddy" stepped through, smiling. "You're a Marine all right," he said. "Now what was that about a chemical weapon?" ----------------- END CHAPTER 34 Author's Note : I apologize to anyone that lives in or has recently visited Washington, DC if I got any of the street names or other geographical details incorrect. I'm working from a series of maps that a good friend and faithful reader sent in after her recent trip to DC with the XPhiles Annonymous association. Tamara, thanks a ton! Couldn't have done this without you. For those of you that are like me and have a compelling need to see movies opening weekend, I apologize deeply for stealing that one line from a movie that opened last weekend. Those of you that have seen the movie I am referring to will know what I mean; All I can say is, if there was ever any creature on this Earth that was to say that line the way it was delivered in this story, it is Walter Skinner. (Or R. Lee Ermy, but that's another story.) Those of you that have not seen the movie in question I will leave it as a mystery.