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        Adam Webb's e-mail address has changed to: oddweb@clara.co.uk
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This work is  1994 Adam Webb & Steve Mills.  The characters, Dana 
Scully, Fox Mulder, the Smoking Man, and the name X-Files are  Fox 
Network Programming & Ten Thirteen Productions.  E-mail correspondence to 
the authors via the Internet should be addressed to  
AWE@CIX.Compulink.Co.UK.


AURORA

Steve Mills & Adam Webb


20th May 1994, the isle of Kintyre, Scotland

As they came in over the vast grey swell that was the Mull, the Chinook's 
co-pilot peered through the flight deck's forward windows and found that 
he could just about make out the dusk-shrouded coastline of the rugged 
little island.  Kintyre was situated to the west of the Scottish 
mainland, and consequently suffered a harsh climate.  Bad weather was 
closing in fast, like an enormous shroud.  Seated to the co-pilot's left, 
the Captain was focused on the illuminated array of instrument panels, 
already having given up on the idea of landing by sight.  By the time 
they were over the coast, they'd probably be flying blind.  Fortunately, 
the flight to which the aircraft belonged had recently been refitted, and 
now boasted the latest in electronics, including terrain-following radar. 
 Landing safely would not be too much of a problem.
        In the helicopter's spartan passenger lounge, twenty-five suited 
and uniformed men were buckled into their seats.  Those that had been 
smoking grudgingly extinguished their cigarettes, in accordance with the 
message currently being displayed above the entrance to the cockpit.  
Mostly engrossed in their own thoughts, the group contained 
representatives from almost every arm of British Intelligence, including 
Special Branch, MI5, SIS, GCHQ and the Defence Intelligence Staff.   With 
a few exceptions the twenty-five were middle echelon personnel; former 
field agents whose accumulated knowledge was invaluable in the ongoing 
fight against the Provisional IRA.
        The Captain glanced out of the side window and noted that 
visibility was down to almost zero.  Kintyre was now approximately five 
miles away, and four hundred feet below.  RAF Macrihanish, one of NATO's 
most remote air bases, and the flight's secret destination, was on the 
south of the island.  Not far from Campbeltown, where the majority of 
Kintyre's few inhabitants were gathered.
        "Engage terrain-following radar."  The Captain instructed.  When 
there was no response according to his instrument panel, he glanced 
across the aisle to his co-pilot, only to have his fears confirmed.
        "There seems to be a malfunction, sir."
        "Don't look so worried, laddie."  The pilot reassured.  "It's 
just one system.  We'll make it in one...."
        As if the coastline had taken an impossible leap forwards and 
upwards, a bleak rock strewn hillside loomed suddenly out of the gloom.  
Experienced as he was the Captain could do nothing to avert disaster.  
There was simply no time to manoeuvre, no chance for the Chinook to gain 
the necessary height.  Tugging violently on the flight yoke he struggled 
to bring his aircraft's nose up by a few degrees, but in the end even 
that proved impossible.  The helicopter slammed into the mountainside 
head on, breaking up on impact and bursting into a violent orange ball of 
flame.  Debris and bodies were blown in all directions, scattered like a 
pagan offering across the barren landscape, as unnatural thunder rolled 
out to sea.


September 1994, on the road to Campbeltown

The metallic blue Ford Orion made its way steadily along the coastal 
road, its single passenger occasionally glancing down into the passenger 
seat, where an Ordnance Survey map of the area was spread out for easy 
viewing.  Campbeltown was ringed in red biro, and neat arrows had been 
added above the names of important junctions along the preplaned route.  
This was one driver who *wouldn't* be getting lost.
        Night-time on the Scottish island was a beautiful sight, Special 
Agent Dana Scully decided.  A fact which did something to offset the 
reasons behind her visit.  Although she'd thought about it on many 
occasions, she'd never quite managed to take a vacation in the land of 
her ancestors.  Now, finally, she was approaching the home of the Scully 
Clan, in order to attend the funeral of her great-uncle Rab.
        "Ten wee miles t' go."  Scully said in what she knew was an 
attrocious attempt to mimic the Scottish accent.  Reverting back to her 
normal voice, she added,  "Ten miles to a shower!"
        Two-thousand feet above the road a large, triangular, solid black 
object zipped silently across the sky.  For a couple of seconds the lone 
car's engine spluttered, loosing revs, then caught again before there was 
time for its driver to become concerned.  High above, the sky was once 
more empty  of anything save the Moon and stars.
        "Mulder, leave me alone."  Scully muttered, smirking to herself 
as she thought of her ex-partner.

Passing a sign which announced the border of Campbeltown, Scully wasted 
no time in locating the small hotel at which she'd made a credit card 
reservation.  McEllery's Lodge looked like something out of another age, 
but it would suffice.  The funeral was set for the morning, after which 
she could move on to better accommodation, if she decided to stay in the 
area.  The Bureau owed her a few days, and Skinner had dropped one of his 
unsubtle hints that she should take her time.
        McEllery's receptionist was a plump, middle-aged man with a shock 
of thick grey hair swept back from his face.  He smiled professionally as 
Scully walked up to the desk, carrying an overnight bag and an attach 
case.   "Can I help you?"
        "My name's Dana Scully."  Scully said, setting down the case and 
flicking back a stray lock of flame-red hair.  "I believe I have a 
reservation."   "Ah yes."  The receptionist nodded.  Turning the guest 
book around on its pedestal for the new guest to sign, he added,  "You'll 
be here for the funeral?"
        "That's right."  Scully said tiredly.  "It's twenty years since I 
last saw uncle Bob, sorry, I mean *Rab.*  Now I'm here to say goodbye.  
Did you know him?"
        "Aye."  The man nodded sombrely.  "Everyone in Campbeltown knew 
auld Rab Scully.  He was a  fine man, if a little *eccentric* at times.  
He'll be sorely missed, I can tell y' that."
        "Thank you."  The agent forced a smile.  "Now, if you'd be so 
kind as to point me in the direction of my room, I'll have an early 
night.  The funeral's at 10am," Scully checked her watch,  "and I'm still 
on US time."
        "Up the stairs and to your left."  The receptionist said as he 
handed over a room key.  "Number twelve."  As Scully mounted the stairs, 
he called out, "You'll not be wantin' any food, then?"
        "No, thank you.  I ate at a roadside cafe on the way here."
        "Fine.  I'll have the wife bring y' up a cup a tea at 8:00am, 
shall I?"
        "Or coffee, if you have it."  The agent flashed a quick smile of 
hope.   "Coffee it is, then.  Goodnight, Miss Scully."
        As the agent disappeared from view the receptionist picked up the 
old style telephone which rested next to the register, and taking a piece 
of paper from under the desk, methodically dialled the number he'd 
scribbled upon it.
        "She's here."  He said tersely, then without further comment, 
replaced the hand set in its cradle.


Morning, Campbeltown graveyard

As the service came to its an end, Dana Scully looked up from the small 
kirk and let her gaze travel across those who'd gathered.  About half of 
the fifty or so people were family, and the rest neighbours or friends.  
Most were older people, though a few were around her own age.  The number 
who'd turned up to wish her uncle Rab goodbye was more than she'd 
expected, and it raised her spirits to know that the old man had been so 
well liked.  The funeral had brought back memories of her own father's 
death, causing her to wonder if he was also in attendance, perhaps 
watching over her shoulder, invisible to all.  It was a comforting, if 
implausible, thought.
        "Would it be possible to speak with you, privately."
        Slightly startled by the Vicar's question, Scully nodded, 
allowing her questioning frown to prompt further explanation.
        "I attended your uncle on his death-bed."  The Vicar explained 
softly.  "He asked me to give you something."
        "Me!"  Scully said, genuinely surprised.  "What is it?"
        "I'm afraid I have no idea, Miss Scully.  All I have is a small 
parcel wrapped in brown paper."  The Vicar took her by the arm, and 
guiding her along the worn path which led to the Vicarage, said, "Rab was 
a strange one, but meticulous in all he did.  I'm sure that whatever he 
left to you, it was for a good reason."
        "It's just that, well, I haven't *seen* him since I was a girl."  
Scully shrugged in puzzlement.  "The family lawyer's said that his 
property was to be divided among the close relatives and friends.  I 
didn't expect to be left anything.  Least of all via a death bed request."
        Drawing her closer the Vicar spoke in a hushed tone of voice.  
"Rab *did* mention that you are a Federal Agent.  He said that you would 
understand, when you opened the package."
        Scully gave the Vicar a quizzical look.  "But, this is Scotland.  
I don't understand how anything which may require official investigation 
could have relevance to me.  Surely, if a crime has been committed, the 
local police force would be the people to contact.  I have no 
jurisdiction."  "Rab would have known that."  The Vicar nodded.  "My 
impression was not of a *criminal* matter, Miss Scully.  Rather of 
something which only *you* would understand, if that makes any kind o' 
sense?" "Not really."  Scully half-shrugged.  "I'm afraid that all my 
memories of Rab are twenty years out of date."
        "Your uncle kept himself to himself.  He was loose with the 
whiskey, but never with his tongue.  He was a canny man."  The Vicar 
paused for a moment, dredging up the correct word.  "Purposeful."

Inside the Vicarage, Scully accepted the offer of a small whiskey, and 
seated herself in the centre of a worn old settee, adjacent to an even 
more time scarred armchair, which was obviously the  owner's favourite.  
The living room was clean though somewhat chaotically arranged, as if the 
Vicar could never quite decide where best to position his furniture and 
numerous brass ornaments.  The distinct absence of modern electronic 
gadgets made her feel as if she'd slipped back in time, to an earlier, 
more sedate age.  Opening what appeared to be an antique writing cabinet, 
the Vicar took out a small oblong parcel, neatly wrapped in brown paper, 
and sealed with sticky tape.
        "Thank you."  Scully said as she was handed the package. Taking 
another sip of her whiskey, she set the glass down.  After a few moments 
she had the package open and shook out the contents into her lap.
        Rab Scully's bequest to the niece he hadn't seen for so many 
years, consisted of a single photograph, a cutting clipped from a 
newspaper, and an audio cassette tape.  The tape was marked in biro with 
the legend - *Chinook radio transmissions, military band.  20/5/94.*  The 
press clipping concerned the, apparently accidental, crash of an Army 
helicopter in the south of Kintyre on the same date.  Most mysterious was 
the photograph, which was of a place which Scully recognised as 
Campbeltown's main thoroughfare.  The picture showed a  line of shops, a 
few assorted shoppers, and a car parked in one of the narrow side streets 
which intersected the High Road.
        "Well, it looks like my uncle was wrong."  Scully said, eyebrows 
arching in puzzlement.  As far as she could discern, there was absolutely 
nothing unusual to be seen in the snapshot.  "None of this means anything 
to me."  Holding the cassette between her thumb and forefinger she 
gestured with it.  "Maybe this will make things clearer.  Do you have a 
cassette player I could use?"
        The question was posed more out of politeness than any 
expectation that the Vicar would be able to help.  When he replied that 
he did not, Scully smiled warmly, and pausing only to feed the 'evidence' 
back into the package, took her leave.  She had a small tape player back 
at the hotel.  Maybe once she'd heard the recordings, Rab's odd bequest 
would make some kind of sense.
        Exiting the small churchyard car park, Scully indicated right.  
There was no traffic flow to join.  The majority of Rab's mourners had 
come from Campbeltown itself, the residential side of which was less than 
a mile from the church. A fact that she'd only discovered after driving 
to the funeral.  Heading back toward her hotel, Scully's thoughts turned 
to home, and oddly, her ex-partner.  It was because Mulder, for all his 
faults, had always been a friend.  Mulder would've been here, to offer 
his support and sympathy, if only the Bureau hadn't sent him to L.A.  The 
Bureau, in the form of Director Walter Skinner and his nameless 
associate, had done everything it could to keep her and Mulder apart.  
They'd kept in-touch by phone, and even managed to meet twice for lunch.  
But Skinner seemed determined to ensure that they would not work together 
again, or have too many opportunities to discuss the things that they 
both suspected.  Certainly he was covering up something.  She and Mulder 
knew it, but were also aware of the price to be paid for attempting to 
peel back the lid on the Director's secrets.  After what he'd seen during 
their last case together, Mulder had wanted to go for broke.  But she'd 
convinced him that, at this time, it would be a wasted effort.
        Hidden by the side of the church, a man who was neither relative 
nor friend to Rab Scully spoke into his mobile telephone.
        "She's going back to the hotel."


Part 1 of 3


Part 2 of  3

Turning into the car park of McEllery's Lodge, Scully switched of the 
engine.  All the way back her mind had been buzzing with possibilities. 
The funeral was supposed to be a simple, family affair.  But now it had 
become tangled in mystery.  The contents of Rab's package obviously meant 
*something.*  Especially the photograph.  The wholly unremarkable print 
had to contain a clue, hidden in plain sight.  Part of her wanted to 
dismiss whatever it was that had been bothering the old man, and get back 
to her life.  But she knew that she couldn't do it.  The meaning of her 
uncle's last request had to be unravelled.  For the first time the 
thought struck her that Rab's death might not have been from natural 
causes.  Could he have known something important enough to cost him his 
life?   "Dammit!"  Scully slapped the steering wheel hard with her palms. 
 "Dana, you're beginning to think like Mulder!"  She reprimanded herself. 
 Staring hard into the rear-view mirror, Scully thought aloud.  "It's 
just one, stupid, photograph.  That, and an old man's worries.  That's 
all.  There is *no* conspiracy."
        Locking the car, Scully headed for the tranquillity of her room.
        Retrieving her portable cassette player, Scully fed in Rab's tape 
and pressed the play button.  The sounds that issued from the small 
speaker were, as the label on the tape suggested, a radio transmission.  
But the signal was weak, and annoyingly clouded by bursts of static.  
After playing it through twice, all she was sure off was that the 
transmission had ended abruptly.  Perhaps as the result of a crash.  
Nothing of what she'd been able to make out suggested anything more than 
a tragic accident.


McEllery's Lodge, 11;45pm

The gloved hands expertly picked the lock to Dana Scully's room, and in a 
moment, their owner was inside.  Wasting no time, he used the beam of a 
pencil flashlight to survey the room's contents, and quickly located 
Scully's attach case.  Defeating the locks as easily as he had the one 
on the door, he flipped open the case and, exactly has he had hoped, 
found what he was looking for.  Scully was one of the smartest women he'd 
ever met, but also predictable.
        After a few minutes work, the man took the now blank cassette 
tape from Scully's portable recorder, and carefully replaced it inside 
her attach case.  The old newspaper article and the photograph he left 
alone.  They were clues, but of a kind that didn't really matter.  
Removing or tampering with them in addition to the tape would send 
entirely the wrong kind of signal.  The last thing the Bureau wanted was 
for Special Agent Scully to feel as if she were backed into a corner, 
with no option but to fight dirty.  Erasing the tape was a subtle ploy, 
and should be all that was needed.  Scully was smart enough to add two 
and two.  She'd know - from past experience with Project Aurora - that 
some things were none of her concern.
        Leaving everything as he'd found it, the nameless man slipped out 
of the room, and back into the chilly Scottish night.


The Jackrabbit public house, Campbeltown,  midnight.

Far from the dour experience Scully had been expecting, Rab's wake had 
turned out to be a warm, friendly, celebration of his life.  The only 
problem was that she was not used to *real* whiskey.  Particularly not 
the smooth strength of 25 year-old single malt.  By midnight she'd danced 
and laughed with an intensity that she would not have thought possible 
twelve hours earlier.
        Fortunately Scully had retained enough presence of mind to 
realise that when her legs started to argue with her brain, it was time 
to stop drinking.  Saying goodbye to all her relatives, and new-found 
friends, took a full twenty minutes.  Finally, she managed to step 
outside, and almost fell over as the cool night air rushed into her 
lungs.  Quickly finding a wall to hang onto, Scully waited until the 
dizzy spell had passed.
        "Are you okay?"  Said a male voice.
        "Just a little tipsy."  Scully giggled.  Turning to regard the 
speaker she recognised a young man - possibly a relative - with whom 
she'd danced.  "Uhm, I'm sorry.  I can't remember your name."
        "Davey."  The young man supplied, his breath turning into white 
clouds as it hit the cold air.  "Davey Cochrane.  Come on."  Without 
being asked he took hold of her by the arm and began to lead her along 
the dimly-lit road.  Offering a knowing smile he winked, and said, "What 
you need is something to eat.  There's a burger bar always parks round 
the corner."
        A couple of minutes later Scully discovered that burgers in 
Scotland were not the same as those at home.  They were smaller, tastier, 
and smelled delicious.  Suddenly ravenous, she refused Davey's offer to 
pay, and bought herself two beefburgers.
        "I'll see you back to your hotel."  Davey offered.
        Biting deeply into the first of her batches, Scully nodded okay.  
Her head was still humming, but did not feel quite as fuzzy.  She felt 
able to fend off any attempt at seduction that the ruggedly good looking 
Davey might try.  Not that she thought it was likely.  For one thing, he 
seemed a little intimidated by her.  And when they'd danced he'd behaved 
in a gentlemanly fashion, hands never attempting to roam.  Davey Cochrane 
had something on his mind, but her instincts said that it wasn't sex.
        When they were practically on the hotel's doorstep Davey stopped, 
and catching Scully's eyes, said, "We used to go skywatching together, 
Rab and me."  He paused, looking up at the glittering night sky.  "From 
the hilly, you can see aircraft landing and taking off from the base.  
We'd sit up, all night, looking at the moon and the shooting stars 
Sometimes we'd see the Aurora...."
        "The Aurora doesn't exist."  Scully snapped, realising even as 
the words left her lips that the scotch had affected her more than she'd 
thought.  The outburst was in direct contradiction of her Bureau training.
        "It does too."  Davey cocked an eyebrow.  "I've seen it."
        "Describe what you've seen."  Scully questioned, desperately 
trying to recover ground.  At the worst possible time, she was going to 
have to convince a possible eye witness that he'd seen nothing out of the 
ordinary.       "A shimmering glow.  All colours.  Reds and yellow, 
purples, blue-greens, stretched right across the Northern hemisphere."  
Davey arced an arm slowly through the air, indicating the entire span of 
horizon.        Even though the whiskey, Scully knew that she'd just made 
a stupid mistake.  Davey had been talking about the *Aurora Borealis,* 
not the super-secret black budget program which had almost cost her and 
Mulder their lives, during their second X-Files case.
        "The Northern Lights."  Scully slurred.  "Of course.  I'm sorry.  
It's the whiskey.  I must have misheard you."  It was a pitifully weak 
excuse, but the best she could manage on the spur of a drunken moment.
        "No, you didn't."  Davey said coyly.  Then, with a slight shake 
of his head and a curious smirk, he added,  "What *you* thought I was 
talking about flies into RAF Macrihanish once or twice a month, usually 
around this time of night.  Rab and I watched that too, from a dip in the 
hills." "I, I don't know what you're talking about."  Dana said 
unconvincingly. "If you say so."  Backing away, Davey offered a shrug of 
indifference. "But if you remember, you can find me in the bar of the 
Jackrabbit.  I'm there about lunch-time. G'night."
        "Goodnight, Davey."  Scully muttered, troubled by what she'd 
heard, but in no condition to pursue the matter.


Refectory, McEllery's Lodge, 9:12am

Scully hadn't woken until gone nine, but had been pleased to discover 
that although her mouth had felt dry as sand, she had no headache.  The 
delicious burgers, plus the pint of water she'd downed before passing 
out, had done their job.  After showering, she dressed quickly and headed 
downstairs.     Munching on a round of freshly buttered toast, Scully 
perused the morning edition of the Campbeltown Echo, scanning through the 
news.  On page three she found something which made her stop chewing.  
The headline read  *'Car Tragedy: The Strange Facts,'* and below it was a 
picture of a vehicle being dragged from the sea at the base of a steep 
incline.  The car looked familiar.  In fact, it looked exactly like the 
one show in Rab's mystery photograph.  The similarity might have been 
entirely coincidental, but it was enough to make her read on.
        The article briefly explained how, more than a fortnight ago, the 
car had been found in relatively shallow water, with two dead bodies 
still belted into their seats.  Both older men, the victims of what had 
been seen as a tragic accident still had not been identified.  Medical 
examination of the bodies had determined that their death was caused by 
drowning.  Strangely, there was no sign of a struggle to get free, or of 
any recent injuries.  Nor had either man had any trace of a debilitating 
drug in his system. Extensive testing had categorically ruled out 
mechanical failure as the reason for the vehicle's submergence .  But by 
far the strangest aspect of the mystery was the fact that there had been 
no tyre tracks leading to the water, and no skid marks on the road above. 
The local police were reportedly baffled, but had found no evidence which 
might indicate foul play.
        Folding the paper, Scully hurriedly finished her breakfast and 
returned to her room.  Digging out Rab's package, she found the 
photograph and compared it with the one in the newspaper.  The car was 
the same model, and what she could see of the number plate also matched.
        Scully's mind raced with possibilities, none of them pleasant.  
She'd come to Kintyre for a family funeral, not to investigate any kind 
of crime.  But fate seemed to have other plans.  First Rab's gift, then 
Davey's casual revelation, and now corroborating information that 
something underhand had occurred on the island of Kintyre.  Part of her 
said that it was none of her business, that she had no authority in the 
UK and should simply forget the matter.  Another part whispered that to 
turn her back without making even the most preliminary enquiries would be 
an act of cowardice, and betrayal of an old man's last wish.
        She decided to talk again with the enigmatic Davey Cochrane.  
Surely, a private conversation with a family friend would not be seen as 
stepping on anyone's toes or breaking any security regulations which 
might include the Aurora project.  The aircraft definitely existed, and 
was highly classified.  Finding out that much had landed her and Mulder 
in deep trouble with the NSA, or some other branch of military 
intelligence.   She had never discovered who it was that had kidnapped 
her former partner.  Now, it was feasible that someone else - someone 
local - had also made indiscreet enquiries.  But what that might have to 
do with Rab, and the drowned men, was another matter. What she hoped to 
prove, if only to herself, was that Rab's package represented nothing 
more than suspicion.

Part 2 of  3

Part 3 of  3

The Jackrabbit public house, 1:10pm.

Seated opposite to Davey Cochrane, in a quiet corner of the old pub, 
Scully joined him in a toast to Rab, but was careful to let no more than 
a drop of the fiery scotch whiskey pass her lips.
        "We had some great talks, your uncle and me."  Davey volunteered. 
 "I met him when I moved here, from Glasgow.  He was sitting up at the 
bar, telling tall stories about the Loch Ness Monster."
        "Did he believe in that sort of thing?"  Scully asked.
        "Och, yes.  Rab was a believe.  Although he'd never seen the 
beast himself.  He loved a mystery, see.  Kelpies, the faerie folk, 
flying saucers.  They were what occupied his time, after he retired."  
Leaning over the table, Davey's voice dropped to a conspiratorial 
whisper.  "He thought the Aurora was just the currently popular 
explanation for the lights in the sky over Macrihanish."
        "What do you mean?"  The agent questioned, uncertain as to what 
Davey was implying.
        "Rab told me a tale."  Cochrane confided.  "He said they lights 
had been seen for years  before anyone every heard the name Aurora."
        "Perhaps he was right."  Scully replied poker-faced.  "Some 
natural, atmospheric anomaly may be the cause."
        "Do me a favour!"  Davey snorted.  "Ask anyone who lives close to 
the base, and they'll tell you that the Yanks have been using Macrihanish 
since the 50's.  To the locals, it's no big deal.  It's only in the past 
year or so that they've stopped talking about it openly."
        "Because they're scared of the government?"
        Davey shook his head.  "What they're scared of is attracting 
every weirdo who's into UFOs.  If word got out that something was really 
happening here, they'd descend on the place like flies on...."  Davey 
checked himself.  "What I mean to say, is that the beauty of the place 
wouldn't survive for very long.  The thing is, there's been a big 
increase in sightings over the past few months.  So it's becoming harder 
to keep quiet."
        "Davey."  Dana said, biting back questions.  "I'm not really 
interested in what's may or may not be flying over the base.  All I need 
to know is how this may be connected to my uncle Rab."  Fishing inside 
her pocket book, she produced the newspaper clipping about the helicopter 
crash, and Rab's photograph.  Setting both down on the table she said.  
"Rab left these for me, I think because he knew I work for the FBI.  It 
didn't make any sense, until I saw a picture in today's paper.  It was of 
a car - *this car* - in which two men drowned.  Nobody knows who they 
were, and there seems to be no logical explanation as to how they came to 
be in the water.  What does it mean, Davey?  Why did Rab photograph the 
car?"   "Look, I think it's all bullshit."  Davey sighed.  "Rab loved a 
tall tale, and what this is part of, is probably just another one.  The 
canny old sod is having a joke, winding up his Special Agent niece."
        "Tell me anyway."  Scully coaxed, praying that whatever she heard 
would be something she could dismiss as a mischievous prank.
        Davey swallowed a mouthful of beer, then wiped the froth off his 
mouth with the back of his hand.  "Rab claimed to have worked for Naval 
Intelligence, years ago, during the last war."  A huge grin splitting his 
face, Davey asked, "Do you know about Rudolf Hess?"
        "What do you mean."  Dana frowned.  "I know he was one of the top 
Nazi's, a deputy to the Fuehrer.  He was imprisoned as a war criminal, 
and in 1987, I think, he committed suicide in Spandau Prison."
        "No."  Davey held up a palm.  "I meant in relation to Scotland.  
Specifically, his flight from Germany, in 1941."
        "Erm," Scully tried hard to dredge up information, "I read 
something about him flying here to personally offer some sort of 
collaboration with the British against the Russians."
        Davey shook his head dismissively.  "Nah.  That's just the 
official line.  Rab told a different tale."
        "Go on."  Scully said, feeling as if she were slipping into 
territory which Fox Mulder would navigate a lot better.
        "Your uncle said that the night Hess parachuted into Scotland, he 
was called to escort two passengers, one of whom was an American, on a 
secret flight from Ireland.  They were flown to a meeting, which he later 
worked out was with Hess, in Castle Buchanan.  The castle is the 
ancestral home of  the Duke of Hamilton, who'd met and talked with Hess 
during the Berlin Olympic Games.  After the meeting, Rab saw the two men 
safely back to Shannon airport, and never thought any more about it."  
Davey's eyes twinkled as he reached the high point of the story.  "That 
is until the late 1940s, when he read a magazine article concerning 
UFO's, which quoted a particle physicist from the USA.  There was a 
photograph of the man, Howard Jerome, and it was the same chap that Rab 
had escorted to the secret meeting with Rudolf Hess!  By the time Rab 
found this out, he'd already become very interested in the rumours about 
German flying saucer designs." Davey paused to take a swig from his 
glass.  "To cut a long story short, Rab claimed that he'd spent years, 
adding to the scraps of knowledge that were available, and was convinced 
that Hess had, in fact, brought plans for one of the German UFO's to show 
the British Government.  Hess was a right headcase.  According to Rab, he 
thought that showing the British what they'd soon be up against would 
convince them to switch allegiance to Germany!"
        "And the American physicist, Jerome, was there to verify Hess's 
claims."  Scully thought aloud.
        "Right.  Except that when he saw the plans, he told Hess that 
they were rubbish, and the thing could never fly.  Now, Churchill 
apparently believed that the craft was real, but only a prototype.  He 
thought that Hess was using the design as part of a deranged plan to 
scare the British into switching sides.  Anyway, Rab believed that at the 
end of the war the Americans captured the areas where these craft were 
being developed, and have been working to perfect the designs ever since."
        "Okay."  Scully decided that she'd absorbed more than enough 
background information.  It was all sounding crazier by the minute, but 
she had to admit, if only to herself, that Aurora technology coming from 
German designs sounded a lot more plausible than an aircraft which owed 
its origins to *Aliens from space.*  "So,"  Scully fingered the clipping, 
"how does this relate to the helicopter crash, and the car in the 
photograph?"    "The last time I saw Rab alive, he was really excited." 
Davey said, his tone betraying anxiety.  "He said that he'd seen *both* 
of the men that he'd escorted to the meeting back in 1941, and they were 
right here, on the Isle of Kintyre, driving around in this car."  Tapping 
the photo with his index finger, Davey added.  "After Rab took the photo, 
he'd called in a favour with a friend who could check the license plate.  
It wasn't even listed as existing.  The next  day, which was when I saw 
him, was the day after the Chinook helicopter crash.  The crash made the 
headlines all around the world, because so many high ranking intelligence 
and anti-terrorist people were killed at the same time.  There was some 
talk of it being an IRA plot. "  He paused to take a drink. "On the same 
night, this car left the road and the men inside it were drowned.  The 
Police didn't have a clue as to who they were, and still don't.  Rab 
thought it was all very suspicious."
        "And that's why he left his evidence to me."  Scully said.  In 
part she was relieved that Rab had apparently not been guilty of 
breaching national security.  But she was also deeply concerned that the 
old man could, after all, have grazed the tip of a very big, very black, 
iceberg.        "What are you going to do?"  Davey asked uncertainly.
        "Do."  Dana repeated dumbly.  "There's nothing I *can* do."  
Returning the newsprint and photo to her pocket book, she looked her 
informant straight in the eye.  "Uncle Rab had a suspicion based on what 
is, at best, a dubious account of something that may have happened over 
fifty years ago.  His 'evidence' consists of wild speculation and 
coincidence, possibly also missidentification."  Hating the look of 
disappointment that she saw in Davey's eyes, but knowing that she had no 
realistic option but to let Rab's obsessions die with him, she said.  "In 
this country, I'm just another tourist.  And I think it's time for me to 
move on."

Two pairs of eyes watched Scully as she boarded the internal flight  to 
Glasgow.  The besuited men were cloistered behind a one-way security 
mirror, to avoid any possible chance of being observed by the departing 
agent.  "What do you think she'll do now?"  The Smoking Man asked his 
British counterpart.
        "Probably nothing."  The Defence Intelligence Staff officer 
replied.  "When our agent related her uncle's story and asked what action 
she intended to take, your Miss Scully said that she was going to move 
on."    "All the same, we'll keep her under surveillance."  The American 
said.  "Scully used to have a partner with a talent for sticking his nose 
into other people's business.  They got close to Aurora once before."
        "What about Jerome and Neeman.  Could she trace them?"
        "Jerome and Neeman never *existed.*"  The Smoking Man assured.  
"Their identities died in the accident."
        "It *was* an accident, then?"  The DIS officer prompted.
        "We think so."  The FBI's clandestine overseer raised his 
eyebrows meaningfully.  Pausing to suck smoke through his filter-tip he 
continued, "Area 51 reports that there was a fluctuation, or temporary 
malfunction, with one of the artificial gravity lenses.  Jerome and 
Neeman's vehicle was right underneath when it happened."  Dropping the 
remains of his cigarette he crushed it under his boot-heel.  "What about 
the Chinook.  Do we have all bases covered?"
        "We do."  The Englishman said, his tone revealing slight 
embarrassment.  "There will be no more slip-ups from our side."
        The error referred to was a press release which had inadvertently 
mentioned the downed chopper's recent high-tech refit.  Improvements 
which made an accident due to bad weather highly unlikely.  The statement 
had been quickly corrected, and the press seemed to have accepted the 
lie.  Probably because it was far easier for them to believe in things 
like pilot error or mechanical failure than something as complex and 
bizarre as the truth.  The Western press simply did not *want* to believe 
that its leaders might murder their own people because it was politically 
expident.       "Good."  The Smoking Man nodded approval.  "Do you have 
any idea as to when the cease-fire will be announced?"
        "Three months, possibly four."  The Deputy-Director smiled 
coldly.  "We need to have a decent interval to allay suspicion of a deal 
with the IRA.  Then, when peace breaks out, our plans can proceed 
unhindered."

Only by exerting an enormous degree of self control did Scully manage not 
to look for the undercover agent she felt certain would be watching her.  
As she took her seat on the aircraft, she couldn't help but smile at the 
thought which popped into her mind.  If *Fox Mulder* had said that he was 
being watched, and that someone had tampered with what might be vital 
evidence, she'd have told him that he was paranoid!
        Chance, and nothing more, had caused her to kill a few minutes by 
playing Rab's tape once more.  Or at least trying to play it.  
Discovering that the practically useless transmissions had been erased, 
had sent a shiver through her system.  Because it meant that, 
irrespective of Rab's skewed beliefs, someone had thought that he was 
getting too close for comfort.  That someone, and she had a good idea 
who, had intended the wiped tape as a warning.  The inference was 
obvious; this could happen to you, unless you're a good girl.
        Much as she hated admitting it, Mulder had been right.  There 
*was* a secret group, hidden within the US intelligence services, and 
they had a very long reach.  Aurora, be it an advanced spy plane or a 
man-made UFO, was just one example of what the group were actively 
involved in obscuring.  Scully's thoughts whirled like a merry-go-round 
as she considered other likely candidates. There was Project Purity 
Control, the Eve experiments, the tiny electronic tagging devices 
inserted into the nasal cavity, various meta-humans such as Eugene Tooms, 
and doubtless several more of the unexplained anomalies buried in the 
X-Files.        "Excuse me."  Said the nervous-looking passenger in the 
seat next to Scully.  "Would you mind awfully if I closed the blind on 
this window?"  The woman asked sheepishly.  "It's just that I don't like 
take-offs."     "No, I don't mind."  Dana offered a brief smile.  "If it 
frightens you, perhaps it's better not to look."  *But sometimes, you 
have no choice.*   She added silently.  *Sometimes, you have to lift the 
rock and see what crawls out.*



An X-Files interlude.  Second season.  Category - mystery.  Rating PG.


This story is  1994 Adam Webb & Steve Mills.  The characters, Dana 
Scully, Fox Mulder, the Smoking Man, and the name X-Files are  Fox 
Network Programming & Ten Thirteen Productions.  E-mail correspondence to 
the authors via the Internet should be addressed to  
AWE@CIX.Compulink.Co.UK.