THE FIFTH COLUMN
By Kemystre

Chapter Six - It's Killing You, It's Killing Me ~

Day Two
12:52 a.m.
Dana Scully's Motel Room
Fenton, New Mexico


She awoke slowly, coming back to the world bits and pieces 
at a time.  Scully could feel the rough texture of the 
carpet rubbing against her face, chaffing her skin.  She 
was cold, felt a chilly breeze moving across the floor, 
tickling the top of her head.  Her right arm was still 
asleep, pinned beneath her, sharp needles of pain shooting 
up through her shoulder.  Her eyes were closed, lids heavy 
and irritated.  Her throat was sore and her lips dry. 
She opened her mouth slowly, licking her bottom lip to 
moisten it.  Mulder was there, the sweet taste of his kiss 
still lingering on her lips.

In a rush it all came back to her, images flashing, 
assaulting her senses.  It was almost more than she could 
take.  Almost.

Dana Scully was an inherently strong person.  It was part 
of her make-up, completely entwined within her being.  So 
even though her illusions had been shattered and her heart 
ached, she pushed herself up strongly from the floor, her 
shameful moment of weakness had passed.  She had spent 
several long minutes kneeling on the floor aching over what 
Mulder had said to her, not understanding what had taken 
place.  Until, finally, she had lain down and succumbed to 
sleep, hoping it would ease her pain.  

Scully moved purposely toward the bathroom, picking up her 
suitcase as she went, determined to grieve no more for a 
lie.  A lie she had allowed herself to believe.  A lie she 
had allowed herself to perpetuate, to nurture.  She felt 
herself a fool.  Mulder had never loved her, never felt 
anything more for her beyond their partnership, and now 
even that seemed to be in ruins.

Scully struggled to quantify and qualify her relationship 
with Mulder, endeavoring to pinpoint the exact moment that 
everything had ended, that he had decided to leave her 
behind.  Her mind traced over every memory, every 
conversation, every shared look from the past six years.  
She looked at each piece of evidence objectively, as a 
scientist.  All the while, the woman inside of her slowly 
dying.

Scully dressed quickly and mechanically before calling the 
airline and booking a seat for herself on a five a.m. 
flight that was almost full.  She contacted the Santa Fe 
Memorial Hospital next, and made arrangements for the two 
bodies they were holding to be placed on the same flight.  

She was not abandoning him, she reassured herself, as she 
began to repack her bag.  She was simply expediting the 
process he had already begun.  He seemed to have brought 
her along only to be his own personal medical examiner, a 
job she could perform from the confines of Quantico. 

Scully didn't pretend to know what would become of their 
partnership, although the outlook appeared grim.  She and 
Mulder had weathered many storms over the past six years, 
but after everything they had endured, their time together 
seemed to be coming to an end.  She could almost feel it, 
slipping away like sand between her fingers no matter how 
tightly she clung.

Once she finished packing, Scully perched herself on the 
side of the bed.  For a moment she just stared blindly at 
the files Mulder had left behind.  She reached for them 
tenuously at first, her fingers sweeping over their tops 
before she pulled them onto her lap.  Taking a deep breath, 
she opened the first slowly, reverently.

The first file was the red X-File Mulder had opened.  It 
contained copies of autopsy results, the same ones Scully 
had read during their plane trip.  It also contained 
photocopied statements that the victims' family members had 
given, all taken by the local sheriff, Ron Phillips, a copy 
of the first victim's physical that had been taken only two 
weeks prior to his death, and a copy of third victim's 
hospital records.  

Scully had seen or heard most of what the first file 
contained.

The second file was a thick, ordinary manila folder with a 
series of numbers scrawled in black ink across the tab.  
The file had obviously been given to Mulder by the Gunmen, 
although their names appeared nowhere within.  The file 
contained a rough description of an Air Force Base known as 
The Fifth Column, although that designation did not appear 
to be the name given to it by the Air Force.  The file gave 
a detailed description of the base's location in the 
desert, including its longitude and latitude.  The location 
of the base was also indicated in red ink on a small USG 
New Mexico map.  There was also what appeared to Scully to 
be satellite photos of the desert and surrounding 
mountainous terrain, red ink marking several of the images.  

As Scully read further, the three conspiracy theorists 
described the base as being located below ground in the 
desert at the longitude and latitude that they had given, 
similar to the famed NORAD.  Scully mused, and not for the 
first time, that the Gunmen had watched the movie 
"Independence Day" far too many times.

The tab of the third file also bore an identification 
number.  From the handwriting, Scully determined that it 
was also from the Gunmen's private collection.  This file 
contained several newspaper clippings, all focusing on the 
integration of alien technology into U.S. military 
aircraft.  The Fifth Column was mentioned several times 
throughout the articles.

The fourth and final folder contained Mulder's handwritten 
case notes.  These notes had not been included in the 
official X-File.  From his notes Scully was able to 
determine that it had been the Lone Gunmen who had supplied 
Mulder with the initial information on the case.  They had 
also given Mulder the name and e-mail address of their 
source.  As she read further, Scully was surprised to learn 
that Phil Jenkins was not the person whom the
Gunmen had put Mulder in contact with.  In his notes, 
Mulder referred to his source only as "AE."  The folder 
also contained several copies of various e-mails from said 
source, whose electronic address was given as 
aevans@hotmail.com.  The e-mails suggested not only a link 
between Los Alamos National Laboratories and The Fifth 
Column, but promised proof.  According to the letters, 
Mulder was to have met with this person in Los Alamos at 
noon the previous day.

From her quick perusal of the files it was apparent that 
Mulder felt the base known as The Fifth Column was somehow 
connected to the deaths.  Phil Jenkins had talked about a 
lake, Lake Alamos, had linked that same lake to the recent 
deaths.  

<How could the Air Force be connected to Lake Alamos?>

She reopened the second folder, pulling out the small map, 
checking for the proximity of the two.

"About thirty miles apart," she said aloud.

Could they be polluting the lake, dumping hazardous wastes 
into it?  No, she didn't think so.  Why would a military 
institution, that may or may not exist in the desert, have 
a need to dispose of their waste in such a manner?

They wouldn't, and even if the lake had been used as a 
dumping sight, which she doubted, Scully could think of no 
likely chemical or biological agent that could cause such a 
rapid and thoroughly invasive form of cancer. There had to 
be another explanation.

Scully began to reexamine the files, looking for anything 
she might have missed, looking for the plausible 
explanation that she sought. She hadn't made it through the 
first file when she was interrupted by a knock on her door. 

Scully turned and looked at the door.  She considered not 
answering it, almost certain that it was Mulder.  She stood 
up, wavering with indecision for a moment.  

"Miss Scully?" called the unfamiliar voice from the other 
side of the door.

Scully took a couple of tentative steps toward the door.  
"Who is it?" she called out, as she reached behind her back 
and firmly grasped the butt of her SIG Sauer.

"Sheriff Phillips, Ma'am," came the reply through the thick 
wood. 

Scully eased the grip on her gun and relaxed slightly as 
she moved across the room and pulled the door open a few 
inches.

"Sorry to wake you," he said with a polite smile as Scully 
peeked through the small opening she had left.  "Deputy 
Johnson," he began, nodding his head in the direction of 
the younger man to his right, " and I were trying to reach 
your partner."   

Scully smiled politely, pulling the door open further as 
she stepped to the side allowing the two men to enter.  The 
sheriff and his deputy both smiled and nodded amiably as 
they moved past her.
   
The sheriff removed his hat before speaking.  "We're sorry 
for the intrusion.  Darlene gave us your room number when 
we didn't get an answer next door," he said nodding his 
head in the direction of her partner's room.

"Agent Mulder's not in his room?" she asked slowly.

"No, Ma'am," replied the skinny deputy.

"We also tried to reach him on his cell phone," added the 
sheriff, "and his rental car isn't in the parking lot.  We 
were hoping you might know where he is."

"No," she said, trying her damndest to keep her voice even.  
"I assumed he was in his room."  Scully moved her hand to 
her face, pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt 
to ward off the headache that was building there.

"We're very sorry for disturbing you, Ma'am, we wouldn't 
have if it wasn't so important," Sheriff Phillips said.

"Really," she said as she pulled her hand away from her 
face, "you didn't disturb me.  Is there anything that I can 
do for you, Officers?"

The sheriff cleared his throat before beginning, "We were 
called out to the Vernez residence around 12:30 this 
morning, along with the ambulance...Sarah Vernez was 
pronounced dead at the scene."

"Do you think her death is related to the other five?" 
Scully asked.

"Miss Scully, after speaking to your partner yesterday 
morning, I would have to say yes, there is...a high 
likelihood that it is...yes," he finished warily.

Scully arched an eyebrow in question and waited for the 
sheriff to continue.

"Her husband, Rick, told us she had been out at Lake Alamos 
a couple of weeks ago."

"I see," she said, wondering exactly what her partner had 
said to the young sheriff.

"We thought that your partner would want to know right 
away," he added, "thought he might want to talk to Mr. 
Vernez."  

Scully nodded her head in agreement, all the while 
wondering where her wayward partner might be.  

The tall sheriff scrunched the bill of his hat in his large 
hands and glanced over at his deputy.  "We talked to Dr. 
Gellett this afternoon.  He told us that you had Karen 
Martins and Caleb Sweeny sent off to Santa Fe."

Scully nodded her head, "Actually, I'm taking them back to
Washington.  Today."

Sheriff Phillips glanced at his deputy again.  "Is that 
what you'd like to do with Sarah?" he asked, fidgeting.

"If it can be arranged in time, yes," she said solemnly.  
"I'm booked on a flight out at 5:10 this morning.  I'd like 
to have all three of the victims on the plane with me."

"I'll see what I can do about Sarah.  Her husband won't be 
crazy about the idea...to say the least," he said.

"I can do a faster and more thorough autopsy at Quantico," 
Scully explained.  "You can give him my assurance that 
Sarah's autopsy will be given top priority.  Barring any 
unforeseen events, I can have her sent home tomorrow, along 
with Karen and Caleb."

The sheriff nodded his head thoughtfully.  "May I ask why 
you and your partner are leaving town so suddenly?" he 
inquired.

"We aren't.  I am," she corrected.  "I thought it best to 
return to Washington immediately, to conduct the autopsies 
there," she lied.

"I see," he said nodding his head yet again.  "Sarah 
Vernez's body was on the way to the morgue when I left to 
come see Agent Mulder.  I'll head back out to the Vernez's 
now and talk to Rick...explain what's going on."  He took a 
breath before continuing.  "Deputy Johnson'll have to drive 
the body over to Santa Fe.  If you'd like a ride to the 
airport you're more than welcome to ride along."

Scully hesitated only for a moment before answering.  "Yes. 
Thanks, I would."

"I'll have Johnson stop and pick you up after we get the 
okay from Rick."

Scully smiled politely as she began to walk the two 
officers to the door.

The sheriff paused as he stepped outside, turning and 
nodding in Scully's direction.

"Isn't that Agent Mulder's car?" asked Deputy Johnson when 
he followed the sheriff outside.

"Where?" Scully and the sheriff asked at the same time.

The deputy pointed across the highway, in the direction of 
the small diner.

Scully and Sheriff Phillips both looked at once, searching 
the small parking lot for Mulder's rental car.  The dark 
blue Chrysler was parked no more than a hundred feet away 
in front of the "Highway Pantry."

The sheriff glanced back at Scully before he and his deputy 
walked across the highway separating the motel parking lot 
from the small diner across the way.  Scully moved quickly 
to catch up with the taller men. 

As they neared the diner she was able to discern Mulder's 
lean form through one of the large picture windows at the 
front of the establishment.  

He wasn't alone.

The hair on the back of Scully's neck rose when she noticed 
the pretty blonde woman sitting across the booth from her 
partner.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few minutes later...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day Three
1:47 a.m.
Highway Pantry Diner
Fenton, New Mexico


Scully took a deep breath before she stepped through the 
door Sheriff Phillips held open for her.  On the outside, 
Scully knew she appeared to be calm and in control.  On the 
inside, however, she was neither.

She followed the two men across the diner, keeping in step 
with them, taking long purposeful strides.  Scully never 
took her eyes away from Mulder as she walked across the 
room.  He was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the 
tabletop, speaking quietly to the woman who sat across from 
him.

When they stopped in front of Mulder's booth, it was the 
sheriff who spoke. "Sorry to disturb you, Agent Mulder," he 
said after taking off his hat.

Mulder looked up from his conversation, his gaze falling on 
the sheriff, but only for a moment.  His eyes found 
Scully's and held them. 

"Miss Evans," acknowledged the Sheriff a moment later, 
nodding politely in the woman's direction.

Scully recognized the significance of the Sheriff's 
greeting immediately.  The woman was Mulder's informant, 
the source given to him by the Lone Gunmen.  Scully 
searched his eyes, looking for confirmation, an 
explanation.

He quickly broke eye contact with her, turning instead to 
address the sheriff.  "What can I do for you, Sheriff 
Phillips?"

"Um...Agent Mulder, I don't think this is really the place 
to discuss it."

"Ron, come on now.  We've known each other for a long time.  
You should know by now that I won't repeat anything you say 
unless you give it to me on the record," said the woman, 
Miss Evans, as she smiled fondly at the sheriff.

"I don't know, Amber.  I just don't think 
it's...appropriate," the sheriff replied warily, looking to
Mulder.

"Pish," Amber said, crinkling her pert little nose.  "Fox 
and I don't have any secrets."

"Go ahead, Sheriff," Mulder said weakly, staring at his cup 
of coffee.

The sheriff moved in closer, scrunching his hat in his 
hands.  He looked down. When he spoke his voice was hushed, 
"There's been another death.  Sarah Vernez."

Mulder shifted in his seat and turned to look at the 
sheriff, eyes wide, "She was at the lake recently, wasn't 
she?"

"Eleven days ago," the sheriff answered quietly.

No one spoke for a few long moments.

Mulder looked to Scully briefly, an unreadable expression 
in his eyes, before he turned back to Sheriff Phillips.  
"Have her sent to Santa Fe with the others."

Scully grimaced inwardly as she wondered when Mulder had 
learned that she had transferred the bodies to Santa Fe.  
He hadn't mentioned anything...  No.  She stopped herself, 
quickly, denying herself access to those memories.  Never 
again, she thought to herself, never again.  

"Actually, when we couldn't find you we discussed the 
matter with your partner.  We were leaving to go see Rick 
Vernez when we saw your car over here," explained the 
sheriff as he motioned toward the parking lot across the 
street.

Scully's gaze flew to Sheriff Phillips, suddenly realizing 
what he was about to disclose to Mulder.  A guilty twinge 
hit her hard as she waited for the sheriff to finish his 
explanation.  She readied herself for Mulder's reaction.

"We're going to need his permission," continued the 
sheriff, "if we want to get his wife's body on the plane 
with such little notice."

"Plane?" Mulder asked.

"Yeah," the sheriff said slowly.  "The plane back to D.C. 
with your partner.  It's leaving in about three hours," he 
said, glancing down at his watch.

Scully's world screeched to a halt as Mulder's eyes found 
hers.  

"You're leaving," he said, voice deep, cracking almost 
imperceptibly.  It hadn't been a question.

Scully nodded her head slowly, her guilt causing her to 
break eye contact with him.  She chose instead to focus on 
his shoulder.

"Going back to do the autopsies," he said, his voice 
gaining strength and control.

"Yes."

"I see," Mulder responded almost indifferently, turning 
back to face his companion.  "I have something you can take 
back with you then, since you're already making the trip," 
he finished with a sarcastic edge.

"We need to be heading out to see Rick if we want to get 
you on that plane in time, Miss Scully," the sheriff said, 
breaking the trance Scully had found herself in.

Scully nodded in agreement and turned to follow the 
officers out of the restaurant.

"I'll get a hold of you later this morning, Agent Mulder," 
the sheriff added before stepping out into the chilly night 
air.


Day Three
3:31 a.m.
Dana Scully's Motel Room
Fenton, New Mexico


The sheriff had just called Scully.  He had managed to 
convince Mr. Vernez to forgo the usual formalities and 
allow the F.B.I. to fly his wife's body back to D.C., post 
haste.  Deputy Johnson would be at the motel to pick her up 
in approximately twenty minutes.

Her neatly packed suitcases sat near the door.  Mulder's 
files were stacked on the small table along with her room 
key.

Scully paced slowly and steadily, back and forth across her 
room, glancing down at her watch every few seconds.  She 
was trying her damndest to keep herself focused on the 
case, on anything but Mulder and his impending visit.

She didn't have to wait very long.

She moved to the door a moment after she heard Mulder's 
telltale knock, hoping all the while that the Deputy would 
hurry.

Mulder stepped inside, without hesitation, the moment she 
pulled the door open.  He wasn't alone.  He had brought 
Amber Evans with him.

Scully seethed inwardly as she watched Mulder walk toward 
the table and carefully lay down a large manila envelope.  
His small blonde companion followed and moved to stand next 
to him.

Scully flinched at the picture the three of them must have 
presented.  She was still standing near the door, arms 
crossed protectively over her chest, wishing for the 
uncomfortable moment to pass quickly, for Mulder and his 
friend to just leave.

Mulder and Amber Evans stood close together, staring at her 
in unison, in sync.

She and Mulder had stood that same way countless times 
before, showing a united front against anyone that 
threatened them.  Now Scully found herself on the outside, 
feeling like the perceived threat.

She couldn't seem to fight the feeling that Mulder had 
moved on, chosen a new partner, a new companion in his 
fight, his quest.  And it hurt like hell.

"This evidence is very important," he said.  "It needs to 
be hand delivered to the boys."

Scully set her jaw and nodded mechanically, carefully 
keeping her emotions in-check.

"I don't suppose that you're going to tell me what that 
envelope contains," she said, motioning in the direction of 
the table.  "Or where the evidence came from?"

Mulder glanced at his blonde companion, holding her gaze 
for a moment.

Scully took a deep breath, holding tight against the tidal 
wave of emotions that battered against her.  She watched 
their exchange closely, with disbelieving horror.  In her 
heart, she could feel that she had been replaced, that 
their partnership truly was over.

"It doesn't matter," Mulder replied a few moments later.  
He picked up his files and Scully's room key and then 
handed both to his friend.  "You don't need to know.  Just 
take it to the Lone Gunmen."

She forgot everything she ever knew in the space of a 
heartbeat after his last words.  They only thing that she 
knew, that she could feel was pure white-hot rage.  She 
looked to the door, quietly inviting them to leave, the 
extent of her rage frightening even her.

He took her silent invitation and moved to the door.  When 
he reached out to pull it open, Mulder brought his eyes to 
hers.  Scully watched the confusion and shock pass over his 
face, his expression slowly sobering into one of acceptance 
as he moved to leave, Amber Evans at his side.





~ Chapter Seven - Both of Us Trying to Be Strong ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seven hours later...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day Three
10:20 a.m.
Office of Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady
United States Air Force
Undisclosed location.


When he heard a knock at his door, Lieutenant Colonel Brady 
looked up from his desk.  "Come," he said loudly, pushing 
his voice past the thick oak door.

Airman Davis opened the massive door and stepped inside, 
instantly snapping to attention and offering his superior a 
salute.

"At ease, Airman," Brady said.

"Sir, word just came in from the plane.  We expect it to be 
on the ground in approximately seventeen minutes.  Runway 
Seven, Sir."

"Just as I suspected," he said, smiling.  It had almost 
been too easy.  "I assume the jet is in place, re-fueled 
and ready to go?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And Dana Scully?" he asked, "They have identified her?  
They are certain?"

"Affirmative, Sir.  We are ready."

"Good," he said, smiling again, "Very good."


Day Three 
10:25 a.m.
Delta Flight 176


"Twelve more minutes," Mulder muttered to himself as he 
glanced down at his watch.  He swallowed past the lump in 
his throat, uncertain of how he was going to survive the 
next few hours, if Scully would survive them as well.  

Mulder was more than aware that once the plane landed the 
real and true danger would ensue.  He knew that in all 
likelihood people would die this morning, if they hadn't 
already, and for the moment he could only hope beyond hope 
that Scully would not be among the casualties.  He would 
never be able to live with himself if she was.

He tried to push his mind past Scully's situation, tried to 
separate her from it.  He needed to focus completely on the 
men and the motive behind the hijacking.  He had to come up 
with something. He had to help her.  

The Gunmen had still been unable to uncover any information 
concerning the twelve men.  Skinner and his task force were 
also drawing blanks, their primary efforts now shifted 
toward the impending landing.

He was more certain than ever that the military was 
involved, more succinctly, that The Fifth Column was 
involved.  The hijacking reeked of a cover up.  He wondered 
if it might also be, in part, a payback.  He and Amber 
Evans had invaded their inner sanctum, had pilfered some 
proof of their existence and their involvement with the 
disaster at the lake.  That evidence was aboard Flight 247.  
He had put it there, had placed it in Scully's hands and in 
doing so had quite possibly signed her death warrant.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to wash away 
his memories and regrets, wanting only to focus on helping 
her, saving her.  It didn't work--he was drawn back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Six hours earlier...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day Three
4:02 a.m.
Fox Mulder's Motel Room
Fenton, New Mexico


Fox Mulder sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, fresh 
out of the shower and dressed for sleep.  He flipped off 
the bedside lamp and ran trembling fingers through his damp 
hair.  He didn't even try to stop the tears from falling 
this time.  He allowed himself to drown in them, feeling a 
small measure of relief after holding them in all day, all 
night.  It didn't take long for the sobs to begin, shaking 
his body even more, accentuating his pain.

It had all been too much.  It had gone too far.  He would 
never be able to go back now, not after knowing the feel of 
her lips, the taste of her kiss.  He knew he would never be 
the same again.

He rose and walked to the window, swiping away the stray 
tears as he went.  He pulled open the curtains, letting the 
light from the starry night enter his room, standing as he 
did when he had watched her leave for the airport.  He 
stared out into the darkness, searching the sky as he had 
done so many times before.  He felt so comfortable in this 
role, the dark knight forever searching the heavens for the 
truth.  

As he stood there, he tried to renew his resolve, to 
recommit himself to his decision.  He had done the right 
thing, accomplished his goal.  She would be safe now.  She 
had to be.

His dream the night before had caused him to be reckless.  
He had panicked, become crazed, could think of nothing more 
than pushing her away, getting her out of his life, as 
quickly as possible.  In doing so, he had pushed things too 
far.  He knew that now.

He wished he hadn't gone to her room, that he had just 
slipped the files under the connecting door.  She wouldn't 
have kissed him then.  He wouldn't be in as much pain right 
now.  The feel of her lips against his would haunt him for 
the rest of his life.

Mulder loved her, he could no more deny that than he could 
deny himself breath.  It was the reason he had pushed her 
away, out of his life in every sense of the word.  He could 
no longer stand around and wait to watch her die, wait to 
see when his nightmares would become reality.

Byers had found him that first night, drunk and drowning in 
his own pain.  He had made up his mind only hours before, 
attempting to drink away his doubts with a bottle of 
tequila.  Byers sat with him, patiently and wordlessly 
listening to his drunken ramblings, his reasons for needing 
to leave her.  When he finally sobered up, as the sun was 
beginning to peak over the horizon, his friend fed him cup 
after cup of strong black coffee and then took him out of 
his apartment, away from the memories of his nightmares, if 
just for a little while.

The drive to the Gunmen's home had passed wordlessly.  When 
Byers stopped the car and pulled the keys out of the 
ignition, Mulder asked him not to tell Frohike and Langly 
about his decision to leave Scully, his desire to want her 
to finally have a life.  Byers had reluctantly vowed to 
keep Mulder's secret from his two best friends.

That was also the night he learned of Amber Evans and the 
suspicious deaths in Fenton, New Mexico.  Amber was an old 
friend of Byers'.  They had gone to college together and 
still kept in touch.  She had contacted Byers a few days 
before and asked him to look into the mysteries surrounding 
Lake Alamos.  

When they shared their findings with him, Mulder had been 
drawn in, eagerly agreeing to accept the case, in part to 
immerse himself in his work once again.

Mulder contacted Amber Evans via e-mail that same day, over 
lines the Lone Gunmen had guaranteed to be secure.  Her 
reply came within minutes.  She wrote of a conspiracy, one 
so deep and dark that not even those in the highest ranks 
of the military knew of its existence.  She wrote of the 
men involved in the conspiracy.  She had called them "The 
Fifth Column", in reference to their top-secret home base.  
Mulder had heard of this Fifth Column, had read obscure 
articles in various conspiracy publications postulating its 
existence and its purpose.  But Amber knew what it was, 
where it was, could possibly get him in.

They exchanged countless e-mails that day.  She detailed 
what she knew of the purported accident at Lake Alamos, an 
accident caused by The Fifth Column, an accident they were 
trying desperately to cover up.  She shared with him all 
that she knew of the deaths, including what had caused the 
cancer to develop in the people who had visited the lake.  
Mulder believed her.  He had no reason not to.

Amber told Mulder about her father and his involvement with 
the men of The Fifth Column, too.  He had been a scientist, 
a chemical engineer at Los Alamos National Laboratories, a 
research facility that fell under the jurisdiction of the 
Department of Energy.  His research at the facility had 
caught the eye of the Column and they had requisitioned his 
assistance and expertise in hopes of developing a new fuel 
source for an experimental aircraft that they were 
developing.  He had tried to deny the Column at first, 
adamantly refusing to work for them.  His initial 
resistance had caused the death of Amber's mother. 

After three years of research, Amber's father was 
successful in his endeavor, if not pleased with it.  He had 
pleaded with the powers that be, begging them to destroy 
the research, to never implement the fuel.  His warnings 
about its dangers had fallen on deaf ears and eventually 
cost him his life.

After his death, Amber had found his personal journals, his 
own private copies of the research files.  Her father's 
feelings about his creation had been all too clear.  After 
the accident at the lake, the unproven allegations that an 
unidentified flying object had crashed into the water, 
Amber had contact Byers and told him what she had recently 
learned about her father's life, her mother's death and her 
suspicions concerning the crash at the lake.

Mulder didn't regret taking the case his friends had 
offered, but he did regret the impression he had left 
Scully with.  He had been able to see what Scully had 
thought.  He had been able to read the betrayal and hurt in 
her eyes.  She had thought herself to be replaced.  She had 
read more into his relationship with the newscaster than 
was there and because he had wanted to push her away, he 
hadn't denied it.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Six hours later...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day Three
10:31 a.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Skinner!" yelled Frohike as he burst through the flaps of 
the tent, his two friends close at his heels.

Walter Skinner looked up and quickly began walking toward 
the three men, casting them a wary glare.  He was suddenly 
beginning to regret fudging their clearance.

"We've got something," Frohike blurted out, before Skinner 
was even halfway across the tent.

"We may have found a concrete connection between the case 
Agent Mulder was investigating and the hijacking," 
continued Byers.

"Byers, come on man...may?" Frohike interjected, tossing 
his friend an annoyed look.

"There is a very distinct possibility that we've found a 
link," Byers continued, "that Agent Mulder is right, that 
it may in fact be a cover up."

"A cover up of what?" Skinner questioned doubtfully.  He 
knew how these men operated, to them everything was a 
conspiracy.  That Mulder felt the same way did not shock 
him--he was almost as bad as they were.

Byers continued, seemingly unfettered by the Assistant 
Director's obvious doubt, "Agent Scully was transporting 
three bodies back to D.C., along with some evidence that 
Mulder had uncovered, evidence of a conspiracy."

"So what are you saying then?  That the hijacking was just 
an elaborate rouse to get rid of a couple of bodies?" 
questioned Skinner.

"And a business sized manila envelope," Frohike added 
quickly.

"Huh?" Skinner replied, beginning to seriously doubt the 
small man's sanity.

"The evidence Agent Scully was bringing to us, it was in 
that envelope, on the plane," Byers offered in way of an 
explanation.

Skinner shifted his weight, considering Byers' words 
carefully before responding.  "Do I want to know what this 
envelope contains?" he asked cautiously.

"Computer discs, but they were just copies.  We contacted
Mulder's source early this morning and convinced them to 
send us copies attached to an e-mail.  We've broken through 
some of the encryption, the rest is going to take a while," 
explained Langly.

"But we do know that the discs contain information about a 
project being conducted within a top-secret military base 
in New Mexico, by men known only as The Fifth Column.  This 
project, code named Whitewing, involves the development of 
experimental aircraft," finished Byers, glancing nervously 
at his compatriots.

"Wait.  Hold on just a minute," Skinner said before Byers 
had a chance to continue.  "Just exactly how did Agent 
Mulder come to be in possession of this top secret 
information?  Was he on that base?"

The three Gunmen exchanged nervous glances before Byers 
finally answered.  "I'm not aware of how Mulder obtained 
the discs.  That's something that you'll have to ask him 
yourself."  

Frohike and Langly nodded in agreement, closing ranks with 
their friend.

Skinner closed his eyes and shook his head.  His patience 
was wearing thin.  "Don't worry, I will.  Come on," he 
said, knowing he would probably regret it later, "you can 
fill me in on the rest as soon as we get this plane on the 
ground."


Day Three
10:36 a.m.
American Airlines Flight 247


Scully watched closely as the hijackers sat down and 
strapped themselves into the two seats facing the 
passengers, their guns held tightly across their laps.  
Their expressions gave nothing away, but Scully knew what 
was about to happen.

This plane was going to land and very soon.  

Before Scully could fully acclimate herself to the idea, 
she felt the pressure in the cabin change as the plane 
began its descent.  She closed her eyes and tried to 
separate herself from the terror welling up inside her 
chest.  She took deep breaths, forcing herself to remain 
calm and focused.  Her ears began to pop with the 
increasing pressure.  It was just a matter of moments now.

Scully bit her lip, drawing blood, as the pain in her ears 
increased sharply before the final loud pop.  Only a 
heartbeat later the plane's front tire hit the landing 
surface, jostling the passengers.  The wheel hit again, 
followed by the rest and the familiar screeching sound the 
rubber made as it ground against the pavement.

The time that it took the plane to careen to a stop seemed 
to encompass a lifetime.  No one in the cabin breathed.  
Without the comforting sounds of respiration the silence 
was almost deafening and definitely frightening.  The worry 
was evident, too.  Where were they?  Where had they landed?  
What was going to happen next?  Were they all going to die?  
Those questions, almost palpable in their intensity, hung 
heavily in the surrounding air.





~ Chapter Eight - Promises to Keep  ~


*This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent situations.* 


Day Three
10:37 a.m.
Outside the Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


All activity inside the command center ceased as the myriad 
of agents and technicians moved outside to witness the 
arrival of the plane first hand.  Assistant Director Walter 
Skinner, headset firmly in place, moved off to the side, 
away from the cluster of personnel.  The three Lone Gunmen 
moved to stand behind him in a show of strength and 
solidarity.  

"It's down!  It's down!" Assistant Director Waters shouted 
into his radio headset as the first wheel of Flight 247 
touched against the runway.  He quickly signaled for the 
snipers to move into position.

Skinner and the Gunmen stood watch solemnly, never taking 
their eyes off of the plane as its wheels firmly met the 
pavement and it began to lose speed as it rolled down the 
runway some 300-yards away.  

It was a moment of reverence, the moment of truth. 

The fate of everyone aboard that plane was now in their 
hands.  Men, women, children, crewmembers and Scully, 
especially Scully.  Mulder had entrusted them with her 
safety when he boarded his own plane home.  They were not 
going to let him down, let her down.

As the plane careened to a stop, a flurry of activity broke 
out around them.  Agents ran back into the tent and the 
terminal, barking orders into their own headsets as they 
went, checking on the positions of the teams that they were 
in charge of.  Four ambulances, two fire trucks, and a 
hazardous materials truck pulled up along side the tent, 
providing an ominous presence, a reminder of what could be.

Skinner and the Gunmen remained outside.  The assistant 
director lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes, searching 
the craft for any indication of what might be taking place 
inside.  A few minutes later he handed the eyewear to 
Langly.

"The shades are down," Langly commented quietly as he 
peered through the lenses, watching as the snipers moved 
into position around the plane.

"We expected that," Skinner replied in the same flat tone 
as Langly.  "Let's go back inside and see if anything new 
has come in.  Then the three of you can explain to me what 
you think is going on," he said as he began to move toward 
the command center.

The Gunmen followed.


Day Three
10:50 a.m.
Delta Flight 176


Having exhausted his supply of sunflower seeds, Fox Mulder 
chewed angrily on a plastic straw he had retrieved from the 
drink cart.  He stared out the window, impatiently drumming 
his fingers against his thigh.  He was tired of waiting, 
tired of wondering, tired of feeling so damn helpless.  

Scully's plane should have landed thirteen long and arduous 
minutes ago.  He, on the other hand, still had to endure 
two more hours in the air.

He twisted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable 
position for his long legs.  

Mulder tried not to envision the events that were 
transpiring aboard the plane.  He tried to keep his 
overactive imagination from running away with him.  He 
needed to focus on the facts, on the truths that could help 
set Scully free.  There was no other way, nothing else he 
could do for the time being.

He was certain that Scully would be a target.  The Fifth 
Column wanted what she had, the evidence he had given her. 
Mulder knew that they would go to any lengths necessary to 
recover it.  They had demonstrated as much with the 
hijacking.  Beyond that, he could predict nothing.  He 
would not allow himself to consider the possible scenarios.  
If he did, if he let himself openly ponder Scully's fate, 
he would certainly not survive the next few hours, at least 
not with his sanity intact.

Scully was still alive.  

He couldn't explain how he knew.   He just did.  He could 
feel it deep within himself in a place that he didn't care 
to examine--his heart.

He rose slowly from his seat and made his way back to the 
phone.  He fought against the urgency he felt and dialed 
Skinner's cell phone number.

His boss answered on the third ring.

"It's Mulder."

"The plane's on the ground, landed on time," Skinner said 
without preamble.

Relief flooded over Mulder, but only for a moment.  "Has 
there been any communication from the hijackers?" he asked.

"The pilot radioed the tower just a few minutes ago," 
Skinner said slowly.  "He requested fuel."

"What?" yelled Mulder, ignoring the icy stare of a nearby 
flight attendant.  His mind raced, searching for a 
connection, the reasoning behind the hijackers' request.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner replied harshly, pulling Mulder 
back from the edge.  "I've went along with a lot of your 
crazy theories in the past and I was prepared to do so 
again.  Mind you, I had my doubts, but I was willing to 
back you on this.  This request for fuel, though...it just 
doesn't fit.  I'd say that it blows a rather large hole in 
your theory." 

"I don't care what they are asking for, I'm right.  I know 
that I'm right."

"I wish you were.  At least then we would have had some 
idea of who we were dealing with, of what they wanted.  But 
the whole fuel thing...it just doesn't fit, Mulder.  Why 
would they ask for fuel if this whole thing was just a 
cover up?  Why not just destroy the evidence?  Why not..."

Skinner didn't finish--he didn't have to.  Mulder could 
fill in the blanks quite nicely on his own.  "I'm right, 
Sir," he said, swallowing past the gruesome images that 
flowed unbidden and unbound through his mind. 

"Mulder, your assurances are not going to get those 
hostages off the plane.  I need more.  I need proof, and so 
far you have given me very little.  It's just not enough 
right now."

Mulder could clearly make out the insistent voices of the 
Lone Gunmen in the background, arguing with Skinner, vowing 
to uncover more evidence.

After a few long minutes Skinner managed to quiet Mulder's 
friends and abruptly changed the subject.  "We've got Mark 
Peters here," he said in reference to the Bureau's elite 
hostage negotiator.  "We're trying to establish 
communication with the hijackers through both the phone and 
the radio, so far it's been a no-go."

When Mulder didn't respond, Skinner continued.  "Agent 
Mulder, we're doing everything that we can right now.  The 
terrorists have made no threats against the passengers, 
veiled or otherwise.  Just because I don't subscribe to 
your theory doesn't mean that I'm giving up.  We're going 
to get her off."

"I know, Sir," Mulder said quietly before ending the call.


Day Three 
11:01 a.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The landing and aftermath had been almost as quiet as the 
hijackers' initial invasion.  

Once the plane had finally lost its forward momentum, the 
two captors had calmly risen from their seats and resumed 
their patrol. 

The men had succeed in quieting the hushed whispers of the 
passengers by waving their guns and clearing their throats.  
With firm, no nonsense voices they had asked all the 
passengers to remain seated, keep their safety belts in 
place and the shades drawn. 

The passengers were only waiting now, quietly and 
anxiously.  Scully was, too.  Waiting for something, 
anything, to happen.  She hated not knowing what was going 
to happen next, what the hijackers had planned for them, 
whether or not they were going to take off or simply die on 
the runway.

Scully tried to imagine what was going on outside, around 
them.  Was the plane being surrounded as she sat helplessly 
waiting in her seat?  While she could do nothing, were 
dozens of men and women out there trying to save them?

Scully didn't have her gun.  She hadn't had the time to 
hassle with the paper work required for her to carry the 
weapon on board with her.  It sat in a locked box within 
her suitcase in the cargo hold.  Even if she had it, 
though, she wouldn't have been able to use it--she knew 
that.  To do so would have only endangered the lives of the 
passengers around her.  She couldn't help them, herself, 
not yet.  This time she was one of the victims, one of the 
people who may not survive the ordeal. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another 
hijacker.  Scully had seen him before--he had delivered 
messages to the other two throughout the flight.  He leaned 
in to do so once again.  The exchange was short and 
impossible to hear.  When he left the two men resumed their 
patrol, saying nothing to the passengers.

Scully was beyond frustrated with the situation on board 
the aircraft.  She couldn't even begin to imagine what the 
terrorists wanted or why they had taken the plane.  They 
seemed intent on not sharing that information with the very 
people whose lives they were toying with, the very people 
they were presumably using as leverage.  It took every bit 
of self-control that she possessed not to stand and scream 
her questions in their direction, insist that the 
passengers be informed, demand that they be released.


Day Three
11:18 a.m.
Delta Flight 176


He held a rolled up magazine in his hands, drumming it 
against his knee.  Mulder had tried to read it, but he 
hadn't made it past the table of contents.  He hadn't been 
able to focus on the words, take his mind away from Scully.

He was trying to fight it, to not think about her.  Those 
thoughts only led him back into dangerous territory...to 
the night it had all begun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Six days earlier
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He felt so warm, like sunlight was dancing across his skin 
in the most appealing way.  He could almost smell the 
scents of summer--freshly cut grass, morning dew, the heady 
scent of the ocean on a hot day, the familiar smell of 
sweat and happiness that had always belonged to the beach.  
He felt at peace, like he had finally come home after a 
long and arduous journey.

His eyes were closed and he was standing, reveling in the 
feel of the hot sun against his skin.  When he opened them, 
he found himself standing on the shore, the gentle waves of 
the ocean lapping against his bare toes.

He blinked and she was there, too, Scully, standing twenty-
feet in front of him.  She was in the water.  The waves 
were swelling around her knees.  The sun was reflecting off 
of her hair, giving her an almost unearthly glow.   Her 
eyes, too, glimmered in the sun, sparkling as she smiled at 
him.

He smiled, too.  He felt so happy, so at ease, so at peace 
with the world.  His heart was filled, overflowing with 
love for her.

She stood there in the ocean, looking like she belonged 
there, not adrift but at home.  She looked so happy, so 
complete, as if the cruelties of the world had never 
touched her.

And he knew.  He knew that they had found the moment, that 
destiny was finally shining down on them.  He knew that it 
was time, that she was ready, that he was ready, that they 
were ready.   

He didn't think; he acted.  He allowed his heart to lead 
him and he moved to step toward her.  

"She is not yours to have."

For a moment, he felt panic encircle him.  He turned, 
trying to determine the source of the words, the owner of 
the voice.  But he and Scully were alone, the only two 
people on the beach, the only two people in the world.  He 
looked to her, silently asking if she had heard the voice, 
too.

She just smiled at him, her bright blue eyes sparkling in 
the summer sun.  She lifted her arms to him, beckoning him 
to come to her, welcoming him into her heart.

He smiled, too.  He felt so sure, so certain that it was 
right.  His heart was filled, aching with need for her.

He lifted his foot, slowly, stepping in her direction.

"It is not meant to be."

He doubled over in pain from the words this time, their 
meaning slicing through his mind and cutting deep.  He 
breathed slowly, trying to lessen the pain and forget the 
words.

When the pain stopped and the words fell away he looked to 
her again.  She still smiled, held her arms open to him, 
asked him with her eyes to come to her.

He smiled, too.  He felt so alive, so whole, so complete.  
His heart was filled, beating in time with hers.

He took another step in her direction.

"You will only bring her pain.  You will only cause her 
death."

He stopped, paralyzed by the anonymous words.  He closed 
his eyes, trying to feel them.  He couldn't though.  They 
were not in his heart. 

His mind raced with indecision.  He felt like he was 
standing on a ledge, a crossroads, deciding whether to 
jump, deciding which way to turn.

He looked to her and she was still smiling, still reaching 
out for him, still asking him with her eyes, still needing 
him.  

He smiled, too.  He felt the words drift away again, the 
paralyzing fear fall to the ground.  He broke free and ran 
to her, splashing through the water to find her.  When he 
did, he pulled her into his arms, holding tight.  He felt 
it then, her soul meld into his. 

He bent to kiss her, to capture her lips with his own and 
seal their fate.

In a flash she was gone.  He was gone.  

He was home, in his apartment.  He was sitting on his 
couch, his hands trembling.  He blinked quickly, trying to 
clear his clouded mind.

He saw it then, dancing against the wall.  A red light, 
flitting across the surface to a slow staccato beat.  He 
stared at it mesmerized by its movements.  For a moment he 
caught an odd sense of deja vu that caused his heart to 
constrict in his chest.  He blinked, hoping to ward off the 
feeling.

The light exploded then, shattering into a thousand parts 
before coming together on the wall again.  This time it 
formed a word. 

Follow, it said.

He felt the foreboding sense of familiarity again, but 
quickly pushed it aside as he rose from the couch.  The 
light merged into one and raced for the door.  It waited 
there for him.

When he pulled on the door handle, the light disappeared.  
He panicked again, but opened the door.  Relief flooded him 
when he found the light again, dancing across the hallway 
floor.  It was circling slowly, tracing over the spot where 
he and Scully had almost moved forward, where they had 
almost kissed so long ago.

He stepped cautiously now, still unsure of what was 
happening, why it all felt so familiar.  

The light took another slow lap and then danced away, down 
the hall, and around the corner.  Mulder ran after it, the 
sense of urgency welling up from his gut overtaking him.

When he rounded the corner, he was nearly blinded by a 
flash of white light.  He threw his arms up, shielding his 
eyes.  When he pulled them away a few moments later he was 
outside in a parking lot.

He looked around, searching for the light once again in the 
darkness.  He found it then, on the sign, the one that said
"Bosher's Run Park, Manassas Parks and Rec."  The sense of 
deja vu threatened to overwhelm him again, but when the 
light moved he followed.

He ran through the woods, never taking his eyes away from 
the light as it bounded over fallen trees and piles of 
leaves.  

When it stopped, so did he.  

It came to rest on a tree, but only for a moment.  It slid 
slowly down to the forest floor and exploded into the shape 
of a heart.  It was pulsing, beating, and then it stopped.  

Mulder dropped to his knees, desperately clawing at the 
earth.  The light flashed again, blinding him, but only for 
a moment.  And then she was there, lying on the earth and 
leaves.  Her heart no longer beating; her breath still in 
her in chest.

Mulder screamed out in protest, tears flowing freely down 
his cheeks.  And then the light found her again, coming to 
rest on her chest and then exploding into words.  This time 
he heard the voice as well, speaking the same words as the 
light.

"You will only bring her pain.  You will only cause her 
death."

He awoke then, in a panicked state, sweat pouring off of 
him as the visions from his dream flooded his mind, 
threatening to pull him down with their powerful undertow.  
He blinked quickly, trying to erase the images.  He ran a 
trembling hand through his hair, taking deep breaths to ebb 
the racing of his heart.

He couldn't let go of them though.  He couldn't forget.  He 
doubted that he ever would.



Day Three 
11:39 a.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Skinner turned and noticed Langly frantically motioning for 
him to come to the communications area.  

The Gunman had been denied a headset by the same 
technicians who he had stood over, repeatedly telling them 
how they should do their job.  His two friends had left, 
only minutes after Skinner had finished his call with 
Mulder, leaving to search for more connections, more 
evidence.

"We've finally rerouted the tower communications down 
here," said Langly, glaring at the nearest techie and 
pointing toward the equipment in front of him.  "They just 
turned on the radio in the cockpit," he added, indicating a 
red light on one of the panels.

"Where's Peters?" barked Skinner as he quickly scanned the 
interior of the large tent.  When he looked to his left he 
saw the man in question jogging toward them.  Skinner 
nodded in approval at the man's hustle.

Peters stopped next to Skinner, a questioning expression on 
his face.  "What have you got?" he asked expectantly as 
Langly pointed to the indicator light.   The negotiator 
wasted no time, quickly grabbing a headset and flipping it 
on.

One of the technicians got up, making room for Peters, 
absentmindedly abandoning his headset in the process.  
Langly snatched it up quickly, a triumphant grin on his 
face.

Before Peters even had the chance to get comfortable in his 
seat, static broke across the line causing everyone to jump 
as it reverberated through their headsets.  "247 to Tower," 
said a voice that they presumed was the pilot's.

"Come in 247," Peters answered into his headset as he 
adjusted himself more stiffly in his seat.

"Checking on the status of our refuel, Tower."

"247.  No refuel.  I repeat no refuel," Peters said calmly, 
never taking his eyes off the panel in front of him.

"Repeat, Tower," requested the pilot, weakly after a 
lengthy pause.

"Captain Jacobs, this is Special Agent Mark Peters.  I'd 
like to speak with whomever is in charge."

"Come back."

"Captain Jacobs, Flight 247 is not going to be refueled.  
The F.B.I. would like to speak to the hijackers."  

With that the radio went dead.  

Peter's threw off his headset and scrubbed his face with 
his hands.  "That went well," he said with a frustrated 
laugh.

"It's not over yet," Skinner said firmly.  "They aren't 
going anywhere.  Sooner or later they're going to have to 
tell us what they want."  

Skinner was interrupted by the trilling of his cell phone.
 
"Mulder," he mumbled, reaching down and hitting a button.

"Skinner," he barked, not particularly in the mood to deal 
with his wayward agent at the moment.

"Assistant Director Skinner, this is John Byers.  Frohike 
got in," he finished excitedly.

"What?"

"The military records.  Frohike gained access into one.  
Mulder was right.  He was right about The Fifth Column."

"Come again?" questioned Skinner.

"Kent Sumtras, one of the twelve men that we told you 
about.  He is on that flight.  Frohike was able to access 
part of his military records.  Sir, he's stationed at the 
air force base known as The Fifth Column.  Mulder was 
right," Byers finished confidently.

"Apparently so," Skinner replied a few heartbeats later, 
his voice full of resignation.  "Apparently so."


Day Three
11:45 a.m.
Maggie Scully's Residence
Baltimore, Maryland


Maggie Scully paced an endless path of tight circles in 
front of her television set, glancing every few seconds in 
the box's direction, not really hearing what the anchorman 
had to say.  She didn't know how much longer she could 
stand this.  

How much more could a mother could be expected to take?  

She began to rub her arms in hopes of warding off her 
growing chill as she continued to pace around the large 
living room.  

She checked her watch, again, out of habit now.

"Where are you Bill?" she asked aloud as she glanced toward 
the front door.  He and Tara had taken Matthew to the mall 
in her car after dropping her home over an hour ago.  
Maggie had heard the phone ringing even before she unlocked 
the front door and waved at her departing family.  She had 
hurried to get the phone, thinking it might be Dana, back 
early from the case she was working on.  

It hadn't been. 

It was the phone call from every mother's nightmare, the 
same kind of phone call that she had received far too many 
times.  

Her daughter was in danger, again.

The call had been from Assistant Director Skinner, Dana's 
boss.  Maggie had known from the moment that he said hello 
that her world was about to come crashing down around her 
feet.  His voice had been strained, tense, uncomfortable, 
but polite.

"Mrs. Scully," he had begun.  "I've been trying to reach 
you all morning."

She didn't bother to respond, to explain that she had been 
out with her son and his family all morning.

After a long pause he continued with obvious discomfort,  
"Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this," he 
said, his strong voice growing soft with regret.  "The 
plane that your daughter was flying home on was hijacked 
this morning."

She dropped the phone.

She bent to pick it up a few moments later, ignoring the 
tears that threatened to fall, the fear that took hold of 
her heart.

"What?" she managed to ask as she brought the phone back to 
her ear.

"We're expecting the plane to land at Dulles any moment," 
he continued.  "We're going to do everything in our power 
to ensure that Dana makes it off of the plane safely."

"Why?  Who would...?  Oh my God.  No," she said as the 
perilous implications of the situation hit her fully.

"Mrs. Scully, I'm going to send an agent over to pick you 
up.  You'll be able to wait in the terminal if you like.  
I'm so sorry.  I--"

Pulling herself together by sheer force of will, she 
interrupted the man.  "Yes.  I'd like to be there.  Thank 
you for calling, Mr. Skinner.  And please, do everything 
that you can for Dana."

"We will," he said sincerely, "I promise."

The agent Mr. Skinner was sending was due any moment.  Mrs.
Scully didn't want to leave her oldest son a note 
explaining her sudden departure.  She didn't want him to 
find out about Dana from the back of an old grocery store 
receipt.  But more than anything she didn't want this to be 
happening.  She wanted it all to be a terrible mistake.  
She had almost lost her daughter so many times before and 
she wasn't sure that she had the strength to survive 
another ordeal, another daughter's death.

Maggie jumped when she heard the front door open, followed 
by Matthew's two-year-old squeals of glee.  She stopped in 
the middle of the room, her teary gaze going immediately to 
her son's smiling face. 

Bill's grin quickly disappeared when he saw his mother's 
pained expression.  "Mom," he said warily, taking large 
strides in her direction.  "What's going on?  What's 
wrong?"

"Bill," she replied, tears falling unchecked down her 
cheeks.  "It's Dana."


Day Three
11:57 a.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Walter Skinner drew a shuddery breath as he paced in front 
of the communications board, methodically rubbing the back 
of his neck.  Every muscle in his body was coiled tightly 
in anticipation, nervous energy pouring off of him in 
waves.  It had been twenty minutes since their last contact 
with Flight 247, since they had officially refused the 
pilot's request for fuel.

Skinner had worked in hostage situations before, but never 
one like this.  Regardless of Scully's presence on the 
plane, this was big--an American plane, hijacked on 
American soil.  The press was all over it.  The Attorney 
General was all over him.  She wanted answers, a peaceful 
resolution--yesterday.

The Lone Gunmen's discovery, proof that at least one member 
of The Fifth Column was on board the craft, had helped to 
assuage Skinner's doubts concerning the hijackers' lack of 
communication and lack of demands, save the fuel request.  
If Mulder's friends were indeed right, as Skinner thought 
them to be, things on the plane could get hairy pretty damn 
fast.

Skinner's thoughts were interrupted when a blast of static 
shot through his earphones like a bolt of electricity, 
followed by a frantic and harried voice.  

"We've got movement!  Advise!"

The Assistant Director quickly turned to face the bank of 
television monitors covering the south wall.  He scanned 
the screens frantically and then he saw it.  

One of the plane's doors was open.  

He searched for a better view, listening as A.D. Waters 
calmly ordered the snipers to hold their fire.

Skinner finally found the view that he was looking for, a 
head-on, close-up of the open door.  He squinted, trying to 
make out details on the small black and white screen.   He 
could clearly see two men, though.  They were standing in 
the opening, dressed in what he thought to be fatigues and 
bulletproof vests.  They were wearing combat helmets, too.  

Skinner concentrated on their images, trying to focus on 
anything that would lead him closer to the truth.  He 
couldn't see any sort of insignia on their uniforms, 
although one might be found later once the video was 
analyzed and the pictures were enlarged.  He couldn't see 
their faces, but it looked like they might be covered by 
something, possibly netting of some sort.  They were 
carrying guns, had them slung across their chests.

"We have a lock on the targets," announced the Unit One 
commander.

"Hold your fire," ordered Waters as he moved to stand next 
to Skinner.

The terrorists stood in the opening only for a few moments 
and then turned, bending and crouching down.  They reached 
further into the craft and finally lifted something.  
Skinner barely contained a gasp as the hijackers pulled 
their trophy through the doorway and into plain sight.  

It was a person.

In one deft move the body was thrown from the plane, 
falling quickly to the ground some twenty-feet below.

Skinner's headset exploded in a flurry of static as several 
frantic team leaders all tried to speak at once.

"Man down!  Man down!"

The door was closed quickly, without a shot being fired.

"Team One, move in!" shouted Waters.

"Somebody give me status!" shouted Skinner as he watched a 
wave of agents move across the tarmac toward the body.  A 
feeling of dread enveloped him as he stared at the small, 
unmoving form on the pavement.

<Please, dear God.  No.>

He could hear the ambulance long before he saw it on the 
television in front of him.  When it did come into view he 
watched as it stopped fifty-yards from the plane.

"Team Two, move in for cover!" Waters barked when the first 
team reached the body.  

Skinner watched on the monitor as the team leader bent over 
slowly and reached out to check for a pulse.

"It's a woman," he said a second later.

Skinner's breath caught in his throat, his thoughts 
immediately falling to Scully.  "Can you get a better 
shot?" he asked the techie manning the video equipment.

The camera zoomed in and the shot got tighter, but now the 
view of the woman was obstructed by the agents surrounding 
her.

"She's dead," supplied the Unit One commander.  "Half of 
her head is gone."

That was all Skinner needed to hear.  

He was across the tent and out the door in half a moment, 
Langly close behind.  The two men ran, stopping only a 
hundred yards from the plane.  Skinner waited anxiously, 
desperately trying to mask his escalating panic as the 
snipers loaded the small broken body aboard the ambulance.

"There's a note," relayed the commander, his baritone voice 
catching slightly as he spoke across the radio.

Langly caught Skinner's gaze, silently asking the question 
both men were afraid to put voice to.  Skinner closed his 
eyes in way of a response, silently pleading with the 
powers that be, begging for Scully to still be alive and 
well on board the aircraft.

Several tense and panic-filled moments passed in a silence 
only broken by the wailing of sirens.  The ambulance began 
to move slowly in the direction of the command center, 
several agents jogging along side.  Skinner waved his arms, 
signaling for the driver to stop.

The ambulance slowed to a halt a few yards from where he 
and Langly stood.  They moved toward it, approaching the 
vehicle with silent but palpable trepidation.  Skinner 
motioned for one of the agents to open the rear doors as 
another agent handed him a plastic covered piece of paper.  
Skinner took it blindly, his eyes never wavering from the 
ambulance.  He took a deep breath and stepped inside.  

Skinner swallowed past the lump in his throat and moved 
deeper into the rig.  He blinked quickly, saying another 
silent prayer before pulling the sheet back from the 
woman's face.  His breath hitched in his chest as his eyes 
fell upon the woman lying before him, her dark brown hair 
cover in blood, most of her face blown away.

He held himself steady against the flood of relief and 
remorse that flowed over him, thankful that it wasn't 
Scully, deeply disturbed and angered that a hostage had 
lost her life.

Skinner re-covered her, gently laying the sheet back over 
her still frame.  He turned and stepped out of the 
ambulance, shaking his head no as he went.  He heard Langly 
let out a heavy breath as he stepped away from the back of 
the vehicle.

Waters was standing beside the Lone Gunman, sporting the 
same look of relief as Langly.  It passed quickly as both 
men took in the reality of the situation.  A hostage had 
died.  The situation had escalated.  Both assistant 
directors were aware of the significance of the hijackers' 
actions.  Once they had taken a life, there was no going 
back.  They had very little else to lose.

In his panic to identify the woman, Skinner had forgotten 
the note he held tightly in his hand.  He raised it up and 
read it aloud, barely maintaining his composure as he did.  
"Who will be next?  Will it be your Agent, the one with the 
bloody face?"





~ Chapter Nine - She Deserves Better Than That ~


*This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent situations.*


Day Three
12:34 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully was dazed.  She sat motionless in her seat, unaware 
of the chaos that surrounded her.  She didn't hear the 
screams of grief and horror that showed no signs of ebbing.

She struggled against the fog that she was drowning in, 
trying to extricate her mind from the mire.  She moved her 
hands slowly to her face, pulling them back a few moments 
later, staring at them with wonder and confusion.  

They were wet, covered in a sticky red fluid. 

It's blood, she thought calmly.  She reached up again, this 
time touching her hair.  It was wet, too, stained by the 
same red fluid.

Scully looked up then, toward the front of the plane, at 
the wall in front of her.  Her lips parted as she focused 
on the large crimson stain, red droplets streaming slowly 
toward the floor, pulled down by the force of gravity.  It 
was the woman's blood on the wall, on Scully's face, on her 
hands.

The fear and terror surged through her then, the reality of 
the situation slamming against her full force.  The noises 
assaulted her first, screams, haunting wails, deep 
shuddering sobs.  The cabin had descended into a state of 
complete and utter chaos--passengers were desperately 
clinging to each other, crying, begging to be released.

Through it all the hijackers stood at the front of the 
plane, flanking the stark crimson stain, staring straight 
ahead, their expressions blank and devoid of emotion, 
seemingly oblivious to the desperate terror that surrounded 
them, making no move to quell the outbursts, the panic.

A woman was dead.

She had been killed in cold-blood, right in front of the 
passengers, right in front of her husband.

Her crimson blood had splattered against the white wall as 
half of her head had been blown away.

Her blood now covered the passengers.

The men hadn't hesitated, didn't seem to give her death a 
second thought.  Scully had no doubt that they would do so 
again, with the same malice.

Scully closed her eyes tightly, warding off the images she 
knew would haunt her for the rest of her life, however long 
or short it may be.  It had all happened so quickly, yet 
every dreadful detail was trapped within her mind's eye, 
destined to replay again and again.

They had come in without warning or preamble, bursting 
through the curtain, their guns held at the ready.  The 
five hijackers stood at the front of the section, but only 
for a moment.  The screams and cries had begun then.  The 
passengers had been able to read the hijackers' intent, 
knew that someone was about to die.  

One of the men stepped forward, the dark and menacing look 
in his obsidian eyes telling his story, clearly describing 
the act he was about to commit.  His evil gaze passed 
quickly over every passenger in the section as he searched 
out his target.  When his eyes fell upon Scully she did not 
waver, staring death directly in the eye for a long and 
tense moment.

He surged forward and Scully's stomach dropped to her feet.  
Her fingers twitched, anxiously wanting to move for the gun 
that wasn't at her side. 

He moved past her though, by two rows.  Scully turned her 
head, following his movements.  He pointed to a pretty 
young woman with soft dark eyes and beautiful chestnut 
hair.  She couldn't have been more than twenty-five-years-
old.  Her husband clung to her, desperately, pulling the 
woman securely against his chest, tears flowing steadily 
down his cheeks as he pleaded for his wife's life.

His words fell on deaf ears.  Two of the other men pulled 
her out of his arms, ignoring her screams, his screams, as 
two of the other hijackers held him down.

She was dragged to the front of the section, pulled roughly 
by an arm and her long beautiful hair, the death march 
lasting several long moments that felt much more like 
years.  Scully watched in disbelieving horror as the woman 
was shoved into the wall and a gun was placed to her head.

The single gunshot rang out loudly through the small cabin-
-that single action changing everything.

A thousand voices broke loose inside of Scully's head.  Her 
own joining them as she screamed silently within herself as 
the woman's blood hit her, marking her forever.  

Scully had done nothing to help her.  She would live with 
that guilt, the sin of her silence, for the rest of her 
life. 

 
Day Three
12:54 a.m.
Delta Airlines Flight 176


Mulder jumped when the flight attendant tapped him on the 
shoulder.  

"Agent Mulder, you have a telephone call," she said, 
pointing behind him in the direction of the phone.

He nodded his head in thanks as he rose from his seat.  He 
raked his fingers through his already spiked hair, his 
stomach churning with anticipation as he made his way down 
the aisle.  The fear and panic gripped him firmly, knowing 
that the call was from Skinner, knowing that his boss would 
not be calling unless the situation had been resolved or 
something had gone terribly wrong.

He swallowed past the rising lump in his throat as he 
reached out for the phone with a trembling hand.  "Mulder," 
he said, voice deep and thick with urgent fear.

"Hey man, it's Langly," said the Gunman, giving nothing 
away with his neutral tone.

"What's going on?" he asked, his panic ebbing slightly at 
the identity of the caller.  He glanced down at his watch, 
impatiently, while he waited for Langly to respond.

"Skinner asked me to call, he's a little busy right now," 
his friend explained, his voice still neutral.

Mulder took a deep breath and tried to surmise the purpose 
of the call.  He closed his eyes a moment later, hoping 
beyond hope that everything had been reconciled.

"There was an incident on the plane," Langly said slowly, 
quickly moving on when he heard Mulder's panicked gasp from 
the other end of the line. "She's alive, Mulder."

"What happened?" he asked, pushing his voice past his ever 
rising panic, fighting against the helpless feeling that 
surrounded and invaded him.

"We aren't certain why, but we assume that it was in 
retaliation for the denial of fuel," he began to explain, 
taking a deep breath and pushing it out before continuing.  
"They killed a passenger.  A woman."

Mulder swallowed loudly, convulsively, attempting to ward 
off a sudden wave of nausea.  "Scully," he said.  There was 
more, he could sense it, feel it.

"There was a note on the body, Mulder.  A note about 
Scully."

"A note," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah.  Look I'm just going to tell you exactly what it 
said.  But Mulder, before I do, I want you to remember," 
started Langly, his voice filling with compassion, "Mulder, 
she's a strong person.  She's going to be okay.  We're--"

"What.  Did.  It.  Say?" Mulder asked in a low and 
threatening voice.

"It said, 'Who will be next?  Will it be your Agent, the 
one with the bloody face?'" responded Langley.  "And 
Mulder, we don't know anything for sure, we don't know that 
they've done--"

"No," Mulder whispered, cutting Langly off once again.  His 
nostrils flared as the tears came to his eyes unbidden.  He 
felt himself being pulled down by the undertow of pain and 
guilt.  He sagged against the wall, his strength drained 
completely.

<They hurt her.>

<No.>

<Please, God. No.>

<Oh Scully.  I'm so sorry.  I'm so very sorry.>

He choked back the sob that rose in his throat as he felt 
himself slipping over the edge.  He struggled to breathe 
against the tightness in his chest.  For a moment he 
thought that he was going to die from the heartbreak, and 
he welcomed it even though he knew that it would not 
absolve him. 

Somewhere in his conscious mind Mulder realized that Langly 
was still speaking to him, but he couldn't seem to connect 
with those thoughts.  He was lost within himself, wrestling 
against his own doubts and fears as Langly continued to 
ramble on.  

Mulder wanted to help her, wanted to save her, needed to do 
that.  But somewhere within himself he doubted that he 
could, that he would ever be enough or have enough to do 
that.  For now though, he needed to believe, needed to be 
strong. 

His everything depended on it. 


Day Three
12:59 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Skinner moved deftly across the command center, approaching 
the communications set-up at a fast pace.  "Did you call 
Agent Mulder?" he asked Langly when he reached the area.

"Yeah.  He took it worse than we thought he would," Langly 
said, shaking his head and grimacing.   "I think he's got 
it together now.  It's probably a good thing that I waited 
though.  I would have hated to hear his reaction if he'd 
had much more time left in the air," the Gunman said as he 
glanced down at his watch.

Skinner nodded his head in agreement.  Knowing Mulder, he 
probably would have gone crazy, or worse, if he received 
the news about the note any sooner.  Skinner had to try 
very hard to suppress a grin as a mental picture of his 
determined agent jumping out of the plane and flapping his 
arms wildly came to his mind.  He pushed it away, saving it 
for another time and place, when Scully was safe.

Skinner looked past Langly, in the direction of Mark 
Peters, watching as he leaned forward in his swivel chair, 
phone pressed to his ear.  "Any luck?" Skinner asked 
Peters, fully aware of what the negotiator's response would 
be.

Peters gave Skinner a wry grin and placed the phone back in 
its cradle.  He scrubbed his face with his hands before 
answering.  "Nope.  They're still not answering the phone.  
And they haven't turned the radio on since we denied them 
fuel."

Skinner placed his left hand on his hip, his right coming 
up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  "This isn't making any 
sense," he said, the frustration in his voice evident.  
"What's your take, Peters?" he asked a few moments later, 
interested in hearing the seasoned negotiator's point of 
view.

"Sir," he began, "considering what Agent Langly told me..."

Skinner's eyes flew to Langly, who gave him a smart-ass 
grin in response.

"...I think they will give us a list of demands," he 
continued, seemingly oblivious of the exchange between the 
assistant director and the "agent". 

Skinner returned his gaze to the negotiator, his face 
scrunching in confusion, asking for an explanation with his 
eyes.

"This is how I see it, Sir.  They hijacked the plane in 
order to either reclaim or destroy the three bodies being 
shipped back to Quantico.  The same can be said for the 
evidence Agent Scully was carrying.  If that was all they 
wanted to do, why hijack the plane?  Why not just steal the 
bodies and evidence from the airport, or when they were en 
route to Quantico.  Hell, why not when they were on their 
way to the airport in the first place?  Why go to all this 
trouble?" he said, taking a deep breath before moving on.  
"But they did hijack the plane.  And they told us that they 
did, almost immediately.  Why give us all of this time to 
prepare for them?"

Skinner nodded his head, encouraging the agent to continue.

"They wanted this, Sir.  They wanted us to think that the 
hijacking was nothing more than a random act of terror, 
that it is all as simple as that.  It's exactly what Agent 
Langly says it is--a cover-up of epic proportions."

Skinner glared at Langly again before responding.  "If 
that's the case, then why would they show us their hand by 
threatening Agent Scully?"

"They have a copy of the passenger manifest aboard the 
plane.  Agent Scully is listed on it as a F.B.I. agent.  As 
you know, hijacking an airplane automatically falls under 
the jurisdiction of the F.B.I.  They are aware of that, 
Sir.  I think that any terrorist would play the same card 
given the opportunity.  They know we are out here, of 
course they would use Agent Scully as leverage, any good 
terrorist would."

Skinner nodded his head, again.

"That's why they're asking for fuel.  They know that we 
won't comply.  It gives them an excuse to go crazy.  Pretty 
soon they're going to give us a list of inane demands.  But 
that's not what they're after.  They're trying to shift the 
blame, divert us from the truth by making us think that 
this is some ordinary hijacking.  And when we are looking 
left, they're going to move right.  Mission accomplished."

Langly pursed his lips as he nodded emphatically.  "He's 
right.  These guys are the elite of the elite.  They are 
stationed at an above top-secret base that the government 
denies the existence of.  They never considered that we 
would discover who they are, what they really want.  And to 
ensure that, they are going to try and come off as some 
whacko right wing terrorist group, bent on destroying the 
world.  They're going to try and make this look as by the 
book as possible."

Skinner couldn't help but agree with the two men.  What 
they were saying made sense.  The hijackers were attempting 
a cover-up so grand and extreme that no one would take it 
for that.  They could have eliminated the need for any of 
this, but their other options would have raised questions.  
If they made the cover-up appear to be an ill-fated 
hijacking, though, a terrible act of terrorism, no one 
would be the wiser.  The law enforcement agencies would 
have thought the loss of the bodies and evidence to be a 
coincidence, a strange one, but a coincidence none-the-
less.

For now all they had to go on were assumptions, assumptions 
based on logic, but assumptions nonetheless.   They needed 
facts, or at least more of them.  He looked to Langly, who 
was smugly leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his 
lap.  "Why don't you check in with Byers and Frohike, see 
if they have anything new," he suggested.


Day Three
1:12 p.m.
Delta Flight 176


"Ladies and Gentlemen.  Please return your tray-tables and 
seats to their full upright positions.  The fasten seat 
belt sign has now been turned on.  We will be landing 
momentarily at Baltimore-Washington International Airport.  
We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.  On 
behalf of your Cincinnati based flight crew, thank you for 
choosing Delta and we hope to see you again in the future."

Mulder let out a long deep breath and tried to force 
himself to relax.  Finally, he thought.  The last five 
hours had easily been the longest of his life, but he had 
managed to survive them and so had Scully, although not 
unscathed.  He bit down on his thumbnail, having exhausted 
both his supply of sunflower seeds and straws.

"I'm almost there, Scully.  Hang on for a little while 
longer," he said to himself as he stared out the window.

He tried to focus on the rapidly enlarging skyline of the 
greater Baltimore area, pushing the implications of his 
conversation with Langly down into the nether regions of 
his brain, attempting to shield his fragile heart, or what 
was left of it.

His heart lurched anxiously in his chest when his ears 
began to pop with the change in pressure.  He closed his 
eyes and jumped in his seat when a brilliant flash of white 
light assaulted his mind.

He blinked his eyes, not washing away its brightness, but 
bringing on its pain.  He saw her then.  The images flashed 
rapidly through his mind and seared his soul.

A beach.  An ocean.  Salty waves.  Scully.  Her smile.  The 
words.  Her touch.  Her kiss.  A red light.  A bright 
heart.  Running.  Chasing.  A tree.  Leaves.  Her.  Scully.  
Gone.  Dead.  And then she was in his arms again.  They 
were spinning in the forest, turning and twirling.  Happy.  
Her bright blue eyes.  His everything.  Her lips.  Her 
kiss.  Falling.  Her life.  Gone.  Dead.

The first wheel of the plane touched the ground, screeching 
against the pavement, pulling him back.  He shook his head, 
trying to shake the visions from his mind, cleanse them 
from his soul.

It hit him anew when the plane touched the runway again.  A 
powerful flash of images, relentlessly assaulting him, 
taking his breath away, taking her life away.

Scully.  A bullet hitting her abdomen and taking her down.  
A respirator tethering her to his world.  A madman pining 
her to the floor while he tried to rip out her heart.  A 
terrible disease trying to steal her away, her life's blood 
dripping onto his white linen shirt.  A single tear 
streaking down her check as she stood watch over a dying 
child.  A mosquito bite on her back, scaring her forever 
with his curse.  A frozen tundra that was nearly her grave.  
An alien ship taking...

The plane slowed to halt, stopping with one last and sudden 
jerk.  And then they were gone, fading from his mind, 
breaking his heart.  Reminding him of all he had taken, all 
she had lost.





~Chapter Ten - She's Been Good to Me ~


Day Three
1:17 p.m.
Main Terminal 
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Maggie Scully moved through the main terminal of Dulles
International Airport with a quiet yet dogged 
determination.  Her posture was stiff as she took long 
confident strides in the direction of Assistant Director 
Walter Skinner.  Her family was at her side, their presence 
bolstering her strength.

Maggie's eyes never left those of Mr. Skinner as she 
approached him.  His expression was guarded at best.  His 
stance was deceptively relaxed, and even though she had 
only met him once she could easily read the lines of 
tension etched in his face, the unmistakable look of regret 
in his eyes.

He held out his hand as she neared him, clasping and 
squeezing hers when she reached out in turn.  A grim and 
weary smile crossed his lips as he murmured his apologies 
for the situation her daughter was in.  His discomfort 
shown clearly through his dark eyes as he exchanged 
greetings with the rest of her family.

A long moment passed between the group, a thick and 
uncomfortable silence falling around them.  It was Bill who 
finally broke it.  "What's happening?" he asked, his voice 
strained with anger and deep, dark fear.

Skinner looked to Maggie and placed a hand on the small of 
her back, leading her and her family over to a bank of 
seats in the nearly deserted terminal.  He spoke once they 
were all seated.  "The hijackers asked for fuel about an 
hour and a half ago.  We denied them, of course," he added 
quickly, hoping to allay the look of panic that crossed 
over the Scully matriarch's face.  

"They've killed one hostage," he continued slowly, trying 
to keep the edge out of his voice. He didn't tell them 
about the note that had been pinned to the woman.  He 
didn't feel that it was wise or necessary.  The hijackers' 
threats and claims were wholly unverifiable.  Skinner 
couldn't see the need in causing her family additional pain 
and worry.

"How did this happen?" Bill demanded, clearly not bothering 
to hide the anger and disgust in his voice.

Skinner took a deep breath, considering exactly how much 
information he should share with the Scully family.  "We're 
not sure," he answered honestly.  "We do, however, have 
some leads, some ideas.  We're doing everything that we 
can," he added strongly.

"Please, Mr. Skinner.  Tell us what you can," Maggie said 
quietly, imploring him with her eyes.

Skinner nodded, thankful that she understood his position.  
"Dana boarded the plane this morning around 5:10, in Santa 
Fe.  She was flying back to perform several autopsies.  A 
few minutes after the plane took off, the pilot informed 
the tower that it had been hijacked."

"Fox?" she asked warily, concern and worry seeping into her 
blue depths.

"He wasn't on the plane," Skinner explained.  "Your 
daughter was returning early."

Mrs. Scully turned to stare out the window, not sure 
whether to feel relieved or scared that Dana was on the 
plane without her partner.  Fox Mulder had always been 
capable of evoking mixed feelings within her.  Mrs. Scully 
was aware of how much he cared for, and quite possibly 
loved, her daughter.  But he had also brought danger into 
Dana's life, danger that Mrs. Scully couldn't help but feel 
would not be present if her daughter had not been partnered 
with him.

"Is that bastard connected to this?" Bill asked, his face 
reddening and voice deepening with anger.

Skinner turned to the younger man, his brow furrowing as he 
bit his tongue.  He was well aware of the animosity between 
Scully's brother and Fox Mulder.  He had witnessed it 
himself shortly after Scully had been told that her cancer 
was gone.  

Skinner held himself in check and lied his ass off.  
Scully's family did not need to know about the growing 
probability that Mulder's investigation into a several 
bizarre deaths in New Mexico had in all likelihood spawned 
the nightmare they were all engulfed in now, at least not 
yet.  He consoled himself with the fact that the motive 
behind the hijacking was currently classified, that even if 
he had wanted to, he was not allowed to reveal that 
information.  So he simply and confidently said, "No."

Bill took in the man's hesitation before answering.  He 
knew Skinner was lying.  Apparently his mother did, too.  
She placed a strong hand on Bill's knee, grounding him, 
silencing him--for now.

"Is he coming back?" Maggie asked cautiously, torn between 
wanting to keep herself away from the man that had caused 
her family so much pain and the knowledge that he was 
probably the only one that could save her daughter, seemed 
to be the only person who ever could.

Skinner nodded in response, glancing down at his watch.  
"He'll be here within the hour.  He left New Mexico about 
five hours ago.  We've shut down all air traffic to D.C., 
his plane landed in Baltimore a few minutes ago."

Maggie nodded her head.  Bill seethed.  Only Tara's firm 
and loving grip on his shoulder kept him tethered to his 
seat and his sanity.

Skinner rose slowly from the uncomfortable chair, needing 
to return to the fray, needing to present when Mulder 
arrived.  "We'll keep you informed as much as we can," he 
promised before walking away.


Day Three
1:27 p.m.
Lair of the Lone Gunmen
Undisclosed Location


"Any more luck?" Byers asked as he moved to stand behind 
his short friend.

"Nope.  All of these files are protected separately," 
Frohike replied with a tight voice, his eyes never leaving 
the screen of the computer he'd been sitting in front of 
for the last few hours.  He had gotten lucky, he thought.  
He had just been playing around when he got into the first 
file, taking a break from his investigation into The Fifth 
Column, but now Frohike was working diligently to open the 
other eleven military records.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked as he pecked away at the 
keyboard.

"Langly," Byers said slowly, a slight hitch in his normally 
smooth voice.

Frohike stopped typing.  He turned to his friend, giving 
him his full attention and a serious look.

Byers closed his eyes.  "They've killed a hostage."

Frohike felt his eyes widen in shock, but it passed 
quickly.  The Fifth Column was a ruthless bunch.  They had 
no scruples.  That they had waited this long before 
executing a passenger should have been the shocker.

Taking a deep breath, Byers continued.  "There was a note 
on the body.  A note that threatened Agent Scully."

Frohike swallowed hard.  His voice shook slightly when he 
replied, "No."

"They implied that she had been hurt.  They threatened that 
she would be the next to die," Byers elaborated, recanting 
what Langly had told him. 

Frohike could tell that his friend was trying to keep his 
voice optimistic and strong.  They both knew Agent Scully 
was tough as nails.  She was undoubtedly one of the 
strongest people they had ever known.  She would make it 
through this.  She had to.

Frohike nodded blindly, not allowing the true and full 
reality of Byers' words to sink in.  "Have you come up with 
anything on your end?" he asked, turning the conversation 
away from what he could not comprehend, could not allow to 
his mind to process.

"I've put out a couple of open-ended inquires," Byers 
replied.  "Nothing yet."  The Gunman cleared his throat 
before continuing.  "I thought I might head out to Dulles.  
Mulder should be there soon. He's going to be a handful, 
Skinner might need our help."

Frohike shook his head, "Skinner'll keep his ass in line.  
We need to keep looking.  We need to find something, 
before," he paused, struggling to control the ripple of 
dread that was washing over him, "before it's too late."  
He turned back to the keyboard, his efforts and resolve 
doubled by the dire news that Byers had relayed.


Day Three
1:48 p.m.
Runway 2
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Skinner and Langly moved quickly across the tarmac, walking 
steadily toward the helicopter that had just landed.  They 
stopped short of the craft, watching through the small 
window as Mulder removed his headphones.  The agent bounded 
out of the machine a second later, not giving it a 
backwards glance as he jogged toward Skinner and Langly.  
His eyes captured theirs, pinning them to the spot with his 
steely, half-crazed glare.

He stepped in front of them, turning to watch as the 
helicopter lifted off and flew away, leaving the three men 
in an uncomfortable silence--but only for a moment.

"Start talking," Mulder said tersely as he began to move in 
the direction that Skinner pointed.

Skinner ignored the agent's clipped and demanding tone.  He 
would allow Mulder a little bit of latitude, if only for 
the time being.  "Nothing new.  No word from the hijackers.  
They aren't answering the phone.  They don't have the radio 
on," he said mimicking Mulder's clipped tone.

Mulder didn't comment.  He just continued to take long 
strides toward the terminal and the command center that was 
beginning to come into his view.  During the helicopter 
ride from Baltimore he had managed to strengthen his 
resolve, turning his single-minded attention to one thing 
and one thing only--getting his partner off that plane in 
one, alive, piece.  

Nothing else mattered to him at the moment.  Not the 
bodies.  Not the evidence.  Not the conspiracy created and 
maintained by The Fifth Column.  Not even the disturbing 
memories of the last few days with Scully or the haunting 
nightmares that he hadn't been able to escape for the last 
week.

Mulder flashed his eyes at Langly, catching the man's 
attention.  "What have you got?" he asked, his voice tight 
and thick.

"Frohike got into one of the files.  You were right," he 
said evenly and without emotion.  "He and Byers are still 
working on the others."

Mulder nodded his approval, not shocked with either his 
friend's revelation or the Gunmen's success.  He had known 
that he was right, that the Gunmen would come through.  He 
had wagered Scully's life on it, literally.

When the three men neared the tent, Mulder stopped, turning 
his hazel eyes toward the plane sitting on the tarmac some 
300-yards away, surrounded by men in black, guns at the 
ready.  He swallowed convulsively in an effort to thwart 
the wave of nausea that passed over him.  It was suddenly 
all too real.  He drew a shuddery breath, filling his lungs 
with the crisp November air, blowing it back out, trying to 
expel his all-consuming fear along with the cold, bitter 
air.  Mulder jumped when he felt Skinner's hand grip his 
shoulder, closing his eyes for a heartbeat before turning 
to his superior.

"Let's go inside, see if they know anything new," Skinner 
suggested rationally.

Mulder nodded slowly and followed the assistant director 
inside the tent.  The command center was a flurry of 
activity, Mulder noticed as he took in his surroundings.  
It was filled with at least fifty agents and support 
personnel.  Everyone was wearing headsets as they were 
either sitting, rooted to a chair in front of a screen or 
terminal, or moving around the room in a flurry, barking 
orders at whomever passed by.   

A very large portable table sat in the middle of the room.  
Ten agents surrounded it, but Mulder was still able to see 
the detailed plans of both the airport and Scully's plane 
strewn out before them.  Mulder's eyes drifted to the south 
wall, the one covered in television screens, each showing a 
different view or angle of the plane.  He turned his gaze 
away quickly, as his heart began to rebel against his grand 
intentions.  He needed to focus solely on getting her out.  
Nothing else mattered, he reminded himself.

Langly moved past both Mulder and Skinner, walking across 
the tent toward the communications area.  Another two-dozen 
agents and technicians were gathered near the equipment, 
A.D. Waters among them.  Skinner glanced in Mulder's 
direction before moving quickly in the same direction as 
Langly.  Mulder followed.

"They've radioed us a list of demands," Waters replied 
without emotion as he saw Skinner approach, handing him a 
handwritten copy of the list.  "It just came in a few 
minutes ago."

Skinner nodded and Mulder moved to stand next to him, 
listening with great interest as his boss read the list 
aloud.  "Fuel.  Clearance to take off.  No military or 
government interference as we leave U.S. airspace."  
Skinner glanced at Mulder before speaking to Waters, "Did 
they say anything else?"

"Yes," Waters replied evenly, "We have it on tape."  He 
motioned towards the audio equipment in front of him.  
"They called themselves the Castellan.  Agent Lask is 
looking into that.  It didn't ring any bells with anyone 
here.  They gave us two hours to comply," he said, "Or we 
will face the consequences of our actions."  

"I've heard of them," Langly offered quickly.

All eyes focused on the Gunman.

Langly cleared his throat.  "Weren't they suspected of 
hijacking some plane in Turkey a couple of years ago?" he 
posed as he searched his own mind for details.  "They 
killed most of the hostages, and all but a few of the 
hijackers were killed by the Turkish army when they stormed 
the plane.  A couple of them got away, though.  No one 
claimed responsibility, but if I remember correctly the 
Turkish government had strong reason to believe that this 
Castellan was behind it."

Mulder nodded his head in agreement.  He remembered reading 
about the crisis in the newspaper.  It had made the front 
page.  Three- quarters of the hostages had been killed, 
including one American.  "It means keeper of the castle," 
he said. "Castellan."

"So," Skinner said, "I guess the question of the hour 
is..."  He glanced down at the list of demands that he held 
in his hand, taking in their significance one more time.  
"Is this for real or is just part of a cover-up?"

Mulder's eyes widened as his mind made the final 
connection.  He swallowed loudly before answering Skinner's 
question.  "No, Sir.  The bigger question would be, was The 
Fifth Column involved with the hijacking in Turkey?"

Skinner held back a flabbergasted huff, "Go back a step, 
Agent Mulder, you've lost the rest of us."

Mulder grimaced as he tried to hold onto the little bit of 
patience that he had left.  "I remember reading about the 
incident in the paper.  One American was killed.  Debra 
Evans."

Langly coughed loudly, choking on the coffee he had been 
sipping as Mulder talked.  His eyes met Mulder's--almost 
not believing what he saw there.  This was big, he thought, 
as the full significance of Mulder's words sunk in.

"And the significance of that is?" asked A.D. Waters, 
taking a step toward the rogue agent.

Mulder looked again to Langly, who shrugged his shoulders.  
"The source that I met with in New Mexico," he began 
warily, not sure how much information he should divulge in 
mixed company, "told me that a scientist working for The 
Fifth Column had been killed several months ago because he 
no longer wished to work on their project.  Debra Evans was 
that scientist's wife.  My source told me that she had been 
killed several years ago, when her husband initially 
refused to work for the Column, as a warning."  He took a 
deep breath, hanging his head when he spoke again, "I 
didn't make the connection until now."

Skinner closed his eyes, both relieved and astonished that 
he could still be so caught off guard by such deep-rooted 
conspiracies, by such unrelenting madmen.

"I've got to call Byers," Langly said before he moved to a 
more private location and pulled out his cell phone.

Skinner stepped closer to his agent, placing a steady hand 
on the man's arm as A.D. Waters moved away from the group 
and across the room, barking orders into his headset all 
the while.  "Mulder," began Skinner, "don't you think this 
is all just a little too convenient?  I mean, why would 
they use the name Castellan again, wouldn't they worry that 
someone would make the connection?"

"Why would they, Sir?" Mulder replied, keeping his voice 
smooth and even as he prepared to argue his point with 
Skinner.  "The name Castellan was only brought up by the 
Turkish Government, it was like one line in the article I 
read.  It was all conjecture.  But Debra Evans being on 
that plane was not.  She was killed, right around the time 
her husband first refused to get into bed with the Column.  
It was a warning.  And it worked, he synthesized their 
fuel, and when he was done and wanted out they killed him, 
too."

Skinner grimaced, still not fully convinced that the agent 
was right, not sure if he was willing to gamble the life of 
one of his best agents along with 145 other passengers and 
crew members on Mulder's conviction alone.  Well, Mulder's 
conviction and a small amount of evidence supplied by his 
questionable friends.

"Sir, right now this is all we have to go on," Mulder said, 
imploring the older man with his eyes, begging for Skinner 
to believe him, to believe in him.  "The clock's ticking-- 
we're running out of time."

Skinner nodded his head and released a long, slow breath 
before turning to Agent Peters, the hostage negotiator.  
"Keep trying to get them on the phone and radio.  And send 
Langly my way when he comes back from his phone call."

"We've got to get eyes and ears on that plane, Mulder," 
Skinner explained.  "We may have to go in.  Full breech.  
We need to know what we're up against."

Mulder nodded, fully understanding what his boss was saying 
and fully realizing the risks that went along with such an 
attempt.  Scully would not survive a full breech, the 
hijackers would make certain of that.  She was the key.  
She held the evidence, had seen the evidence.  No, if they 
went in guns blazing, Scully would be the first to 
die...and certainly not the last.


Day Three
2:14 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The unpleasant odor of fear and death hung heavily in the 
stale air, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard 
to imagine a peaceful resolution to the act of terror that 
had been committed. 
 
Scully wrapped her arms more firmly around her mid-section, 
attempting to insulate herself from a chill born of fear 
and desperation.  She was finding it harder to imagine a 
happy ending to this tale, more difficult to envision her 
life after the terror ended.  She closed her eyes, 
searching within herself for a safe haven, a secure harbor 
that could quell her sense of impending doom.  

Mulder had once been that refuge--her touchstone.  He had 
taken residence in that magical place within her soul where 
she found comfort and peace, security and warmth.  She 
reached for him there once again, blindly searching within 
her heart, longing for relief, longing to feel his steady 
presence.  Hot stinging tears came to her eyes when she 
came back with nothing, her heart barren and cold, weak and 
angry, empty.

Scully struggled against her own doubts and fears, finally 
pulling herself up and out, away from the edge, away from 
the all-consuming void within her heart.  She bit back the 
tears that threatened to fall and pushed her thoughts away 
from Mulder, away from her grief.  She couldn't take the 
torment, the gut-wrenching pain that echoed silently 
throughout her.  Not now, not when she needed to 
concentrate wholly on survival, not only for herself but 
for the passengers who shared in her journey of terror.

She took deep cleansing breaths, closing her eyes as she 
tried to focus her energy, her thoughts on a method and 
mantra for survival.  She opened them a few moments later 
when she felt her strength returning, her determination 
resurfacing from the desperate depths that had swallowed it 
whole. 

She took in the situation around her with an eye and an ear 
for detail, analyzing the demeanor of the hijackers, 
studiously looking for any detail that she may have 
overlooked earlier, for any change that had taken place.  
She examined their gait and posture, surveying them for any 
sign of nervousness.   She explored their eyes for any 
spark of hesitation or unrest, any hint of what would come.  
She watched curiously as they paced steadily by the 
intermittently ringing phone.  She quickly considered the 
significance of that action, relieved to know that someone 
was out there trying to help them.  Yet she was disturbed 
by the hijackers' determination to cut themselves off from 
the outside world.

She bit back her frustration when she found nothing, no 
hint at what would happen next, what would become of them 
all.  She sunk back against her seat, not giving up but 
giving in.  She allowed herself to be lulled by the near 
silence the hijackers had designed by quietly resuming 
their patrol not that long ago.  She closed her eyes, 
waiting, biding her time, realizing she could do nothing at 
the moment, except breathe...survive.  

She heard him then, the woman's husband, keening and 
whimpering so softly that it was almost imperceptible.  He 
was calling her name, gently, with such grief and longing 
that it tore at Scully's heart.

"Kelly...Kelly...no," he murmured through a soft sob.  "Not
Kelly...please...no."

Scully felt her own tears threaten to resurface, but she 
held them back even though she was unwilling to shut out 
his faint cries.  She dared not look back at him, although 
she wished she could, that she could offer him some measure 
of comfort, knowing all the while that none could be given.  
No words could ease his pain. 

Scully empathized with his loss.  She understood the agony 
he felt.  Scully had known the same pain too many times in 
her own life.  Vital pieces of her soul had died when her 
father, her sister and her daughter had passed and now 
Mulder was gone, too.  

It wasn't the same though, this pain was sharper, more 
visceral yet without the feeling of finality that death 
brought.  Mulder still breathed, but not the same air as 
Scully.  His heart still beat, but not in time with 
hers...not anymore, and apparently it never did, not as she 
had imagined, wished, dreamed.

She tried once again to push him out of her mind as he 
began to flow through her thoughts, unbidden and unbound.  
But her heart was helpless against his pull.  She had 
thought they were so close, so close to something, so close 
to everything.  She had been ready to act on those 
instincts, those feelings.  In a way she had, less than 
twenty-four hours ago, in a small town motel room that 
seemed a lifetime away.

All of her hopes and aspirations were gone now.  His words 
had cut her to the bone, destroyed the last vestige that 
she had to call home.  His friendship and their partnership 
were all she had left, the one true thing she had been able 
to believe in.  She felt is if she were spiraling now, 
plummeting in a free fall, with no soft place to land, no 
strong arms to firmly tether her to safety. 

Scully still couldn't fathom his behavior the past three 
days.  She had no basis to compare it to, no point of 
reference from which to divine the source of his disquiet.  
Everything had been fine, incredible in fact, before he had 
returned to work.  They seemed to have found one another 
again, come full circle.  Scully had been able to feel it 
that day in his hallway, the energy surrounding them as he 
held her in his arms.  She remembered feeling as if she had 
finally come home after a long and arduous journey, that 
she was whole and complete, that the underlying current of 
uneasiness between them had finally been quelled.

The man that returned to work the next week hadn't been her 
partner.  He was someone strange and foreign, a shell of a 
man who Scully wholly did not recognize.  The Mulder she 
loved could never be so opaque, so cruel.  The Mulder she 
knew could never call their journey together a lie, turn 
his eyes blindly from their bond.  Her Mulder would never 
have forsaken their partnership.

Scully doubted she would ever come to know or understand 
the impetus behind his actions the last few days.  She was 
certain, however, that her relationship with Mulder would 
never be the same, could never be the same.  If it still 
existed at all.  His words to her, whether they be truth or 
lie, had severed the tie that bound them together, joined 
them as one.

Once she let her heart open to him, she could not turn away 
from her tormented thoughts.  She couldn't help but wonder 
where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking.  Did 
he know of the situation she was in, the terror that had 
ensued?  Did he care?   Was he tilting at windmills back in 
New Mexico with his new friend?  Or was he railing against 
the wind, trying to emancipate her?  Was he dying inside as 
she was?


Day Three
2:28 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Mulder, you're starting to make me dizzy.  Sit down 
already," complained Langly, never taking his eyes off of 
the laptop's screen.

The agent checked his watch for the tenth time in the last 
minute, never slowing the tempo of his pacing.  "Where in 
the hell are they?" he asked, blatantly ignoring his 
friend's request.

Langly didn't answer, he just shook his head, silently 
pleading for the cavalry to arrive already.  He knew that 
if they didn't arrive soon with the news they had promised 
him that one of them was going to go crazy, and Langly had 
a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be him.

Langly turned in time to see his two friends enter the 
command center.  He watched as Mulder dodged agents and 
technicians as he hastily navigated toward the two Gunmen.

Byers and Frohike took in the agent's harried appearance 
with grim silence.  He looked like shit.  Langly had told 
them as much on the phone earlier.  The two men shared a 
quick glance, both recalling his demeanor when Agent Scully 
had been taken from him almost five years ago, praying 
silently that it would not come to that again, that Scully 
would be all right, for her sake and for Mulder's.

"What have you got?" he asked before he reached them, the 
strain in his voice causing the two Gunmen to cringe 
inwardly.

"Frohike got into a couple more files," Byers replied 
evenly, trying to keep his own voice calm in hopes of 
soothing his friend's frazzled nerves.

Mulder didn't speak a word in response--his expression said 
it all--talk, now.

"They were pretty much the same as the first," Frohike 
said, picking up where Byers left off.  "We checked into 
the Castellan, too."

"And?" Mulder questioned, his posture becoming all the more 
tense, if that was possible.

"Not a lot of information out there," Frohike responded.  
"They were linked to the hijacking in Turkey a couple of 
years ago.  It was actually a passenger who claimed the 
hijackers were the Castellan, although it was never 
proven."

"We were also able to verify that Debra Evans was the 
mother of Amber Evans," Byers said grimly, silently aching 
for his old friend's loss.  "She never mentioned it to me 
though," he said weakly.

"The Castellan is actually a French resistance group.  They 
were fairly active in the Eighties, a few car bombings, 
things like that," Frohike added.  "Since then they've only 
been linked to that one hijacking, until now anyway."

"It's a cover-up," Mulder said, his eyes dark with 
resignation.  "The Column is just using their name."

Frohike and Byers nodded in staunch agreement.  Their 
friend was right.  The Fifth Column was using the name of 
the extremist group to cover their own activities, to 
perpetuate a lie.  They wanted everyone to believe that 
this was just another random act of terror.  They had done 
so before, had killed Debra Evans as a warning to her 
husband, to bring him close, to persuade him to do their 
bidding.  But they hadn't counted on Mulder, that he would 
see their game for what it really was, that he would be 
able to make the leap and tie together the connections.

"What do you make of their demands?" Frohike asked Mulder, 
his eyes clouded with concern.

Mulder rubbed his temple as he relaxed into a mode he felt 
more comfortable in, trying desperately to separate Scully 
from the situation.  "They don't want to leave the country.  
They have no intentions of going anywhere.  Their demands 
are just an excuse to kill people, to destroy the evidence.  
They know we won't comply."

Byers nodded his head, he had thought as much himself.  
"They could have landed that plane anywhere they wanted to.  
But they came here for a reason."

"For the show," explained Mulder stoically.  "They wanted 
us to see.  They wanted us to watch.  They wanted us to be 
scared."


Day Three
2:41 p.m.
Main Terminal 
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Bill Scully had taken to pacing in front of the large bank 
of windows that lined the main terminal's south wall even 
though he was unable to see his sister's plane.  The clouds 
were moving in, completely blocking out the sun, adding to 
the dark and ominous feeling of the day.  The temperature 
outside was dropping rapidly.  An early winter storm was 
set to hit at any moment.   

The television in the corner was tuned to CNN, but the 
bastards at the network seemed to know even less than he 
did.
   
He felt like hitting, smashing, breaking something.  Funny 
how, at least where his sister was concerned, that 
something always seemed to be Fox Mulder.  No matter what 
Dana's boss said, Mulder was behind this.  His dirty little 
fingerprints were all over it. 

And Skinner's lies hadn't endeared him in Bill's heart 
either.  That man was nothing more than a Mulder 
sympathizer, and they all deserved to burn in Hell.  Well, 
except for his sister.  She was merely in need of an 
exorcism.

Once again, Fox Mulder had placed Dana in the eye of the 
hurricane, the epicenter of danger.  Bill didn't give a 
damn anymore whether the man did it on purpose or not.  The 
fact that he'd even done it once was enough to make Bill 
fume every time he heard the man's name.  It wasn't enough 
that Mulder had taken away one sister.  He seemed intent on 
taking away another.  Was nothing sacred to this man?

He felt Tara's gentle touch on his shoulder, smelled the 
sweet scent of her perfume.  He felt better, but only for a 
moment, as he stopped his pacing and met her eyes.  She 
knew what he was going through.  She understood how he felt 
about Fox Mulder, even though she didn't agree with him.  
It was not like he hadn't tried countless times to make his 
wife understand the evil that was Fox Mulder.  To her 
credit, she tried.  She let him have his say.  She even 
sympathized with him--she just didn't empathize with him.  
She wanted to be fair, damn her.  What Mulder had done to 
his family wasn't fair, so naturally he didn't feel the 
need to reciprocate.

His wife tried to pull him back to the bank of seats they 
had claimed in the virtually deserted airport, but he was 
too full of nervous energy to sit.  He was too scared, too 
angry.  He didn't like the feelings of fear and dread that 
had permeated his heart.  He wanted to resist them, to walk 
them off.  He wanted to kill Fox Mulder.  

Maybe while he was at it, he'd throw in Walter Skinner.  
He'd brought them here, told them very little, lied to 
them, and then left them to stew in their own juices for 
the past hour.  He tried to understand that he was probably 
pretty busy, but he could have sent someone up to talk to 
them, to tell them something, anything. 

He looked to his mother, trying to gauge her state of mind 
as she cradled Matthew in her arms.  She looked tired, 
scared.  She was trying to be strong, but Bill knew her too 
well.  He could see the pain that she was trying to hide 
behind her damp eyes.   She caught his gaze on her then and 
smiled weakly in his direction, trying to reassure him.  

They broke eye contact quickly at the sound of footsteps in 
the quiet terminal, turning to see who was walking toward 
them.  Walter Skinner.  Bill's eyes narrowed, his fists 
clenching and unclenching rapidly as the man neared.  

Maggie rose slowly, handing her grandson to his mother as 
she stepped toward the tall man.  "Do you have any news, 
Mr. Skinner?" she asked, her voice soft and unsteady with 
concern.

Skinner looked uncomfortable, and rightly so, thought Bill 
as he took several long and angry strides toward the man.

"The hijackers have made some additional demands," he 
informed them, his voice drippingly smooth and controlled, 
although his eyes betrayed the fear and regret that he 
felt.

"Wh...What do they want?" Maggie asked.

Bill moved to stand next to her, placing his hand 
protectively on her back.

"They're demanding to leave the country."

Maggie gasped sharply.  Bill felt her posture slump 
imperceptibly against his hand and he cursed Fox Mulder 
once again for doing this to his family.

Skinner looked into Mrs. Scully's eyes, his own full of 
compassion and resolve.  "We're not going to let that 
happen," he reassured her.

Bill tensed as he attempted to measure up the man, gauge 
the validity of his words.  He closed his eyes against the 
resignation he had seen in Skinner's eyes.  He swallowed 
once, hard and quick, pushing down against the fear that 
had begun to rise up.  He knew with certainty now, had seen 
it mirrored in the assistant director's gaze.  This ordeal 
was going to end badly, very badly.


Day Three
2:53 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Fox Mulder sat in an uncomfortable folding chair, silently 
holding watch over the communications board with the three
Gunmen.  He absentmindedly glanced down at his watch.  They 
only had an hour until the hijackers' deadline expired.

Skinner and Waters had meet privately after speaking to the
Attorney General.  They had yet to share any decisions that 
they had made, and it certainly wasn't due to a lack of 
effort on Mulder's part.

Mulder felt certain that Skinner believed, especially in 
light of recent discoveries, that Scully would not survive 
the ordeal.  Mulder could see it in his superior's eyes.  
Skinner didn't want to believe it, but he did. 

He had learned enough about The Fifth Column to feel wary 
himself.  They were ruthless, unrelenting, power hungry 
men.  Mulder had met their kind before, the consortium and 
their cigarette-smoking counterpart came to mind.  Mulder 
had no doubt that The Fifth Column would kill Scully 
without a second thought if they thought it would cover 
their asses.

Mulder didn't know how much longer he could sit around and 
do nothing, watch idly as nothing was done to save her.  It 
was all he could do to remain rooted to his seat, to not 
charge the plane and sacrifice everything he was and had to 
pull her out safely.  He bit back hard against the pain 
that gripped his heart like steel.  He couldn't lose her, 
not like this, not ever. 

Before Mulder had a chance to delve deeper into the inner 
workings of his heart and the torment that lie waiting 
within, he was sharply brought back to reality by Frohike 
pushing against his arm.

Mulder started to complain to the older man when he heard 
Peters.  He had the hijackers on the line.  Mulder flipped 
on his headset in time to hear the hijackers' next words.

"Your deadline is ebbing.  We are growing impatient, 
negotiator," growled the voice of the one of the hostage 
takers, the same one that Peters had talked to only an hour 
ago.

Peters didn't miss a beat, "Which is exactly why I've been 
trying to reach you.  We can work together much more 
effectively if you keep the lines of communication open."

"Ah, Mr. Peters," chuckled the hijacker, "we're a little 
busy here."

"We need to know how the hostages are," Peters calmly 
informed the enemy, looking up as Skinner approached 
cautiously.

"If you are asking if we have killed anyone else, then the 
answer would be, no, not yet," he said.  From the tone of 
the hijacker's voice it was apparent that the man's 
patience was growing thin.

Peters caught Skinner's eyes, looking for approval before 
going on.  "We're going to need a sign of good faith before 
we can help you out," said the negotiator evenly.  "You'll 
need to release some of the hostages."

"Mr. Peters, I don't think we can help you out with that."

"If you want your fuel, you will.  We want all of the 
children released.  Nothing less," Peters relayed firmly, 
leaving no room for doubt.

"I'll have to get back to you about that, Mr. Peters.  
We'll be in touch," he said before the line went dead.

Peters removed his headset warily, carefully placing it on 
the table before him.  "If nothing else it bought us a 
little time," he said, not sounding too hopeful as he 
pulled his fingers roughly through his dark hair.

"We just need to hold them off until the storm hits," 
Skinner added, trying to make his own voice sound hopeful, 
and failing miserably.  He cast a glance at Mulder before 
he turned to the three Gunmen.  "Any ideas yet on getting 
eyes and ears on the plane?" he asked.

"A couple," Byers answered a few seconds later, "Waters is 
still trying to work out a few of the details."

Skinner nodded his head before turning to look at Mulder.  
"Any thoughts, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked in reference to 
the exchange between the hijacker and the negotiator.

"I stand behind what I said earlier, Sir.  The Column knows 
exactly what they're doing.  They have their resolution 
already planned.  Nothing we can do or say is going to sway 
them," he said before standing.  "But we may be able to use 
the storm to our advantage.  It's unexpected.  They 
couldn't have planned around it," he explained, knowing 
full well that the hijackers were unaware of the impending 
storm, at least they hadn't been when they put their plan 
into action.  The storm had been forecast to hit 300 miles 
to the north and had only shifted south over the last two 
hours.

"Well then, we wait, for the time being anyway," Skinner 
said as he checked his watch.  "I need to go fill in 
Waters."  

Mulder watched Skinner walk away, not feeling anymore 
hopeful than he had before the conversation with the 
hijacker.   

Byers broke the uncomfortable silence that had descended.  
"This may work," he said, furrowing his brow in thought.  
"If they do release the children, maybe we can get someone 
in through the hatch underneath the plane.  They'll be 
distracted.  Maybe we can come up with something that will 
keep them from knowing the hatch had been opened," he said.  
His eyes grew wide as his mind worked frantically to make 
connections, a plan forming rapidly. "Where's the 
engineer?" he asked hurriedly, already moving across the 
room.

A cautious look of hope flittered across Mulder's face.  
This could work, he thought.  And he knew exactly who 
should be placed on board the aircraft.

<Hold on Scully.>

<I'm coming.>




~ Chapter Eleven - I Shouldn't Be Here ~


Day Three
3:10 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport 
Chantilly, Virginia


She couldn't stop shivering from the cold.  Scully pulled 
her arms tightly around her mid-section, attempting to 
insulate herself from the frigid air that had invaded the 
cabin.  The temperature aboard the aircraft had dropped 
dramatically over the past few hours.  The hijackers had 
cut the heat, presumably in an effort to conserve fuel.  
 
She was tired of being on the plane, tired of thinking, 
tired of trying to remain strong--but most of all, she was 
tired of hurting.  

She didn't want to think about Mulder or the pain the last 
three days had brought.  She didn't want to feel helpless 
or disjointed about their relationship, what was left of it 
anyway.  Scully didn't want to think or feel.  She just 
wanted to be free.  She wanted to be free of the torment, 
of the pain, of the empty space within her heart that was 
swallowing her whole.

She no longer cared to weigh the truth against his lies.  
The line between the two had become blurred.  It danced 
around just outside her peripheral vision, wavering in the 
stark sunlight of reality.  

Had he been lying to her for the past six years or the past 
three days?  What was his truth?  Where would his truths 
and lies leave them, lead them?  She honestly didn't know, 
or maybe she was just too scared to look within herself to 
find out.


Day Three
3:32 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"This isn't right," Byers insisted as he, Skinner, and the 
other two Gunmen moved farther away from the entourage 
crowded around the communications board.

"It's out of my hands," contended Skinner, "Waters is the 
scene commander and he wants Mulder on the plane."

"The three of us are always the first to step forward and 
support Mulder.  We believe in him...but not this time, not 
in this situation," Frohike added emphatically.  

"His head's not in the right place," agreed Langly.

"I've discussed the matter with Assistant Director Waters 
and he feels otherwise," Skinner explained.  "Special Ops 
is going in with him, they'll be able to keep him in line."

"With all due respect, Scully couldn't always keep him in 
check.  Now it's her life on the line.  Just how careful do 
you think he's going to be?" questioned Byers.

"Mulder is aware of what's at stake," Skinner said after a 
long pause.

"Yeah, he is.  That's our point," Frohike replied gravely.

Byers scrubbed his forehead with his hand, frustration and 
guilt eating away at him.  For the rest of his days he 
would take responsibility for the events that had led to 
this moment.  He wished he had never called Mulder and 
offered him the case.  He wished he had tried harder to 
convince Mulder that what he was doing to Scully was wrong.  
It wasn't what she wanted or needed.  He had done neither, 
and for that he would never be able to forgive himself.

"It's out of our hands now," Langly said grimly, breaking 
the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the four 
men.  "We're running out of time and options.  We know what 
lengths the Column will go to.  This is all we have left--
aside from a full out breech."

Frohike pushed aside his doubts.  Langly was right.  They 
needed to stop worrying about Mulder's state of mind.  He 
needed their support now.  They were his friends and that's 
what it came down to.

Byers opened his mouth to speak but Skinner held his hand 
up, signaling for silence as he pulled his headset up and 
pressed it against his ear.  After listening for a moment 
he motioned toward the communications board. 

"Do we need to send an ambulance out?" Peters asked 
carefully.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Peters.  I can assure you 
that none of the children have been harmed.  As I said, 
when the fuel truck arrives we will send out the children."

"Give us a couple of minutes to get the truck out there.  
It isn't quite ready yet," Peters said as he looked in the 
direction of Agent Mulder and the five men who were going 
to accompany him onto the plane.

"Don't make us wait too long, Mr. Peters.  We are not 
patient men.  I would hate for something to happen to one 
of the children in the meantime."

"We understand.  It'll only be about ten more minutes."

"Good.  Very good," the hijacker said before ending the 
call.


Day Three
3:41 p.m.
Main Terminal
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Maggie Scully shivered as she stood in front of the large 
bank of windows, hugging herself against the chill that 
rose up within her.  She watched as the winds churned, 
blowing leaves and debris across the deserted parking lot.  
The skies were gray and heavy.  Ominous.  Foreboding.  
Foretelling.

She closed her eyes firmly, pushing away her doubts and 
apprehensions, wanting only to feel hopeful.  It was so 
hard when all that lay before her was the unknown.  The 
situation had grown graver since their arrival.  She had 
seen it in Walter Skinner's eyes, had heard it in his 
voice.  He was worried.

The hijackers wanted to leave the country, take the plane 
and her daughter and fly away to Lord knows where.  
Assistant Director Skinner had promised her he wouldn't let 
that happen.  He wouldn't let them take Dana away, and 
Maggie wanted desperately to believe him.  But what was he 
willing sacrifice, how far would he go to save her?

Fox Mulder was down there somewhere, trying to save her 
daughter.  For all the pain he had brought her family, 
Maggie knew he would save Dana.  He always had in the past.  
She had to believe he would do so again. 

Bill didn't feel the same way.  He didn't need to tell her, 
although he had repeatedly since he had arrived home and 
learned of the situation his younger sister was in.  Maggie 
could understand his feelings toward Dana's partner.  She 
herself gravitated in that same direction from time to 
time.  Fox Mulder was a complicated man, a complicated man 
capable of causing complicated problems.  Unfortunately, 
her daughter was often caught in the middle.

Maggie understood that Dana loved him, completely and 
unconditionally.  They shared a bond that was unbreakable, 
a connection so secure and certain that it defied reason.  
Dana had never said as much, but Maggie knew.  She had been 
able to read between the lines.  She had seen the deep 
respect and admiration they had for one another.  Love was 
hiding beneath their barriers and walls.  Someday it would 
appear.  Someday it would be all that mattered.  Someday 
they would surrender to it.

In part that knowledge frightened Maggie.  She was scared 
for Dana.  She was worried that someday the price extracted 
for his love would be too high, that in the end it would 
cost Dana her life. 

Fox Mulder was just a man, not evil incarnate.  He had made 
some wrong choices, taken some wrong paths.  He was not 
infallible.  He was human, and he loved Dana.  Maggie had 
known from the moment she had met him so long ago.  He had 
been Maggie's rock then.  He had given her hope when no one 
else could.  He had never given up on Dana, even when 
everyone else had, including Maggie.

Now she couldn't help but feel he was her daughter's only 
hope.  Maybe she should have felt uneasy about that, scared 
after all the pain he had brought her family over the past 
six years.  But as she stared out at the tumultuous sky and 
watched the snow as it began to fall, she felt a moment of 
peace and took comfort in the fact that Fox Mulder was 
below, trying to save her daughter.


Day Three
3:47 p.m.
Equipment Garage
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"The hatch is sealed magnetically.  When it's opened, 
either externally or internally, the seal is broken and a 
signal is sent to the cockpit, causing a warning light to 
flash," Byers explained to Agent Clark, the special 
operations team leader, as he handed the agent a small 
black device.  

"It may look small," Byers said in response to the doubtful 
look on the agent's face, "but it contains a very powerful 
magnet.  All you need to do is place it within three inches 
of the latch and it will fool the circuits into thinking 
that the door is closed."

"And you need to make sure you wait a few seconds after you 
engage the magnet before opening the hatch," Langly added 
flatly as he took in the Agent's dark, no-nonsense 
appearance with a grimace.

Clark nodded his head, closing his palm around the small 
but heavy instrument before turning abruptly and moving 
across the garage.  Langly shook his head wearily as he 
watched the agent join the rest of his team.

"I hope this works," Byers mused quietly.  He let out a 
loud sigh as he and Langly began to move purposefully 
across the large, dank garage.   

Byers stopped about five feet away from the small group of 
six men.  They were all dressed in black, waiting patiently 
to take their positions aboard the fuel tanker.  The team 
looked like a group of hired assassins. 

Byers caught Mulder's gaze and held it for a moment.  It 
was all he could do not to wince with all of the pain and 
anguish he saw housed within his friend's haunted gaze.  
Byers gave Mulder a hopeful half-smile, wordlessly 
conveying his understanding of the position he had placed 
himself in.  He, too, had once risked everything to save 
the woman he loved.

Mulder could only close his eyes and shake his head in 
response to his friend's supportive gesture.  He was trying 
to stay focused, to keep his head in the game and squarely 
on his shoulders.

But his mind kept falling back, pulling him into his 
hallway, into her arms.  He could feel her lips against his 
forehead that day, her hands resting gently against his 
flushed skin, so soft, so sweet--so full of promise.  Her 
kiss, her touch that day had been a vow.  That she would 
always be there.  That he could always count on her.  That 
she would always tell him the truth.  That she would always 
be his friend, his touchstone.  At that moment, she had 
wrapped herself firmly around his heart and entwined 
herself within his soul.

A week and a life altering decision later, she had kissed 
him.  Amidst his deceptions and betrayals she had laid 
herself open to him, offering to let down the last of her 
walls.  In doing so, she had really broken down the rest of 
his and even though he had pushed her away, he knew that 
she would always be a part of him.  He would never be able 
to move on, not after he had learned what it felt like to 
have her lips against his, to be cherished by the only 
woman he would ever love.

Suffering had always been a part of his life.  He didn't 
know how to function without it.  He didn't know how to let 
go of the guilt.  A part of him wanted to, longed to just 
let go and allow himself to be with her, to be happy.  He 
didn't think he could, it would be too selfish, too 
dangerous.  She was in this situation because of him.  
Mulder feared that despite his intentions, he may indeed, 
as the nightmares had prophesied, end up being the caused 
of her death.

He tried to pull himself together, but it was a struggle.  
Every part of his being was screaming for him to save her 
at whatever cost.  It was taking a great deal of effort 
just to stay focused.  His heart simply wanted to shut 
down, close off, secure itself against the impending 
torment and certain pain.  Despite his desire to save and 
protect her, a small part of him feared seeing her again.  
He knew that when he did he would be forced to confront his 
guilt head-on. 

Mulder wasn't given much of a chance to continue his 
internal reverie.  Skinner's strong and harsh voice echoed 
through his headset, "Agent Clark, prepare to move out."

Clark waved the rest of his team toward the medium sized 
tanker filled with fuel.  The men pulled down their masks, 
shielding their faces from the biting cold and flying snow 
that had descended upon them.  They quickly took their pre-
assigned positions along the back of the tanker to avoid 
being discovered by the hijackers during their long trip 
across the tarmac.  The team was crowded close together, 
each man stood sideways, gripping the bar across the back 
of the truck with one hand.

Mulder closed his eyes in silent prayer as the tanker's 
engine roared to life and he heard the garage door grinding 
open.  He steeled himself against the cold and the 
apprehensions that surrounded him as they began to move out 
of the garage.  When he opened his eyes he could see his 
two friends standing near the doorway, Byers and Langly 
silently wishing him luck and lending him their strength as 
he prepared to reclaim his life, his Scully.


Day Three
3:52 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The air in the cabin was charged with insuppressible fear.  
The children were being taken away, pulled from their 
mothers' grasps and marched down the aisles like little 
lambs to the slaughter.

Scully cringed, unable to separate herself from the terror 
that had descended.  The hijackers had announced, only a 
few moments ago, that the children were being released.  
They were being traded, used as tools in a bargain with the 
authorities.  For what, no one knew.

Mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and 
concerned strangers cried out.  They begged the hijackers 
not to hurt the children.  They pleaded for their safe 
release.  They cried for their own fear--that the hijackers 
were lying.  They couldn't be certain.  The passengers had 
no reasons to trust them, to believe they would not harm 
them.

Scully tried to separate herself, focus on the impetus 
behind the release of the children.  They were being 
bargained, but for what?  For fuel?  For permission to take 
off?  For money?  For some nameless cause?

For now, Scully could only hope that the children were 
indeed being released, that they would not be harmed in the 
process.  There was nothing she could do, nothing she could 
say to change the situation.  The hijackers were going to 
do as they pleased, regardless of the authorities, 
regardless of the passengers.  They had an agenda, one they 
seemed determined to follow.  It held their fate, and that 
frightened Scully most of all.


Day Three
3:54 p.m.
Outside of the plane
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Hold," Carter whispered into the microphone on his 
headset.  

The truck the recovery team was riding on stopped close to 
the rear of the plane.  The driver stepped out, immediately 
followed by another man.  The doors slammed shut.  Two 
agents, disguised as airport employees, moved to the back 
of the truck, ignoring the six men dressed in black who 
were clinging to the tanker.  

The snow was biting and blinding in its intensity.  If it 
didn't qualify as a blizzard, it soon would.  It showed no 
sign of letting up and that meant the hijackers had no 
chance to escape.  Mulder was grateful.  It gave them a 
little bit of leverage and time.

No one spoke.  No one moved as they remained in their 
positions, watching the two agents in disguise move around 
the back of the truck, preparing to fill the plane's fuel 
tanks.  The men waited, watching for the sign that they 
could move into position.

Mulder held himself tightly against the rear of the 
vehicle, pushing his headset firmly against his ear with 
his free hand as he listened for Skinner's order to move.  
He took in the scene around him from his limited vantage 
point.  

Snipers were positioned close to the plane, crouched next 
to the aircraft's large wheels.  They held their guns at 
the ready, prepared to offer cover, if need be, to the 
recovery team that was about to enter the plane.

"Recovery Team, go!" boomed Skinner's voice through the 
team's headsets.

The team was off of the truck and under the plane in less 
than ten seconds.

"Recovery Team, you're go for entry," Waters ordered 
through the headset as the team moved to stand under the 
hatch that led up into the belly of the plane.

"Copy," said Carter.  "Scrambler engaged.  Preparing to 
open the hatch.  Give me a time count, Command."

"Copy, Recovery Leader."

The hatch opened with a loud groan that caused everyone to 
wince.  Carter motioned for the team to enter before he put 
his hands together to give each man a boost up.  

Mulder entered first.  


Day Three
4:02 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Sir, we've got movement," announced one of the techies 
seated in front of the video board.  He attempted to 
optimize reception in spite of the blinding blizzard that 
raged around the plane.

Skinner hadn't needed to be informed.  He had seen the 
movement himself, felt a knot form in his stomach as the 
door of the plane was thrust open.

Stairs had been put into place only moments before the fuel 
tanker was sent out.  The snipers were in place as well.  
All four of the ambulances had been deployed.  They were 
manned with additional personnel and ready to retrieve the 
children the moment they stepped off the stairs.

Walter Skinner glanced over at Waters as the assistant 
director maintained contact with the recovery team.  "That 
was thirty-four seconds," Waters relayed as he watched the 
team leader being pulled into the belly of the plane, the 
hatch closing behind him. 

"Copy that, Command," was Carter's even but hushed reply. 
"We look secure.  Any negative indication on your end?"

"Negative, Recovery Leader.  Proceed," Waters said before 
pushing away his mouthpiece and blowing out a loud, relief-
filled sigh.

Skinner offered Waters a tight smile as the two men made 
eye contact.  Waters had been right to place a team aboard 
the plane.  The more time that passed, the more certain 
Skinner had become that the team was their best and only 
hope for any kind of peaceful resolution.  However, Skinner 
had not changed his mind as far as Mulder's presence on the 
plane was concerned.  He was well aware of how great an 
asset Mulder could be, but equally aware of Mulder's innate 
ability to be just as great a liability.  Skinner didn't 
hold out much hope considering the agent's grounding rod 
was the one in danger.

"It looks like we've got more movement," Skinner said into 
his microphone as he pulled himself out of his reverie.  
"We've got a poor picture here.  I need confirmation.  Team 
One?"

A loud blast of static hit before the team leader replied, 
his voice faint.  "I've got a visual on three so far, 
Command.  More coming down the stairs."

"Copy that, One," Skinner said before turning to catch the 
eyes of the Gunmen who were hovering somewhere behind him.  
He motioned the men over and flipped off his microphone.  
"Can we do anything about the reception?"

"Not unless we put some cameras under the plane," Langly 
replied as he gestured toward the monitors.  "The cameras 
are too far away and they can't be zoomed in any closer."

"Snow's not helping either," added Frohike in reference to 
the near zero visibility conditions.

"Really, I didn't notice the storm," Skinner replied 
tersely, his patience and nerves stretched to their 
breaking point.  The situation had been perilous enough 
before, and now that Mulder had been added to the fray the 
stakes and risks had more than doubled.

Frohike backed off at the menacing look in the assistant 
director's eyes.  Skinner was glad to see Frohike 
recognized when to walk away.

"Let's see what we can do about getting some cameras placed 
under the wings," Skinner barked in the direction of the 
four techies manning the video board.

"Has Peters heard anymore?" Skinner asked, pointedly 
directing his question towards Byers, the only Lone Gunman 
he had any patience for at the moment.

"No," said Byers as he reflexively adjusted his already 
straight tie.  "How do you think Mulder is holding up?"

Placing his hands on hips, the assistant director blew out 
a loud puff of air before he reached up and adjusted his 
glasses.  "He's better, I think, now that he feels like he 
is doing something to help her," replied Skinner.  He 
paused for a moment, pursing his lips in thought before he 
spoke again, his voice softer, barely above a whisper. 
"He'll keep it together.  For her."

Byers nodded and walked closer to the monitors.

Swallowing hard, Skinner looked down at his shoes, wishing 
once again that Mulder hadn't insisted on putting himself 
on the plane.  Skinner knew Mulder was a good man and a 
good agent.  Mulder's intense determination and unwavering 
belief that the truth was indeed out there had shaped him.  
It had changed him, for the better.  And so had Scully.

Skinner knew that Mulder was strong, too.  Mulder's 
strength had sustained him through some harrowing times, 
saved his life, Skinner's, Scully's, and countless others' 
more times than Skinner cared to recall.  But he had not 
done it alone.  He'd had Scully.  Over the past six years 
Mulder had come to depend on her as she depended on him, 
although Skinner doubted either agent would admit to it 
readily or even under duress, except to each other.

Skinner knew Mulder would save her.  He would stop at 
nothing less.  He wouldn't be Mulder if he did.  And that 
was exactly what worried Skinner. 

"We've got seventeen off," Waters said, breaking Skinner 
away from his musings.  "That's all of them."

Skinner turned and stepped closer to the monitors, 
adjusting his glasses and squinting his eyes in hopes of 
getting a clearer view.  He could barely make out the 
shapes of the children as they were loaded quickly into the 
ambulances.

"I'm sending six agents over from headquarters to question 
them once they get to the hospital," added Waters as he 
pulled out his cell phone to call the Director.

Skinner nodded in agreement as he continued to stare at the 
screen in front of him.  It was a start.  It was something.  

"Command, this is Recovery.  Come in."

Skinner pulled the microphone back up to his mouth.  "This 
is Command."

"Command, we're in.  Everything still looks secure on this 
end.  We've already started to do a preliminary sweep of 
avionics and baggage."

"Copy, Recovery.  Keep us informed."

Skinner flipped off his microphone and listened to the 
shrill wails of the ambulances as they passed the command 
center.  

"At least we've bought ourselves a little time," Waters 
said to Skinner as he closed his cell phone, his expression 
stoic but hopeful.

"Yeah, but is it enough?" Skinner mused aloud.  After a 
brief pause he continued,  "Recovery is searching the lower 
deck of the plane.  Everything is looking good on that 
end."

Several long minutes passed as the two assistant directors 
quietly stared at the monitors in front of them, each man 
trying to divine the course of events that had led them to 
this point and the course of events that would hopefully 
lead them out.


Day Three
4:20 p.m.
Main Terminal
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Maggie took a deep breath and tried to assuage the sudden 
panic that had begun to overwhelm her.

Children had been released.  CNN had announced it only 
minutes ago.  They were being taken to a local hospital, 
but they appeared to be unharmed.  

Maggie couldn't help but wonder why.  Was the plane going 
to leave now?  Had they been given fuel?  What did all of 
this mean?

She stared down the hall, hoping Assistant Director Skinner 
would come to speak with them.  She tried to understand 
that he was busy, but she needed to know.  She had to know.  
Her daughter was down there, but for how much longer?


Day Three
4:25 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Byers paced in front of the monitors, glancing every few 
seconds in their direction.  Not a word had been heard from 
the hijackers since the children had been released. 

He glanced over at Skinner and watched as the man paced in 
front of the communications board.  He was waiting for a 
call from the hijackers, expecting them to announce their 
departure.  Byers wondered if there was anything they could 
do to stop them.

He looked over at the monitors one last time before moving 
across the room to stand next to Skinner.  

"Anything yet?" Waters asked as he moved to join the group 
gathered in front of the communications board.

"Nothing," Skinner replied, never taking his eyes off the 
red phone on the table.

"This isn't right.  Why haven't they asked to take off?" 
Waters asked.

"I don't know," Skinner replied blandly.

No one spoke for a few tense moments.  The silence was 
charged, crackling with unspoken fear.  

"Command."

Skinner jumped as the voice of Team Leader Clark echoed 
through his headset.

Water's flipped on his mike first.  "Recovery.  Go."

"Command, advise.  We've found a bomb."