THE FIFTH COLUMN
By Kemystre

~ Chapter Twelve - This Is Wrong ~


*This chapter is marked R for violent situations.*

Day Three
4:14 p.m.
Main Terminal 
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Bill Scully had long since given up pacing and had planted 
himself firmly in an uncomfortable vinyl chair.  He watched 
the seconds slowly tick by on the large clock in the center 
of the terminal.

He was unable to decide if he wanted the sweeping second 
hand to move faster or slower.  He was ready for 
resolution, for the ordeal to end.  Every passing second 
brought them closer, but to what?  Would she survive?  
Would he bury another sister?  He didn't want to believe it 
would end badly, but the longer the debacle continued the 
less hopeful he was.

He wanted to hold on to his memories, to live in denial a 
little while longer.  In his heart he still had hope.  It 
was faint, soft but unrelenting.  He couldn't let go of it.  
He didn't want to let go of it.  He was scared that it was 
all he had left.

Bill not only considered himself to be a patriot, but a 
good American.  He was a navy man.  He believed in his 
country, in what it stood for.  However, from the moment he 
had met Fox Mulder, his vision of the F.B.I., and in turn 
his government had become jaded.  Maybe he had just taken 
off his rose-colored glasses, but he didn't think so.  Any 
organization that would give a badge and gun to an alien-
chasing, pathological psychopath was not worth Bill's faith 
or trust.

Mulder's involvement in the rescue attempt certainly did 
not promote Bill's faith in a peaceful resolution.  In 
fact, it had quite the opposite effect.  As superstitious 
as it sounded, he couldn't help but feel Mulder's presence 
would jinx the rescue.  Fox Mulder would cost him another 
sister and quite possibly sooner than he had ever expected.

Bill looked away from the clock, tearing his mind away from 
his doubtful thoughts.  Dana needed someone to believe in 
her right now.  He needed to be able to do that.

Regardless of their previous disagreements, Bill loved his 
sister.  He didn't always admit it, or show it--but he knew 
she was strong.  She was stronger than the situation she 
was in, stronger than Fox Mulder.  Dana would come to her 
senses where he was concerned.  Bill was certain it was 
only a matter of time before she saw the light, and not the 
kind associated with unidentified flying objects. 

He popped his neck in hopes of relieving some of the 
tension that had twisted him into an angry ball of knots.  
The hijackers' deadline had come and gone and there was 
still no word from the powers that be, the F.B.I., or 
Assistant Director Skinner.

Bill seethed.  They had been lured to the airport with the 
promise that they would be kept updated.  Clearly that was 
not the case.

He wanted to push his way down onto the tarmac, into the 
command center Skinner had mentioned and demand answers.  
He wanted to know what was going on, what was going down, 
whether or not his sister was going to survive.


Day Three
4:22 p.m.
Cargo Hold - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"What do you mean, you don't know?" Mulder hissed in a 
fierce whisper.

"That's enough, Agent Mulder," Clark responded quietly but 
with venom.  He rose from his crouched position next to the 
team's weapons expert, Agent Wade Vanauken.

"Agent Mulder, it's going to take me a little longer than 
five seconds to assess the configuration and capabilities 
of this device," Vanauken replied evenly.  His eyes never 
left the complicated array of tubes, wires, liquid filled 
canisters, and electronics that sat before him.

Mulder set his jaw as all the anger and frustration he had 
felt throughout the day finally came to a head and 
threatened to erupt violently.  He held in the biting 
remarks that came to mind, focusing instead on the device 
in front of Vanauken.  He tried not to remember the debacle 
in Dallas, the device that looked so similar to the one in 
front of him now.

Agent Proust had found it almost immediately.  He and Agent
Genndy had been sent into the cargo hold to secure the area 
and look for anything that appeared suspicious or out of 
place.  No one had expected them to find a bomb. 

"It doesn't appear to be on a timer," Vanauken said after a 
few strained and uncomfortable minutes.

"But you aren't certain?" Clark asked a moment later, 
reaching down and preparing to turn on the microphone 
connected to his headset.

"No, I can't be, not without tearing the whole thing apart.  
The timer could be buried or even on a remote.  I'm fairly 
certain that isn't the case though."

Clark nodded.  "Command," he said quietly, "this is 
Recovery."

"Go, Recovery," replied Assistant Director Waters.

"Command, negative on the timer."

"What?!?" questioned Mulder, a little too loudly, as he 
spun around and cast a disbelieving glare in the team 
leader's direction.  Agent Proust grabbed his arm quickly, 
silently reminding Mulder to keep his voice down, lest the 
terrorists above them hear.

"Copy that, Recovery."

Clark flipped off his microphone and met Mulder's steely 
stare head-on, wordlessly conveying that his authority 
would not be questioned. 

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked 
Clark, struggling to keep his voice at an appropriate 
level.

"I, Agent Mulder, am doing my job and yours is not to 
question it."

Mulder made a move in the direction of Clark, but Proust 
grabbed his arm again, tightly holding him back.  "I don't 
know what kind of games you are playing here, Clark, but 
you can count on me not to go along with them."

Agent Russel stepped forward, moving in between the two men 
as they waged a silent war of wills with their eyes.  
Russel held up his hand and turned to look at Mulder.  
"Chances are we won't find a timer.  Command can't do 
anything about it if we do.  Just drop it, Agent Mulder.  
We have a lot to do and we don't have time for a pissing 
contest," he cautioned, meeting each man squarely in the 
eye before stepping away and moving back into the avionics 
room.

Mulder ripped his arm roughly out of Proust's firm hold, 
shaking away the agent and moving out of the cargo hold.


Day Three
4:38 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Move!  I said move!" shouted one of the hijackers as he 
herded several passengers from coach, at gunpoint, into the 
business class section.  Apparently they wanted to reduce 
the number of people in the largest section of the plane.

Scully silently watched as the men forced the passengers 
into the seats vacated by the children.  They left as soon 
as their task was completed, not uttering another word.  
Scully was not surprised by their lack of commentary.  
These men, over the past eleven hours, had not once felt 
the need to share their intentions with the passengers.  
They still didn't know where they were, why they were being 
held hostage, if they would survive.

The knowledge that someone was out there was Scully's only
assurance, her only hope.  

She understood the protocol that must be adhered to, the 
patience that would be required by the law enforcement 
personnel.  She also understood the statistics associated 
with such terrorist situations.  She knew that the longer 
the situation remained unresolved the less chance there was 
for a peaceful resolution.  More innocent people were sure 
to die.

Scully thrust her hands into her coat pockets, attempting 
to warm her cold fingers.  She stared at the seat in front 
of her and wished she could do something, anything, to aid 
in the resolution, save the lives that would surely be 
lost.  When her fingers brushed against her forgotten cell 
phone a plan began to form.

Scully wrapped her fingers around the cold plastic and 
hazarded a glance around.  Very slowly, never taking her 
eyes off the two terrorists, she pulled out the phone.  She 
carefully laid it next to her on the seat, between her leg 
and the wall.  She rose up slightly and slid the top 
portion of the phone under her thigh, effectively blocking 
any noise that might be overheard by the hijackers.

With only a moment's hesitation she pressed the first speed 
dial button and hit send.


Day Three
4:44 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Skinner reached down and pulled his cell phone out of his 
jacket pocket.  He brought it to his ear before he realized 
it wasn't ringing.

"It's Mulder's," Langly said as he picked up the phone and 
handed it to the assistant director.

Skinner quietly accepted the phone and hit a button.  
"Hello," he said.  He was met with silence and ended the 
call a few moments later.  "Must have been a wrong number," 
he said to Langly and placed the phone back on the counter 
in front of him.

Langly nodded and continued to peck away at the keyboard of 
his laptop, searching for more information on the Castellan 
and The Fifth Column.  The Gunmen had received more 
information via anonymous sources throughout the day.  
Unfortunately, the intelligence had been neither new or 
useful.

Mulder's phone rang again a few moments later.   

"Hello," Skinner said into the mouthpiece when he answered 
the phone.  When no reply came he pulled the phone away 
from his ear and moved to end the call. 

With cat-like reflexes that belied his appearance, Langly 
grabbed the phone before Skinner was able to disconnect the 
call.  "Hold on a second," he said in response to Skinner's 
questioning stare.

The gunman put the phone to his ear and listened for a 
moment before responding in full to the assistant 
director's silent question.  "We need to get a trace on 
this," Langly said.  "It could be Agent Scully."

"Agent Vincent," Skinner said in a loud and urgent whisper, 
"let's get a trace on Agent Mulder's cell phone.  Now."

The young woman nodded and went about the task.  Frohike 
stepped forward and watched over her shoulder.

Langly held the phone close to his ear, hearing nothing.  
He watched as Agent Vincent worked to complete the trace, 
knowing all the while that the call was from Scully.  He 
could feel it in his gut.  If anything Scully had always 
been resourceful.  Even in the midst of imminent danger she 
seemed to have found a way to keep them informed.  

"I've got it," Agent Vincent said a minute later.  "It's a 
cellular phone, 202-555-3564."

"Can you do a reverse trace on--" Skinner started to ask.

"It's Scully, that's her cell phone number," Langly said 
confidently.

Skinner nodded staunchly, never questioning the veracity of 
the Lone Gunman's claim.   

Langly depressed the mute button on the phone, effectively 
eliminating the possibility that the hijackers would be 
able to hear noises from the command center.  He quickly 
wired the phone to a recording device and he and another 
agent donned new headsets, preparing to listen for any 
clues that may come from the innovative Agent Scully.

Skinner paced slowly behind Langly, stoically considering 
the ramifications that may arise from Scully's well-placed, 
yet dangerous phone call.  He could only hope that her 
actions would remain undiscovered by the hijackers.  He 
didn't care to contemplate the alternative.  

His thoughts were interrupted a few moments later by a 
blast of static through his earphones.

"Command, this is Recovery.  Come in."

Skinner waited a moment, giving Waters a chance to field 
the call if he was available.  "Recovery, go," he said a 
few seconds later.

"Skinner, just checking status."

"Agent Mulder," Skinner began slowly, not exactly sure how 
he should inform the agent of his partner's call.  "Scully 
contacted us," he said a moment later, failing to come up 
with a less blunt approach.

"Come again, Sir."

"Actually, Agent Scully was trying to contact you.  She 
called your cell phone."

"When?  How?  What did she say?"  Mulder asked quickly.

"She used her cell phone, we ran a trace.  We've haven't 
heard anything, but she's still on the line," he explained 
as he turned to look at Langly.

"She wanted you...me," he said, audibly swallowing, "to 
hear what was going on."

"That certainly appears to be the case."

Mulder was quiet for a few long and tense moments.  Skinner 
maintained the silence, not knowing what else to say to the 
agent.

"Okay."

"Otherwise, status unchanged," Skinner said a second later.  
"Do you have any more information on the device?"

"No, Sir.  Nothing yet."

He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly reconsidered. 
Something in Mulder's voice didn't sound right and it hit a 
nerve with the A.D.  Over the past six years he had gotten 
to know Fox Mulder fairly well, and he was certainly more 
than capable of determining when his agent was holding 
something back.   This was, without a doubt, one of those 
times.

"Agent Mulder, I'm sure that you, in particular, understand 
the seriousness of this situation.  Would you care to 
rethink your last response?"

"No, Sir," he said quietly several long seconds later.

Skinner quickly decided not to press the issue.  There was 
no doubt in his mind that Mulder was keeping something from 
him, but Skinner was not willing to attempt to drag it out 
of him over an unrestricted line.  He would talk to Mulder 
about it later, when they had a private connection, when 
things weren't as frantic.

"Is that all, Recovery?  For now?"

"Recovery out."

Skinner flipped down his microphone and let out a long and 
exasperated breath.  He turned to Langly, whose vision was 
focused straight ahead as he held the headphones firmly 
against his ears.  He must have sensed that Skinner was 
watching and waved the assistant director off, wordlessly 
conveying that nothing had been overheard.  

Byers had moved to stand next to Frohike, who had 
apparently filled in the younger man. "What do you make of 
all of this, Assistant Director Skinner?" he asked.

Skinner closed his eyes, grimaced, and shook his head.  He 
honestly didn't know.  Nothing seemed to make sense--up was 
down, right was left.  He believed Mulder, trusted the 
agent's instincts.  The Lone Gunmen had even found evidence 
to support his claims, but the hijackers' actions seemed to 
belie Mulder's truths.

A bomb had been discovered aboard the craft.  What purpose 
did it serve?  Why hadn't the terrorists informed them of 
its existence and used it as leverage?  Were they planning 
on detonating it if they weren't allowed to escape?  Would 
it be their insurance that all of the evidence was 
destroyed?  In the back of his mind Skinner couldn't help 
but wonder if it wasn't simply the ultimate act of 
terrorism.  That the hijackers had planned to kill the 
passengers all along and commit suicide in the process.  
That they were willing to die for a cause they had yet to 
name.


Day Three
4:52 p.m.
Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


He paced restlessly back and forth.  Mulder couldn't bear 
to watch Vanauken.  He couldn't stand to wait and wonder.  
He needed to do something, anything.  He needed to help 
her, save her from the situation he had placed her in.  

He shook his head, trying to shrug away the nightmares and 
the fates they had foretold.  He couldn't though--he was 
living them.  They had come true, his worst fears and 
intimate horrors.  They were living, breathing, and 
threatening to swallow Scully whole.

They had already taken him, leaving an empty space, a shell 
where his soul used to reside.  He was okay with that--as 
long as she was whole.  He could endure anything if she 
would remain safe, secure, unbound from the hell that 
shrouded his life.  It was better this way, better that she 
could be free and happy.  He just needed to keep reminding 
himself of that.



Day Three
5:01 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The situation was becoming stagnant, even from the most 
optimistic point of view.   They had come to a precipice, 
stood at the edge of a cliff and were looking down, not 
knowing whether to take a blind leap of faith or remain 
rooted.

Logically, Skinner knew they must maintain the status quo, 
that they must play it safe.  All the while his gut told 
him otherwise, that waiting to take the plunge would only 
cost more lives, and that Scully would be among the dead 
when they were counted.

He tried to console himself that it wasn't his decision, 
that it was out of his hands.  He wanted to shrug off the 
guilt and culpability that weighed heavily on his 
shoulders.  He couldn't--not this time.  If Scully were to 
die he would be responsible...at least, in part, for not 
standing his ground and arguing his position with Waters 
and the Director.

They wanted to wait, hold off on the breech.  They wanted 
to give the Recovery Team a chance to disarm the bomb, 
acquire intelligence, and assess the situation.  Skinner 
agreed that those were all reasonable desires, however, he 
doubted Scully and the other passengers would survive the 
wait.

The situation was beyond complex.  Bombs, terrorists, 
ulterior motives, lies, conspiracies, threats...all of 
these were interwoven, only discernable to Skinner as an 
intricately layered melodrama.  It was a tale that seemed 
to be without a happy ending, a nightmare that could not be 
fathomed or understood.  At the center of it all were 
Mulder and Scully, the dynamic duo who seemed unable to 
thwart the constant vigil of danger and deception.

In true Mulder and Scully fashion they stood on the brink 
of damnation, pushing the envelope, fighting to return to 
one another.  Skinner expected nothing less.  The strength 
and determination the A.D. knew they had was the only spark 
of hope that remained for him.  They had survived graver 
situations, but Skinner wondered how many times they could 
truly cheat fate.

He glanced to his left, an unconscious response in an 
unconscionable situation.  He squinted and concentrated on 
bringing the image of the plane on the video screens into 
focus.  The escalating storm coupled with the stark sheet 
of darkness that had come with nightfall made the task 
unaccomplishable.  Even the addition of cameras to the 
wings and underside of the craft gave little visual 
insight.

The National Weather Service had recently upgraded the 
storm to a blizzard.  The falling temperatures, strong 
winds, and blinding snow showed no sign of relenting in the 
near future.

Skinner rose from his seat between the Gunmen, shaking his 
head, but not the sense of trepidation that shrouded him. 

"Come in, Command," said Team Leader Carter through the 
radio system.

Out of the corner of his eye Skinner saw Waters moving 
across the room toward him.

"Go, Recovery," Waters said.

"Command, Coach and Business Class are wired for sound."

"Copy that, Recovery.  We'll get patched into those right 
away."

"Recovery out."

Skinner watched as Frohike and the other technicians began 
to hard wire the newly acquired sound devices into the 
communication board.  Two new agents approached and took 
seats at the table, readying themselves to monitor the 
microphones.

Waters flipped off his headset and turned to Skinner.  
"Anything from Agent Scully?" he asked.

"Nothing," Skinner supplied, his voice thick and heavy with 
resignation.

"We'll pick something up with the microphones," Waters 
replied confidently.

Skinner only wished that he could feel so hopeful.


Day Three
5:06 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully heard them before they appeared.

"Go!" he said.  His voice was loud and harsh even through 
the thick curtain separating the first and business class 
sections.

A scant moment later a man tumbled headlong through the 
curtain, landing heavily on his hand and knees.  Scully 
craned her neck, trying to get a better view.

"Get up!" yelled the hijacker as he burst through the 
curtain and roughly kicked the man in the side.  He doubled 
over in pain, but the terrorist remained undaunted, 
fiercely grabbing the man by the collar and jerking him 
upright in one swift movement.

Scully stubbornly held back the gasp she felt rising up 
within her throat.  Deep, dark blood ran down the man's 
face from a gash above his right eye.  Scully resisted the 
ingrained urge she felt to step forward and aid the man.

She watched carefully, trying to take in as much detail as 
possible.  He was wearing a dark blue airline uniform and 
Scully squinted in hopes of reading his name and position 
from the badge pinned to his chest.

The gasp she had held in so well only moments ago, loosened 
and escaped.  He was the captain, Matt Jacobs.

The terrorist shoved the captain into an empty seat in the 
first row.  Without uttering another word, he turned and 
left.


Day Three
5:07 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"The weather isn't going to permit it.  It's not safe or 
even possible," insisted the negotiator.

Skinner and Waters stood to his left, trying to keep up 
with both the commotion aboard the plane and Peters' 
conversation with the hijacker.

"Mr. Peters, that wasn't a request," the hijacker said with 
complete confidence.

"It's out of my hands Mr.--"

"Your psychological games aren't going to work with me, Mr.
Peters.  Allow me to clarify my position.  We are going to 
take off *now*.  If we are not permitted to do so a 
passenger will die, and I think we have made it very clear 
which one it will be."

"It's impossible for a plane to take off in this weather.  
Have you looked out the windows?  Have you noticed the 
blizzard?"  Peters asked, his voice calm and steady.

"We are not negotiating with you, Mr. Peters.  You can 
consider this to be a courtesy call.  We take off or she 
dies.  You have twenty minutes to comply."

The line went dead before Peters had a chance to respond.

The negotiator threw down his headset, his patience 
completely evaporated.  He turned to the two assistant 
directors, "Well?" he asked.

"They will not be allowed to leave," Waters answered, 
"regardless of the consequences."

Skinner leaned in toward Waters.  "Are you willing to take 
the responsibility for Agent Scully's death then?" he 
hissed, "Because I'm not."

Waters didn't respond, but Skinner took some satisfaction 
in the look of fear that momentarily fluttered across the 
man's face.

"We've got nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds," 
Skinner said a moment later, glancing down at his watch.  
"I suggest we come up with an alternative and fast.  The 
death of Agent Scully is simply unacceptable."

"Sir," Byers interrupted, "I think we may have gotten 
something."

"What?" Skinner and Waters asked simultaneously.

Byers flipped on a recording device.  "You've already heard 
most of this," the Gunman said.  "This is what we picked up 
from the first class cabin."

"Move!" shouted a man, his voice clear and crisp even over 
the tape.  "Damn it Jacobs, I said move!"

Byers stopped the tape and turned to the entourage 
surrounding him.  "Jacobs is the captain, the pilot," he 
explained.  

The Gunman reached down and turned on another tape.  
"Frohike picked this up a few seconds later from the 
business class section."

"Go!" said the same voice from the first recording.  A 
couple of moments later the terrorist yelled again, "Get 
up!"

Byers turned off the tape.  "You can hear a bit of a 
scuffle after that and then there is silence again."

Frohike stepped forward.  "They seemed to be moving him 
from the front of the plane into the same section as Agent 
Scully," he explained.

"Why would they take the pilot out of the cockpit?  Who is 
going to fly the plane?" Waters asked.

"I'm sure they have their own pilot," said Frohike.

"Several actually," Langly said, pointing in the direction 
of the files accumulating near the communications board.  
"They are with the Air Force," he said flatly.

Skinner gave the Gunman a warning glance before speaking.  
"What about the hijacker, the one who called?"

"We didn't pick him up on any of the transmissions," Byers 
said.  

"I hate to interrupt," Peters said, stepping forward into 
the fold, "but I need to know what's been decided.  We're 
running out of time here."


Day Three
5:11 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Just as the panic ebbed from the arrival of the captain, 
four more terrorists burst through the curtain, without 
warning.  They joined the tall one and the one with the 
raspy voice who stood at the front of the section.

The quickness and flourish they had entered with seemed for 
naught.  They stood idly, dark menacing looks of patience 
marring their features.

Scully adjusted the phone cautiously to allow for maximum 
reception should the terrorists choose to speak.

The young woman sitting next to her began to fidget, 
drawing unwanted attention from the hijackers.  They 
watched intently as the woman squirmed and looked as if she 
were about to burst into tears.  

The six terrorists turned when the curtain rustled once 
again.  A tall, muscular man with a mustache entered, 
dressed as the others in combat gear.  The hijackers 
parted, making way for him.  

He had an air of power, an aura of danger and calm control 
about him.  The look of complete and utter menace that 
danced within his emerald green eyes caused a shiver to 
race up Scully's spine.  Her heart lurched as he moved in 
her direction.

He took long, slow strides down the aisle and stopped a few 
feet away from Scully.  She brought her eyes to his and saw 
pure evil.

When he spoke, she stopped breathing.

"Agent Scully, it is time."





~ Chapter Thirteen - There Can Be No Happy Ending ~


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

Day Three
5:13 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"We've got noise," Agent Jenkins yelled in Skinner's 
direction.

Skinner nodded his head and moved closer to the 
communications board.

Jenkins flipped a switch and the microphone's transmission 
was piped through a speaker in time for everyone to hear 
the hijacker's words.

"Agent Scully, it is time."

"No!" Waters yelled. "We've still got seventeen minutes!"

Skinner flipped up his headset, letting the panic of the 
moment slip off and centering himself for the task at hand.  
"Team One," he said over the radio to the snipers beneath 
the plane. "Stand in, be prepared to move."

"Copy that, Command."

"You're not sending them in now," insisted Waters, "it'll 
be a blood bath!"

"It may come to that whether they go in or not," Skinner 
said calmly as he scanned the video screens across the 
room.

"They don't move without my order."

He turned to Waters.  Skinner pursed his lips and pulled 
himself up to his full height, his posture and demeanor 
leaving no room for misinterpretation. "You may be the 
scene commander, but I'll be damned if I sit here and do 
nothing while they murder Agent Scully!"

"Enough," Frohike said, stepping between the two men and 
casting each a recriminating look.

Skinner snorted in response. 

Waters looked as if he was about to physically remove 
Frohike, or worse.

"Someone might want to inform the rescue team," Byers 
calmly suggested.

Waters continued to glare at Frohike as he flipped on his 
microphone.  "Recovery, come in."

"Whoa, man.  Do you really think that's a good idea?"  
Frohike asked.

"Mulder is a grown man, Frohike," Langly said.  "He can 
handle it."

"Are we talking about the same individual?"  Frohike 
questioned as his hackles began to rise.

"Quiet!" seethed Skinner, not sure how much more of the 
Gunmen he could take.

"Go, Command," Clark said through the radio.

"Recovery, we've got a situation," Waters replied.  "The 
hijackers have given us an ultimatum.  They want to take 
off in a little more than fifteen minutes."

"Or?"

"They kill a passenger."

Skinner nodded his approval in Waters direction.  There was 
no sense in revealing the identity of the next victim.  A 
half-cocked Mulder running rampant aboard the plane was not 
a complication Skinner felt up to dealing with at the 
moment.

"Copy that, Command.  What is your planned course of 
action?"

"Just hold for now, continue as is.  We'll keep you 
informed."

"Ten-four, Recovery out."


Day Three
5:15 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The terrorist stood before her, his unblinking gaze focused 
firmly on the woman.  He had made no move nor had he spoken 
a word since he had first addressed her.  The hijacker 
seemed content doing nothing more than staring at the 
petite woman.  Dale Gerrado sat a few rows behind her, 
barely able to see her over the top of the seat.

He squirmed in his own chair, craning his neck in hopes of 
discovering a better vantage point.  From Dale's point of 
view the hijacker and the woman seemed to be engaged in a 
stalemate, a silent battle of will waged only with their 
eyes.

Dale reached out his hand, unconsciously groping for the 
fingers of his wife.  He closed his eyes and berated 
himself for the slip.  He turned away for a moment, unable 
to allow his raw and ragged emotions to take control, to 
overwhelm him.  

He was cold, shivering, trying to ignore the empty seat to 
his left.  He wanted desperately to take back the last 
several hours, to hold his wife in his arms once again.

"Kelly," he whispered to himself, "why did they have to 
take you?"

"Miss Scully," the terrorist said, pulling Dale out of his 
mournful reverie.

The hijacker, who was obviously the leader, held out his 
large hand.  He extended it to the small woman in front of 
him.  "Please stand."

Dale watched closely, barely suppressing a shudder.

When the woman didn't respond, the hijacker continued.  
"Miss Scully, that wasn't a request.  You will stand now or 
face the consequences."

The pretty, petite woman started to rise, her back held 
straight and her head high.

The cabin erupted into utter chaos.  The passengers started 
to cry out and stand up.  The hijackers began to yell, 
warning the hostages to remain quiet.  

The captain rose quickly.  He moved behind one of the 
hijackers and wrapped his fingers around the man's throat.  
Despite his size, the captain was taken out quickly and 
almost effortlessly, knocked back into his seat by the butt 
of the terrorist's gun.

Dale could barely make out what was taking place in front 
of him. Four passengers in his row had risen, effectively 
blocking his view.  He started to scoot to his left, 
intending to take the aisle seat, but stopping himself 
quickly.  He couldn't do that. He couldn't sit in Kelly's 
seat.

Even though Dale couldn't see, the sound of a hand striking 
the surface of the woman's cheek was unmistakable.  He 
caught a glimpse of her small form as she fell to the aisle 
with a thud.

Another hijacker stepped forward, pulling the woman up 
abruptly from the floor and dragging her toward the front 
of the plane.  Dale closed his eyes.  He wanted to shrink 
away.  He wanted to forget.  He wanted to not be reminded 
of what they had done to Kelly, of what they were going to 
do to the woman--Agent Scully.


Day Three
5:18 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Do you have the cameras in yet?" Waters asked loudly as he 
tried to make himself heard over the din surrounding him.

"Negative, Command.  We're still working on that."

"Work faster!" Waters yelled in reply before promptly 
turning off his headset.

Skinner turned to look at the assistant director, his brows 
arching at the tone of Waters' voice.  Skinner took a deep 
breath and steadied himself for the impending storm.  

Waters had a reputation around the bureau for having a 
quick temper and Skinner was certain he was about to 
witness a large dose--first hand.

"Damn it," Waters muttered as he approached Skinner, his 
face red and his back taut.

Skinner cleared his throat and pushed himself up from the 
communications board.

"What have you got?" Waters asked, obviously trying to keep 
himself in check.

"They've got Scully," Skinner replied a moment later, 
desperately battling against his own emotions.

"And?"

"It's hard to tell," Skinner responded, feeling his own 
temper begin to flare.  "One of the hijackers, asked her to 
stand and apparently she did.  He sounded like the one 
Peters has been communicating with, but we'll have to wait 
on voice print matching to be certain.  After that, all 
hell broke loose and we couldn't make out anything."

"He's the leader," Waters interjected confidently.

"That's the assumption we're going off of, yes."

Waters looked down at his watch.  "We've still got roughly 
ten minutes."

"To do what?" asked Frohike, rising from his chair and 
turning in Waters' direction.

"Listen, you--"

"That's enough," Skinner cautioned.  "This is a tenuous 
situation as it is, we don't need to make it worse."

Waters huffed in the Gunman's direction.  "I've got to call 
the Director.  Make sure everyone is ready," he said to 
Skinner as he pulled out his cell phone.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Skinner muttered under his breath 
before flipping on his own mike.

"Command!  Come in!" shouted Carter through the headset.

"A.D. Skinner," yelled Agent Jenkins and Byers 
simultaneously.

"Shots fired!  I repeat, shots fired!" barked Carter.  
"Advise!"

"What in the hell?" shouted Waters, covering the mouthpiece 
of his cell phone with one hand.  "We still have eight 
minutes!"

Langly pulled off his headset, the shouts and screams of 
the passengers audible even from its position on the 
tabletop.

"That's not a lot of use anymore," he said as he rubbed his 
ears.

Waters signaled for Peters to try to contact the hijackers 
and returned to his phone call with the Director.

"Recovery, we need that camera in now," Skinner implored 
through his headset.

"Command, we're still working on that.  We seem to be 
having technical difficulties.  Any idea what is going on 
above?" the team leader quickly asked.

"Other than shots being fired, no.  The passengers are 
making too much noise for us to pick anything up," answered 
Skinner, knowing in his gut what the shots signaled, but 
unable to resolve the feelings within himself. 

"Copy that, Command."

"Carter, just get that camera in...and be ready.  Waters 
may call for a breech."

"Copy that, Command.  Recovery out."


Day Three
5:24 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The first two shots had been a warning.  Their intent had 
been to quiet the passengers, to scare them into 
submission.  They hadn't accomplished their task.

Scully winced inwardly as the burly terrorist grabbed her 
roughly by the arm and started to pull her the rest of the 
way down the aisle.  She kept her head high, refusing to 
show her fear even in what seemed to be the hour of her 
death.

Apparently impatient with her steady pace, a second 
hijacker, the one with the raspy voice, pushed against her 
back.  She lost her balance, falling to the floor in a 
tangled heap with the first terrorist still attached to her 
arm.

"Get up, bitch!" the second yelled as he loomed above her, 
his cheek twitching and a slimy smile on his face.

When she didn't move fast enough, he grabbed her by the 
hair and yanked her to a standing position in one swift 
movement.

She bit down hard on her tongue, tasting blood as she 
stifled a scream.  There was no way in hell she was going 
to go out with a girly scream qualifying as her last 
"words".

The first hijacker still firmly gripped her lower arm, 
squeezing as he pulled himself up.  Scully only saw a flash 
of rage before he brought the butt of his gun across her 
face.  She fell backwards again, her head hitting the floor 
hard with a resounding thud.  She blinked and he turned his 
rifle around, pointing it at her face.  Her vision began to 
swim and then everything went black.


Day Three
5:29 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"The Director says no!" argued Waters.  "It's too risky 
right now!"

Skinner didn't answer.  He seethed in the direction of A.D.
Waters--not bothering to hide the rage in his expression.

"A.D. Skinner, two more shots fired!" shouted Frohike and 
Agent Jenkins simultaneously.

Skinner turned in their direction, nodding in the 
affirmative.  He closed his eyes saying another silent 
prayer, knowing all the while that Scully was surely lost.

Waters pulled himself up straighter, stretching to reach 
his full height, which wasn't much.  "We don't know for 
certain how many hijackers there are, or even *where* they 
are for that matter," he said, ignoring Frohike and 
Jenkins' announcement, his voice low and dangerous.

"She may already be dead," Skinner hissed, pointing in the 
direction of the communications board.

"And that was my next point," Waters said confidently.  
"The Director and I both feel that a breech now would be 
hasty and ill advised...especially in light of recent 
events."

"Exactly how many people are you and the Director willing 
to let die?  How many until their deaths balance with the 
greater good?"

"I'm not willing to risk the lives of these agents."

"Your inaction may have already cost the life of one.  I 
hope you're prepared to live with that," Skinner said 
before walking away and rejoining the Lone Gunmen.

"Command, come in," said Agent Clark through the radio 
system.

"Go, Recovery," said Waters.

"We've got a camera in through the floor of the business 
class section...we're having some problems with the feed, 
though," explained Clark.  "It's intermittent, we can't 
really see anything here."

"We'll patch into it, Recovery.  See what you can do about 
cleaning it up."

All sound and movement stopped as the video technicians 
worked to hard wire the transmission from the camera.  When 
the picture finally broke across the largest of the 
screens, it was all Skinner could do not to choke on the 
breath he had been holding.  

"Scully," the Assistant Director whispered hoarsely a few 
moments later.

Although the transmission kept popping in and out, the 
picture it painted was very clear.

Scully lay supine across the aisle.  Her face was turned 
toward the front of the section, toward the lens of the 
camera.  Her eyes were closed.  Blood ran from both her 
nose and a gash below her right eye.  A hijacker loomed 
behind her, visible only from the knees up.

He turned to Langly, who stood stunned and transfixed to
Skinner's left.  "We've got to hear what's going on," he 
said, his voice low.  "Is there anyway that you can filter 
out the background noise?"

"Not live, but we can from the tapes," Langly replied, 
never taking his eyes from the video screen.

"See what you can do then."

Langly turned and nodded in the assistant director's 
direction before moving back to the communications board, 
Frohike and Byers in tow.

"Command, come in."

"Recovery, go," Waters said into his headset.

"We can't get any kind of reception here.  What have you 
got?"

Skinner cast Waters a warning glare that went unheeded.

"Agent Scully is down.  It's difficult to discern anything 
beyond her injuries."


Day Three
5:31 p.m.
Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Mulder let out a string of loud unintelligible sounds 
unconsciously ending with her name, Scully, his voice 
catching and trailing on the last syllable.

Agent Clark moved on instinct, quickly grabbing Mulder from 
behind and roughly covering the agent's mouth with his 
hand.

"Be quiet," Clark hissed loudly into Mulder's ear.

Mulder murmured softly into Clark's palm and fell slack, 
but only for a moment.  He surged forward unexpectedly, 
catching Clark off guard and easily breaking free of his 
grasp.

Even below the cabin, the cries of the passengers could 
still be heard.  Mulder moved toward the hatch that would 
lead him above to Scully.

Clark and Genndy lunged simultaneously, grabbing Mulder by 
the legs and waist, pinning him against the wall hard and 
fast.

"No," spat Clark, lifting his head and peering intently 
into Mulder's eyes.  "You're compromising our position, 
Agent Mulder.  I suggest you get it together and quickly, 
or I'll restrain your ass for the duration of this 
exercise."

Mulder didn't respond.  He glared back at Clark, anger 
pouring off of him in waves.  The man didn't understand.  
Scully.  He had to get to Scully.

His breaths came in shallow and painful waves.  His heart 
screamed in his chest, pain radiating outward, threatening 
to suffocate him, drown him its intensity.

"Let me go now," he hissed, his voice full of venom and 
tainted with pain.

"You are *not* going to compromise our position, Mulder.  
Do you understand me?"

"Recovery," boomed Waters' voice, sharp and stern, through 
the headsets.

Clark ignored the transmission, his eyes never wavering 
from Mulder's.

"Command, this is Proust, go."

"What in the hell is going on?  We can hear you down here."

"Command, the situation is under control.  We just need a 
few moments."

"I don't give a rat's ass what you need.  We need some more 
cameras, now!"

Clark nodded his head sideways, silently ordering Proust 
and the other agents to continue with the installation of 
the video equipment.

"We're on it," Proust replied a moment later.  "Recovery 
out."

"Agent Mulder," Clark whispered loudly after flipping off 
his headset.  " I'm not going to let go, not until you 
assure me that you're not going to jeopardize this mission 
any further."

When Mulder didn't respond, Clark continued.  "Do I make 
myself clear, Agent Mulder?"

"Go fuck yourself, Clark," Mulder hissed in response.  
There was no way in hell that Clark or anyone else was 
going to stop him from going to Scully, from pulling her 
off of this godforsaken plane.  She needed him and this 
time he wasn't going to let her down.

Clark shoved his elbow into Mulder's back, hard, causing 
sharp pain to shoot down his spine.  Mulder didn't care.   

Scully.  He had to get to Scully.   Nothing else mattered, 
nothing at all.


Day Three 
5:34 p.m.
Temporary Command Center 
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" shouted 
Skinner when Waters flipped off his headset.

Waters didn't answer.  He stared at Skinner, daring the man 
to push the issue further, to question his command.

"We've already got one time bomb on that plane, do you want 
to add another?"

Byers moved to stand behind Skinner, backing him.

"Skinner, do we really need to rehash all of this?" Waters 
asked, his voice eerily calm.

"Damn it, I warned you.  I told you this was going to 
happen."

"It was my call and I made it."

Skinner gave the man a steely-eyed glare, trying to 
wordlessly convey his intent.  He huffed quietly when 
Waters seemed to catch his meaning.

Skinner jumped when he felt Byers' hand on his forearm, 
gently pulling him away, and probably saving his job.  One 
more second of looking at Waters' self-satisfied face and 
Skinner probably would have decked the man.

Byers gently tugged him in the direction of the video 
screens, leaning in and whispering to the A.D. when they 
reached their destination.  "We've got to do something 
about Mulder.  Special Ops aren't going to be able to hold 
him off indefinitely.  Well, not unless they tie him up and 
gag him," Byers said in a lame attempt to relieve the 
tension of the moment.

Skinner grimaced slightly, and nodded in agreement.  "Let's 
wait until we get another camera in.  We'll go from there," 
Skinner replied as he turned his full attention back to the 
video screens and the prone form of Agent Scully.

Byers nodded.  "Sir," he started to say.

"What the hell!" shouted Skinner as the video screens went 
blank.


Day Three
5:41 p.m.
Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Damn it Clark, let go," Mulder hissed sharply as he pushed 
back against the agent, urgently fighting to free himself.

Clark slammed him against the wall in response.

Mulder reeled for a second as a bright light flashed behind 
his closed eyes.  If Clark hadn't been pinning him against 
the wall, he surely would have fallen to the floor from the 
sheer force of the explosion of light.

He cringed against the images that came to mind as the 
light slowly faded.  Scully.  On the floor.  Blood staining 
her white shirt.  Her eyes closed in death.

Bile rose up his throat and he nearly choked on it.  A 
thousand thoughts and fears broke free, threatening to tear 
him apart as their sharp shards tore through him.

It was so clear, his vision.  It was sharp, intense, and so 
brutally honest that he wanted to cry.  He wanted to shout 
out against the horror he had brought upon her, that he 
couldn't control or stop.  He wasn't seeing her now though-
-he was lost in he past--trapped in an undefinable hell he 
had built for himself.

She was on his floor when he had walked into the room--her 
body limp and lifeless.  Blood covered her chest, tainting 
her, marking her, marring her.  The pain he had felt that 
day was still so sharp and visceral.  It was a reminder, 
though, of a lesson he had finally learned.

He hadn't thought.  He had acted.  He had left her alone, 
unwittingly vulnerable.  He should have known that she was 
a target.  He should have been there instead of running off 
half-cocked after Padgett.  He shouldn't have left her 
alone.  He should have known.  He didn't though, he hadn't 
thought.

He wanted to fight against the memories, against the 
reminder, against the message he didn't want to hear.  He 
wanted to fight against Clark, free himself and save her.  

He fell limp in Clark's arms, defeated.  He couldn't.  If 
he broke free, if he managed to get to her, what then?  She 
would die, of that he was certain.  He couldn't gamble her 
life, not again--never again.


Day Three
5:43 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Dale watched as they pulled her limp form down the aisle 
and to the front of the section.  They stopped under the 
crimson stain, the spot marked by Kelly.

Two of the hijackers pulled her up by her arms.  Her head 
fell forward limply.  Her chin came to rest on her chest.  
She didn't stir.  Blood still ran down her face, but slowly 
now.  It was starting to dry.  A bruise marked her eye, 
contrasting sharply with her pale skin.

The leader stepped forward.  He turned and Dale caught his 
gaze.  His expression was neutral, almost casual, except 
for the twinkle in his eyes.

He turned and faced her then, reaching out his left hand.  
The skinny one handed him his pistol and the leader lifted 
it, testing the gun's weight in his hand.  He took a step 
back, extended his arms, and pointed the gun at her head.  

Dale closed his eyes, slamming them shut with force.  He 
couldn't look.  He wasn't able to witness her death.  He 
wasn't strong enough.

The screams of the passengers quieted and Dale heard the 
click of the safety as the leader released it.  Less than a 
heartbeat later the shot rang out.


Day Three
5:45 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"A.D. Skinner!" shouted Jenkins.  "More shots fired!"

Skinner moved away from the worthless video screens, not 
looking back to watch as the frantic technicians attempt to 
re-establish the connection.  "Can you make anything else 
out?" he asked before he made it across the room.

"No," replied Jenkins.  "It got quiet before the shot went 
off, but we weren't able to pick anything else up."

Skinner shook his head and reached up to rub the back of 
his neck.  Everything was going to hell.  He looked around, 
scanning the room for Waters.  He found him in the corner, 
his cell phone pressed to his ear.  Skinner could see the 
sweat pouring off the man's brow.  Good, he thought.

The ringing of the red phone mounted on the communications 
board startled Skinner away from his thoughts of ill will.

Peters rushed to grab it, answering it up on the second 
ring.  "What's going on in there?"  he asked immediately.  
"We still had time left when you started shooting.  What in 
the hell are you trying to do?  How can I negotiate with 
you if you don't stick to the deals that *you* set?"

"Ah, Mr. Peters, you really need to calm down.  You're 
going to worry yourself into a frenzy.  As I said earlier, 
I am not negotiating with you.  I make the rules.  I can 
break the rules.  There is nothing you can do about it."

Peters inhaled a sharp breath of air, pushing it out 
quickly as he tried to calm himself.  "How many are dead?" 
the negotiator asked a second later, his voice smooth once 
again.

"Only one, Mr. Peters.  Only one.  But I warned you of that 
now didn't I?"

"Who?"  Peters said, bringing his eyes to Skinner's.

The room fell to silence.  The agents and technicians 
stopped and turned, everyone focused on Peters and the 
phone he held in his hand.

"Agent Scully, Mr. Peters.  She was marked."


Day Three 
5:48 p.m.
Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Recovery, come in," said the voice of Assistant Director 
Skinner through the radio system.

"Go, Command," replied Genndy as he walked into the 
avionics room.

"Recovery, I need Agent Mulder on the com."

"Sir, I don't think that's possible at the moment," replied
Genndy after a few seconds of deliberation.

"Agent, I don't care what's possible.  I want to talk with 
Agent Mulder, now!" shouted the assistant director, leaving 
no room for misinterpretation.

"Yes, Sir," said Genndy as he moved to stand next to Mulder 
and Clark.  He flipped down his microphone, covering the 
device with his free hand.  "A.D. Skinner is demanding to 
talk to Mulder."

Clark glanced at Mulder and then at Genndy. 

"Damn it Clark," Mulder said as he pushed against the team 
leader. 

Clark looked to Genndy again, as if he was trying to gauge 
the possible repercussions if he did not comply.  After a 
moment he grimaced and backed away from the agent.

Mulder took a deep breath and reached down, flipping on his 
microphone.  "Yeah, Skinner.  What have you got?" he asked, 
pushing past the thick lump in his throat, the heavy 
feeling that was tethering him to the ground.

"Agent Mulder," he said calmly, softly, "we just received a 
call from the hijackers."

Mulder closed his eyes, a deep sob threatening to break 
through his chest.  He knew what Skinner was going to say.

"Mulder..." Skinner started, "I'm so sorry."

"No," he managed to choke out before his whole world began 
to crumble at his feet.

"She's gone."




~ Chapter Fourteen - As Much As I Want to, I Can't Stay ~


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

Day Three 
5:53 p.m.
Beneath the Cabin of American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully was gone.  

Those three words resonated through his mind, never fully 
taking form or shape, simply bounding around in an 
incoherent manner, without direction.  He wrestled with 
them, grappling against their weight, their significance.

He held himself stiffly, bracing himself with his hands 
against the cool metal wall of the plane.  His arms were 
taut, the muscles within them twitching from the force of 
his weight against the wall.  His head hung low.  His eyes 
were tightly closed.

He couldn't feel it.  It was intangible, unbelievable.  His 
heart still beat in his chest.  She had ceased to draw 
breath.  He was unable to draw even a shaky line connecting 
the two.  It didn't seem plausible or possible that he 
could exist without her.

He should have felt it, he thought, should have known the 
moment her heart fell still.  He didn't.  He hadn't felt 
it.  The moment was lost to him.

It was the truth though, in his mind he knew that.  It was 
the same truth he had feared would come to fruition.  The 
same truth that had taken form as the manner and mantra of 
his nightmares.  Skinner had said the words.  She was gone, 
he had said.  Scully was gone.

He closed his eyes tighter, resisting the tears that begged 
to fall.  He pushed his hands harder against the side of 
the craft, trying to strengthen himself, push out the doubt 
and dread that shrouded his heart, clouded his mind.  

He wanted to die.  He wanted to burst through the hatch in 
the ceiling, rush to her side, breath life into her limp 
form.  He wanted to give that to her, sacrifice his own 
self for her, only for her, always for her.  He couldn't, 
the moment had passed.  She was gone.


Day Three
5:57 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Silence.  He could feel it, smell it, taste it, almost 
touch it.  It covered every surface, clung to every wall.  
It made it hard to breath, hard to think.  It seemed to 
slow every movement, heighten every emotion.

Skinner felt as though he was drowning in it.  He could 
feel it washing over him, not bringing him comfort, not 
bringing him peace, only illuminating his guilt and pain.

He wanted to melt into the floor, disappear and lick his 
wounds.  He wanted to go to bed and sleep it off like a 
drunken binge that would go away with time.  He wanted not 
to hurt.  He wanted not to feel remorse.  He wanted to take 
back the last few hours.  He wanted Scully to be alive.

Telling Mulder had been harder than he could have ever 
imagined and it had taken its toll on the assistant 
director.  Mulder had tried to remain strong and Skinner 
even supposed that outwardly the agent had accomplished 
that, but Skinner knew him.  He had caught the almost 
imperceptible waver in Mulder's voice, the haunted monotone 
he had slipped into once Skinner had conveyed the news. 

Skinner blinked quickly, pushing down the tears that were 
threatening, keeping them at bay.  Not now, he sternly 
reminded himself.  There would be time to grieve later.

He pulled himself out of his dark reverie, turning and 
meeting Byers eyes, seeing his own pain and remorse 
reflected in the Gunman's haunted gaze.

"He'll make it," assured Byers.

Skinner nodded.  "I know," he replied confidently.  He was 
certain Mulder would see it through to the end, he could 
count on him for that.

"I need to go...I need to speak to her family now," Skinner 
said after a few long moments of uncomfortable silence.

Byers nodded in acknowledgment.

"Skinner!" yelled Assistant Director Waters as he moved 
across the tent.

Skinner took a deep breath.

"The Director is en route," Waters announced when he 
reached Skinner.  He wore a smug look of satisfaction on 
his face, as if the arrival of the Director was going to 
vindicate his inaction.

Skinner felt his jaw tighten.  He bit back the response 
that came to his lips.  He took another deep breath and 
tried to gain control of his anger.  "What's his ETA?" he 
asked a few moments later, his voice weak and shaking with 
suppressed anger.

Waters looked at him for a minute before responding, "Any 
moment, he called me from his car."

"I have something I need to take care of.  I'll be back in 
about fifteen minutes," Skinner said evenly.

Waters shook his head, chuckling slightly.  "Yeah, I bet 
you do," he mumbled.

Skinner tried in vain to bite back the words that came to 
his lips, "Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Waters hissed back.

"No," Skinner insisted.  "If you have something on your 
mind Waters, why don't you just spit it out?" he demanded 
trying to keep his voice low.

"Don't you think it's a little odd, the Director is going 
to show up, and you are going...where?" he asked almost 
mockingly.

"I don't expect you to understand this," he seethed, the 
words coming out in a hiss, low and dangerous, "but I have 
a responsibility to Agent Scully.  Her family has a right 
to know what has happened."

Waters didn't respond.  He just stared at Skinner 
defiantly, daring him to go further.

"No," Skinner said, his voice dropping another octave and 
increasing in venom.  "Maybe you should go instead.  Maybe 
you would care to explain to her mother how you pissed 
around and cost her the life of her only daughter.  Maybe 
you could explain to her how you didn't have the balls to 
go in and save her, when you *knew* Agent Scully was going 
to be killed."

Waters' eyes widened, but only for a moment.  He opened his 
mouth to speak, but seemed to have second thoughts.

Skinner set his jaw, preparing to finish the argument.

"Sir," yelled Agent Lask from the communications board.  
"A.D. Skinner!"

Skinner cast Waters a look of warning, damning the 
consequences,  and moved to speak to Lask.

"Sir, Recovery on the com."

Skinner nodded and flipped on his microphone.  "Go, 
Recovery."

"Calling in status," said Clark.

"Go then."

"Vanauken seems to have isolated the power source, he's on 
the radio with the engineers from the bomb squad.  It's 
just a matter of time now."

"Good."

"Second camera is in place.  You should be able to get a 
feed from it now."

"Negative," Skinner said as he looked over at the static 
filled video screens.  "We lost all video about fifteen 
minutes ago.  We should have them back up soon.  We'll tap 
in then."

"Copy that, Command.  Recovery out."

"Jenkins," Skinner said after he flipped off the mike, "Get 
someone over to the video board.  Light a fire under the 
technicians' asses.  We've got another camera ready to go."


Day Three
6:04 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport


Dale Gerrado sat silently in his seat.  He couldn't hear 
the cries of the passengers surrounding him, nor the 
insistent voices of the hijackers warning of retribution.  
His eyes were closed.  His fists were clenched into tight 
balls.  He took deep breaths in and out, trying to assuage 
the sense of panic and pain that enveloped him.

He had done nothing and they had killed her.  The same 
could be said for Kelly.  He felt so lost.  He felt so 
alone.  He felt so utterly wrong and inhuman. 

He had succeeded in warding off the haunting images, for 
the time being, but the sense of dread he feared would 
never ebb.  

In his heart he knew no one would walk away, that all of 
the men and women on board the plane would perish.  Somehow 
that thought brought him comfort, helped to lessen his 
panic.

Soon, he thought.  Soon he would be with Kelly again.  Soon 
he would be at peace.


Day Three
6:10 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Mr. Peters, I am tiring of these endless games."

"I can assure you that the F.B.I. does not consider this 
situation to be a game, in any sense of the word."

"You really are starting to bore me with all of the same 
dribble- drabble.  I thought you to be a reasonably 
intelligent man, yet you can't seem to grasp this one 
simple concept.  Mr. Peters, either you and the F.B.I. 
grant us clearance to take off or I will personally execute 
another passenger."

"It's out of--"

"And," the hijacker began, interrupting the negotiator, "I 
refuse to listen to your excuses regarding the weather.  Am 
I making myself clear?  You will comply, or I promise you 
will regret your lack of action."

Mark Peters opened his mouth to respond, but the line went 
dead before he had a chance to speak.  He blew out a long 
breath and slammed the phone back into its cradle. 

"How long do you think we have?"  Assistant Director Waters 
asked quickly.

Peters turned and faced Waters.  He looked to Skinner then, 
who was standing at his colleague's left.  "I don't know.  
I honestly have no idea," he replied, shaking his head 
slowly.

The call from the hijackers had interrupted Skinner's 
departure to speak with the Scully family.  He had needed 
to stay behind, and now he nodded at the negotiator's 
words, understanding the hopeless position Peters had been 
placed in.  

"How can you not know?  Can't you guess?"

Skinner noticed the muscles in Peters' right temple start 
to twitch.  He almost jumped in to defend the negotiator, 
but quickly thought better of it.  He was more interested 
in hearing what Peters had to say.

"I can't read minds," Peters said, from all appearances 
exhibiting a tremendous amount of control.

"You're supposed to be the best.  You're paid to know these 
things, to offer insight into the terrorists' minds."

"Assistant Director Waters, I'm a negotiator, not a member 
of the Psychic Friends Network.  I can't know what they are 
thinking and I sure as hell can't negotiate with them," he 
responded through tightly clenched teeth.

"What do you mean you can't negotiate with them?" Waters 
asked, his face starting to take on a red tint.

"In order to negotiate one needs leverage.  I have none.  
We have none," he said, extending his arms to indicate the 
entire team of personnel.  "They want to leave.  We won't 
give them clearance.  They threaten to kill passengers.  We 
do nothing.  See my point?  They know we aren't going to 
use force.  They are *not* scared of us.  They are *not* 
worried.  I have *no* leverage.  I can *not* negotiate."

Skinner nodded his head in approval.  Peters had 
illustrated the position Waters had placed them in very 
well.  

Skinner watched the A.D. out of the corner of his eye, 
watched as the large vein in the side of his neck pulsed 
strongly, watched as perspiration began to drip down the 
side of his face.  He was mad.  Good, thought Skinner.  He 
would be a helluva lot madder once the director arrived.  
Skinner would make certain of that.

"You--" started Waters.

Skinner quickly stepped in between the two mean, looking 
Waters directly in the eye.  "This isn't time or the 
place," he said sternly.

"Um, Sir," Agent John Lask said after clearing his throat.  
"I don't want to...interrupt, but we've got the video 
screens operational."

Skinner shot Waters another look of warning and wordlessly 
followed the young agent.

"We have all of the exterior cameras back," he started to 
explain as he and Skinner moved across the room, "and the 
Recovery Team has a new camera in the first class section 
that is working as well."

"What about business class?"

"Still nothing.  The technicians think it's a problem with 
the camera."

"Call Russel, tell him that I want a new camera in business 
class now, top priority."

"Yes, Sir," the young agent said before trotting off into 
the corner and flipping on his headset.

Skinner stopped when he reached the large bank of monitors, 
searching each screen for details.  The exterior shots were 
still nearly useless in the blinding snow.  The new camera 
that had been placed through the floor of the first class 
section, however, proved to be quite telling.

The camera had been inserted near the front of the section 
and afforded him a view of the aisle as well as ten 
passengers.  Skinner was also able to see the legs of a 
hijacker as he paced back and forth near the front of the 
section.  At first glance, everything appeared to be calm.  
The passengers looked frazzled, but didn't seem to be in 
any immediate danger.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, 
searching for details, anything that might help him sway 
the director toward a breech.  He knew in his gut that it 
was the only way out, the only way for the ordeal to end.  
If they didn't, more innocent people would die, more people 
like Scully.

"See anything?" Waters asked, his voice even and calm as he 
stepped up next to Skinner.

"Nothing I didn't expect," Skinner replied coolly.

"The director should be here any moment," Waters said.

"I assumed so," Skinner replied, glancing down at his 
watch.

"What in the hell?" 

"What?" Skinner asked.  His head snapped up and his eyes 
locked on the video screens. 

"There," Waters said, pointing in the direction of the 
largest screen, the one receiving its feed from the first 
class cabin.

Skinner saw it then, a flicker of movement.  A man was 
coming down the center aisle.  He was bent over, walking 
backwards in the direction of the camera.

"Is he dragging something?" Waters asked quietly.

Skinner swallowed loudly, pushing back against the sudden 
wave of nausea that began to overwhelm him.  "Yes," he said 
in reply.  He watched in horror as the terrorist slowly 
pulled the body of a woman toward the front of the plane. 

Scully. 

Skinner didn't think he could stand to watch, but he was 
transfixed, unable to avert his eyes from the horror he 
knew he was about to witness.

"Agent Scully," Waters said quietly, but without remorse.

Skinner bit back against the angry retort that came easily 
to his lips.  It wouldn't help.  It couldn't change the 
facts. 

Skinner blinked slowly when the hijacker neared the camera.  

"What?" Waters yelled before taking several steps closer to 
the video screen, squinting his eyes as if they had 
deceived him.

And then Skinner saw it, too.  His heart surged in his 
chest.  His pulse racing as relief and joy flooded over 
him.  "It's not her," he whispered, barely believing it 
himself.  


Day Three
6:25 p.m.
Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"It's not her," he said aloud, trying to fully reconcile
Skinner's news within himself.

Mulder stood in the middle of the room, resting his head in 
his hands.  His breathing was ragged.  His entire body was 
trembling.  He couldn't move.  He could barely think.  But 
he could feel, oh could he feel.  His heart was surging, 
beating to its own happy rhythm of relief and joy.  She was 
alive, it sang with every beat.  The rhythm pulsed through 
his arteries and veins, enveloping his entire body in a 
soothing feeling of comfort and warmth.

He could feel a smile forming on his lips.  He could feel 
the heavy weight of guilt and grief lifting slightly from 
his shoulders.  He felt lighter, stronger.  He felt 
renewed, refreshed.  He was ready.  He wasn't going to give 
them another chance to take her away.


Day Three
6:27 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Frohike, what do you think?"

The short man turned to Byers, pursing his lips and 
pondering the question.  "I don't know, man," he said, 
shaking his head in frustration.  "I just don't know."

Frohike paced slowly, back in forth on a short path, 
meticulously tracing over his steps.  He was barely aware 
of the commotion around him--the technicians running 
crazily from one end of the tent to the other, the agents 
barking orders to their teams of snipers and companions in 
the tower.

The pace had increased, the urgency doubled.  The director 
had arrived.

"The hijacker said that only one person was killed," 
offered Langly, his voice lacking conviction.

"Yes," said Frohike, "and he also said he had killed Agent
Scully.  He's either lying or he's wrong."  The Lone Gunman 
never stopped his pacing though as he tried desperately to 
make the connections.

"Well it doesn't look like we're going to have to wait very 
long to find out," Byers said quickly, pointing in the 
direction of the video screens and the images being 
transmitted from the business class section.  

"We've got picture," said Langly as the three men trotted 
across the room.


Day Three
6:31 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully felt the cold first.  It bit at her fingers and 
nipped at her nose.  She tried to ignore the tingling 
sensation it left in its wake but she couldn't.  

The pain came next.  It was sharp, shooting down her 
cheekbone, threatening to split her face in half.  She held 
back the groan she felt forming in the back of her throat.  

She heard the noises after that, soft keening moans, loud 
choking sobs, quiet heart-felt pleas.  Her own voice longed 
to join them.  They brought her back, pushing her past the 
faint edge of perception.  

Every memory of every moment of the hours she had spent on 
the plane, the days that had proceeded, slammed against her 
full force.  She cringed inwardly, trying to shove the 
memories away, deny the position she was in, all that had 
happened.

She remembered how quickly they had entered, storming into 
the cabin with looks of vengeance upon their faces.  Four 
men joining the other two at the front of the section.  The 
leader entered a few minutes later, the men parting like 
the Red Sea to allow him passage.  He approached her then, 
stopping in the aisle and staring down at the woman seated 
next to Scully.

"Agent Scully," he said, "it is time."  But his words 
hadn't been meant for her.  He stared at the pretty young 
woman, never breaking his gaze away.  He waited patiently, 
yet expectantly for several long minutes.

The woman didn't respond.  Scully didn't respond.  She 
didn't understand, couldn't comprehend the game he was 
playing.  Why had he spoken to her?  Why had he called her 
Agent Scully?  

Scully broke her gaze away from the hijacker, the leader, 
and turned to look at the woman.  She stared back at him.  
Her eyes were filled with confusion.  Tears streamed 
unchecked down her cheeks.  Her chin quivered.  Her skin 
was pale, cast in gray and Scully had no doubt in her mind 
that the woman was in shock.

The realization hit her then and she understood the mistake 
he had made.  They had traded seats before the flight had 
began.  Scully started to shake her head and opened her 
mouth to speak, to shed light on his error.

"Miss Scully," he said, halting her words.  "Please stand."  
He extended his hand, his eyes still focused on the wrong 
woman.

"No," Scully said, her voice weak, heavy with fear as she 
tried to right his wrong.

He didn't respond.  The hijacker continued to stare at the 
woman, his eyes growing cold with impatience.

"Miss Scully, that wasn't a request," he said harshly.  
"You will stand now or face the consequences."

The woman reluctantly obeyed, pushing herself up from the 
seat.  

Scully screamed, "No!" trying to stop her, but her voice 
was lost amongst the pleas and cries of the passengers.  
They started to stand, screaming and yelling, demanding for 
the ordeal to end.

In the midst of all the confusion the Captain lunged for a 
nearby hijacker.  Scully rose from her seat, watching as 
the Captain grabbed him from behind, wrapping his fingers 
around the man's throat.  A short struggle ensued before 
the pilot was thrown back into his seat, struck by the butt 
of the terrorist's weapon.

Scully turned and took a step toward the aisle.  Her heart 
was beating rapidly in her chest, fear surging all around 
her.  She would not let that woman die in her place.

The leader reached out and grabbed the woman by the arm.  
She was shaking her head furiously, refusing to go with 
him.  She opened her mouth to speak and he brought his hand 
across her cheek, striking her into silence.

Scully jumped at the sound.  She stepped forward when the 
woman fell to the floor.  She tore her gaze away from the 
woman, moving to stand in front of the terrorist leader and 
staring him directly in the eye.  "You have--"

She didn't get to finish.  His palm met her check as well, 
causing her head to snap to the side.

Another hijacker stepped forward, reaching down and pulling 
the woman up from the floor.  Once she was standing on 
unsteady legs, he shoved her toward the front of the cabin.

The shots were fired then.  Two rounds, meant to serve as a 
warning to the passengers.  They did not serve their 
purpose though, as the volume and anger of the passengers 
screams increased ten-fold.

The leader nodded his head and another hijacker reached out 
and grabbed Scully's arm, jerking her out into the aisle as 
well.

She lost her balance and landed on her side, almost wincing 
with the pain that shot through her arm.   She was barely 
given a chance to catch her breath before the hijacker bent 
over and grabbed her by the arm, roughly yanking her to a 
standing position. 

He pulled her forward, to join the woman now standing at 
the front of the section.  She moved with him, her head 
held high and her back straight.  Fear constricted her 
chest, making it hard to breathe.  She had been in some 
precarious situations before, but this one appeared as 
though it would be her last.

She felt hands against her back and then a quick shove.  
She tried to turn and look, but fell forward, taking the 
burly hijacker with her.  They hit to floor in a tangle of 
arms and legs.  

"Get up bitch!" yelled the one with the raspy voice as he 
loomed above her.  His gun was raised, his finger twitching 
near the trigger.

The hijacker managed to extricate himself from the tangle 
they were in and pulled himself up to his knees.  Scully 
immediately rolled onto her back, needing to assess the 
situation, wanting not to be surprised.

She began to push herself up with her elbows, almost 
groaning from the pain in her left arm.  Apparently the one 
with the raspy voice was not happy with the progress she 
was making, because he reached down and pulled her up by 
the hair.

Scully bit down on her tongue, trying to stifle a cry of 
pain.  She tasted the blood and ignored it.  She stared him 
in the eye, determined not to show her fear.

The burly one pulled on her right arm, hoisting himself up 
from the floor.  She turned to look at him, but only saw a 
flash of anger before the butt of his gun met her face.  
She fell to the floor again, her head hitting it with a 
resounding thud that echoed through her ears.  She 
remembered seeing him turn the gun around, pointing it at 
her face, and then nothing.  

Until now.

She took a deep breath, trying to wash away the painful 
residue the memories had left behind.  She knew she needed 
to open her eyes, that she needed to face what had 
happened.  

She looked within herself, rallying her strength.  Slowly 
she opened her eyes, blinking quickly at first.  She had no 
idea of how long she had been unconscious or where she was.

Her vision was blurry at first and she mentally began 
checking for symptoms of a concussion.  She blinked slowly 
again, attempting to get her surroundings to come into 
focus.  When they did, she was greeted with the sight of a 
familiar seat back and the hushed voice of a stranger.

"Are you all right, Miss?" 

Scully blew out a long breath and slowly turned her head to 
the left.  The pilot was sitting in the seat next to her.  

She started to nod her head in response, but was quickly 
deterred by the pain that shot through her face.  "I'm 
fine," she whispered weakly.

"You don't look fine to me," he replied.

"Well, neither do you," she said after taking in his 
bruised and battered face.  She imagined hers didn't look 
much better.  "What happened?" she asked, keeping her voice 
low. 

He looked around cautiously, checking to see if the 
hijackers were looking their way before speaking again. 
"They killed her."

Scully felt tears born of both anger and sadness come to 
her eyes.  It was wrong, all of it.  She shouldn't have 
been killed.  They hadn't listened.  She had tried, but 
they refused to hear.  It was wrong, so wrong.

"After you," he began, his voice shaking with suppressed 
emotions, "well...they fired a couple more warning shots to 
quiet everyone, and they worked.  No one made a sound 
again, until...until they killed her.  They left you on the 
floor for a while.  Everyone thought you would be 
next...but they, well...they just threw you back into your 
seat."

"I see," she said, shocked to hear the emotion that shone 
through her own voice.  She wrung her hands together trying 
to push past the guilt and pain.  She tried to forget his 
words, knowing all the while that she never would, never 
could.  

She looked down at her hands, sitting there silently for 
several long moments trying to divine the point where it 
had all fallen apart.  Why had they killed the woman?  Why 
had they wanted to kill *her*?  It was wrong, her heart 
sang.

She blinked her eyes, trying to force back the tears that 
threatened to fall.  It wasn't the first time; she had been 
there before, with Missy.  Scully honestly didn't think she 
had the strength to endure the pain again, the courage to 
look past the sacrifice of another in her name.


Day Three
6:42 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Are we on top of this?"

Byers looked up and nodded in the direction of the 
approaching assistant director, "Yes, Sir.  We are."

"What do you have?" Skinner asked as he neared the 
communications board.

"It's quiet now, has been for the past couple of minutes," 
Langly replied as he rose from his seat.

"Agent Lask filled you in?" asked Byers.

Skinner nodded in response.  "She was talking to the 
captain?" he asked.

"We are assuming so, yes.  The transmission was weak at 
best.  I'm afraid there isn't much we can do about it," 
Byers replied.

"We're picking it up off of her cell phone, but not the 
microphone," explained Frohike.

"Keep listening, maybe we'll learn something new," Skinner 
said quietly before he started to walk away.

"Sir," Byers called out.

Skinner stopped and turned in the direction of the Gunman. 

"Your meeting, with the Director?"

Skinner shook his head and closed his eyes.  "I don't know.  
He's on the phone with the Attorney General.  It's out of 
my hands."

Byers nodded, not certain if he wanted to push the issue 
any further.

"It doesn't look good," Skinner said quietly.

Byers took a couple of steps in Skinner's direction, trying 
to push his thoughts away from Scully for the moment.  "The 
bomb," he said when he was standing in front of the 
assistant director.

Skinner nodded again.  "As long as it's a threat they 
aren't willing to risk the breech."

Byers swallowed.  They were going to lose their best 
chance, probably their only chance for a successful breech.  
He couldn't allow himself to consider the ramifications.  
He couldn't possibly fathom what the Column would do next.  

"Yeah," Skinner said.  "I know."


Day Three
6:45 p.m.
Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Has anyone ever told you how extremely annoying you are?"

"Repeatedly," Mulder answered flatly.  

"I can't concentrate with you looking over my shoulder," 
Vanauken said.  He let out a loud, annoyed sigh and turned 
in Mulder's direction. 

"I'm pacing.  There's a difference."

"Not in my book," Vanauken mumbled as he turned to resume 
his work.

"Well?" Clark asked quietly as he burst through the doorway 
leading into the baggage area.

"I'm almost there," Vanauken replied.

"We need this done.  Now," insisted Clark. 

"I'm working on it," he replied as he cut another wire 
leading from the device to the power supply.  Vanauken set 
down his wire snipers and flipped on his microphone.  "I 
think I've got it, Dan.  I just need to double check and 
make sure it's not getting any power."

Mulder's head snapped in Vanauken's direction.  "You've got 
it?" he asked.  "It's disarmed?"

"Looks that way," Vanauken replied.


Day Three
6:52 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"They've got it!" Skinner yelled in the direction of the 
three Lone Gunmen. 

"Yes!" Frohike yelled, chiming in his approval.

Langly clapped his friends on the back and turned back to 
the communications board.

Byers just smiled.  He watched as Skinner trotted across 
the room, moving toward the Director.  They had what they 
needed, the only lynch pin had been removed--the breech 
would certainly be called for now.  

He felt the panic start to rise up from his stomach again, 
but he pushed it back down.  He knew the breech would be 
dangerous, that much could go wrong.  Scully might not 
survive.

No one had been able to ascertain the motive or meaning 
behind the hijackers' announcement that she had been 
killed.  Had they lied?  Had they been wrong?  Did they 
know now?  These were questions he could not answer.  No 
one could, but they would find out soon enough.



Day Three
6:55 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Do you know why they did this?"

"No," the pilot said after a lengthy pause.  He took a deep 
breath as if collecting himself before he continued.  "They 
never said."

"The leader?"

"He was in the cockpit throughout the flight, and for quite
a while after we landed.  He's the one--"

"Yeah," she said interrupting him, "I know who he is."

He nodded his head in understanding.

They sat in silence for several long moments.  Scully 
turned to the window, staring at the drawn shade.   

"Where are we?" she whispered a moment later, her eyes 
still focused on the covered window.

"Dulles," he replied in the same hushed tone.

She closed her eyes in response.  She didn't know how to 
feel, what to think.  Was it good or bad?  The Bureau was 
here.  Would Skinner be as well?  Mulder was two thousand 
miles away, languishing in New Mexico.  But did that 
matter?  

She almost jumped in her seat a moment later when she 
remembered the cell phone.  She reached down between the 
seat and the wall, retrieving the phone from where she had 
hidden it.  Scully pulled it up and sat it next to her on 
the seat.  Miraculously, the phone's battery hadn't died 
and call was still connected.

She took a deep breath and looked around, checking the 
whereabouts of the two hijackers who still patrolled the 
cabin.  She slid the phone's earpiece back under her leg, 
hiding it as she had before.

"What was that?" the captain asked a moment later.

She shot him a menacing look meant to quiet him.

The captain didn't speak, but continued to stare at her.

"Why don't we start at the beginning?" she said after 
carefully adjusting the phone under her leg.  

She didn't know if Mulder was still listening.  She could 
only hope that he was.


Day Three
7:03 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


John Byers sat silently in front of the communications 
board.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, 
shrouding himself in the last moments of relative peace 
that would surround the entire ordeal.  The breech was 
imminent.  The device had been disabled.  Their window of 
opportunity would soon be at hand.  No one knew what would 
come, where the chips would fall.  It might end badly.  It 
might end the way they all hoped and prayed.  But the end 
was in sight, and they would all have to live with the 
outcome.

Skinner, Waters and the Director were embroiled in a heated 
debate.  They stood across the room, ensconced in shadows 
as they argued the fate of the passengers.  Byers could not 
hear what they were saying.  He didn't need to.  

Waters didn't want the breech.  He had been very vocal 
about his reasons.  He felt it would be too costly, that 
too many lives would be lost.  What he didn't understand 
was that it was their only option.  He didn't understand 
The Fifth Column, or the conspiracy they maintained.  He 
didn't understand the lengths they would go to, the callous 
manner in which they conducted their covert business.  They 
had an agenda and would not stop until it was carried out.

Skinner did, in his own way.  Mulder did too.  They had 
been inside the house of mirrors, they had witnessed the 
inner workings.  The illusions meant nothing to them.  They 
saw them for what they were.


Day Three
7:07 p.m.
American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully stared at the drawn shade, wondering once again what 
was going on around them.  The children had been released 
hours ago.  Another woman had died not long after.  Yet, 
the plane remained on the tarmac.  They seemed to be at a 
stalemate.

The hijackers continued to pace, but their demeanor had 
swayed sharply from the cool and calm ones they had toted 
earlier.  They looked tense, coiled and ready to strike, as 
if they were ready to jump out of their own skin.

The passengers had quieted.  Once again, they sat silently 
in their seats--worrying, waiting, wondering.  What fate 
was going to befall them?  How much longer would they sit 
in fear and bend to the will of madmen?  Was someone coming 
to save them?  Would they fly off into the unknown?

Scully didn't know.  The passengers didn't know.  They 
hijackers refused to say.


Day Three
7:13 p.m.
Rear Cargo Hold - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


His heart beat heavily in his chest.  His breaths came in 
shallow waves.  He was ready, more than ready.  Every sound 
caused him to flinch. 

He paced around the room, trying to center himself, ready 
himself.  The breech was going to be called; they were only 
waiting for confirmation now.  The bomb had been disabled.  
The Director had given his word.  They were going to enter 
the plane.  They were going to end the ordeal.

It was so close to being over.  She was almost safe.  He 
didn't want to think about after, about what would happen 
then, between him and Scully.  He couldn't.  He wasn't able 
to see beyond the task that lay before him--beyond bringing 
her back.

He nearly jumped when a blast of static broke across the 
tiny speaker perched along the inside of his ear.

"Clark, this is Command.  Come in," said the voice of 
Assistant Director Waters.

"Go, Command," Clark said into his microphone.

"The Director has approved the breech.  Stand by for 
further instructions." 

"Copy that, Command."


Day Three
7:14 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Walter Skinner stood watch.  He didn't blink as he stared 
at the video screen in front of him.  He watched for 
movement, a flicker of light signaling the hijackers' 
intention to open the door.

Their men were in place.  Six had been positioned on the 
stairs, ready to storm the plane when the door was opened.  
Several teams of snipers had moved in, too.  They were 
ready to offer back up.

Waters had positioned the Recovery team as well.  Four were 
going to ascend into the plane through a hatch.  Vanauken 
and Russel were staying behind, offering back up and a 
contingency plan should the breech go too far south.

Clark, Gennedy, Proust, and Mulder were waiting.  They 
stood beneath the hatch that would lead up into the rear of 
the plane.  When the breech was called and they ascended, 
it would be into the galley directly behind the coach 
section.  

Waters' hoped to trap the hijackers, sandwich them between 
the team entering at the front of the plane and the 
Recovery Team entering at the rear.

Waters stood to his right, the Gunmen to his left.  They 
were ready.  

In the blink of an eye, the moment was at hand.  Skinner 
saw the flash of light he had been waiting for, the 
movement of the hijackers toward the door.  Two moved 
through the first class section, marching slowly, steadily 
toward the action that would end their reign of terror.

He heard Waters' relay the information to the team outside 
the plane, alert them to watch for the door's movement.  
Both teams would enter on their mark.

"Copy that, Command," said Agent Markhem, the leader of the 
team that would enter through the main door.

"You have the com, Team Four," Waters replied.

Skinner took a deep breath and said a last silent prayer 
for the safety of everyone involved.


Day Three 
7:20 p.m.
Rear Cargo Hold - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The seconds ticked by slowly, creeping by in a maddening 
manner.  Mulder didn't think he could possibly be more 
tense or ready.  Every muscle, every tendon, every nerve 
was stretched and strained to the point of breaking.

It had all come this.  Everything that had happened over 
the last three days, the last week, had led him here.  It 
was the moment of truth, the moment of resolution, the 
moment where he could redeem himself from the past.  He 
would not let the haunting memories interfere.  He would 
not let them take her.  He would not let them be right.

He was so focused, so intent on the task that lay before 
him that he barely heard Markhem's terse and urgent words 
through his headset.

"Go, I repeat, all teams go!"

And with that it started.  

Clark pulled down on the lever he had been holding, opening 
the hatch that would lead them into the galley at the end 
of the plane.  Proust, the tallest member of the team, 
reached up first, grasping the ledge and pulling himself up 
and into the plane.  

Mulder stood below, watching as Proust climbed into the 
galley.  His own heart pounded loudly in his chest.  He 
jumped when he heard the shots ring out.

"We're in!" he heard Agent Markhem yell.  "Two hijackers 
are down!"

Mulder looked up at the open hatch nervously, impatiently. 
Hurry, he kept thinking.  Please, just hurry.

Genndy went up next, Proust giving him a hand while he kept 
an eye out for the enemy.  He quickly pulled the man 
through and stepped to the side, taking watch near the 
doorway that led to the cabin.

A deep breath and a heartbeat later, Mulder pulled himself 
through the opening, quickly stepping aside and allowing 
Clark to follow, taking up the rear.  He could hear shouts 
and screams.  Men were yelling loudly, commanding the 
passengers to be quiet, ordering their fellow terrorists to 
get down and into position.

There were two doorways leading into the coach section and 
neither was covered with a curtain.  Proust and Genndy 
stood at one, peering around the corners and taking in the 
scene.  Mulder and Clark did the same at the other.  

Mulder caught a flash of movement as he peered around the 
corner and watched two hijackers ran into the business 
class section.  

"Move!" yelled Clark.

All four men burst through the doorways, their guns raised 
and pointed forward.  The five hijackers that remained in 
the section turned, seemingly caught off guard.

"Don't move!  Federal Agents!" shouted Clark.  "Put your 
weapons on the ground!"

They didn't.  Another ran out of the section, presumably to 
warn the others of their presence.

The remaining four raised their own guns and began to fire 
as they dove behind the first row of seats.

"Get down!" shouted Clark.  "We're under fire!" he shouted 
into his microphone.

"Everyone get down!" Proust said a heartbeat later, warning 
the passengers to take cover on the floor.

Mulder and the rest of the team took refuge in the galley 
again, peering around the doorways.  Mulder raised his own 
gun, contemplating firing.

The noise in the cabin was almost deafening.  The 
passengers were screaming.  The hijackers were firing their 
weapons, not worrying about the safety of their hostages.

"We've got four in coach!" shouted Clark into his 
microphone.  "They're holding us in the galley.  We can't 
get a shot off."

"Command, Team Four, advise!" he shouted a few moments 
later when he didn't receive a reply.

"Hold your position, Recovery," ordered Waters. 

"We've got one more down!" shouted Markham.  "They're 
holding us outside first class."

Clark didn't respond, but peered around the corner one more 
time. "Shit!" he yelled into the microphone, trying to make 
his voice heard over the screams and wails of the 
passengers.  "Shit!"


Day Three
7:23 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Shit!" shouted Skinner as he stood in front of the video 
screens pressing his headset against his ear.

It was all falling apart.  He fought back against the wave 
of dread that poured over him.   He tried to remind himself 
that it was still early, that the tide could very well 
change.  

What had he expected--for the hijackers to politely drop 
their guns and mutter an apology when the teams boarded the 
plane?  No, but defeat was not an option either.  This 
couldn't fail; they couldn't allow it to.

He couldn't see what was going on, but the pictures painted 
by Clark's tone were very clear.  The agent had little 
faith.

Team Four was trapped between the first class cabin and the 
cockpit.  Recovery was penned in the galley.  They couldn't 
return fire, the risk of killing a passenger was too great.

"Recovery!" shouted Waters into his headset.  "You've got 
to try and get some of the passengers out.  Copy?"

"What?" shouted Clark and Skinner in response.

"Is it viable?" Waters asked.

"No!" yelled Clark.  We're trapped!  We can't return fire! 
Command, advise!"

Skinner turned to his colleague, preparing to voice his 
protest.  What in the hell was he trying to do?  He hadn't 
wanted the breech.  Was he condemning it to failure because 
it wasn't the vision he chose to believe in?  Skinner 
didn't care.  He wasn't going to let Waters serve up his 
agents like lambs to the slaughter.

"Mulder, no!" he heard Clark shout.




~Chapter Fifteen - I Know That We'll Meet Again ~


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

Day Three
7:25 p.m.
Main Terminal 
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Maggie Scully walked slowly down the long corridor at a 
reverent pace.  Her low heels clicked loudly in the 
deserted terminal, maintaining a hollow echo.  She held her 
head high and her back straight, her posture defying the 
defeat she felt within.

Hundreds of minutes had passed since she had last spoken to
Walter Skinner.  Those hours had easily been the longest of 
her life.  Her resolve had slipped away.  Her courage had 
fallen to the floor.  She was lost, isolated, drowning in 
the eye of a heady and dangerous storm.

Maggie quickened her pace, trying desperately to ignore her 
fears.  When she reached the door to the ladies room, she 
slowly pushed it open and stepped inside.  She moved 
deliberately toward the bank of mirrors secured to the far 
wall, studying her haggard reflection.

She caught her own haunted gaze and nearly fell to the 
floor.  Maggie didn't know how much longer she could wait, 
how much more she could endure.  Her strength was drained.  
Her determination was all but gone.

In her heart she still kept hope, but her mind was riddled 
with doubts.  They picked at her, bruising her with their 
uncertainty.  They weighed her down and sunk her soul.

When she reached the mirrors, she leaned forward and rested 
her forehead against the cool glass.  She said a silent 
prayer, begging for peace, begging for absolution, begging 
for Dana to come home.


Day Three
7:28 p.m.
Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Dana Scully lifted herself slowly from the floor and peered 
past the captain's shoulder.  She let the sound of the 
gunfire drift over and past her.  She let the maddening 
cries of the passengers bounce away unheeded.  She pushed 
down the sharp resurgence of fear that shrouded her in 
doubt.

She watched the hijackers from her limited vantage point, 
taking note of their cool demeanor, their apparent patience 
amidst a situation that defied reason or belief.

The cavalry had arrived and with them had come hope, but 
now, even that was slowly fading.  Too much time had passed 
since the first shot had rang out and the captain had 
hastily pulled her to the floor.

She sat there now, the weight of her helplessness crippling 
her.   She drank in the heavy air that was filled with 
fear, its sticky tartness burning her throat and leaving a 
foul taste in her mouth.  

When she blew it back out, she tried to push away her 
regrets as well, but they had already marked her.  They 
hung heavily in her heart, binding her to a nightmare that 
never seemed as though it would end.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and she moved closer to 
the captain, looking out and into the aisle.  The leader 
paced by slowly, in a manner defying all that was taking 
place.   In her mind, she could hear him whistling a happy 
tune when he meandered by as if on a Sunday stroll in the 
park.

She shook her head and slunk back to the floor, resuming 
her silent vigil.  She watched the others, the men of power 
and deception as they stood calmly at their posts.  They 
guarded the entrances, stoically ensuring that the 
passengers would not be liberated.

It was maddening.  These men, these paragons of evil and 
malice were beyond her contempt.  They stood in denial.  
They stood in the way of redemption.

She wanted to scream for the lunacy of it all.  She wanted 
to jump up from her crouched position and fight.  She 
wanted for it all to be over, for the nightmare to finally 
end.  She wanted to walk away and move forward with her 
life.  She wanted to crawl within herself and pretend the 
last three days had never happened.


Day Three
7:30 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Clark!" Skinner yelled into his headset for the hundredth 
time in the last five minutes.

He still had yet to receive a reply.

Waters screamed frantically into his own microphone, 
barking rapid-fire questions and orders at the team halted 
outside the first class cabin.

A moment later a blast of static broke across the radio and
Skinner almost jumped.

"Command...can't...is down."

"Clark!" Skinner shouted with renewed urgency.  "You're 
breaking up.  Copy?"

A full thirty seconds later Clark's voice came across the 
radio again, this time much clearer.

"Command, a passenger is down."

"We copy, Agent Clark.  We need an update," interjected 
Waters, reasserting his command.

"We're trapped!  What more do you want me to say?" the team 
leader said with obvious disgust.

Skinner blew out a heavy breath and jumped in before Waters 
could respond.  "Agent Mulder?" he asked.

"He moved into the cabin when the passenger was hit," the 
team leader responded flatly a moment later.

Skinner opened his mouth to respond, but Waters cut him 
off.

"Damn it, Clark, I didn't send you in there to fucking 
stand around with your thumb up your ass!  Get the damn 
passengers off, now!"

"That's enough, Waters," Skinner cautioned as he turned and 
met the eyes of the red-faced assistant director.

It was getting out of hand.  The breech was all falling 
apart, and Waters sure as hell wasn't the man who could 
keep it together.

Waters blinked before he returned Skinner's icy stare.  His 
look said it all.  He had no intention of backing down.  He 
would not ease off, and in his campaign to prove Skinner 
wrong, he was gambling the life of every agent and 
passenger aboard the plane.

After a tension filled minute and no response from Clark, 
Waters turned and yelled across the room.  "Peters, get on 
the damn phone!"

The negotiator issued him a mock salute and Waters turned 
back to the video screens.

"Clark, you listen to me.  I want those passengers off.  I 
want this over.  Is that clear, Agent?"

"Crystal, Sir," Clark replied with venom.

Waters ended the transmission and Skinner turned to face 
him.  He blew out a long breath in a last ditch effort to 
curb his temper, "What in the hell do you think you're 
doing?  Are you trying to get them killed?"

The Gunmen stepped forward, but Skinner had no intention of 
listening to the call of peace they would certainly put 
forth.

"I'm not going to get into this with you again, Skinner," 
warned Waters.

"And I'm not going to let you offer up those men just so 
you can prove me wrong.   It ends now, Waters," Skinner 
hissed back in reply.

"This is my show and I'm damn well going to run it as I see 
fit."

"Well, you're wrong, Waters.  And that's exactly what I'm 
going to tell OPR," Skinner promised.

Waters took a step forward and Frohike moved between the 
two men, extending his arm and holding Waters back.

"Get the fuck back," Waters seethed.

"Grow the fuck up," countered Frohike.

Waters pulled back his hand and curled his fist into a 
ball.

When he swung, Frohike ducked with lightening fast reflexes 
born from years of paranoia.

The assistant director nearly fell over from the momentum 
of his missed punch.  He teetered for a moment and then 
pulled himself up straight.  He blinked and met the 
Gunman's eyes.

Skinner stepped forward this time, moving Frohike out of 
the way.  "Back off, Waters," he cautioned, "You're digging 
your own grave here."

Waters opened his mouth to speak and shot Skinner a look of 
contempt.

"No," Skinner said, his voice unmistakably clear.

"This isn't over."

"You're right, it isn't," Skinner promised, turning and 
walking away.


Day Three
7:36 p.m.
Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The constant trilling of the phone only added to the 
tension that was already ripe in the air.  No one made a 
move to answer it.  They paced by it, guarding the 
entrance, but ignoring its insistent ring.

Scully peered farther out into the cabin, looking past the 
captain and finding the leader.  He stood in the far corner 
near the coach entrance, engaging in an animated 
conversation with the burly hijacker.  Scully strained her 
ears, trying to push aside all of the extraneous sounds.

She closed her eyes in concentration, but jumped a moment 
later when she heard gunfire coming from the first class 
cabin.

"F.B.I., drop your weapons," she heard their rescuers shout 
from first class.

The captain turned, meeting her eyes and drawing her 
attention.  Scully blew out a long breath and nodded.  Hope 
surged within her once again, relief washing away the last 
of her doubts.  The time was almost at hand.  Soon they 
would be free.

She closed her eyes in silent thanks, willing herself to 
remain calm and focused, determined and strong.  When she 
opened them a moment later, she saw the leader run down the 
aisle.

"What in the hell is going on?" he shouted with disbelief. 
Suddenly gone was his cool facade and Scully smiled, if 
only to herself.

When he reached the front, he pointed toward the curtains.  
The one with the raspy voice stepped forward immediately, 
parting the blue velvet and looking into the first class 
cabin.  He pulled back a moment later and nodded his head, 
a sharp look of dread passing over his features.

The leader didn't blink or mutter a word.  His calm 
demeanor slipped seamlessly back into place as he pulled a 
cell phone out of his pocket and turned away.

Scully didn't hesitate.  She took advantage of the 
distraction and moved toward the wall of the plane.  She 
reached beside her seat and pulled out her own phone, 
glancing back in the hijackers' direction before bringing 
it to her ear.


Day Three
7:39 p.m.
Coach Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Mulder crouched behind the last seat on the left-hand side 
of the cabin.  He shook his head warily, closing his eyes 
and leaning forward to rest his head on the seat in front 
of him.

He hadn't thought.  He had acted, and now he was trapped.  
He hadn't been able to see beyond her.  He hadn't been able 
to pull her out of his mind, extract her from his thoughts.  
She surrounded him, her vision, dancing in front of him, 
luring him, begging him, allowing him no course of 
resistance.

He had been so ready to act, so ready to damn the 
consequences that when the young passenger had stood and 
then fallen backwards a heartbeat later, Mulder had surged 
forward, fueled by raw instinct and pure adrenaline.

He had taken aim, firing once and then again, fatally 
wounding one of the hijackers before diving headlong behind 
the last seat.  His effort had been for naught though.  The 
male passenger had died only moments later from a bullet 
wound to the chest.

Mulder shook his head and blew out a long breath, pushing 
the memories to the side.  He couldn't let them interfere, 
not when he needed to remain focused and strong, not when 
he needed to get to Scully.

He peeked around the corner of the seat, eyeing the men who 
stood in his way, silently vowing they would not remain so 
for long.

He felt a familiar sense of urgency wash over him.  Every 
moment, every heartbeat brought him closer to her.  He 
tried not to think about the if or the when.  He would find 
her.  He would reach her in time.  Failure was simply not 
an option.  

He turned away, finding Clark as he frantically motioned 
for Mulder to turn on his headset.  Mulder let out a loud 
sigh of disgust and held up a finger, and not the one he 
wanted to, signaling for Clark to wait a moment.

He turned back toward the front of the plane, feeling 
nothing beyond his intense determination to end the 
nightmare, to bring Scully home.  He counted to five and 
rose up suddenly, firing in the direction of the two 
hijackers positioned on the left side of the cabin.  He 
aimed high to avoid the passengers, firing off five rounds 
before lowering himself back to the floor.

He glanced back at Clark and reluctantly flipped on his 
headset. 
He knew what Clark was going to say before he even opened 
his mouth.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Ha, thought Mulder, the Psychic Friends Network didn't have 
anything on him.

"Thought I'd check out the scenery up here," Mulder 
answered flatly.

"Damn it, Mulder, I told you before we came up here that 
you weren't going to pull this shit on me.  You disobeyed a 
direct order!"

"Sue me." 

"So help me God, Mulder, if you--"

"Whatever," he said before reaching down and turning off 
his headset.

He turned his attention back to the terrorists across the 
room, back to the woman beyond the blue velvet curtain.  
After a deep breath and a count of five, he stood and fired 
off another five rounds.  He slunk back to the floor and 
let out a long slow breath.

Mulder sat there for several long moments, trying to remain 
patient and strong.  He was so damn close.  She was so damn 
close.


Day Three
7:45 p.m.
Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully swallowed hard as she shoved her cell phone into her 
coat pocket with trembling fingers.  She blinked quickly, 
trying to toss Skinner's words to the side.

Mulder was in D.C. 

She crawled toward the aisle, trying desperately to ignore 
the pain that burned through her soul.  She peered over the 
captain's shoulder again, trying to erase his image from 
her mind.

Mulder was on the plane.

She stared into the cabin, trying not to look at the 
curtain across the way.

Mulder was there, only a heartbeat away.

They were almost safe, Skinner had assured her.  They were 
almost home, he had said.  

She should have felt better, stronger, ready.  She wasn't 
though.  She wanted to run.  She wanted to hide.  She 
wanted to burrow within herself and search for the inner 
peace she had once held so sacred.

Somehow Scully doubted she would ever feel it again.


Day Three
7:44 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


"Agent down!" shouted Markhem, Team Four's leader.  "Hall," 
he elaborated.

Skinner swallowed, never breaking his gaze away from the 
video screens.  The raid of the first class cabin had been 
moved to the large center screen, and he watched as it all 
began to fall apart.

There had been an opening, and Waters had jumped on it, 
sending in the team without a second thought, without 
consulting a soul.

"This is Command, Markhem.  What's his condition?" Skinner 
asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"Leg wound, looks like an artery's been hit," the team 
leader responded in a rush.

"Shit," Waters said from his position across the room.  
"Get him the hell out, but don't give up your position!"

"Copy," the agent said after a long pause.

"Damn it," muttered Waters before he flipped off his 
microphone.

"Team Five," Skinner said to the men waiting on the stairs, 
"Move in and help get Hall out of there."

"Copy," replied that team's leader.

A few short seconds later Skinner heard the wail of the 
ambulance as it moved past the command center.  He 
swallowed down the bile that rose up from his stomach, 
burning his throat and tainting his palate with its foul 
nature.  He ignored the nausea and unease that followed.  
It wasn't over yet, he reminded himself, but his lie didn't 
ring true as it flitted across his mind.

He didn't know what to do or which way to turn.  Every path 
seemed to deceptively lead them farther from truth and 
resolution.

Skinner looked to his left when Frohike moved to stand 
beside him.  

"It's not over, you know," the small man said evenly and 
with confidence.

Skinner raised an eyebrow in question.

"They're stronger than all of this."

The assistant director didn't respond, but took a deep 
breath, wanting to take the Gunman's words to his heart.

"I've seen it before, so many times.  You've seen it, too."

Skinner nodded slowly in agreement.

"Just don't count them out," Frohike said, dropping his 
head with the weight of his words.  "They'll make it.  They 
always do."

They stood in silence for what seemed like hours.  They 
didn't watch the screens.  They didn't plot their next 
move.  For a moment, they just believed.

"Sir," Byers said reluctantly as he approached them from 
behind.

Skinner turned and Byers pointed toward the hostage 
negotiator standing across the room.

"Peters has him on the line," Byers said.

Skinner didn't hesitate, trotting across the room, flipping 
on his headset, and switching the channel as he went.

"Now, Mr. Peters," insisted the hijacker, his voice and 
tone as reserved as ever.

"I fail to see what our motivation should be," Peters said, 
shooting a glance in Skinner's direction.

"Motivation, Mr. Peters?"

Skinner looked to his left when he saw Waters approaching, 
a questioning look upon his face.

"Let me put this in terms even the F.B.I. can understand.  
Pull your agents back, or I kill another passenger.  I have 
my eye on a lovely red-headed creature, if you get my 
drift."

Skinner took a step forward.

Waters shook his head.

Peters took a deep breath and replied, "I'll see what I can 
do."

"Two minutes, Mr. Peters," the leader said before the line 
went dead.


Day Three 
7:51 p.m.
First Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Nathan Markhem carefully, but quickly, moved to retake his 
position in the first class cabin.  His gun was drawn as he 
dropped to the ground in front of the first row of seats, 
trying to ignore the frightened woman lying in front of his 
knees.

When he looked up and across the room, his stomach fell to 
the floor.  A man stood there, just in front of the blue 
velvet curtain separating the first and business classes.  
His left arm was wrapped around a woman's throat, her body 
pressed into his.  He held a gun to her head and his eyes 
sparkled brightly with his intent.

"Command," Markhem said cautiously, "This is Four, we've 
got a situation, advise."

Nothing.

"Command, did you copy?" he asked, never taking his eyes 
away from the hijacker across the room.

"We copy, Four," Waters finally replied.  "We've got you on 
the monitor.  Pull back."

"Copy," he said slowly, finding and capturing the gaze of 
the woman across the room.  He let the look of pure terror 
alight within her blue eyes wash over him.  

He turned away a moment later, looking to his right and 
left, garnering the attention of the other members of his 
team.  He nodded silently and stood, his gun still drawn 
and ready.

He took a step back, glancing down at the floor and the 
woman who lay there.   Fear flashed, and he made a 
decision, acting on it without a second thought.

Markhem reached down and pulled the dark-haired woman up 
and behind him, sheltering her, saving her.

He looked back across the room, finding the terrorist as he 
took a step backwards.  The hijacker nodded and smiled a 
smirk that almost seemed congratulatory.  Markhem nodded, 
never breaking eye contact with the man as he stepped out 
of the cabin and into the hall.


Day Three
7:52 p.m.
Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


The leader stepped through the curtain and threw the young 
blonde woman to the floor.  He stepped away from her, a 
look of disgust tempered with triumph glistening within his 
obsidian eyes.

Scully watched him for a moment before closing her eyes and 
expelling a long slow breath.  She knew what had happened, 
the rouse the leader had orchestrated.  The gunfire in the 
first class cabin had ceased.  The cries of the passengers 
had ebbed.  Their rescuers were gone.

The steady sound of gunfire from the coach section assured 
her that all had not been dissuaded, that Mulder was still 
there.

She breathed out a weighty sigh of pain.  She was so 
confused and she hated it.  Why had he returned?  Had it 
been for her?  Why?  Noting made sense, up was down, right 
was left, truth was lie.

He hadn't wanted her.  Did he feel that he owed her, that 
some unspoken debt still lay between them? 

She ignored the violent palpitations of her heart.  She 
pushed aside their warnings and judgments.  She was so 
tired of feeling, of questioning, of bending to the will of 
her broken soul.  She refused to lose herself in him or in 
her pain.  She refused to let either dictate her survival.


Day Three
7:53 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Skinner paced in tight circles, winding left, turning 
right.  He glanced toward the monitors every pass, knowing 
full well what he would find.

The breech was in danger, and not just from the threats of 
the hijackers.  Waters was on the phone with the Director, 
deciding its fate, designing the future.  

Skinner tried in vain to shove away the anger that moved 
through him like a poison, clouding his mind and leaving 
him with a restless feeling of resentment.  Waters had 
handled the matter poorly from the start.  He had wanted it 
to fail.  He had wanted to prove Skinner wrong.  He had 
doomed the men and woman aboard the plane.

Skinner seethed as he walked in tight circles, tracing over 
all that had went wrong, searching for the direction that 
would make it all right.


Day Three
7:56 p.m.
Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Scully bit her lip and winced at the pain when the cut in 
her upper lip reopened.  Her head still pounded.  Her eye 
continued to ache as the swelling worsened.  Her mind 
twisted and whirled as the leader paced furiously at the 
front of the section.

Moments before he had ordered the passengers to rise from 
the floor and return to their seats.  Those who had not 
immediately complied were pulled up in a fit of haste by 
the burly hijacker.

The leader stared at them all now, cataloging their every 
fear and weakness.  When he stepped forward a minute later 
it was to choose.


Day Three
7:59 p.m.
Coach Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Mulder waited patiently, watching, calculating, searching 
for the end.  It was there, just beyond his grasp, floating 
and cowering within uncertainty.  

He turned when he heard Clark yell his name over the 
deafening din.

Mulder flipped on his headset and pulled himself farther 
behind the seat.  "What, Clark?"

"I'm sending Genndy to the right side of the cabin, cover 
him."

"Copy that," Mulder said, a weary smile in his voice.  

He didn't hesitate, rising up and exchanging fire with the 
three remaining hijackers.  The one on the right turned and 
paused, looking toward the blue velvet curtain.  Mulder 
didn't miss a beat, readjusting his aim and hitting the 
hijacker first in the arm and then in the shoulder.

"He's in," shouted Clark.

Mulder moved to drop back to the floor, taking one last 
glance toward the hijackers.  "Pull out!" he thought he 
heard one of them shout.  

Mulder turned to Clark, shooting him a questioning look.  
The team leader shrugged at first, his eyes widening a 
moment later.  Mulder spun back around, bringing up his gun 
as he moved to stand, watching as the three hijackers 
retreated into the business class cabin.

"Get the passengers out!" he heard Clark yell frantically 
across the radio.

Mulder turned again, meeting the team leader's eyes, 
struggling against indecision.  Clark shot him a glare, a 
warning before moving farther into the galley and pulling 
open the hatch they had entered through.

The passengers quickly filled the aisles, moving to the 
rear of the plane as directed by Proust and Genndy.

Mulder paused for another moment, watching as the 
passengers rushed by, their faces filled with hope and 
fear.  He weighed his options and surged forward, pulling 
himself over the seats, moving toward Scully.

When the aisle cleared, he moved to it, stopping once again 
to look back, watching for a second as the rest of his team 
lowered the passengers into the belly of the plane.

When he turned back a heartbeat later, his world exploded 
into a thousand colors and thoughts.  A brilliant flash of 
white light overtook him, blinding him, halting him.  He 
fell to his knees, shielding his eyes and covering his 
ears.  The noise was deafening, assaulting his senses with 
a quick and certain fury.  

No, he thought, Scully, no.  I was almost there.  


Day Three
8:04 p.m.
Temporary Command Center
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


Byers pulled himself out of the center of the storm.  He 
stepped to the side, listening, watching, waiting, praying.

Assistant Director Skinner moved quickly from one end of 
the tent to the other.  He spoke loudly into his headset, 
barking orders, demanding answers where none could be 
found.

Three minutes had passed, slowly and quickly all at once.

The flash of light that had drawn their attention from the 
scene unfolding in the business class section seemed only 
to be a faint memory now.  The constant buzzing of the 
snow-filled center screen reminded him that it had not been 
a dream, but a nightmare come true.

Skinner paced by again, this time finally able to 
communicate with the Recovery team leader, "Clark, this is 
Skinner, go."

Byers reached down, flipping on his headset and tuning into 
Skinner's conversation.

"Clark, are you still there?  Recovery, come in."

"Command, they were flash bangs.  I repeat, no explosion."

"Are the passengers off?" shouted Waters as he moved across 
the room.

"Yes," Clark replied a moment later, "they're in the cargo 
hold.  Russel and Vanauken are taking them out through the 
cargo doors."

"I want everyone off that plane now, Clark.  Do you hear 
me?  Do you understand?  Everyone.  The Director has called 
off the breech."

"The rest of the passengers--"

"Now, Clark, everyone off."

"Clark," Skinner said before the agent had a chance to end 
the conversation, "Where's Agent Mulder?"

"He's already gone, Sir."


Day Three
8:05 p.m.
Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247
Washington Dulles International Airport
Chantilly, Virginia


She wasn't there.  Scully was gone.

Mulder stood at the front of the section, frantically 
searching the faces of the passengers as they rose and 
moved toward the rear of the plane and the safety beyond.  
Clark would be waiting there to take them out.

"Scully," he whispered, before turning and running toward 
the first class cabin.

He burst through the curtain a moment later and stopped 
dead in his tracks.  She stood across the room, and he 
stopped breathing.  A man stood next to her, his fingers 
wrapped tightly around her arms, pushing her forward toward 
the open hatch in front of them.

"Scully!" he shouted, finding his voice and propelling 
himself forward, gun raised.  "Are you all right?" he 
asked, almost choking on the words.

Her head snapped up and she turned to face him.  Mulder's 
heart almost lunged out of his chest.  Her bruised and 
battered face flooded with relief, but only for a moment.  
The hijacker pulled her roughly against his body and she 
cried out in protest.

When the terrorist pulled up his own gun and placed it 
against Scully's head, Mulder stopped again.  He watched in 
animated horror, finding her eyes, searching for her 
strength.  She was laid open to him, bare and broken, her 
eyes filled with fear and pain.  He drank it in, taking it 
as his own.

"Scully," he cried out a heartbeat later, training his gun 
on the hijacker and taking another step forward, his eyes 
reluctantly leaving hers.

The hijacker smiled and glanced down at the hatch to his 
right.

"No," Mulder said in response, taking two slow steps in 
their direction.

The hijacker nodded his head and tightened his hold on 
Scully.

"Mulder," she cried out with obvious torment.

He winced in response and took another step.  

The hijacker smiled again.

Mulder caught a flash of moment, pulling his eyes away from 
the duo and looking toward the open hatch, watching with 
confusion as another hijacker reached up from the belly of 
the plane.

He looked up a second later, fully reading the hijackers 
intent.

With a sly smile of defiant pleasure, the terrorist shoved 
her forward and into the waiting arms of the terrorist.  

Mulder surged forward, screaming her name as he went.

The hijacker wasted no time, recovering quickly and firing 
off two rapid shots in Mulder's direction as he jumped feet 
first into the belly of the plane.

"Scully, no!" he cried out, still running toward the hatch.