MASSACRE
Date: 15 Oct 1995

Back before I had discovered this news group and would get
desperate between seasons, I discovered a great little book:
_World of Strange Phenomena_ by Charles Berlitz (Fawcett Crest,
New York, 1988). It's 331 pages of X Files plots, each one no
more that two or three pages long. Some of the stuff was familiar,
I had seen it elsewhere, but some of it was totally 'out there' and has
been a GREAT source of inspiration. I highly recommend it
because it is so easy to pick up, find something really cool to write
about and then put down again without driving you batty that you
didn't finish the whole book.
ABOUT THIS STORY: The 'File' is taken from Mr. Berlitz's book
(pp. 210-211). This incident on a military plane actually happened
in 1939. I have been faithful to his account in this story, I just
updated it to have something similar happen in recent history. Get
the book, it's great!
WARNINGS: This takes place a few weeks after Endgame. Rated
PG, talk of gross, intestinal kinds of things, some bad words, no sex
or romance. Can safely be read by anyone waiting for the Third
Season (we love you guys, too)
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended (that means YOU,
too, Charles). Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Max Fenig, that creepy guy
in charge of Operation Fallen Angel and all the rest of the stuff you
know you have seen somewhere before (Lone Gunman, etc.)
belong to Ten Thirteen Productions (and hopefully will continue to
do so for a long, long time). Remember me, guys, the one with lots
of kids and little money? Sue me and you may end up with
custody, and NOBODY wants THAT!

MASSACRE
by Vickie Moseley

FBI Headquarters
Washington DC
March 10, 1995 8:30 am

Fox Mulder looked over at the white paper bag sitting on his
desk for the sixth time in as many minutes. He should just take the
damn thing out and do with it what he had originally intended! But
he couldn't. His stomach wouldn't let him. And that thought
bothered him. Almost more than the thought of the Boston Creme
donut with extra chocolate was bothering his stomach now. When
had he started becoming a health food fanatic? Lately, he couldn't
even make it through and entire bag of sunflower seeds! Obviously
it was a sign of deep inner turmoil, to his way of thinking.
The donut had actually called his name from the little wire shelf
in the coffee shop he always stopped in on his way to work. It
called his name and promised all sorts of sweet thoughts and fond
memories when the act of consuming it was over. And now, sitting
in the basement office, with the fresh smell of Starbuck's (tm)
coffee weaving a symphony around them, he couldn't go through
with it! It was a betrayal of his body worse than any he had known.
And there was only one person to blame!
"Morning, Mulder! Hey, did you get me a cup?" <And there
she is now,> he mused.
"On your desk," he said and then made his decision. If he
couldn't have it, why waste it? He picked up the bag and walked it
over to her desk where he deposited it without a word and went
back to sit down, dejected.
Dana Scully was busy taking the lid off her cup of coffee and
didn't catch the look of forlorn on her partner's face. She did notice
the bag and opened it gingerly. With Mulder, one could never tell. .
"Mulder, thanks! I love Boston Creme!" she exclaimed with
sheer delight.
"So did I, once," he grumbled.
He hadn't meant for her to hear that comment, but the close
proximity of their desks made mutters under the breath all too
discernible. She considered the donut, noting that underneath it
was an oat bran muffin, which she also loved and would have
chosen for herself. <So, that's what this is all about> she said as the
light dawned in her mind.
"Mulder, is your stomach upset?" she asked softly. He *hated*
it when she asked about his health lately. It was a sore subject, in
more ways than one.
"Don't start with me, Scully," he warned, a silent threat tacked
on at the end of the statement.
"Mulder, when we switched your medication from injections to
pills, well, upset stomachs are a side effect. I told you that, if you
were listening! But at least you don't have to take the shots, right?
And in another couple of weeks, you won't even be taking the pills.
Then Boston Creme won't seem quite so daunting. Till then, want
the muffin you got me? You should eat something or your stomach
really will start to hurt. . ."
"I am so damn tired of being sick!" he growled. "I thought I
would start to feel better at some point!"
Dana put down the donut and looked over at her partner. All he
could see was how weak he still felt, how much he still slept, how
his stomach was always bothering him, how he was still not really
ready to take on the world. But when she looked at him, all she
could see was how far he had come, and how fast!
Just 5 weeks ago, he was brought into the ER at Eisenhower
Field. His temp was 86 degrees--*86*! She had done autopsies on
corpses that were warmer! And his vitals were non-existent! Then,
when his body had started to warm, the alien virus flowing through
his veins had reawakened and the allergic reaction had started
anew. His blood had thickened and stopped his heart. He had
flatlined! It had taken a couple of jolts to start his heart again. And
a complete transfusion. Then, in desperation, she had ordered
really strong, totally experimental anti-viral medications that were
the equivalent of controlled poisoning, but with time, the virus
seemed to be retreating. He didn't know it, but the medicine he was
currently taking was to repair the damage the anti-virals had
brought upon his system. He had no idea how close he had been,
and technically still was, to dying. And here he sat, complaining
about not being able to stomach a donut! <Most people who have
been through what he has just done to his body are in graves, for
God's Sake!> she thought grimly.
"Mulder, please give yourself some time," she pleaded. He shot
her a look that froze her heart. "You know what we really need?"
she asked, dismissing the daggers in his eyes.
He started to make a really stinging comment, but his curiosity
stopped him. That, and his general affection for his partner.
"What?" he asked, his voice matching the dull look in his eyes.
"We need a good case!" she declared. "We need to get out of
the basement and get in the sunshine. Nothing too strenuous, of
course," she said, and ignored the pained expression he was giving
her. "Just something to get our blood running again. Hey, you
forget. I was *in prison* in Alaska just as long as you were! And
at least you got to sleep in a comfortable bed! I slept on the cot in
the doctor's lounge!"
<When you slept> he thought, but said nothing. He knew full
well that she kept a nearly round the clock vigil over him at the
hospital. She refused to let any other doctor near him, at first,
certain they would only screw up her treatment plan. The one she
had in her head and made up as she went along, because it was all
so new. The charge nurse had filled him in one day, while changing
his IV. At the time, the nurse had advised him to marry Dana,
because she was just too good to let slip away. He had set the
nurse straight right then. He didn't have to marry her, he said, they
were already partners.
"You're right, we need a case," he agreed. "I need something to
look at besides piles of paper and you need something to look at
besides the back of my head!" He got out of his chair with a barely
concealed groan and moved over to the file drawers. Closing his
eyes he opened the nearest drawer and stuck his hand in all the way
to the back. There was a knock on their doorframe, which startled
both of them and he ended up with a nasty little papercut on his
index finger. <Damn, now I'm bleeding! I give up!> he thought
angrily. He spun around, sticking the injured finger in his mouth as
he did and glared at the intruder.
"Ah, Agent Mulder, ah well, ah Assistant Director Skinner
wants to, ah, wants to see you in his office, ah right away," the
young agent stammered. "And Agent Scully, too, sir!" The kid ran
back to the elevators so fast, neither Mulder or Scully had a chance
to say a word. It had become the hazing of the Bureau, sending
green agents down to the basement to fetch Spooky and Ice Queen.
The kid would be retelling the story for the next week.
Mulder shot a look to Scully as he pulled on his jacket. "OK,
what did you do?" he accused.
"Me! I didn't to anything! For that matter, how could *either*
of us have done anything? You just got back from Medical Leave
and I spent the last three weeks doing _your_ paperwork! I haven't
seen daylight in a millennium!" She beat him to the elevators and
punched the up button.
"Okay, then, here's the plan. If he starts yelling at us, I think
about the donut and throw up all over his desk. We'll be out of
there in no time flat!" Mulder conspired happily.
Scully was nodding her head, with barely concealed amusement.
"Simple, but effective. I say go for it! But make sure you aim well,
and don't get any on my shoes!"

Assistant Director Walter Skinner was not in a good mood, but
then, he rarely was. This time, however, he had a very good
reason. He had a personal favor to ask. That was hard enough, but
he had to ask it of his two most unconventional and often most
exasperating agents. Not to mention the fact that one of them was
only two days back from a five week long medical leave and was
probably still not up to snuff. But he had no choice. All he could
think of was his sister's voice when she had called him. . . A knock
at the door broke his thoughts. "Come in" he said curtly, trying to
regain his flagging determination.
"You wanted to see us, sir," Agent Mulder said in perfunctory
greeting as he and Scully moved to their traditional position in the
two office chairs in front of Skinner's desk. Skinner took the
moment to eye Mulder critically. He had seen the agent just once
since his return from Alaska, although he had been receiving almost
daily reports on his progress from Scully. To Skinner, Mulder still
looked pale and too thin. The bounce wasn't back in his step, not
yet at least. Scully was watching Skinner's assessment. Skinner
looked over to her, silently asking what she thought. She smiled
wanly and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say "He'll live. He wants
to work. We can't keep him cooped up forever." If she only knew.
.
"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder? You've been back at
work for, what, two days now? Are you feeling all right?" Skinner
asked. Somehow, Mulder knew there was more to the question
than polite curiosity. There was something big in the works and
Skinner wanted an honest evaluation of whether Mulder was up to
it.
"I'm bored stiff, sir," Mulder answered with total conviction. "I
need to get back in the field before I start going crazy." A sly smile
spread across Scully's face and Mulder caught it. "Relatively
speaking, of course, sir," he grinned and shot her a sideways glance
to see if she caught it. She had and she was trying not to chuckle.
For a moment, Skinner almost forgot and he smiled. Then he
remembered why he had called these two in the first place and he
grew serious again. He picked up a file from his desk and handed it
to Mulder.
"Mulder, Scully, I have a. . .a rather large favor to ask. I need
you to look into this incident." As Skinner was speaking, Mulder
glanced through the file, noting that the agent on record, the one
who filed the 302 request, was none other than Walter Skinner.
<Curiouser and curiouser> he thought and looked back up at
Skinner.
"What's this case all about, sir?" he asked. He had handed the
file to Scully, open to the first page so she could see what he had
just discovered.
"Three days ago, a Marine Corps transport left Camp LeJuene
for Pennsicola Naval Air Base. It carried 12 corpsmen, a pilot and
two flight officers. There was some bad weather and the flight had
to be routed out over the Gulf. While over the water, the plane
suddenly sent out a distress signal. It lasted for 10 minutes and
then the signal died," Skinner said, getting up and coming around
the desk.
"About half an hour later, right as the rescue planes were
starting to head out to look for it, it turned up on radar. It limped,
literally into the base and made an emergency landing. The ground
crew was aboard in minutes. What they found . . ." Skinner
stopped, as if he was having a hard time trying to relay the rest of
the story. "What they found was fourteen dead men. The
corpsmen, mostly recent recruits, and both flight officers, all dead
of rather large wounds. The pilot was also severely injured and
died of the injuries just minutes after landing. The inside of the
cabin looked like it had been hit by a ground to air missile, but no
damage at all was found to the outside." Skinner was sitting on his
desk, looking hard at the two agents in front of him.
"Sir, this report says that the weapons of the flight officers had
been fired. But it doesn't say at what. Could this be a
homicide/suicide, sir?" Scully asked.
Skinner snorted at the thought. "Agent Scully, not a single man
on that plane died of gunshot wounds. The shots were aimed away
from the men, the shells were found on the floor, about half of the
rounds have been accounted for in the walls of the plane.
Apparently, they hit something, but the *something* seems to have.
..disappeared."
"I'm curious, sir," Mulder said, taking the folder back from
Scully. "Why is the FBI looking into this? Why not the military?"
Walter Skinner sighed and took off his glasses. "Agent Mulder,
I'm going to level with you. The military *is* conducting it's own
investigation. But if you turn a few pages, and look at the flight
list, you will note that there is a Private First Class Walter S. Mason
listed. That boy is. . .was my nephew. My younger sister's only
son, and my namesake." Skinner took another deep breath and
continued. "I promised my baby sister that I would find out what
had happened. She knew the risks involved when Skip decided to
join up. In part, it was my fault, really. He said he wanted to
follow in my footsteps. But to die like this," he gestured angrily at
the file folder. "This is not. . .not what we could have ever
expected. And it's not a death I am willing to accept until I know
the truth."
Mulder nodded silently. A tiny voice in the back of his mind
was quietly rejoicing the fact that now, maybe, his superior would
understand his own obsessions. The rest of his mind was just as
angry as his boss at the senseless tragedy, and just as anxious to
find out what had happened.
"Have autopsies been performed on the bodies, sir," Scully
broke in.
"I believe so, but my sister has agreed to let you see Skip, so
you can make your own assessment. Here are your plane tickets,
the flight is in two hours. I apologize for the short notice, but the
family would like to hold the funeral soon, as you might expect."
The AD stood up and sighed again. "I hope you realize how much
this means to me, that you two are willing to accept this
assignment. I will not forget it." He reached down and shook both
of their hands. "Now, you better get packing. I look forward to
your reports." And with that, he dismissed them and sat back down
at his desk.
"What do you think?" Mulder whispered as they left the office.
"I think. . .I think we both owe him something, and this is as
good a repayment as any I can think of," Scully whispered back,
ignoring the confused expression on Mulder's face. She had yet to
tell him how much Skinner had helped her when she was searching
for him in Alaska.

Years of catching hurried flights had taught both of them the
value of partially packed bags in the back of their closets. They
made the flight out of Dulles for Pennicola in record time. The rush
left Mulder a little tired, and upon settling into his seat, he promptly
fell sound asleep. Scully smiled and reached into his briefcase for
the file. While he slept beside her, she read the sketchy details of
report. Most disturbing, aside from the unusual unknown nature of
the deaths, was the foul, sulfuric smell that the ground crew
reported almost overwhelming them upon entering the aircraft.
Some of the ground crew later were treated for skin irritation. The
plane was now under strict security at a hangar on the Pennsicola
Naval Base grounds. "Great," she muttered in disgust. "Another
Ellens Air Base fiasco!" Getting a look at that plane was not going
to be an easy task, she was positive. Plus, Mulder was sure to want
to do it, with or *without* permission! She was going to have to
keep him on a tight leash with this case. He was in no condition to
go charging off alone again.
"Well, I must admit, Florida is a welcome change from either
Alaska or DC," Mulder exclaimed as he pulled the rental car out of
the airport lot. The scenery was resplendent with flowers and palm
trees. It had been a balmy 65 degrees when they stepped foot off
the plane. Scully smiled in agreement. <Maybe we can manage to
catch some rays on the beach and get your color back> she silently
considered.
"Did you find anything else in the file?" he asked innocently.
"You were pretending to be asleep, weren't you?" she accused.
"No, I really was asleep, unfortunately. But I know you, and
you spent the time reading the file. So what did you find?"
"Not much to speak of. The plane had some kind of smell--
sulfur or something. It gave some of the ground crew a nasty skin
irritation. Oh, and it's under lock and key at the base. Going to see
that plane is going to be tricky." She eyed him, waiting for a
response.
"Hey, *tricky* is my middle name!" he announced cheerfully, his
eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Mulder," she threatened. "If you even think about sneaking in
there without me, I swear I will sedate you so quick. . ."
"Aw, come on, Scully. I know my limits. Besides, I have other
ideas. And not all of them will result in hospitalization or prison
sentences, either. Just trust me."
"The last time I *trusted* you, Mulder, you were supposed to
be taking a few days off to rest. Instead, I ended up sending the
Navy after you when you decided to become a popsicle in Alaska!
Your credibility is on very shaky ground, right now! Exactly what
are you planning?" she demanded in her 'don't give me this grief,
Mulder' tone.
"I was going to contact our little friends in DC and get us some
clearances, like we did in Washington State chasing that downed
Iraqi UFO," he admitted.
"Oh, you mean the same kind of clearances that got me detained
and almost got you shot in the back, Mulder," she inquired, no hint
of amusement in her voice.
"Hey they got us through the front gate, didn't they? And
besides, it's a lot easier to hide an EBE in a multi-level building than
it is to hide an entire C-130 aircraft! Unless you want me to wait
until midnight and wear my black tee shirt I brought along. . ." he
wiggled his eyebrows and broke into a big smile.
"No Way!! All right, I give up! You call the Lone Gunmen and
I'll go do the autopsy on Prvt. Mason. And Mulder, you had better
be at the motel when I get back or you don't want to know what
tortures I have planned for you! And wipe that Cheshire cat grin
off you face!" she glared at him, but finally loosened into a faint
smile. It was good to see him so excited. He really was going to
be all right. This was exactly what he needed.

End of part one

===========================================================================

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: MASSACRE (2/3)
Date: 15 Oct 1995 23:57:12 GMT

MASSACRE Part Two of Three
by Vickie Moseley
Standard disclaimer and warnings in part one.

The Coral Inn Motel
Penniscola, FL
4:30 pm

"Lone Gunman," was the terse greeting when Mulder was finally
able to get through.
"Langly, turn off the tape," Mulder said automatically.
"Mulder? Hey, buddy, how you doing? Feeling better? Get
those icicles off your ears, yet?"
"Turn off the tape, Langly and I'll dignify that with a comment.
You won't want it recorded!" Mulder warned.
"It's off, it's off, already. Sheez, you're worse than your ole
lady. . .ah, I mean 'partner'," Langly said in exasperation.
"Watch it, Langly, I still have a gun. . ."
"So I've heard. Anyway, what's up?"
"I need some information and a favor. I'm in Pennicola, Florida.
."
"Investigating the mysterious deaths of 15 of *the few, the
proud, the marines*, I would wager," Byers broke in. Langly must
have put the call on the speaker phone.
"So you guys heard already," Mulder said, nodding to himself.
These guys were a wonder, sometimes. Mostly, he wondered how
they were still alive! "So what do you know about it?"
"C-130 transport leaves LeJuene on a routine training mission to
Pennsicola and when it finally lands the plane smells like the local
gates of hell and 14 of our country's finests are dead with really big
holes in them. The pilot dies before the paramedics arrive," Byers
recounts. "Oh, and the exact same thing happened in 1939."
"What did you say, Byers? I don't think I heard you right,"
Mulder said, sitting down on the bed and feeling like a big door was
opening and he was about to fall through.
"I said, the same thing happened in 1939. Late summer, 1939,
during the height of World War II in every country but here, a
military transport left San Diego Marine Naval Air Station heading
for Honolulu. Three hours out, it radios a distress signal. Then
the radio goes dead. A half hour or so later, it limps back into base,
makes an emergency landing. Ground crew runs in, finds everyone
but the pilot dead. Pilot died a few minutes after landing. Plane
stinks to high heavens and some of the ground crew end up with
really strange skin infections. They close up the plane, tighten
security and three medical officers are put in charge of the
investigation. Their report never met the light of day. The whole
thing was hushed up, the families told that the plane had crashed
into the ocean off Hawaii, until one of the grounds crew let it slip--
15 years later, to a guy by the name of Robert Gardner." Byers
finished the story and Mulder could just make out a faintly
whispered "weirdness" from Frohike.
"So how come I've never heard of this?" Mulder asked, more to
himself than his friends.
"Hey, we in the conspiracy business have had other things on
our minds, ya know. Roswell, Area 51, to name a few. And this
was an isolated incident. Or at least it seemed that way. In 1954,
when the story was finally leaked, it became a vehicle for Cold War
mongers. They accused Stalin of creating a bomb, sort of like a
neutron, you know, kill people but not damage the equipment. The
theory went that Russia tried to use it to steal some of our planes
for use against the Japanese. It flared a bit in the
military/industrialist press and then just died for lack of credible
evidence. Of course, if anyone could have gotten inside that plane.
." Byers voice trailed off.
"Do you have any hard copy of any of this?" Mulder asked.
"Sure. Do you have modem access? And did the lovely Agent
Scully bring her laptop?" Frohike had finally taken control of the
conversation.
"Frohike, the woman carries a gun and scores perfect on the
range _every_ time. I would watch my step, if I were you," Mulder
warned.
"Hey, let a guy dream, OK, Mulder? Anyway, I'll download in a
minute. Now what was the favor?"

Dana made it back to the motel about 5:30. She thought about
going directly to her room and taking a nice long shower, but
Mulder had been watching for her and opened his door before she
had a chance to sneak past. From the looks of him, he had news
and was anxious to hear what she had found.
"Mulder, it is totally weird," she said, dropping down into one of
the two chairs in the room. "It was like all of that kid's internal
organs just. . .exploded! There were no entry wounds--only _exit_
wounds! It makes no sense." She shook her head and pulled the
pony tail holder out to let her hair down.
"Take a look at this," Mulder said, handing her a set of papers
he had run off on her bubble jet printer.
"This is pretty sketchy," she advised after reading through the
pages.
"Yeah, I know, but it's the best I could get. Scully, look at the
date," he said, pointing to a date stamp in the upper right hand
corner of the first sheet.
"September 15, . . .1954? Can that be right?" she exclaimed.
"Gets better. They are discussing an event that occurred *15*
years before! That death plane landed in 1939!" Mulder dropped
down onto the bed, propping his head up with one hand. "Scully,
this isn't the first time this has happened! And the last time it was
investigated by the military and then shoved under some rug so
dark it didn't see the light of day for 15 years. I think we are on to
something here, something big."
Scully handed the papers back to him. "You know how the
military gets about it's deep, dark secrets," she said in warning.
"Yeah, well, 'Commander Carter', hopefully they won't mind
having a couple of 'their own' look around a little later tonight." He
handed her the ID's Frohike had devised. "Aren't these new fax
machines great," Mulder added as she regarded the plastic
suspiciously.
"If I end up in jail instead of getting a tan, Mulder, I am going to
be really pissed," she intoned.
"So, let's go get a decent meal, just in case. The desk clerk told
me about a seafood place just up the way, while I was getting the
ID's off his fax."
The restaurant was a local place, off the tourist routes. The
seafood was fresh, prices reasonable, and for the first time in
weeks, Mulder actually ate like he was really hungry. Scully
couldn't keep the grin off her face all through dinner. They talked
about the case a little, about Florida and the last times they had
been there. The Scully clan had spent a year in Penniscola, but
Dana had been 3 at the time and her only memories were of
mosquitoes and sunburn. Mulder's Aunt Francis had retired to
Tampa and he had visited her one summer during college. His
memories weren't much of an improvement on Scully's , made
worse by the fact that he had spent the time pining for Phoebe
Greene. If they managed to wrap the case up by the weekend, they
had decided to take a day or two off and invest in plenty of
sunblock.
Mulder glanced down at his watch as they left the restaurant.
"According to our friends, the guard changes at 9:00. It's 8:30
now. We should be heading over there."
"Mulder, what about uniforms? And do you know the penalty
for impersonating an officer? Do the words 'yardarm' and 'plank'
ring any bells?" Scully asked as they approached the station.
"Already considered, Scully. We're reservists. We're in plain
clothes. And they don't do hangings anymore. They prefer life
imprisonment. Haven't you seen "A Few Good Men", yet? Hey,
maybe you could get Tom Cruise to handle your defense. Now, try
to look Navy, OK? We're almost there."
Scully was actually surprised that the ID's matched the
information on the guard's list and that they received clearance to
proceed onto the base. The thought did cross her mind that getting
off the base would be possibly more difficult than getting on the
base had been, but she brushed it aside. Somehow, Mulder always
made the most implausible plan seem highly plausible and this was
no exception.
Finding the right hangar was another problem. The intelligence
he had gotten from the LGM gave him a general location, but the
exact building was nicely concealed by the many other identical
hangars surrounding it. It took them the better part of an hour
searching for the right building. Upon finding it, it was locked and
guarded.
"OK, have you got any more bright ideas," Scully shot over to
him in a whisper.
"Direct approach," he suggested.
"That's how I got detained and you got shot at the last time,"
Scully reminded him.
"That was Washington State, Scully. People are more uptight
there than in Pennsicola! Come on, it's the only option still
available."
Mulder sauntered off in the direction of the guard and Scully
stood watching him for a moment, thinking that it might be easier
to shot him herself and save the Navy the bother. Finally, she
jogged after to him.
"I'm sorry, Comdr.. Newton, I'm under strict orders not to let
anyone in this hangar. No matter what clearance level! Sorry, sir,
but you'll just have to take it up with the Lieutenant tomorrow, sir."
The sailor couldn't have been more than 20 and took his
responsibilities almost as seriously as Mulder. There would be no
budging him.
"Comdr. Newton, let's just come back in the morning. The
plane will still be there," Scully said, pulling at Mulder's arm. He
started to get annoyed at her until he saw the look she was giving.
She was directing his attention to the side of the hangar, in the
opposite direction from where they had parked their car. His
curiosity was piqued.
"Guess you're right, Carter. We'll just have to make the trip out
here tomorrow." He followed her around the side of the building
toward their car. Quickly, they circled the building and came
around the other side. There, about half way in the middle of the
wall, was an exhaust fan, about three feet off the ground and about
three feet square. As luck would have it, it was not operating, and
from the looks of it, could be removed for maintenance. A couple
of pocket knifes and some general heavy labor later, the fan was
removed and the two agents were in the hanger.
"Flashlight," Mulder commanded with an outstretched hand as
he squinted in the dark, looking for the plane. There were few
windows in the hanger and it was black as pitch inside.
"Be grateful for big pockets, 'Commander'," Scully grumbled as
she handed him a flashlight and switched on one of her own. The
plane, once illuminated, was only ten or so feet in front of them.
Mulder quickly located the door and a nearby ladder access and
was about to undo the opening mechanism when Scully grabbed his
arm. "We should have brought gas masks," she whispered.
"Remember the fumes?"
"They've probably dissipated by now, Scully. Don't worry about
it," he said confidently and opened the hatch. The smell hit them
both immediately and almost knocked them to their knees. "Of
course, I could be wrong on that," he added, choking and looking
sheepishly as she scowled at him and flashed her light into the
plane.
The interior was dark gray and olive drab, with occasional
splashes of reddish brown. "Blood," Scully commented, matter of
fact. Mulder only nodded, trying to keep the smell and the sight of
all the blood from overturning his tight control on his stomach.
"Not much here, to speak of," she added, checking out the crew-
seats on the sides of the plane. Mulder had wandered off toward
the back of the plane, where the sides were pockmarked with bullet
holes.
"Scully, I think I found something," he said, stooping down and
examining the rubber mat on the floor of the plane. Scully made
her way back to his side and leaned over his shoulder. "Look at
this," he pointed to a patch of melted rubber and metal on the floor.
"Looks like something was spilled, some acid or something
corrosive," she said, shining the light and moving Mulder to the side
so she could take a better look. Upon getting closer, she squinted
her eyes and put a hand to them. "Ouch! Whatever is making that
smell, it seems strongest right here," she said, her eyes tearing up
and forcing her to stand to get away from the fumes. "Mulder, this
stuff can't be healthy, and you aren't really in any condition to resist
an infection. I think we've seen about all we can see for now," she
suggested. He started to protest, but she tugged at his sleeve.
"Come on. Doctor's orders!"
He grumbled something derogatory about the medical
profession and nursemaid partners, but followed her out of the
plane.
They made it out of the hanger and over to their car, and to
Scully's surprise, off the base without incident. "It is my
imagination, or was that _too_ easy?" Scully asked as they were a
couple of miles from the base, headed back to their motel.
"One guard, an exhaust fan that can be removed by two people,
no questions as we left the gate," Mulder ticked off the events on
his fingers. "Now why would you say that was easy?" he asked
sarcastically. "But why make it easy for us?"
"I don't know," she sighed, confused.
"Well, what if they wanted it to be easy, but made sure we didn't
really find anything. Maybe they figured we would get bored and
go away," he mused.
"Or maybe, there wasn't anything to find in the first place,"
Scully pointed out, then sighed at Mulder's pained expression.
"OK, it's still too weird for that. Besides, if they think you'll get
bored and go away, they obviously don't know that Fox Mulder has
been snooping around," she said, smiling at him. "So what is our
next move?"
"For now, sleep. In the morning, we need to talk to some of
those grounds crew. And we need to get our hands on that flight
recorder. Maybe there's something on it." He had pulled the rental
car into the motel parking lot, parking in the spot directly in front of
their doors.
"And how do you propose to do that?" she asked, stifling a
yawn. "More 'direct approach'?"
He smirked at her. "I haven't thought that through, yet, Scully.
But I'll have a plan by morning. Meet you at the coffee shop at
8:00."

It started about 12:30, according to the clock on the nightstand.
Scully had taken a shower when they arrived back at the motel and
pulled on her cotton shorts and tee shirt that she always liked to
sleep in on the road. It had been a quarter till eleven when she
turned off the light and fell into an exhausted sleep. Then, the
itching started. It was on her arms, then her hands, her face, her
legs, all over her body. Having been a victim of poison ivy once in
her childhood, Scully could remember the unbearable itching, but
even that had been mild compared to what she was going through
now. In desperation, she got up and dug through her travel medical
kit that she had started to carry on the second assignment with
Mulder. She was gleeful when she pulled out the small tube of
hydrocortisone and smeared a liberal amount on all exposed flesh.
It helped for a while, but soon, the itching was unbearable again.
She laid on the bed, not even allowing the top sheets to touch her,
and used every ounce of self control she had to keep from
scratching the skin right off her body.
In the adjoining room, Mulder was not having an easy night,
either. After downing the handful of pills that were still being
prescribed, he changed into sweatpants and settled in to watch
some TV before drifting off to sleep. Around 1:30, the nightmare
started. He was alone in the plane. He could smell blood, blood
was all around him, covering his hands, on his clothes. He mentally
checked himself for any pain, thinking, perhaps that the blood was
his own. No pain. The blood was coming from somewhere else.
Then, he smelled something else. Something that smelled vaguely
familiar, but he was having trouble remembering. He looked into
the corner of the plane, toward the back, and saw the image of Max
Fenig, in a beam of blue light, suspended three feet above the floor
of the plane. Max was shaking and convulsing in pain, calling to
Mulder to help him, stop them, keep them from taking him. Mulder
shouted and ran to Max, tried to reach through the blue light, but it
burned his hands and he snatched them back. Then the blue light
reached out and engulfed him in it's fire, and it was no longer Max,
but Mulder who was suspended above the floor, in agony. He
awoke in a cold sweat, screaming in pain.
He was still trying to catch his breath when he heard frantic
pounding on his door. "Mulder! Mulder let me in, if you can!
Mulder! Are you all right?" the voice on the other side of the door
demanded. Painfully, he moved off the bed, the cramp in his
stomach not subsiding even though the dream had ended. He was
lightheaded and dizzy as he made his way to the door and fumbled
with the lock. Turning the doorknob, Scully pushed the door open
and almost toppled him to the ground as she plowed into the room.
"Mulder! What the hell. . .!"
In the dim light from the parking lot, she could see his face and
knew this was not an ordinary nightmare. "Here, let's get you back
in bed," she said gently taking his arm and leading him across the
few steps. Once he was settled, she reached over and turned on the
bedside lamp.
"Oh my God, Mulder!"
"Scully! What happened to you!"
Scully was too concerned to answer. Her partner was soaked in
sweat and almost as pale as he had been in Alaska, coming off the
ice flow. The pain was still evident around his jaw and eyes,
though now, a look of horror was there as well. "Where does it
hurt, Mulder?" she asked, checking his forehead for fever.
"I don't know, you tell me! God, Scully, it's all over you! What
is that stuff?" he demanded, staring at her arms and hands. Finally,
she noticed her own hands. She sat down hard on the bed, and
stared at her own skin.
"That's why I itched," she concluded, almost speaking to herself.
Her skin was covered in an ugly red rash that formed blisters in
some areas and appeared to be on every inch of her body. Not even
thinking of the man lying next to her, she pulled up her tee shirt and
looked. "It _is_ all over me!" she said in amazement.
The cramp was starting to loosen in his gut and he struggled to
sit up, but she pushed him down. "Scully, let me see your back," he
commanded and she thought about it for a minute, then complied.
"Well?" she asked, when he didn't make a comment for some
time.
"It's worse back here," he noted. "But I don't see any marks,
you know, like other times," he said quietly. She knew the marks
he meant--the abduction marks they had seen on other cases
ranging from the Oregon teenagers to Max Fenig to Duane Barry.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice full of concern.
"No, it just itches like hell. But I'm more concerned about you,
Mulder. You're in pain! What's going on?" she deftly switched her
attention back to her partner. She really hated it when she was the
object of concern.
Mulder knew her well enough to know that she would not be
satisfied until he allowed her to play doctor. "I had a nightmare.
But when I woke up, I was still in pain, in my gut." He closed his
eyes. Now that things were beginning to settle down, he was still
feeling lightheaded and more than a little sick to his stomach.
"Scully, I'm gonna get sick!" He pushed past her and into the
bathroom, just barely making it in time.
She waited until he seemed to be through, then went in and
placed a wet washcloth on the back of his neck. "Mulder, we're
going to the ER," she said flatly.
He sat back and looked up at her. "Good idea! I want you
checked out!" he replied and pulled himself up.
"Mulder! YOU are the one who is sick, here!" she argued.
"Scully," he said, using his 'I'm going to be reasonable about
this, but I will use my gun if necessary' voice, "we are BOTH sick!
We will BOTH get checked out! Got a problem with that?" he
ended with a growl.
Scully blinked. Then she shook her head. "Nope. No problem
at all. Get dressed, or at least put on a shirt. I'm going next door
and throw on some more clothes." She was almost to the door
when she remembered something. "Hey, if we're both sick, who
drives?" She was rewarded with a flying pillow that barely missed
her head.

End of part two.

===========================================================================

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: MASSACRE (3/3)
Date: 16 Oct 1995 00:04:47 GMT

Pennisicola Memorial Medical Center

The ER was surprisingly empty and both were attended to
quickly. When Scully finally made it back to the waiting room area,
Mulder was already dressed, sitting there, holding a cotton swab on
the inside of his elbow with a very put upon look on his face. "My
doctor wants to have a word with you," he sighed, knowing that
meant trouble. "But first, what did they say about you, Rose Red?"
The wrinkled her nose at the new nickname. "Skin infection.
Nobody's ever seen anything like it. They gave me a larger tube of
cort and a script for some antibiotic ointment, said they want to see
me again if it doesn't look better in 48 hours. Oh, and sunbathing is
a definite no no," she said frowning. "Which one's your doctor?"
she asked and he pointed toward a desk in the middle of the
examining room.
"Tall guy, looks like he used to play nose tackle for the Gators,"
he said. "I don't suppose I can come along and listen while you talk
about me," he added, dejected.
"No, I don't suppose you can. But I promise not to say anything
to embarrass you and I will tell you every word when I get back."
She smiled and patted his head. He glared at her and went back to
reading a three year old issue of 'Surfer' magazine.
Scully came back after a fifteen minute consultation with the
other doctor. She had a pile of prescription sheets in her hand and
a concerned look on her face. Mulder rolled his eyes and waited.
She sat down next to him, shaking her head.
"OK, let's have it," he said tersely.
"Your white blood count is elevated, you are borderline anemic,
you are on the verge of being dehydrated and your resistance is
shot to hell. Of course, that's all normal for you," she added and he
wrinkled his nose at her. "Doctor Banning has no explanation for
the pain or the nausea, but was a little surprised that you aren't in an
ICU somewhere hooked up to every machine they have." More
wrinkled nose and rolled eyes. "He wants you on some iron
supplements, and some other stuff I'm pretty sure we have you on
already, but we forgot to bring them with us to the ER. He did
prescribe a sedative, because you need rest. It should put you out
enough to avoid any further nightmares. I explained you have just
returned after an extended medical leave and he responded that it
wasn't extended long enough. He thinks you should go home on
the next flight and take it easy. Oh, and eat real food, bland diet,
not junk. And drink plenty of water."
"I'm not going home, Scully!" he said firmly. "The doctors at
Eisenhower released me, the doctors at GWU released me, HELL,
even YOU released me! I am not going home!"
"I got him to let me see your blood work, Mulder, and you're
right. It may not be that great for a normal person, but you are
rarely accused of that malady, anyway. It is greatly improved, even
from the ones we took back home a week or so ago. But Banning
was right, too, you need rest. I do want you to go back to the
motel and take the sedative. Get some sleep. It's 5:30 now, if you
sleep for about four or so hours, we can still pick up this little
investigation at lunchtime." He started to protest and she halted
him with a hand on his chest. "Hey, even if you don't think you
need the sleep, I DO! I intend to take a nice long nap, thanks to a
prescription for the same stuff they are giving you. Must be a sale
item or something," she grinned. He knew when he was beat, and
at least there were no quick trips home on the horizon.
"OK, let's get those filled and get out of here before they find
the new box of syringes," he said standing up and pulling her to her
feet. "And this time, I drive!"

The Coral Inn Motel
12:30 pm

Scully was just finishing pulling on a pair of loose dress slacks
and slipping into her shoes when she heard the familiar rap on the
door. She had long since reluctantly disgarded panty hose and any
thought of make up for the day. At least the creams weren't too
noticeable, but the rash definitely was. She reached over and
opened the door. "Hey, Mulder. How'd you sleep?" she asked
brightly.
He regarded her with barely held hostility. "I _didn't_ sleep,
Scully. I was subjected to a chemically induced coma for four
hours," he intoned, then softened a bit. "I rested, OK?" ending all
further inquiries into his health. He gave her another look. "You
remind me of the Creature from the Black Lagoon," he commented
dryly.
She had grabbed her purse and was clipping her holster into
place. "Keep it up, Mulder and I will _show_ you 'gut wrenching'
pain! Come on, I'm dying of thirst."
"You just aren't used to chemically induced comas, Scully. I
always wake up wanting to drain Lake Superior. There's a little
stand up the road. Let's go buy a gallon of orange juice and split
it."
"Split it, my eye! We each buy a gallon! And then get some
food. This rash has done nothing to suppress my appetite."
They found food and enough drink to quench their thirst for at
least a while. "OK, Mulder, now what? I absolutely refuse to go
into that hanger again and if you try to, I'll shoot you. What's our
next move?"
"The black box, Scully. I agree, I think we have done enough
damage at the hanger. The answers are still there, but we don't
know what we're looking at. We need to find out what happened
on the plane, when it was happening. We need to get our hands on
that flight recorder," he said calmly.
"And how do you propose we do that, Mulder? More 'direct
approach'? I don't think I want to push this Commander Carter,
Commander Newton thing too far. Especially not in the light of
day, when it's possible someone might actually check further back
than even the Lone Gunman can reach. Somehow, I don't think the
Navy is going to just hand that tape over to us, either. Face it,
we're stuck." She was tearing her napkin into neat little squares
and dropping them into her empty paper cup.
"Scully, there's something else. Last night, in my nightmare, I
think I remembered where I had smelled that odor before. When I
was in that plane, I knew that smell. But I couldn't place it right
then. My nightmare was about Max Fenig. Max was engulfed in a
blue light and he was in agony. And all around me, while I watched
him, I could smell that sulfur smell. I think it was coming from the
blue light. Then, in the dream, the light engulfed me, and I was in
the same pain Max had been in. That's when I woke up." He
shuddered, the memory of the pain still very close in his mind.
"So you think this has something to do with Max?" Scully
asked, feeling a little confused.
"No, Scully, not Max! The ones who _took_ Max!" he said,
shaking his head emphatically. "The blue light, Scully! That and
the smell! Those are the key. The question is why? Out of all the
flights, military, commercial, private, all those planes crossing the
globe, why did they pick on this C-130 or the transport plane in
1939 for that matter? There must be something else here.
Something that connects those two planes and makes them special."
"Somehow, Mulder, I knew you'd end up finding aliens in this
case somewhere along the line," she retorted dryly. He flashed her
a grin and wiggled his eyebrows at her.
They had paid their bill and walked out into the Florida
sunshine. Mulder pulled the keys out of his pocket and put them in
the lock of the car, turned the handle and lifted it. The door stuck
fast, the handle went up uselessly. "What the. . ." he muttered.
"Mulder, my door's unlocked," Scully said, opening her door
and starting to slide inside. She stopped short and stood there,
staring at the seat.
"What?" Mulder asked, seeing her expression. She pointed to
the seat and he opened his door and leaned inside. "Well, well,
well, what have we here?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
He reached over and picked up the 8 X 11 manila envelope. "And
here I thought I sent back the card rejecting this month's Books on
Tape selection," he quipped as he pulled out a cassette tape,
unmarked.
"The last time we found a cassette in the car, Pheobe Greene
was attached," Scully warned, frowning.
"Now, Scully, don't try and scare me like that! You know I
don't sleep that well at night as it is," he shot back. "Somehow,
though, I don't think this is one of Pheobe's little playlists. I think
this little ditty came from an airplane recently turned ghost ship."
He started the car and pushed the tape into the player. At first, they
were rewarded with static. Then they could hear the pilot's voice,
with the air controller at Penniscola coming in very poorly. There
was so much static that it was hard to hear. Only one segment was
fairly clear. It was the pilot's voice.
<<Pennsicola, this is *static*. . .What the Hell!. . .There's a
bright blue light just outside! I think we've been hit by lightning!. .
Damn it! There it is again!. . .Pennsicola, we have an emergency
situation here!. . .I just lost power. . .*static*. . .UNDER
ATTACK. . .Repeat. . .We Are Under Attack!. . .*muffled voices
in the background and gunfire*. . .MAYDAY! MAYDAY!
Pennsicola, DO YOU READ ME!?!>> The rest of the tape was
static.
Both agents sat in silence for a moment. Then, Mulder rewound
the tape and played it again. Finally, he stopped the tape and
popped it out of the player. "Let's see, Scully, bright blue light, loss
of power, 'under attack'--the aliens seemed to be getting their share
of corroborating evidence, wouldn't you say?" he said glibly.
"Or a very powerful helicopter equipped with. . ." Scully started,
but trailed off.
"Equipped with _what_? A laser? They tend to be red or white.
Maybe it was a photon torpedo from the Starship Enterprise! Face
it Scully, no chopper that we have _ever_ heard about is equipped
with a bright blue light AND can drain power from a plane! Not to
mention, attack the men INSIDE, while doing no external damage!"
He looked at her for a moment. "But you still don't think it's aliens,
do you?"
"Let's just say the 'jury is still out'," she smiled at him.
"Bet that's what we hear out of Los Angeles in a few months,
too," he quipped.

The Coral Inn Motel
5:30 pm

"Yeah, he specifically mentions a bright blue light, Byers,"
Mulder said into the receiver while he paced the length of the phone
cord. "No, it was too dark to see any external damage, but from
the little we did see, it sure didn't look like the plane had been hit by
lightning." He listened a few minutes. "He said 'under attack.'
That leaves little room to doubt the encounter was hostile. But
why attack that ship?" He stopped his pacing and stood up
straighter. "When?" More listening. "But why use a military
personnel transport?. . .OK, give me a minute to hook up Scully's
modem, then send it on. And Byers, if this pans out, there's a
Doom II tournament on your horizon. Thanks!" He hung up the
phone and looked over at his partner in triumph.
"Remember the little incident that lead to Max Fenig's
abduction?" he asked innocently.
Scully rolled her eyes. "Like I could ever forget pulling your
butt out of a military stockade, treating soldiers who were burned
beyond recognition by God knows what, or defending your actions
before a Disciplinary Committee, Mulder. The whole 48 hours is
permanently etched on my memory! I suppose you're now going to
tell me that this ghost ship, as you keep calling it, has some
connection to Max Fenig, after all." She would have crossed her
arms at this point, but that would only make them itch, so she just
glared at him instead.
"Not with Max, Scully! With Max' abductors! The Gunmen
had a message sent to them a week ago. Supposedly, an aircraft,
ship or whatever crashed in a marsh not far from the Outer Banks,
in North Carolina."
"So why didn't your NICAP buddies call you about it," she
asked.
"To tell you the truth, Scully, they thought I was dead. All they
heard was that I had been lost in Alaska. Sometimes their network
breaks down on the details," he answered.
"Sometimes?" she muttered under her breath. "OK, so this ship
crashed. What of it? Now you're going to tell me that the pilot
survived and what, the Marines shipped him out with a bunch of
raw recruits to Penniscola?! Mulder, I think we need to reassess
your medication!" She was tired, itchy, grumpy, dopey, and the
rest of the seven dwarfs all rolled into one and she really didn't feel
like another of Mulder's bed time stories. They had spent the
afternoon trying unsuccessfully to track down any member of the
ground crew or any one of the people in the controller's tower and
she was ready to call it a night.
He looked at her with an indulgent smile. "No, Scully," he said,
speaking in a voice used by pre-school teachers when dealing with
small children who have not had their nap. "They didn't find the
pilot. They found the cargo. Some box or something. It might
have been the engine, for all they knew."
<He is not going to let this thing go, Dana. You know how he
gets! The sooner you help him out, the faster you can get him to
agree to dinner, and sleep,> Scully reasoned with herself. "OK,
Mulder. For the sake of argument, let's say that an alien craft did
crash in some swamp in North Carolina. And let's say that the
Marines found something. Why would they put it on a personnel
transport? Why would they take it to Penniscola in the first place?
Why not just ship it directly to Area 51 or wherever and that would
be the end of it?"
"I don't know, unless they thought they were being observed. I
mean, you're right, nobody in their right minds would ship a
potentially lethal, totally unknown object aboard a personnel
carrier--except, maybe the Marines. They do have the highest
casualty rate _during basic training_ of any of the Armed Forces.
That's how they got to be 'the FEW and the Proud'. Last time they
had an EBE and they used some joker to drive it across country in a
semi, for Pete's Sakes! It's pretty obvious to me that secrecy far
out weighs the safety of any one individual, or group of individuals,
as far as these creeps are concerned," he said, plopping down on
the bed with his head resting on his hands.
"Mulder, look at this way," she said, gathering every ounce of
patience she had in her body. "Here we are, with tons of
speculation, the only piece of evidence a garbled tape whose origins
we are still unsure of, and not a shred that we can put in a report to
Skinner or anybody else! Oh, and not to mention, nightmares that
cause ulcers and a rash that makes leprosy look tame! I am tired,
hungry and itchy. I want to eat, take an oatmeal soak and go to
bed! And if you don't let me, I will drug your iced tea! We might
as well call it a night. That plane isn't going anywhere, nobody's
talking and hopefully, by tomorrow, this stuff will have subsided
enough for me to think straight. In the morning, the lab work on
the blood samples I took from Pvt. Mason will be available. Maybe
they can tell us something more." She stood looking down at him
with a determined glare.
<Face it, she's not going to let you go any farther tonight,>
Mulder decided. "OK, you win. Let's grab something quick to eat.
The boys are faxing me some of the reports from NICAP, I can
spend the evening looking through them," he said, resignation deep
in his voice. Then he got a devilish grin. "Oatmeal soak, huh? Can
I stir in the maple and brown sugar?" He had to shout 'uncle' three
times to be heard through the pillow covering his face.

The Coral Inn Motel
2:33 am

Mulder couldn't sleep for love nor money. He had dozed a little,
out of sheer boredom, but sleep was not coming. His mind kept
replaying the little tape cassette in his mind. When he shut his eyes,
all he could see was the inside of that airplane, those kids (most of
whom hadn't even seen their twentieth birthday) and all that blood.
And that weird blue light that engulfed Max so long ago.
He rolled over again, hoping a change in positions might help.
He was almost to the point of taking one of those hated sedatives,
just to make Scully happy. He really wanted to 'be good' this time.
He had really pulled an boner in Alaska. Yes, he had found the
alien bounty hunter. Yes, he had gotten the bastard to admit that
Samantha was alive. For 22 years it had only been his own faith
that had kept her alive in his mind. Now, he had something else to
pin that faith on. The body that had been dragged from the river
meant nothing to him now. That really hadn't been Samantha. He
could face his parents again. Of course, he still couldn't tell them
any of his findings, but at least he didn't have to run from the
disapproving looks his father always gave him. He had been right
to trade 'Samantha' for Scully on that bridge. He was vindicated.
He was also in a very big dog house. Scully had spent three
days and nights tracking him down. She had sent the NAVY after
him! That must have been some real 'string pulling' on her part. Of
course, the fact that she called half of the commanding officers on
any ship in the fleet 'Uncle' made it easier for her to pull those
strings, but it was something he never expected or even wanted
from his more grounded partner. Add to the list of offenses that he
had flatlined on her (<Sorry about that, Scully, but I really have a
hard time controlling involuntary muscle functions when I'm in a
coma!>), scared her half to death, had taken over a week to come
out of the coma. . .he would have to be good for the _rest of his
life_ to make up for it!
<Face it, Scully! It isn't in my nature to be good that long! I'm
really sorry about this, but I promise, I will be careful!> he mentally
telepathed to her, knowing full well she wouldn't listen, even if she
allowed herself to hear him. He got off the bed, made as little noise
as possible while dressing, and taking his gun and a flashlight, left
the motel.

Pennsicola Airbase
3:45 am

He had never had any trouble 'sneaking' onto an airbase. He had
once thought about writing an anonymous article for the Lone
Gunman detailing the right way and the wrong way to do it. So, it
was no great surprise to him when he found himself at the very
same exhaust fan that he and Scully had removed the night before.
He did have a little trouble with that, and cursed his stupid muscles
for still not having the strength they had before Alaska, but after
some concerted effort and not a little sweat, the fan came off and he
was inside.
It was still dark as pitch in the hanger. He flashed his light
around the plane and noticed that there had been some activity here
recently. The engine had been removed from the plane and was
now in component parts, lying on a table. There was a diagnostic
computer attached to some of the parts and the little screen was
blank for the moment. He made a cursory search of the parts,
hoping to find something that might lend more credence to his
theory, but also looking for anything that might change his mind.
He wasn't 'married' to his theories, if he could find a rational
explanation, he'd take it. But it had better be a damn good rational
explanation and it had better explain away every single one of his
doubts. He just had higher standards when it came to rational
explanations than Scully did.
<Don't think about Scully!> he commanded himself. <You'll get
to feeling guilty and you'll screw up! Focus. Find what you're
looking for. Get the hell out.> It was a simple plan and one that
even he could follow.
He quickly found the access ladder and clambered aboard the
plane. The odor was still hanging around, though not as strongly as
the night before. The doors had been removed and let the air
circulate a little. He flashed his light and noticed that the interior
had undergone an investigation similar to the exterior. The crew
benches had been removed from the walls, the mats on the floor
had been taken up. It was easy to move around and he headed back
to the spot on the floor where the burn had been. Without the
mats, it was possible to see that whatever had caused the burn had
burned almost through the metal at that point. He dug out an
evidence bag and his pocketknife and scraped a little bit of the
burned metal off into the bag. Not much came off, just a few
filings, but it might be enough to make an analysis.
He stood up and stepped back. The burned area had a shape. It
was almost triangular, with slightly rounded edges. Whatever had
been there, it had left it's impression in the burned metal. Mulder
filed it in his mind and turned to continue his investigation. The
windows of the plane drew his attention. He examined one
carefully. It appeared that the glass or rather, the resin used in
airplane windows, had undergone a lot of stress, especially the ones
closest to the site of the burn on the floor. There had been a
tremendous amount of energy in the area, and as he looked at the
walls of the plane, they showed the same stresses.
"I'd give my right arm for a good camera," he muttered a loud.
"I'd wager you'll be willing to give considerably more for a good
escape, Agent Mulder," a voice intoned behind him. Mulder closed
his eyes and swore under his breath. He immediately recognized
the voice. It was Colonel Colin Henderson, the man in charge of
Operation Fallen Angel, the military UFO retrieval force.
"You know, I knew I recognized that smell when I got in this
plane. I should have remembered your aftershave earlier," Mulder
quipped sourly. A quick jab to his ribs from the butt of the
Colonel's weapon shut him up. He doubled over, but continued to
stare at the Henderson. The Colonel quickly reached over and
pocketed Mulder's pistol.
"Come on, Mulder. We're gonna take a little ride along the
beach," he hissed and pointed his rifle toward the hatch of the
plane. Mulder had finally caught his breath and complied with the
order.
The hanger door was open and a jeep waited just outside.
Mulder sat sullenly in the passenger seat. He had a fairly good idea
that he wasn't headed for the stockade this time. Going to the
beach sounded a lot more deadly. Scully was _really_ going to be
pissed.
Henderson noticed the dour expression on Mulder's face.
"Come on, Mulder. You didn't expect to get away with it this time,
did you? I mean, didn't Ellens Air Base teach you anything. Oh, I
forgot, you don't remember Ellens very well, do you," he smirked.
"Too bad just erasing your memory won't do this time. You've
become too much of a nuisance, Agent Mulder and I think it's time
your meddling was put to an end--permanently."
Mulder looked over at the military man. "Is there where I'm
supposed to say that you're not going to get away with killing me?"
he asked dryly. The comment was met with almost maniacal
laughter.
"I got to hand it to you, Mulder. You got balls. No brains, to
speak of. No common sense. Definitely no patriotism. But you
got balls the size of melons! It's going to be fun to watch you die,"
he added gleefully.
"Glad I can provide so much entertainment," Mulder hissed in
return. They were traveling a deserted road at a speed at least 70
mph or better. Jumping was not a good option. Staying in the jeep
was not a good option. Mulder was hard pressed to come up with
a *good* option at this point. He was just going to have to wait
until they stopped before initiating a better plan.
Even for Florida, it was still technically winter, and the wind off
the Gulf was cold. There was a storm off to sea and it was heading
inland as they stood on the beach.
"Very clean, Agent Mulder. See, just one good hit to the head,
throw you in the water and with the undertow created by the storm,
you wash up in Galveston, Texas in a couple of months. You just
'disappear'. Why, with the lightning we'll be seeing, you could have
been abducted by one of those ships you keep trying to photograph.
A fitting end, I'd say, wouldn't you?" shouted the Colonel over the
wind.
"Just tell me one thing, since you're intent on killing me
anyway," Mulder shouted in return. Henderson made a slight bow
and smiled.
"Sure, Mulder. A last request seems in order right now," he
replied.
"What exactly did you find in that crashed ship and why were
you transporting it on a personnel carrier?" Mulder shouted over
the wind.
"The cargo, Mulder. Not an EBE, like you would like me to tell
you. The cargo. But apparently, it was important to them. They
came back to 'retrieve' it. Seems I have a counterpart somewhere
up there," the Colonel pointed the business end of the rifle toward
the swollen clouds above. "We put it on the transport because it
was the most inconspicuous place to put it. You seem fond of
chasing after trucks going cross country. It's a hell of a lot harder
to follow a plane, you have to admit. It's a shame about those men,
but it was unavoidable. The bigger tragedy was that we never
really got to examine that cargo. We still don't know what we
had." With the last words he lunged at Mulder and struck him right
on the temple with the butt of the gun. Mulder collapsed onto the
beach, unconscious.
Colonel Henderson bent over Mulder's still form and was just
about to pick him up when the whole beach was suddenly
illuminated by bright lights.
"This is the FBI. Drop your weapon, put your hands up and
move away from that man," a woman's voice shouted. Henderson
put his hand to his eyes to shield them from the light.
"You're bluffing, Ms. Scully. A set of headlights and one female
agent shouldn't be that much of a clean up detail for me," he hissed
above the wind.
"You're probably right, Henderson. But four Marine Corps SP's
armed with riot gear might pose a bit of a problem," Scully shouted
back, and as she did so, two more sets of headlight beams were
added to those that were already on. Henderson put his rifle in the
sand and his hands in the air. Scully motioned for two of the SP's
to take the Colonel into custody. Then she ran over to Mulder.
Mulder was out cold, but a capsule of smelling salts under his
nose did wonders. He was blinking and coughing and trying to sit
up in a matter of seconds. "Scully," he coughed. "How long have
you been there?"
"Long enough to hear what the good Colonel had to say. I
think we have enough to put him away, just on the attempted
murder of a Federal Agent. I don't know about the murders of
those other men. It might be pretty hard to get a court to see
transporting alien technology as life threatening." She helped
Mulder to his feet. "Come on, we're heading back to the ER. I
think you've probably got another concussion, Mulder."
"You know, if you were there long enough to hear all that, you
were there when he clubbed me. You sure had lousy timing,
Scully," he growled as she helped him to the waiting car.
She smiled sweetly. "Call it pay back time, Mulder. I wouldn't
have let him kill you, but since _I_ wanted to give you a nice rap on
the head for ditching me again, I saw no reason to deprive the
Colonel of the charges. Assault always goes better with battery,
don't you think?"
"Thanks for the back up, I think," Mulder glared at her. Finally,
he had to smile, or at least attempt it until the pain in his head
stopped him.

The Coral Inn Motel
Two days later

"All packed," Scully announced as she set her bags down on the
floor in Mulder's room. He was just zipping up his own bag as she
had knocked on the door.
"Well, Scully, I guess we just weren't meant to lay on the beach.
It's still raining and we have to go home," he sighed as he hefted his
bags and reached for hers. She started to protest and he smacked
her hands. "I'm feeling _much_ better, Doctor. I need the work
out," he added.
She smiled at him. "This whole case has been a work out,
Mulder. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Mason called and thanked us
for looking into this for her."
"I wish we could have told her the truth. Somehow, a toxic
chemical spill just doesn't seem adequate as far as explanations go,"
Mulder shook his head.
"Well, it was better than telling her that her son was killed when
little gray men came back to claim lost property, Mulder. And
Skinner seemed satisfied with the explanation we gave her.
Satisfied and grateful," she added with a sly smile.
"How grateful?" Mulder asked, sensing something good in the
wind.
"Grateful enough to send us on a case in Hawaii for a couple of
days. Seems there has been some activity on the islands involving
Polynesian Headhunters and he thought it might be up our alley,"
she beamed.
"What's the temperature in Honolulu?" Mulder asked.
"82 degrees and no storms in the Pacific for at least four days,"
she grinned.
"Hey, it's a crappy job, but somebody has to do it," he
deadpanned until her smile became too infectious and he smiled at
her in return.

The end.