Etched
by Sean Smith
ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu


Copyright August 1995

I owe this one to Amperage, Livengoo, and Youkneek.  For 
their long hours of editing, advice, and hand-holding.  You 
don't even *want* to know how much work Youkneek put in on 
this!

Disclaimer:  All characters, concepts, whatever are the 
property of whoever created them.  This means that 
Ten-Thirteen Productions, Chris Carter, Ridley Scott, H. R. 
Geiger, et cetera are the One True Owners.  All rights 
reserved.  All other characters are my own, as is the plot. 

Redistribute at will. 


Rating:  R for explicit language and violence . . .  but no 
sex. :)
     
A round of thanks go to Rodent, Amp, and Goo.  Slavemasters 
and Editors were never so wonderful.  Eventually, I'll get 
an HTML page up and running so you all can download my 
three-paged dissertation on their warm, caring sensitive 
souls.  No, really!

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are property of Chris Carter and 
Ten-Thirteen Productions.  All other characters are my own, 
as is the plot.  Redistribute at will.  


  
Bone white against the oranges and purples of the setting 
sun, they stood tall, their skeletal fingers reaching 
skyward.  The wind whistled through their open latticework, 
and they hummed in chorus when they, as one, bent forward to 
catch the ascending moon. The single line of cold radio 
telescopes continued their methodical task, the arm-like 
bowl of their antennae sweeping eastward, away from the 
noise source of the sun.

Sarah Greenbough stood outside one of the Quonset huts that 
processed the data brought in by the delicate receivers 
towering over her.  She pulled her flannel vest around her 
as the wind tried to pull it away.  Her long black hair was 
swept back from her face by those same cold desert winds.  
They came nightly, at sunset, and she with them.  She knew 
she should be with the graduate team inside, but watching 
the sun fall each evening was her present to herself.  It 
was compensation for being trapped, miles from anywhere.

"Sare!  Hey, Sarah!"  A tall man with course, ruddy features 
had stepped out of the hut and onto her plain, calling for 
her.

"Yeah, Gene?"  She raised her voice over the power of the 
wind.

"We got a positive track, descending!  Looks like an eagle 
is falling!"  Gene tried to wave a sheet of printout, but 
the wind pressed it back against his hand.

Casting a quick look back at the last crescent of sun 
setting behind the distant mountains, Sarah ran to join Gene 
in the Hissing Room.  

The Hissing Room was an inside joke, really.  The main 
processing room for Radio Imagery was filled constantly with 
the low hiss of deep space radiation, and only the computers 
could decipher the noise.  Besides that, the ventilation 
system rattled constantly, a noise everyone learned to 
ignore.  The common joke, told to new workers from the 
University, was that occasionally the rattlesnakes got in, 
and everyone had to check to hear what _kind_ of hiss and 
rattle it was that they heard.

Now there were several people carrying coffee cups 
surrounding the monitor that displayed the radio images.  It 
was easy to tell who here had tenure; they all carried their 
own personal coffee mugs.  The grad students all used 
University mugs.

"Okay guys, what do you have?"  To Sarah, these neat 
machines were only useful as a means to an end, and she 
hated staring at CRTs all day.

"Here and here."  An older man with the beginnings of a 
paunch gestured at the screen in front of him.  "It looks 
like part of a signal from an object in the high atmosphere. 
 Track says it's doing thirty plus."

Sarah raised her dark eyebrows.  The tracking station said 
it was traveling well above orbital velocity as it entered 
the atmosphere.  That meant it was either a meteorite or a 
Defense bird.  Her money was on Defense.

"Can you figure a landing site?"  She grabbed her own mug, 
and poured some more coffee into it.

"Yeah, sure.  Looks like Mexico, Florida, or the Gulf. 
Somewhere in that area.  Hell,"  he laughed cynically, 
"maybe the DOD wants to drop a rock on Castro!"  This 
elicited a round of laughs.

"All right, all right. Everybody back to work.  The fun's 
over, boys and girls."  As the group dispersed, Sarah 
snagged the rough sleeve of Gene's shirt.  "Look, call this 
one in to Wright-Patterson.  They may have dropped a 
satellite, and need to pick her up."

Gene nodded.  And got the ball rolling.

*         *         *

Dana Scully entered the main office block of the J. Edgar 
Hoover Building without her briefcase.  She'd forgotten it 
in her haste, and was trying to act like she hadn't 
forgotten a thing. She'd also overslept, and hoped no one 
noticed if her hair and makeup didn't seem right this 
morning. But as she passed the many Agents in the bullpen 
trying to look alert despite their red eyes, she felt a 
little better.  She guessed this thing just happened when 
spring arrived.

She waved to the few people in the building she knew as she 
headed for the back corridors of the building.  Descending a 
flight of stairs, she wound her way back to the storage 
closet she and Fox Mulder called an office.  She paused 
before the dark brown door, reading the two names inscribed 
on plastic plaques there.  Mentally gathering herself, she 
stepped inside.

Mulder had all the lights out, and a slide projector set up 
on her chair.  He'd managed to remove his folders from his 
desk, and had the machine aimed at the space above his wall. 
 He was straddling his own chair, facing her from across the 
room as he bit into an apple.

"Ooh, a presentation.  And on a Monday.  Mulder, I'm 
impressed," Scully said dryly as she poured herself a cup of 
coffee.  "Did you wait long for me?"

"Not really."  He took another bite out of the crisp Red 
Delicious and mumbled around the mouthful, "Ha' a good 
weekend?"

Scully flushed in the darkness, surprised that Mulder had 
provided her with cover.  "Actually, yes.  I got a lot 
accomplished in New York."  Stirring her drink, she headed 
toward her corner of the room.  As she walked past him, a 
small object dropped from her rumpled suit to the floor.  It 
could barely be heard over the noise of the projector, and 
Dana unknowingly left it behind. 

He swallowed his bite.  "Sounds like fun.  Wanna tell me 
about it?"

"What's to say.  A bunch of doctors talking about corpses. 
Really fun way to spend a few days."  She hoped she sounded 
convincing.

"Too bad.  Your slip is showing."  Without another word, he 
spun the chair back to the wall.  A touch to the control 
wand advanced the slide machine to the first image.

It was the a series of neon green lines on a dark 
background.

"Let me guess. . . you taped a game of Pong, right?"  Scully 
quipped as she checked her slip.  Sure enough, it was 
slightly too long for her skirt.  Quickly she started hiking 
it up.

"Close.  It's from an E-C3 conducting maneuvers off the 
coast of Texas, in the Gulf of Mexico.  And this line,"  he 
pointed to a bright track moving from west to east without 
looking back, "is the radar plot of an object that splashed 
down offshore."

Sighing, Dana perched on the edge of her desk, bumping into 
something warm.  She looked down, and saw a large white 
Styrofoam cup, glowing slightly in the darkness.  She 
guessed Mulder had left it on her desk, and sipped at it.  
The mocha was made the way she liked it.

"Scully, this picture's cute, too."  Mulder seemed oblivious 
of her movements as he spoke.

Scully raised her eyebrows in the dark as Fox clicked the 
next slide into place.  It was a detailed overhead photo of 
an orange and white building in the middle of a sea of blue 
water.  Next to it sat a Coast Guard Cutter, dwarfed by the 
size of the construct.

"This satellite photo was taken as they arrived by a KH 
satellite DARPA handed over for USGS use.  It shows Exxon 
oil rig number forty three.  Six days ago, the five man team 
reported debris in the water, and sent a zodiac raft to 
check it out. Five days ago, they sent a call reporting a 
crewman ill, and an animal loose on the rig.  That was their 
last radio contact.

The Coast Guard cutter, Prometheus, was dispatched at 
Exxon's request three days ago.  You can see it alongside 
the rig."

"So let me guess.  Something happened to the cutter."  
Scully turned quietly under the cover of darkness to pull a 
lipstick case out of her drawer, and apply some.  While her 
back was turned, Mulder quickly scooped from the floor the 
item she had dropped.  Then he smoothly advanced the 
projector to the next image.

The slide was quickly replaced by a second image.  This one 
was from a lower angle, and showed the rig on fire, and no 
Coast Guard ship in view.

"A bit more than something I'm afraid."  Mulder kept up his 
patter as though he were doing nothing while he identified 
the item she dropped.  "This is a little over a day later.  
The captain reported gunfire on the main deck, and that he 
was being boarded."

"Boarded?  Like pirates?"  Scully drank some more mocha 
while Mulder finished off his apple and pitched the core 
into a trashcan.

"Well, I don't think they had eyepatches, Scully."

"What do you think?" Dana turned about to flick on the 
lights, and so wasn't watching Mulder when he pocketed the 
object.

"I don't know, but we're headed for the Gulf to find out." 
There was childish excitement in his voice as he spoke.

She turned back to look at him incredulously.  Setting down 
her cup, she approached him, a line forming between her 
eyebrows.

"Do I really have to remind you of what happened the last 
time you booked us for a boat ride?  Let the military handle 
this."

"They will.  But they asked for us, this time around." Fox 
smiled at the subtle irony.  "Your specialized knowledge of 
'unknown biological hazards,' plus my own experience with 
'recovered foreign objects' got us 'requested.'"  Fox used 
his hands to shape the quotation marks.  "Besides, if 
civilian crimes are committed, the Federal Bureau has 
jurisdiction."

"Wonderful. Is Big Brother throwing us to the sharks, or do 
we get any backup?"  Dana gathered up the files Mulder had 
been working on, and tried to make some sense out of them.

"We get back-up, Scully. Tons of back-up."  Mulder grimaced 
as he picked up his jacket.  He slid his hand into his 
pocket, fingering the foil wrapped condom Scully had dropped 
when she walked into the office.  Without another word, Fox 
walked past Dana, out the door.

Scully watched him leave, puzzled.

*         *         *

Blackhawk helicopters are insectile machines, large and 
threatening.  The one beating its way across the deep blue 
waters of the Gulf of Mexico differed in no essential way.  
It was low and oblate, with a thick tail sticking out well 
past the rotor. A pair of cantilevered wings thrust out over 
the side doors, each mounting a single oversized fueltank.  
The nose of the craft held a tremendous spike for mid-air 
refueling, and a reflective ball for the night vision sight. 
 With its tail, hunched shoulders and low, glittering nose 
it looked not so much like a machine as a monstrous insect. 

Inside, Mulder was smiling like a kid as he watched the 
water slide by out one of the side windows.  He turned to 
his partner, who barely managed a smile.  Dana was 
profoundly airsick, but the sight of Fox peering about the 
cabin could still rouse her sense of humor.  Fox was wearing 
a brilliant yellow life preserver, and a large green helmet, 
with bulbous ear protectors.  With the four-point restraints 
locking him to the sea gray side of the helicopter, he was 
quite a sight.

"It's not fair, Dana!"  Fox yelled over the tremendous noise 
from the rotor and engine.

Dana tapped the side of her helmet, pantomiming her hand 
back and forth.  Fox shook his head, not understanding.  He 
gestured with his hands but Scully didn't see him. She had 
to close her eyes, suddenly sick at the sight of Fox's 
shaking head.

The speakers in her helmet came to life with a crackle, and 
Scully heard Mulder's voice, flattened by the electronics.  
"Oh. The microphone.  Sorry, I forgot."

Dana swallowed, and kept her head back against the padding 
behind her. "What is it, Mulder?"

"I was just saying it's not fair.  The military gets all the 
cool toys, and we have to take Delta."  His soft voice was 
almost swallowed by the sizzle and pop of the connection.

"Mulder, I'd really rather be on a jumbo jet right now."  
Dana continued to breath deeply through her mouth.

"Yeah, well a seven-forty-seven would have a hard time 
landing on a cruiser."  He glanced briefly out the window, 
and then back to Scully.  "Besides we'll be there in no 
time.  I can see the _Elliot_ now."

"Great."  Scully looked faintly green as the Blackhawk 
dropped sharply toward the foaming wake of the ship below 
them.

Dana refused to let go of her seat until after the sailors 
had tied down the helicopter to the _Elliot's_ aft deck.  
But when she at last let go, she snapped off her release 
harness and scrambled past Mulder.  She pulled the flight 
helmet off in a quick motion, and kept her head down until 
she was past the reach of the rotor blades.  Once she was 
clear of the squat helicopter, she stood up, breathing the 
salty air deeply through her nose.

A moment later, Dana turned back toward the aft chopper 
deck, the wind whipping her hair about her face.  Mulder was 
standing next to her, shaking a small green pill into his 
hand from a prescription bottle.  He tried to ignore her as 
he dry swallowed it.

She remembered full well just how bad his seasickness was, 
and hoped that the scopolamine helped.  "Why didn't you take 
that before we left shore?"  She pushed her auburn hair away 
from her mouth as she spoke.

He didn't look away from the helicopter as he spoke.  "I 
wanted to enjoy the chopper as much as you'll enjoy the 
boat."

She patted his arm sympathetically.  The drugs would only 
take away the nausea, not the dizziness.  She decided not to 
correct his use of the word 'boat;' from the hard cast to 
his hazel eyes, he wasn't in high spirits just now.

Mulder moved a step away from her, away from Dana's touch. 
She started to ask him about it when she was stopped 
abruptly by a bo'swain's whistle.  Two officers in tan 
uniforms came through the aft causeway toward them, their 
faces stern.  "Mulder, heads up. It's the welcoming party."

The two men stopped at regulation distance from the federal 
agents and assumed an 'at ease' stance that looked anything 
but relaxed.  The man on the left was perhaps a handspan 
taller than Scully, and whipcord thin.  His shortsleeved tan 
uniform and open collar exposed skin so dark as to appear 
blue-black.  The head under his blue ship's hat was 
completely bald, and his young face was stern.

His companion was as tall as Fox, and twice as wide.  His 
thick chest and powerful arms seemed too big for his shirt, 
and his dark hair and beard were gray along the temples.  
But the blue eyes looking out from a nest of crow's feet 
were sharp and hard.

Suddenly, the black man's deep set eyes snapped right to 
focus on the agents.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, I presume."  He barely waited for 
Dana's nod. "Excellent.  I'm Commander Thurmann, the ship's 
XO. This is Lieutenant Dahburg.  My men are stowing your 
gear forward with the rest of the team.  If you will follow 
me."

The large ship rocked fore and aft, with sheets of spray 
arcing over the hull as mist.  Despite the motion of the 
boat and the confused look on Scully's face, he and his 
officer turned about, and headed toward the portal they had 
come through moments before.

Fox looked over at Dana, smiling slightly.  "Nice to meet 
the entertainment staff for this cruise."

*         *         *

When Mulder thought of a Captain's ready room, he thought of 
Star Trek.  Mementos from prior commands, and hardbound 
books on shelves in a subdued room.  A large desk and 
computer, situated in front of a window, and plush 
carpeting.

The reality was blindingly disappointing.  Actually, the 
ceiling had pipes running across it fore and aft, and made 
Fox mildly claustrophobic.  The walls were the same 
nondescript gray as the remainder of the ship, and the 
shelves held spiral-bound manuals.  The desk was small, but 
tidy, and a Mr. Coffee was bolted to the blank wall behind 
it.

In place of a dignified Patrick Stewart, or energetic 
William Shatner, the Captain was a rotund man with faded 
brown hair and large glasses.  The harsh lighting glinted 
off his bald spot and frames as they were ushered into the 
room, but he remained at his desk writing.  He finished the 
page, and flipped it to the other side.

Commander Thurmann announced their arrival to the Captain 
before leaving.  The hatch closed behind the two agents, 
leaving them standing in the middle of a pitching room out 
at sea, with a man who remained hunched over his desk.

Dana looked up at Mulder, hoping he would wait for this man 
to talk first.  She knew he got along with the military like 
oil and water, but hoped he'd hold it together.  She so much 
wanted for him not to make his usual poor first impression.

The Captain's pen scratched along the page for several more 
seconds.  He stood, and looked back and forth between the 
two agents.  Despite the Captain's unimpressive appearance, 
Mulder looked into his eyes, and felt as though he was being 
measured.  He suddenly wished he was in his usual dark suit 
and tie.  That kind of uniform would be comforting when 
faced with such a frank appraisal.  As was, the man looked 
him up and down, from his Timberland boots and jeans, to his 
cotton shirt and leather jacket. For a moment, he felt like 
he was twelve years old, facing his father once again.

Then his naturally ornery nature got the better of him, and 
he stared the man right in the eye.  He'd be damned if some 
military _jerk_ was going to keep him waiting, and then try 
to intimidate him.  What he wanted was to bug this man.  
Badly.  And Fox knew he'd be expecting some overt display.  
And so just to irk him, Mulder pushed, didn't look away.  He 
just smiled knowingly.

The Captain smiled back.  "Welcome to the _Elliot_, 
gentlemen. My name is Captain O'Byrn.  I've been expecting 
you." 

Mulder relaxed somewhat.  "Thank you.  Well, now that we're 
stuck out at sea, would you like to tell us what you know?" 
 Dana let out her breath.  That wasn't as bad as she'd 
feared. 

"Son, I'm the one who requested your presence." Mulder hated 
being called 'son.' "You already know about the 
disappearance of the CGC _Prometheus_, and that contact has 
been lost with Rig forty-three."



"Yes sir, we know about those incidents,"  Scully politely 
replied.

"At present we do not know what happened at either location. 
Our search will begin at the rig, and expand outward.  There 
is the possibility of terrorist involvement.  As that the 
incident occurred within US territorial waters, any criminal 
activities are yours to investigate. The Navy is simply 
aiding in such an investigation." 

Mulder had to interrupt.  "Does this mean that you think 
terrorists are responsible for the object that deorbited 
near Rig forty three?"  He was daring the older man to 
answer. 

O'Byrn leaned over his desk top.  "I do not want you 
repeating that aboard my ship, mister.  And I sure as hell 
_will not_ ask where you picked up that piece of data.  Am I 
being heard loud and clear?" 

"Perfectly," Dana answered for Mulder.  "What my partner was 
asking was the reason for our being here.  Other agents 
would be better suited for anti-terrorist work." 

O'Byrn sat down, and took off his glasses.  He had brilliant 
green eyes, but for a moment, they seemed very tired.  "I'm 
getting the run around from my superiors.  My ship was 
pulled into dock, and stripped to a skeleton crew before we 
were sent out on this assignment.  I placed my call to 
Director Skinner before the flash printer cooled.  Agent 
Mulder, I got a look at the same data you did.  Only my 
superiors did not send it to me.  A friend did."

"Somehow, I don't like the sound of this."  Mulder leaned 
against the bulkhead next to the hatch.  The ship's motion 
was beginning to upset his stomach.

"I don't like the sound of it either.  Hell, when I asked my 
C-in-C about it, he said a Soviet communication satellite 
burned up.  At the same time, he placed a SEAL team on 
board, and set us up with USAMRIID for biowarfare gear."

Scully and Fox exchanged knowing looks.  This conversation 
had entered Dana's area of expertise, and so she took over.

"Do you think there is a possible biological contamination 
in the area, Captain?"  She blinked slowly as she spoke.

"I have no idea.  But I know you two had some damn good luck 
with the USS _Arden_, and have seen more Class 4 biohazards 
than any officers I could think of."  He turned away from 
Mulder, and smiled at his partner.  "And I am sorry about 
dragging you into this, Dana."

Mulder had been watching O'Byrn speak, but at that he swung 
around to see Scully blush and smile slightly.  Shocked, he 
looked back to see the Captain smile as well.  Then he 
remembered. Her father had been a Navy man.

"That's part of my job, Uncle Kane."  She smiled, and took 
Mulder by the arm.  She dragged him out of the office before 
he had a chance to shake a comment loose.

*         *         *

The forward hold of the _Elliot_ was a cavernous bay, poorly 
lit by bulbs far above the floor.  Perishables and ammo were 
stored here in formidable crates lashed to the grating 
underfoot.  The whole room smelled of machine oil, and human 
sweat, and was as hot as an oven.  The area was intended for 
a vertical launch missile system, but budget cutbacks 
curtailed that idea.  Presently, the room echoed the sound 
of the twin diesel turbines aft like a cathedral to 
engineering.  Mulder was almost as uncomfortable  as he 
would be in a church.  

There was a silent crowd clustered together in the bay, and 
Dana and Fox were the only two not in uniform.  Eight men in 
dark gray fatigues lounged about on or near the crates.  
Some were sleeping, others stripping automatic rifles.  Two 
men sat shoulder to shoulder, talking quietly. Three other 
officers, in pressed Army fatigues, sat together around an 
overturned carton.  They were quietly examining a sets of 
drawings.  It was unnerving that the loudest noise they made 
was the rustling of their papers.  Last was a man in the 
light blue of the Air Force, sitting quietly in the corner. 
 Despite the darkness of the room, he continued to wear a 
pair of aviator's sunglasses.  Fox pegged him as a spook, or 
intelligence officer, immediately.

"Cute.  We're going to go investigating with a strike 
force." Scully's aplomb took Mulder off stride.  He looked 
down to see her frankly appraising the people before her.

"I told you we had back-up.  If you don't like 'em, maybe 
'Uncle Kane' can get some new ones."  His blank face, turned 
down to her, met her eyes.

"Honestly Mulder, I didn't know he'd be here until I read 
the ship's name in the file on the way over."  Her blue eyes 
searched his empty face.

"Well, I for one am glad that the man with the biggest guns 
is a bona fide good guy."  He faked a smile for her.  
Mulder's accustomed way to deal with unpleasant feelings was 
to dive headlong into action.

"Thanks."  She was glad he wasn't upset.  He didn't like the 
military or surprises, so Uncle Kane was a bit much for him. 
She had thought that perhaps she should have warned Mulder 
in advance, but hadn't wanted to.  It was just something 
she'd rather not go into.

Fox was, however, quite upset.  His partner and friend had 
lied to him about where she'd been, and then casually 
omitted the story about her 'Uncle Kane.' He couldn't think 
of too many reasons why she would be doing all this.  The 
one idea that kept coming to mind was that she didn't care 
for or trust him.  He shook his head to clear his thoughts, 
and picked a target from the room.

Without further ado, Mulder set out across the cargo bay, 
making a beeline for the Air Force Officer.  Dana rolled her 
eyes, knowing that her partner wanted to go trolling for 
trouble. She felt that he probably didn't even stop to think 
first.  After all, being a skinny civilian in a dank hold 
with a small strike force put him at no disadvantage, right?

Dana pushed a wave of her copper hair back behind her ear, 
and quietly wound her way through the hold toward the back. 
 She wanted to talk to the men in the back, whom she 
presumed to be the USAMRIID team.  Perhaps she would be able 
to find out what was planned, and still keep an eye on 
Mulder. 

Fox, meanwhile, had picked up a small wooden crate labeled 
'USN/SPL/1207-A Drd. Frts.' He walked a short distance 
before depositing it a few feet in front of the Air Force 
officer. Fighting his nausea in order to smile broadly, Fox 
sat down on it. And despite being at eye level, less than 
four feet away, the officer didn't move. 

Mulder leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Hi!  My 
name's Agent Mulder.  Everybody calls me 'Spooky.' I guess 
that makes two of us, huh?" 

The officer did not move. 

"I'm here to see the aliens.  When they meet the President, 
I mean.  How about you?"  The glint in his eye betrayed some 
of Mulder's emotions. 

The officer was completely quiet. 

"Are you one of the corpses he's returning to them?"  When 
Mulder's question wasn't answered, some of the animation 
drained from his face. 

Tentatively, he reached for the man's dark sunglasses. He 
hesitated a few inches away, but then resumed reaching for 
them. 

The man's hand snapped up, clenching tight about Mulder's 
wrist.  Fox, Dana, and several onlooking soldiers all jumped 
at this. 

"No, Agent Mulder, I'm not dead."  He remained 
expressionless as he spoke. 

"You could have fooled me."  Fox extricated his arm, not 
without difficulty. "You seem to know me, but I don't know 
your name."  He tried for the most saccharine voice he 
could, while still sneering. 

"I'm glad."  Mulder heard a snort behind him. 

It suddenly dawned on Mulder that the soldiers lounging 
about behind him were no longer lounging about behind him.  
They were surreptitiously watching as he made a fool of 
himself.  And thanks to his own obnoxious sense of humor, 
he'd made it very difficult to extricate himself from the 
situation.  He blinked, and wondered how you backed away 
when you were sitting nose to nose with the original Mr. 
Stoneface. 

Thinking quickly, Fox smiled broadly, and announced in a 
loud voice, "Nice to meet you Sergeant Glad!"  Now the spook 
had to decide whether he wanted to put up with that, or come 
up with a better name and rank. 

"You, Agent Mulder, are in my way."  Glad hardly moved as he 
spoke. 

"Gee, I guess that makes me Glad, too."  Mulder heard 
another snort behind him. 

Slowly, Glad turned to face Mulder fully.  "You and me can 
play all the games we want.  Later." 

"Really?  The Reticulans play Three-Card Stud."  Mulder 
smiled, enjoying every needle he could stick into the Air 
Force Officer. 

Glad lowered his glasses, exposing surprisingly warm brown 
eyes.  "Once we hit that rig, stud, you'll be praying for 
aliens." 

Mulder shared one trait, and one alone with the sociopaths 
he excelled at profiling; he simply did not respond to 
punishment.  If anything, his lopsided grin got bigger and 
tighter.  He opened his mouth to burn Glad for that remark, 
but was halted by a light touch on his shoulder.  He didn't 
need to turn to recognize Dana; it seemed to Fox that the 
soft smell of her hair preceded her always. 

"Mulder,"  she said with false lightness, "I've got some 
papers you need to see.  Come take a look."  She stressed 
the last ever so slightly. 

Mulder looked up at Dana, her face only a foot away.  She 
was wearing a flannel shirt and a red windbreaker over a 
thick white tee shirt, though both were open.  Fox could see 
that she was wearing her shoulder holster underneath, barely 
visible past the curve of her breast.  Quickly he looked 
back up to meet the urgent look in her eyes. 

Fox hesitated momentarily as he watched Dana's eyes flicker. 
"Yeah, sure Scully." 

He stood up, and wavered slightly as the seasickness 
overtook him.  For a second, his right hand opened, 
instinctively reaching for Scully's shoulder.  But he would 
be damned before he did that, doubly so with the soldiers 
watching.  Instead he gamely walked away, fighting his 
balance and the sensation of hostile eyes burning his back. 

For a moment, he paused a few feet away, debating whether or 
not Scully would let him fire a parting shot.  Her hand on 
his arm tightened briefly, and he gamely followed her to the 
USAMRIID encampment. 





Scully quickly took a seat around the impromptu table with 
the other doctors, and pulled on Fox's arm until he sank 
down as well. Before he could bollix a second meeting for 
the day, Scully decided to intervene. 

"Mulder, these are Doctors Whitman, Pryce, and Hadat.  
They're from the Army Infectious Disease Center."  She 
gestured to the three men in turn. 

Fox shook hands perfunctorily with each.  All had uniformly 
dry hands, and the same firm, brief grip he did. 

"Hi guys.  Bomb any California towns recently?"  Mulder's 
smile was beginning to annoy Scully, so she surreptitiously 
kicked his shin. 

Three dour faces greeted Mulder's question, but the youngest 
man, Whitman, smiled.  "No.  But I'm new to this 
assignment." 

The oldest man, a short Major with a sad face, nodded in the 
direction of Glad.  "Nice to see you want to antagonize the 
pit bulls before you take them for a walk.  You have figured 
out that he's the local Bad Man, haven't you?"  Scully could 
hear the capitalized letters in Pryce's cultured voice. 

"Yeah, I noticed.  I also noticed you guys are bringing 
biohazard suits and respirators with your guns.  I guess 
that makes you real friendly."  Seasickness had Mulder's 
stomach rolling, and he felt like sharing some of the acid.

"Mulder!"  Scully snapped.  "There's a good chance this is 
caused by some biological contaminant, like we found in 
Alaska."

Hadat chimed in, with a deep booming voice. "I cleaned up 
your mess at that USGS station.  If you'd gone in with clean 
suits, there would have been more people walking out."

"Nice Monday Morning Quarterbacking, Doctor."  Fox kept his 
eyes blank.  "But I don't seem to recall seeing you up there 
at the time."

Hadat looked grim.  "I'm here now."

Mulder's jaw worked, though he appeared otherwise impassive. 
After a moment, he waved his hand.  "Okay, so what have you 
got for us?" 

"These are the deck plans for the rig." Pryce gestured to 
the somewhat crumpled blueprints spread out before them.  
"The SEALs are already familiar with this type of design, 
but we needed some better information." 

Mulder glanced up.  "How the living room is decorated?" 

"No, just structural stuff.  As you can see, the derrick is 
a warren of vents and shafts, used to cool machinery and 
people. Some of it vents air from the oil reserves, some 
vents from the drills.  In any case, sealing it off in case 
there is a toxin or virus aboard is damn near impossible.  
Even if you ignored all the rust holes and rats."  Major 
Pryce outlined these systems with a pen as he spoke. 

"I take it you do have a plan though."  Mulder wasn't asking 
a question. 

"Yes.  We go over and check the place out.  Any persistent 
toxins get washed, any class 4 viruses, and the team lights 
the rig." 

Fox sat back.  "You plan on demolishing a multi-million 
dollar oil rig?" 

Hadat answered him.  "No, we don't.  But if we can't burn a 
class 4 contagion out, the structure goes down.  Agent 
Mulder, if the Hoover Building got hit by something that 
lethal, we'd burn it out with formaldehyde." 

"Now there's a project I can really get behind.  So what 
about the possibility of terrorists?"  Now he actually 
looked curious. The intellectual puzzle pulled his attention 
away from how sick he felt. 

"The SEAL team will be going with us.  We'd need them in the 
event we had to blow the rig, anyway." 

While they were talking, Whitman leaned over Scully's 
shoulder.  "Is he always this flip?"  he whispered. 

"No," she hissed.  She didn't know what had gotten into her 
partner suddenly. 

Mulder stood up abruptly, "Well, guys.  Sounds like you have 
everything planned.  Have fun.  And call me when you get 
back." 

Whitman glanced at Pryce before he spoke. "Um, Agent Mulder, 
you and Dr. Scully are coming with us.  Right?" 

"Why?  Sounds like you have everything well in hand."  He 
thrust his hands into his jean pockets. 

"Mulder,"  Scully got up to face him, tuning the USAMRIID 
people out.  "What is your problem here?" 

In return, Fox simply eyed her intensely, his jaw working.  
He watched her silently until it became obvious that she was 
waiting for him to say something.  Then it was his turn to 
take her by the arm, and drag her away.  He pulled her along 
until they rounded a large crate, and disappeared into the 
darkness. 

"Okay Mulder, stop."  She pulled away as he let her go. She 
whispered to him, "Now do you want to tell me what's going 
on?" 

"What do you mean, 'tell you what's going on'?"  Mulder 
suddenly dropped the veneer of calm which had covered him.  
"You've been listening to these loony-tunes as long as I 
have." 

Scully balled her fists.  Everything had to be a conspiracy 
with Mulder, she thought.  And now he was mad at her for not 
being rank and file in agreement with him from the start.  
"I've been listening to medical doctors outline a plan for 
the containment of what may be a Level 4 biohazard.  If that 
rig has Anthrax, or something similar, we can't afford to 
take chances." 

Mulder leaned forward, his face pressing down toward her. 
"Scully, I don't care if they've got Ebola over there.  The 
Navy has hospital ships that can deal with it.  So does the 
Coast Guard. Hell, the Blackhawk is big enough to have been 
sent directly from the mainland." 

"What are you saying?"  She had a chilling idea of what he 
was suggesting. 

"They sent a ship out with _cruise missiles_ on the deck.  
The thing's got a cannon on the foredeck, and a hit team 
inside. Why divert a cruiser, unless you want to use it?" 

"It could be the nearest ship.  It might need the smallest 
crew.  It could be the easiest to seal against 
contaminants."  Fox shook his head as she listed 
possibilities. "You have no reason to believe this is some 
grand conspiracy." 

"No?  How about us?  I get those pictures dropped off on my 
doorstep.  Then two hours later the Navy wants us out here 
with them.  Out with that killer in uniform, Glad!" 

"Whom you've so graciously alienated.  If you honestly 
thought he was a problem, why bait him like that?"  She 
arched an eyebrow, her full lips pulled back in a grin. 

"I wanted to know if I was right."  His hazel eyes were 
flat, clouded. 

"Right about what?  That Air Force officers have no sense of 
humor?"  She tried keeping her face as straight as he, but 
her eyes danced. 

"No, that this is just meant to get me out on the ocean. 
Alone."

"You're hardly alone.  You've got me, my Uncle, and every 
other member of the team here."  She couldn't keep the 
sarcasm out of her voice.  She had to admit, this was a 
ridiculous argument. 

"That was just what I was worried about."  Fox took a step 
away from her. 

Scully stood up straight at that, her slight smile gone 
instantly.  A jumbled montage of Mulder's recent behavior 
flashed warningly past her eyes before she spoke. "What does 
that mean?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounded tiny. 

"You know what I mean, Scully." 

"He's just my Uncle, Mulder.  For goodness sake, I trust 
him."

"I know that.  So do a lot of other people." 

"Mulder, you can't get rid of a cruiser.  And I trust Uncle 
Kane."  She set her jaw, her arms crossed.  "So that means 
that you can trust him, since you can trust me." 

"I can?" 

Dana stopped breathing.  How could he say something like 
that, after all they'd been through.  "You know you can.  I 
wouldn't lie to you."  He had her trust, completely.  And 
she'd always presumed she had his.  How could they be this 
close, and still lack that trust? 

"Okay, Scully.  Let's try this morning one more time." With 
a smile resembling the grimace he'd assumed for 'Sergeant 
Glad,' Fox leaned down again toward Dana.  "How was the 
weekend?" 

Light dawned in her eyes, as cold as his.  She flushed red, 
then white.  "That's what this is about?  My weekend?" 

"No.  You lied to me."  His full lips never even paused as 
he spoke, never betrayed a feeling. 

Dana felt something trip high inside her chest, and her head 
buzzed slightly with anger.  "Agent Mulder,"  she hissed 
through clenched teeth, "Unlike you, I have a private life. 
 And it is just that. Private." 

With that, Dana turned about, and left Fox standing behind a 
crate of toilet paper.  She never looked back as she headed 
to her berth, furious.  She never saw Mulder's face crumple 
with grief. 

*    *    * 

That night, the USS _Elliot_ was steaming south at ten 
knots, just making headway against an approaching tropical 
storm.  Her width and speed kept the deck level enough for a 
helicopter takeoff.  But the bulk of the ship was visible 
only as an eerie gray mass, for all the lights were out in 
accordance with wartime procedures. 

Dana couldn't tell what had her rattled the most.  
Proceeding into a hazardous area was bad enough, but doing 
so in a blacked out military chopper was sickening.  And she 
was gathered with the rest of the team in the mess hall just 
fore of the flight deck.  And despite the close quarters, no 
one spoke as they were drilled on the proper use of their 
biohazard suits. 

Mulder was somewhere at the back of the room, out of 
Scully's field of vision.  They hadn't seen one another in 
hours, and hadn't spoken since she'd left him behind in the 
cargo hold.  Now it was beginning to appear that this state 
of affairs would last a while. 

She hoped he remembered to take the anti-nausea medications 
she'd given him.  Vomiting in a sealed suit was a method of 
insuring an ugly death. 

The team suiting up consisted of sixteen members.  Agents 
Mulder and Scully were the first two, and the Air Force 
officer came next.  Then the three man USAMRIID team, and 
the ten Navy SEALs.  All were clad in glossy olive drab 
suits that covered them from head to toe.  They each had 
goggles and a face mask connected by two hoses to an airtank 
on their backs. 

Once Scully finished sealing the rubberized zipper and side 
flap, she could barely hear over her own breathing.  The 
small microphone and earpiece she wore were connected to a 
radio, and through it she could hear what a microphone 
outside her suit picked up.  She could also hear the rest of 
the team. 

Her hands were thick and clumsy in the oversized gloves, and 
she fumbled with her holster, trying to enlarge it to fit 
over her suit.  A similarly gloved hand covered hers, and 
she looked up, startled.  She couldn't see the man's face, 
but he was several inches shorter than Fox.  He pulled the 
gun and holster from her, and removed them from her shoulder 
rig.  Tossing the rig aside, he clipped the gun to a web 
belt, and handed the assembly back to her. It fit well, and 
she wished she could smile at him. 

"Thanks."  Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, and she 
wondered what he heard. 

"No problem, ma'am.  It's part of the service."  The name on 
his suit read 'Peirson.'

Then there was no more time for talking.  A short man 
briefed them on their insertion, and extraction by 
helicopter.  Captain O'Byrn wished them good luck and 
Godspeed.  And two sailors then led the team out single file 
to the helicopter.  All through this, Scully felt as though 
she were spinning. 

The Blackhawk looked darker than the night itself as it 
crouched on the flight deck.  Its thick rotor blades were 
already whirring about over the heads of the team members 
clambering into it.  A soldier, faceless behind the black 
visor of his flight helmet, strapped Dana to the left side 
wall of the machine. She was wedged between two huge men, 
and not enjoying the takeoff in the least. The nose of the 
craft tilted down suddenly, and with a sickening leap the 
helicopter left the _Elliot_.  Dana's hands were slick 
against the rubber gloves but there was nothing she could do 
about it. 

Breathing fast from airsickness, Scully began examining each 
teammate around her.  She tried to distract herself from her 
nausea.  The two men on either side of her were SEALs, she 
was sure of that.  They had several pouches for explosives, 
and carried CAR-15 assault rifles, like most of the others. 
 The CAR-15 was a short, brutish version of the M-16, and 
designed for close fighting.  It still remained a fully 
automatic weapon. 

She saw the USAMRIID team strapped down across the chopper's 
hold from her.  They were loaded down with medical gear, and 
their suits had blue stripes across their upper arms.  
Scully smiled when one of those dark shapes waved to her. 

Up near the nose, was where the rest of the SEAL team 
crouched down.  None of these men were strapped down, and 
most held on to grips near the open doors.  All these young 
men carried CAR-15s, save two.  One held the much longer 
M-16, with some type of wide-mouthed barrel slung underneath 
it.  The second carried a Steyr AUG, something she'd only 
seen in movies.  The casing was a smooth impact-plastic, and 
it held a monstrously huge clip, oddly placed behind the 
pistol grip. 

Behind her, in the rear two seats, sat Mulder and the 
officer who still hadn't given his name. They were easy to 
tell apart; Mulder's suit bunched under the shoulder rig he 
wore for his pistol, while the other man carried an MP5 over 
his shoulder.  The MP5 walked the middleground between 
sub-machinegun and pistol.  It was small enough to be fired 
one-handed, but the kick was tremendous.  It put out a rate 
of fire comparable to the squad's machineguns, and still fit 
snugly under one arm.  It was an ugly, terrorist's weapon, 
and Glad wore it comfortably.  He'd slung the strap over his 
head in a way Scully could not have known was made popular 
by Israeli commando teams.  The black thing in Glad's hands 
made Mulder look fairly naked beside him. 

Fox never looked once at the man beside him, or at Dana.  
His attention was firmly fixed out the window.  It was if 
he'd shut her out completely.   Scully wanted to talk some 
sense into him, but the radios were open; if she tried, 
everyone would hear her. 

With nothing else to do, Dana stared out the nearest 
porthole. She no longer minded looking out the windows, for 
the uniform blackness masked their height.  But the bouncing 
of the helicopter itself upon the marine winds still 
unnerved her. 

Her microphone came to life with the static-charged voice of 
the pilot, "Heads-up people.  Thirty seconds to touchdown." 

There was almost no motion in the cramped hold, but Scully 
felt the energy ramping up.  It was as if the approaching 
landing charged everyone with the sense of danger.  Dana's 
heart was thudding like a triphammer in her chest.  She 
swallowed tightly, and glanced back at her partner.  He 
still looked away. 

"Nine meters."  Through the windows, Dana saw the 
scaffolding of the derrick rise over them like burnt bones. 

"Three meters."  The helicopter pitched nose up sharply, and 
everyone hung on tightly.  The soldier behind Scully 
steadied her with a hand below her ribs. 

"Down and clear."  At the pilot's words, the Blackhawk 
bounced down against the steel deckplates. 

"Move out.  Two and two."  The squad leader never looked 
back as seven of his nine men followed him quietly out of 
the chopper. They were out and against the buildings in less 
that three seconds.

With a rush of air and noise, the Blackhawk ripped free of 
the landing platform, and dove off the derrick.  Dana's 
stomach shot into her throat as the pilot yanked hard on the 
collective controls, leveling off a few feet from the wave 
crests.  Then he began circling the rig. 

With a start, Dana realized that the two soldiers next to 
her hadn't left with the rest of the team.  She looked up, 
startled to find the masked face looking down at her. 

"We'll be right here, ma'am.  We're going in with you all." 
It was Peirson. 

With that the chopper beat its way into the air again, only 
to hold itself over the rig.  Scully's hand shot to her 
stomach. 

"Oh, God."  It was that quick, quiet tone used by med 
students when they start their first autopsy. 

"Easy, there.  We'll be down in a few."  Peirson kept a 
quiet hand on her arm.  It was . . . familiar. 

"Nine meters."  Now Dana kept her eyes shut on approach, 
missing the look Fox shot her. 

"Three meters."  Again the helicopter pitched nose up 
sharply. Peirson kept a firm hand on Scully, steadying her. 

Now the helicopter fairly slammed onto the deck, and Scully 
heard the whine of the engine die away.  Peirson snapped the 
restraints from himself and Scully, and quickly hustled her 
off the machine. 

Still dizzy with airsickness, Dana could hear the pounding 
of feet as everybody ran into the nearby shelter.  She was 
oblivious to the sound of the Blackhawk taking to the 
darkened sky behind her.  It wasn't until the door closed 
behind her, and she pressed up against a wall that she felt 
human again. 

One of the SEALs chimed in over the radio, "Welcome to the 
caverns, everybody."  Dana turned, noting that the square 
man was named Soun. 

Then as her dizziness passed, Scully realized why Soun used 
the word 'caverns.' The walls were burnt black and pitted, 
as if by fire.  The roof had cracked in several places, 
through which water trickled.  But in the center of the 
floor was a roughly circular hole six feet across.  As she 
leaned forward to peer down, she saw that the metal flooring 
had melted and run down into the next level.  And the hole 
continued down three floors. 

The entire team was lining the perimeter of the room, eyeing 
the hole and the walls warily. 

The soldier in charge of the SEAL team, Lt. Quiddis spoke 
up. "We've checked out the upper floors, and the gantries.  
There's nobody home here. The second helicopter platform is 
a complete loss, and so's the Coastie's chopper." 

Mulder interrupted quickly.  "So why move us in so soon?" 

Lt. Quiddis never stopped looking around as he answered.  "I 
can't find a serious threat here." 

"Well, how about whatever made that hole. I'll call that a 
threat."  Fox's humor was lost on the soldiers. 

"Agent Mulder, we have no idea what did that." 

Peirson spoke up.  "If it was an explosion, the roof'd be 
gone.  Same for a fire.  Could be a slow thermite burn 
through, but why would you use it?"  He directed his 
question toward Dana. 

Major Pryce cut through the tense conversation.  "Okay, so 
it's clear up top.  So let's set up our lab in the hanger on 
Platform Two, and you guys can clean out the lower levels.  
We'll start speculating once we have some information.  Snap 
to it people" 

With that, nearly everybody started hustling about.  All but 
the two Agents, and Glad. 

*    *    * 

The USAMRIID team had co-opted the three people, using them 
to help set up a rudimentary laboratory on Platform Two.  It 
was set up with a small quarantine box, and material for 
testing.  If there was a bacteriological or virological 
agent on the rig, they could find and quantify its 
abilities. 

While Dr. Scully worked setting up equipment, she ran over 
the layout of the facility in her head.  Platform Two was 
the second of the four major sections of the rig itself.  
Each Platform was some six levels high, and centered over 
one of the four pylons that anchored the rig to the ocean 
floor.  Down the center of the rig was the scaffolding that 
ran downward to the oil piles. 

Platform Two was mainly for industrial use.  It contained 
machine shops, the generators, the hangers, both helicopter 
pads, and the dock.  This section was heavily fire damaged 
above the third floor, and one of the two helo pads was 
gone.  Indeed, it was the fire in this section that she'd 
seen in Fox's photograph. 

Platform One was purely living quarters.  It took a lot of 
men to keep everything on the derrick running, and they were 
given ample room.  There were dormer rooms, and recreational 
areas. Weight rooms, and restrooms sat alongside a small 
television room, and well-sized kitchen.  Where ever these 
men were now, they had left an excellently provisioned rig. 

Platform Three was administrative.  Offices for bureaucrats, 
and a small hospital were set up in this area.  Scully had 
thought this would make a better place to set up a lab, but 
Pryce had said no.  Their hospital would be the most likely 
source of any infectious diseases. 

And Platform Four was mostly machinery.  The desalinization 
equipment and water treatment equipment was set up here.  It 
was squashed into the rig's corrugated walls next to the oil 
and ballast pumps, and the climate control evaporators. 

And a network of corridors, ducts, and pipes connected these 
sections, strung along the steel beams of the rig itself. 

Scully finished laying out the chemical agents, and saw that 
Mulder was still working.  He and Whitman were bolting 
together the plastic panels of the small quarantine 
container.  Manipulating the tools in their heavy gloves was 
difficult, and Fox dropped his wrench repeatedly.  
Presently, he was kneeling inside the lexan box, attaching 
the airtight interior seals. 

Dana looked about the blackened hanger, and saw that the 
rest of the USAMRIID team was finishing their setup. 

She walked up behind Mulder, and tapped him on the back.  He 
tried to shoot to his feet, only managing to slam the crown 
of his head into the plastic. 

Dana jumped back as Fox swore sharply.  The headset radios 
broadcast a few choice imprecations to the other doctors, 
who laughed softly to themselves. 

"Ow.  What is it Scully?"  Fox didn't sound happy as he 
rolled into a sitting position.

Scully winced inside her mask.  This wasn't starting out 
right.  "I was wondering if you needed any help." 

"I do now."  Mulder rubbed his head, and held out a hand. 
"Hey, Whitman.  You wanna help an old man up?" 

Dana nearly stepped forward to help him before she realized 
that he wasn't talking to her.  It burned her that he would 
be so deliberate about shutting her out.  Everybody in the 
hanger suddenly became preoccupied with their work. 

Whitman pulled Mulder to his feet, and then started across 
the hanger floor.  "Got work to do.  I'll help finish up in 
a minute." He made a quick escape. 

"Okay, Mulder.  You want to talk now?"  She set her feet, 
her gloved hands folded about her arms. 

"We've got work to do.  You want to give Pryce a hand while 
I finish this?"  His tone was neutral, but Dr. Scully wished 
she could see his face through his suit's mask. 

Instead she took a deep breath.  Mulder's posture was loose, 
and he kept facing Scully.  She reached up, and turned off 
her radio. 

He paused momentarily, then turned his radio off.  Dana 
walked up to him, and the gunbelt settled lower on her hips 
as she moved. She decided to ignore it, concentrating 
instead on her partner. 

She reached up, and grabbed one of his air hoses, using it 
to pull his head down to her level.  For a moment he 
resisted, before letting her.  She pressed her masked face 
up to his, and started talking. 

"Can you hear me?"

"Barely.  But I don't know why."  His voice was muffled, 
strained. 

"Conduction of vibration, Mulder."

"No.  I mean why all this."  She knew what he'd meant. Dana 
had just chosen to ignore him. 

"Mulder, just stop this, all right?  We've got to work 
together here, and I'm tired of your attitude."  She knew 
this wasn't the time or place for this conversation, but 
there was little she could do. 

"Just another reason for you to be tired today, huh Scully?"

Dana stopped cold.  Indeed she hadn't slept much recently, 
and now Mulder was pushing her buttons.  She felt genuine 
affection for this man, and she'd relished every opportunity 
she had to summon his soft smile.  She'd learned to like the 
double edged humor he protected himself with.  But now he 
had turned that against her. 

She pressed her mask against the side of Fox's wounded head. 
"How dare you!  What the hell gives you the right to be 
involved in my life?" 

"You're my partner."  Again, he sounded cold and distant as 
he spoke. 

"Yes.  And that's it.  No less, no more.  Got it?"  She was 
absolutely calm, and rock solid as she spoke.  But she kept 
her arms crossed, lest he notice that her hands were shaking 
inside the gloves. 

Mulder pulled his head back, and snapped on his radio. 
Standing over her in his suit, Fox was a nameless, faceless 
body. One she didn't even recognize. 

Dana's lips were pressed tight, fighting against tears she 
didn't want to shed.  Momentarily, she was thankful for the 
anonymity lent by the layers of rubber. 

Then Mulder spun suddenly, and ran for the door.  Scully was 
shocked to see the USAMRIID team and Glad all following 
suit.  For a long puzzled moment, she was lost.  Then the 
obvious occurred to her, and she flipped her radio back on. 

It hissed in her ear.  "-again, we found some people.  I 
think." 

The radio continued to crackle as Agent Scully drew her 
pistol, and followed the rest of her team. 

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

From: ez042725@dale.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith) Newsgroups: 
alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 3/13 
Date: 4 Oct 1995 17:37:40 GMT



Part 3 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: 
ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   I want replies, damnit!



Etched by Sean Smith ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu



The power was out below the fifth level of Platform Two, and 
when the USAMRIID team threw open the stairwell door, only a 
black pit awaited them.  Scully could see the high power 
beam from Mulder's flashlight bounce down the stairs.

"We're on level three, north face.  And bring the bags; it's 
rough looking in here."  Scully unclipped her own 
flashlight, and continued down after Fox.

Level three was a mess.  Dark metal cabinets hung open on 
torn hinges.  The overhead lights and ducting were 
shattered.  The walls and floors were burned through in 
places.  All the walls were scorched, and smoke still 
drifted from insulation panels.  Dr . Scully was glad she 
was breathing from an air tank.

"Peirson, pop a flare for illumination."  She heard the 
Lieutenant's orders over her radio as she ran down the hall 
after everyone.  The radio sizzled momentarily.  Then she 
heard Whitman's voice.  "Oh God . . ." 

She nearly ran into him as he stumbled out of a charred 
doorway to her left.  Dana grabbed his arm, and pulled him 
around. 

"You alright?"  She pulled his face down to hers, and tried 
to peer through his goggles into his eyes in the dark. 

"Yeah.  Yeah."  He leaned against the wall, sucking in deep 
breaths.  As Scully went to walk past him, he tried to grab 
her arm.  "No!  Don't go in there." 

She shrugged him off and entered the room, finding the 
entire team transfixed by the sight around them. 

The large, open area was still clogged with smoke, and 
Scully's flashlight played off charred ruins.  Sticking up 
over a fractured pump was the burnt remains of a human hand, 
still clutching a shotgun. 

The walls were warped from the heat, and the peeling remains 
of blood and paint decorated them like unholy lace.  Here 
and there, the walls were peppered with small burn marks, 
and many puckered bullet holes.  As her flashlight's beam 
wandered about the room, it showed smoking arms and legs, 
torn chest cavities, and gleaming bone. 

She shut her eyes, and breathed deeply.

Mulder's voice brought her eyes open.  "Well, anybody want 
to take bets on a virus?" 

Strewn about the room were the remains of three dead Coast 
Guard sailors.  Only Dr. Scully could tell the number, 
however.  No one else in the room had the presence of mind 
to add up the number of skulls. 

*         *         *

The soldiers had the dubious honor of collecting the 
remains, and transporting them to the hanger on level six.  
The makeshift litters were made using buckled cabinet doors. 
 The procession was armed, and every member looked about, 
expecting to see armed men appear from around every corner. 

The blacked out staircase was a nightmare in the dark. 
Scully led the soldiers upward, her pistol held next to her 
head.  She had to adjust her grip at each landing, because 
the glove prevented her from easily fitting her finger 
inside the trigger guard .  But it was easy to think about 
her gun, and the narrow swath of stairwell she carved out 
with her light. 

Easier than thinking about anything else.  Like the sundered 
bodies behind her.  Or the inky darkness pressing in about 
her. Much better to concentrate on the sound of your own 
breathing echoing in your ears, than the idea of viri 
crawling all over your suit.  Far better to concentrate on 
the heavy sounds of the team ascending the metal stairs, 
than the confounding partner she was leaving behind. 

Soon, she had reached the last doorway, and she stopped, 
gesturing for the rest of the team to stop.  A suited man 
with a rifle quickly pushed his way past everyone else, and 
joined her at the doorway.  She brushed her light along his 
chest, reading the name Peirson. 

"Peirson, on three.  Okay?"  She was winded just by the 
weight of the suit and tank, and the stress showed in her 
voice. 

"On three.  Um, Scully . . . Do you mean the door?"  He 
sounded lighthearted, and not in the least fatigued. 

The other soldiers had been as silent as pallbearers for 
several minutes.  Now they all bustled with rough humor.  
Until the Lieutenant randomly smacked someone in the head. 

"Knock it of, all of you!  Peirson, on your own time!" 
Scully flushed behind her mask as the Lieutenant upbraided 
his men. 

She decided to ignore it.  "One."  She stepped up alongside 
the wall. 

"Two" Both spoke in synch as Peirson moved up in front of 
the door, his rifle at the ready. 

"Three!"  She spun the latch unlocked as he kicked the door 
open.  Then he stepped left, and covered the left side of 
the hanger, while Dana spun out into a trapezoidal stance.  
She brought the gun down to her side when she was sure there 
was no one on her right. 

"Hey, El-Tee!  We're clear up here."  Peirson slung his 
rifle over one shoulder, and held the door open for the rest 
of his team.

A series of remains, each tentatively identified as 
belonging to one individual, were then slowly deposited in 
the makeshift lab by the SEAL team. 

Scully looked through the open hanger doors at the night 
sea, visible only as a gray field.  She wondered just what 
turned this place into a killing ground.  It was her job as 
pathologist to find out what. 

*         *         *

"Time to go, Mulder."  Pryce was holding a small flashlight 
as he stood in the open doorway to the room in which the men 
had died. >From the way he cast the beam back and forth, 
frequently looking around the hallway, the charnelhouse 
bothered him. 

"Hey, Agent Mulder.  We have to get back." 

Fox had long since ceased to sift through the ashes for 
shell casings.  He'd even given up tracing the holes in the 
walls with his hand.  Now he stood in the center of the 
twisted mess, his evidence baggies gripped tightly in his 
hand, and both arms wrapped about his chest. 

Whitman turned from where he'd been taking samples.  "Sir, 
are you okay?" 

Mulder stopped looking around the room, instead intently 
peering at the ceiling.  He didn't see Whitman approach him 
from behind. 

"Sir-"  Whitman tapped him on the back, and Agent Mulder 
spun about, the muzzle of his pistol shaking in the young 
doctor's face. Whitman let out a yelp, and fell backward 
onto the floor. 

"Jesus H. Christ!  What the hell do you think you're doing?" 
Pryce closed in on Fox, his hands in fists.  Fox raised a 
hand to his mask, and switched his radio back on. 

"Sorry there."  He holstered his firearm and helped Whitman 
to his feet.  Whitman was still shaking. 

"Sorry?  Dammit!  Get a light on Whitman, and I mean now!" 
Pryce started going over the other USAMRIID officer's P3 
suit with his own light.  "Check for punctures.  And I mean 
NOW!"

"Oh Jesus no.  Not, not . . . like them?"  Whitman's voice 
had gone soft and thick. 

Hadat grabbed his hands and pulled Whitman about to face 
him. "Not a chance, son.  Just breath deep in there.  
Breathe."  While he spoke, Mulder turned his Bureau 
Flashlight on the kid's back, checking him quietly. 

For two tense minutes, the four men panicked, and prayed. 
Whitman was checked from head to foot, and no punctures 
could be found.  But before Whitman could let out his 
breath, Major Pryce had rounded on Mulder. 

"Goddamn it.  What were you thinking, turning off your 
radio?" He was furious, and still wasn't calmed down.  "You 
could have killed that kid!  Either tearing his suit, or 
shooting him." 

Mulder picked up his baggies of evidence before answering. 
"You were making too much noise for me to think.  And 
Whitman startled me is all.  Besides, the safety is on my 
pistol." 

"Agent Mulder, if any one of us punctures our suit, we would 
be exposed to whatever is on this rig." He grabbed the 
leather strap of Fox's shoulder holster, shaking him for 
emphasis.  "Do you get it?" 

Mulder pulled away.  "I'm sorry.  But you can relax, there's 
no virus here." 

"And now you've got a medical degree too.  I'm not 
impressed."

"Well I am.  But you're right about one thing; it's time to 
get out of here." 

"We're not through with this one."  Pryce pointed at him 
sharply. 

"No, we're not.  Just go prove for yourself there's nothing 
here." 

Pryce spun and slammed the door behind him.  A nearby pipe 
hissed, its seal undoubtedly broken.  Mulder took Whitman by 
the shoulder and helped him out of the room. 

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.  And I know it's not your fault.  The Major 
just gets like this."  They quickly started up the stairs. 

"I guess neither of us is in a good mood."  Mulder swung the 
flashlight behind himself at odd intervals.  He thought he 
heard something scraping the metal floors. 

"No problem.  Uh, Mulder . . ."  Whitman paused.  "Just 
leave your radio on, though." 

Reaching the door to the hanger, Mulder stepped through 
before locking it.  "No problem." 

*         *         *

Dr. Scully was already talking to the USAMRIID team by the 
time Mulder made his way across the cavernous hanger to her. 
The other doctors were talking to her from across one of the 
charred corpses.  Fox stepped up to the foot of the 
examination table, chilled by the sight of these 
rubber-suited doctors calmly talking over maimed and burned 
body. 

Dana interrupted Pryce with a raised hand as Mulder 
approached. "Good news or bad first." 

"I'll take the bad first.  Seems appropriate somehow." He 
started to rest his hands on the table, then rethought the 
idea. Although the suit was sealed, he imagined he could 
smell the body. 

"Well, according to the level and penetrance of tissue 
damage, that room was over four-hundred degrees centigrade." 
 She gestured toward the remains, its joints flexed and 
locked by the heat. "That was enough to destroy most of the 
evidence, including any information on the possible presence 
of a contaminant." 

"But you've got good news."  Fox managed to keep facing her, 
silently glad for the mask that hid her eyes. 

"Yes.  Peirson and I conducted scrapings, based on some 
bloodstains he found in the hallway."  Dana reached behind 
her, and Peirson handed her several small cases.  Each had a 
soft waxy substance lining the bottom. 

"Gee Doctor Scully, you and Peirson seem good at scraping." 
It slipped out past gritted teeth before he could stop 
himself. She'd brought his temper up, and it took hold 
faster than he could think.

Dana froze for a moment, biting the tip of her tongue. She 
didn't know what to do when her partner and friend 
undermined her in front of her colleagues.  If it were 
anyone else, she thought, I'd just dismantle them.  Shit. 

Peirson turned on Fox, but said nothing.  He just touched 
her back softly through the suit. 

Dana stepped away quickly. She was sure that Peirson meant 
well, but he was just throwing gas on the fire.  And she now 
had the other doctors' attention, but for the wrong reasons. 

She cleared her throat. "We. . . I inoculated several 
varieties of bacterium samples we brought from the _Elliot_. 
Over the last hour and a half, no plaques have formed."  She 
set the samples down and turned to Mulder.  "That means no 
virus has killed off areas of the bacteria." 

"Well, that fits in with what I found down below."  He 
swallowed an acid comment, and tossed his baggies of 
evidence onto the metal counter.   They rattled sharply at 
the twisted foot remaining on the corpse. 

Dr. Scully waited patiently.  She knew how Mulder liked to 
explain his ideas, and knew that he'd simply be more 
difficult now that he was angry. 

Hadat wasn't nearly as patient.  "What exactly did you find, 
Mr. Mulder."  He purposefully omitted Fox's title. 

"Aside from a lot of ashes, not too much."  Hadat threw his 
hands up.  "But all the shells I collected had expended 
firing caps.  They expended all their ammo, and nothing 
cooked off in the fire." 

"So they shot one another.  That still doesn't explain why." 
Pryce was interested in this, against his better judgment.  
In the midst of that mausoleum, he'd forgotten to check for 
shells. 

Surprisingly, it was Dana that answered.  "They didn't shoot 
one another.  None of these remains showed any sign of 
bullet wounds, though all had compound premortem fractures 
of the long bones, and substantial soft tissue damage." 

"Did you find bite marks?"  Mulder found himself talking to 
his partner normally again, pulled into their relationship 
by the mystery at hand. 

"Not really."  She was uncomfortable with the way he was 
dropping into his usual role, as though nothing was wrong. 

"Not really?"  Inside his heavy mask, Fox's head tilted ever 
so slightly at this. "What does that mean?" 

"What? Oh . . ."  Actually, she was having a hard time 
keeping her mind on the autopsy results.  Dana was still 
marveling at the way Fox could shift gears, both personally 
and professionally.  "One victim, an unidentified male, was 
found to have a six point five centimeter circular hole in 
his skull, located three centimeters above his brow ridge.  
The brain was destroyed, and I found fragments of bone 
within the soft tissues. There was no corresponding exit 
wound." 

Pryce picked up the folder Dr. Scully had been writing in 
earlier.  "That's nice, doctor.  But that sounds like a 
pistol wound.  Large caliber, wadcutter round." 

"That's what I thought at first.  But there are some 
anomalies here."   She picked up the severed head and held 
it out to Major Pryce.  "As you can see, there are deep 
grooves in the bone along the sides of the entrance wound.  
Unless someone filed the edges of a bullet hole after this 
man was shot . . ." 

"Well, that's not likely."  The doctors turned to look at 
Mulder again.  "I found metal shrapnel about the room, stuck 
in some furniture in a few places.  It looks like a stray 
round set off a kerosene can nearby.  Those men were firing 
randomly, and one of them hit the kerosene they'd brought 
with them.  Then whatever they were shooting at got to them 
before the flames did." 

There was a long moment of silence, while four medical 
doctors stared at the small pieces of metal lying in the 
palm of his hand. He glared at Scully, knowing she couldn't 
see him, wanting her to say something.  The moment was 
broken by a low, appreciative whistle over their radios. 
"Damn.  That's a hell of a reconstruction there, Slick." 

Hadat spoke up gruffly, "There's no way you can be certain 
of all that, that, . . . conjecture." 

The Lieutenant slowly walked up behind Mulder, and took the 
fragments from his hand.  He brought each piece close to his 
goggles, and inside his suit he bit his lip. 

"Well, people, that setup fits these fragments, the shells, 
and the bodies.  Sounds like a pretty good call to me."  
Quiddis let the fragments tinkle softly to the examination 
table.  "So does this mean you suspect they were killed by a 
wild animal in the middle of an ocean?" 

"I've got lots of ideas.  But we'll need to search this rig 
top to bottom for more evidence."  The radio static broke 
Fox's smooth voice repeatedly.

Peirson interjected his own thoughts as he stepped up behind 
Dr. Scully.  "Evidence?  Like this isn't enough for you?  
Some kind of big dog killed them.  That Soviet satellite was 
testing something, it came down, and their pet project 
killed these people."  He waved over Dana's shoulder to the 
shriveled body on the table.  "It's biowarfare, and it's not 
our problem.  We scorch the rig and go home." 

Major Pryce held up his hand, stopping the young man.  
"What's this about a satellite?"

A loaded silence descended immediately over the team.  
Scully realized sharply that the entire SEAL team was 
heavily armed.  From the quick head movements from the 
suited USAMRIID team, they too had the same thought.

And Peirson was just inches behind her.

Her breath caught, adrenaline spreading like a cold snap 
through her chest.  Dana was suddenly conscious of just how 
thin her P3 suit was.  A drop of sweat slid from her mask's 
headband and ran down her temple tremulously.  She stiffly 
turned away from Peirson, her ice blue eyes wide behind 
their goggles.

As she turned, she saw Peirson's whole body tense under the 
rubber of his suit.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have-"

Now Quiddis barked at him, "Secure that mouth, damn it!"

Quiddis slapped futility at his mask, wishing he could 
scratch an itch under his jaw.  Behind him, his men rubbed 
gloved fingers together, feeling the sweat-soaked rubber 
between them and their weapons.  Quiddis looked up in the 
air, and swore softly. 

He brought his head down, and spoke softly.  "Okay.  I'm 
going to pretend you never heard a thing.  So are my men.  
Right?" 

Ever so softly, eight men joined in. All sounded 
embarrassed, upset.  Peirson watched Scully's stiff frame, 
and spoke only to her.  "Of course." 

Fox cleared his throat, and spoke loudly.  Scully nearly 
jumped at the noise.  "Well, now that we all know what were 
not talking about, an air force jet tracked something 
reentering the atmosphere around here." 

"Mulder!"  Scully and Quiddis both cried out, the tones 
entirely different. 

Ignoring Dana, Mulder rounded on Quiddis.  "How much do you 
want to die here, Lieutenant?" 

Quiddis unsnapped the embossed leather cover to his sidearm. 
"Are you threatening me, Agent Mulder?" 

Impossibly, the temperature in the dark hanger dropped 
again, and Dana suddenly found she couldn't hear her own 
breath in her ears. 

"No, I'm telling you.  If we don't know exactly what's going 
on here, we are going to die."  He leaned forward intently. 
"But not because of me.  Because whatever killed these men 
will kill us too."

"I'm talking national security." The Lieutenant's voice went 
up.  

"So am I.  What if you drag the next plague home with you? 
What if it goes through sealed suits?"  Mulder paused, 
knowing that he had made the claustrophobic confines of 
everyone's suits feel like traps. "If the doctors here can't 
figure out what happened, that's it.  None of us go back.  
Ever." 

Lt. Quiddis turned around slowly, his mask scanning his men. 
No one needed to see his face to understand the shock 
written on it. 

"Do you get it?  No one would risk bringing you home until 
you can prove you're okay.  And there's a warship out there, 
waiting for us.  Now, do you still want to keep secrets 
Lieutenant?" 

Scully held her breath.  This was a dangerous game he was 
playing.  How this man would react was damn near 
unpredictable, and she wondered whether Fox would goad him 
over the edge. 

Quiddis circled back to the USAMRIID team, and rubbed his 
gloves together.  "An E-3 picked up a CIS satellite, 
dedicated to biowarfare projects.  It dropped into the ocean 
near here, and we think the workers spotted it, and brought 
the capsule onto their rig.  We're here to find the capsule. 
 Need anything else?" His voice was tired. 

Hadat thought for a moment before speaking.  "What was in 
it?" Even he sounded guarded. 

"That's all I was told.  A CIS biowarfare lab in space."  He 
grabbed a lab stool and dropped onto it, slapping his thigh 
with his hand.  "And Peirson, fuck up like that again, and 
you'll never see another mission." 

"Yes, sir."  Neither man looked at one another.

Mulder jumped in. "Okay, so its time we search the rig."

"Mulder,"  The tight note in Scully's voice brought him to 
face her. "When did you last see Glad?" 

Mulder didn't answer.  He simply spun sharply, scanning the 
hanger for Glad.  He stopped, lost in thought while the SEAL 
team tried to contact him over the radio. 

Quiddis jumped to his feet. "The spook isn't answering. 
Think he's . . . sick?" 

Fox turned on the soldier.  "No.  He's insurance." 

*         *         *

Colonel Ryan White tore at the fittings to his sealed suit. 
He managed to free himself of its sweaty embrace, and with 
it the last vestiges of 'Sergeant Glad.' Gone was the man 
who had sparred with Agent Mulder; now, he felt untouchable 
in his element. Ducking, he retrieved his MP5 again. Rising 
quietly, he kicked the suit into a dark corner, and slung 
the submachine gun over his head.  The small nightvision 
visor fit about his temples, settling into the groove worn 
by the mask.  Now he was ready. 

The rusty hatch that lead out of Platform Two loomed before 
him in the pitch darkness.  Through his visor it seemed an 
unsteady admixture of deep green shades as he unlatched it 
and threw it open. 

Beyond it was a dark gray field, lit up by the stars 
overhead. He could hear the crash of the waves against the 
pylons below him, and smell the raw sea air.  But most 
important, he saw the web-like shape of the gantry that 
linked Platforms Two and One.  It bounced and rattled under 
him as he crossed, the muzzle of his weapon searching above 
him, along the windows of the crew quarters. 

He found the door into the crew quarters sealed shut.  The 
gangway led only back to the hanger, forcing his hand. 

He pulled from a thigh pocket a thin coil of white plastic, 
known as Det-cord.  He pressed it into position about the 
edge of the doorway, plunging the detonator caps deep into 
it on either end.  He ran quickly for cover behind Platform 
Two's doorway, before triggering the explosives. 

The small whooshing thump burned a thousand degree hole in 
the door, and blasted it inward.  The noise of the metal 
hatch crashing to the floor seemed louder than the 
explosion, for the quick concussion wave was pitched too low 
to be heard fully.  Again, Col. White ran down the gantry, 
this time ducking into Platform One. 

The suit radio was still tucked to his ear, the microphone 
sealed up.  He'd heard the discussions going on, and knew 
Quiddis wouldn't do the job. 

Thankfully, he thought, oil burns well. 

*         *         *

"No, stay with the doctors.  We can't let Glad double back!" 
Mulder was shouting unnecessarily into his microphone as he 
held the stairwell door open for the SEAL team. 

Scully winced along with the rest of the team as his words 
blasted into her right ear, but her gun never wavered.  
Instead, she stopped running for the door, staring at Fox as 
the last man passed him. 

Without a word he disappeared through the door, his slick 
rubber suit blending with the darkness as he descended into 
the oil rig.  Then the heavy metal door closed with a 
resounding clang. 

She blinked sharply.  Was this the way they always worked? 
She couldn't remember just how normal it was for him to 
leave her behind so abruptly.  Could he be doing this solely 
because of their personal arguments? 

Before the echo of the closing door had died, Agent Scully 
was on the run toward the charred remains.  She brusquely 
lifted the body parts from the examination table, and laid 
them on the floor. 

"Agent Scully, what the hell are you doing?"  Pryce started 
out of the daze he'd dropped into, reaching out to stop her. 

Putting her shoulder into it, she spun the table about, 
until the long side faced the door.  Then she heaved it onto 
its side, narrowly missing Pryce's foot. 

"There,"  she panted into the microphone, "Now we've got a 
blockade." 

She dropped behind the table, and chambered a round into her 
pistol smoothly.  Pryce dropped down beside her, while Hadat 
and Whitman cleared off another nearby table. 

The other table clanged into the hanger deck, and the 
USAMRIID doctors drew pistols of their own.  She looked 
over, only to find Major Pryce drawing a small twenty-two 
caliber pistol from his holster.  He looked at the weapon he 
held, and then over at Scully's large Glock, and then back 
again.  She could almost see his thoughts, as though they 
were louder now that he was encased in a sealed suit. 

"I can't hit a target with anything bigger."  Pryce then 
looked away, and tried to ignore her. 

Dana turned off the microphone until her giggles went away. 

*         *         *

In teams of two, the SEAL squad leapfrogged down the 
darkened corridors of level two.  Mulder was tagging along 
with the Lieutenant, his service pistol out and at his side. 

He remembered to keep his elbows locked, even when the 
weapon was down.  And there was one in the chamber and the 
safety off, in case he needed to fire. 

Fox only hoped that he wouldn't shoot his own foot.  It 
seemed that between his weekend and now, that was the sort 
of luck he would get. 

He pushed his thoughts of his partner out of his mind as 
Quiddis gestured to him from across the corridor.  They'd 
come to another intersection, and again the three men would 
blossom out from the corner like a dark flower. 

"Team one, alpha clear."  The first intersection past the 
stairwell to the north was empty. 

"Team two, fox-trot clear."  The intersection to the south 
was empty. 

"Team three, kilo clear."  West too was empty. 

The El-Tee shook his fist in the air, and counted down from 
three on his fingers.  When he reached zero, Fox swung 
around the corner.  His heart stopped when he saw the shadow 
slip around the far corner some thirty feet away. 

"Team Four," Quiddis called out as his partner chambered a 
round into his underbarrel grenade launcher.  "Movement at 
November.  Prosecuting contact." 

Mulder started down the corridor, noting that it was 
partially illuminated.  A single lit neon light swung by one 
end from the shattered fixture above it.  The walls were 
pocked with bullet holes, and his thick rubber-soled boots 
slid about on the spent brass casings underfoot.  Fox was 
shaking from the isolation he felt, the dread at hearing 
nothing but the rasp of his own breathing.  The barrel of 
the rifle that bobbed along just at his peripheral vision 
didn't comfort him either. 

"Team two,"  The signal was rough with static. "Golf clear." 

They came to the next intersection, where they had seen 
movement.  Intersection Oscar.  An odd feeling came over 
him, a sense of deep foreboding.  It made perfect sense to 
him.  He'd managed to upset his friendship with Dana, 
possibly destroy it. And now he knew he was going to die 
alone.  There would be no one to care about his funeral.  
The thought seized him abruptly, and shook him violently. 

He thought of that for a moment, then dove out into the 
intersection alone.  He slammed back first against the far 
wall, the air tank knocking the wind from him.  It seemed 
the only thing he could do. 

"Mulder," Quiddis whispered.  "Shit."

Down the hallway, at the far side of the platform, Mulder 
saw movement.  He flicked on his large light, and unclipped 
it from his belt.  He started down after the shadowy form, 
while his two teammates swung around the corner after him. 

They only had time to see his dark shape disappear through a 
doorway at the far end. The beam from his flashlight 
bounced, then disappeared. 

"Team Two, Fox-trot Clear!" Their radios cracked sharply, 
fading in and out. 

As Quiddis and his rifleman ran, clumsy in their 
environmental suits, they kept alert.  The Lieutenant just 
kept his pistol covering each connecting corridor as they 
ran through. 

"Team, Mulder's chasing something, we're in pursuit.  ID 
first, shoot later!"  He cursed profligately within the 
confines of his mind, watching his ordered search and 
destroy pattern fall apart. 

They reached the doorway, seeing the blacked out secondary 
generators looming inside.  Here and there, they saw 
Mulder's light bouncing in the darkness. 

Suddenly, the room lit up with strobing light as the 
staccato cracks of gunfire echoed past them.  Squeals 
erupted from the room.

Almost simultaneously, there was a low explosion from 
Platform One. 

Quiddis dropped to the floor in a crouch, his man alongside 
him.  "Teams One and Two to Point Juliet.  Expedite.  Teams 
Three and Five recon Platform Two." 

Quiddis didn't wait for the brittle acknowledgments before 
he ducked into the generator room, and started sprinting.