Copyright:  Thursday, March 10, 2005 01:56:41 PM       PENSACOLA NAVAL AIR STATION PENSACOLA, FLORIDA EARLY MORNING - DAY 4             Captain Anthony Worley was a career officer. He lived for the Navy, breathed for the Navy. Someday he might even be called upon to die for the Navy--and he would pay the price willingly, counting it a life well spent.           Pensacola NAS had flourished under his strict supervision, and he was damned proud of the men and women under his command. Every plane and helicopter that landed safely was a tribute to his leadership; every successful rescue mission was another feather in his cap.           Anomalies had no place in his tight, orderly little world. Anything dealing with the so-called Bermuda Triangle set his teeth on edge. And he particularly loathed FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder and his unorthodox X-Files Project.           He slammed one meaty fist on his wide desk, and glared at the two men on the other side. "This is not Hollywood!" he growled. "People simply do not survive high-altitude ocean crashes!"           He had a fine appreciation for rank, which was the only reason he’d granted this unscheduled fifteen-minute meeting with Assistant Director Skinner and Senator Kensington. But already he could see that it was a waste of his valuable time. He had more important matters on his docket.           The plane in question had crashed. His highly trained divers had already confirmed that it was lying on the ocean bottom in several pieces. If no bodies had been found yet, it only meant that they’d been shredded upon impact, as most bodies were. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they might find some floating scraps of cloth--eventually.           Prolonging the search was a waste of his Air Station’s precious resources. Widening the search pattern was just plain irresponsible. He didn’t run this base by catering to deluded politicians, even if the politician in question had once been a decorated Naval officer himself.           Skinner gritted his teeth, and struggled to keep his temper under tight control. The current head of NAS Search and Rescue, he concluded with a savage burst of hatred, was a hidebound bureaucrat who refused to bend protocol one iota. Even when it meant the lives of ten innocent civilians and two FBI agents. He was a perfect example of the narrow-minded adage, ‘My mind’s made up, don’t confuse me with the facts.’           Worley’s callous disregard for Senator Kensington’s probable loss was beyond contempt. It was no wonder his men hated him, and avidly counted the days to his upcoming retirement. Had the situation been any less dire, Skinner would have taken great pleasure of informing the pompous jackass just how unpopular he really was.           "You’re right, this isn’t Hollywood," he agreed. "It’s the Bermuda Triangle. No matter how much you dance around the truth, we all know that strange things can, and do, happen out there. Especially where my top two agents are involved."           If only he could brandish those stolen surveillance photos, prove that Mulder and Scully were still alive. Then things would be different! Worley might hate them with every ounce of his microscopic soul, but at least he’d be forced to take additional action!           It was a no-win situation. Alistair Desmond Carstairs-Smythe III had already (he hoped) returned the films to their rightful owners. And to reveal his knowledge of them, Skinner would have to admit that a huge security leak existed within the Defense Department.           He didn’t trust Smythe as far as he could throw the entire J. Edgar Hoover Building. But that security leak might prove very beneficial. If Smythe was willing to use it on his agents’ behalf, it behooved him to turn a blind eye. For now.           Dammit, he fumed, this entire situation was intolerable. Mulder’s case files were loaded with incidents linked to the infamous Bermuda Triangle. If even a tenth of them were factual, the entire region was dangerous. Worley’s refusal to acknowledge that danger bordered on criminal negligence. How many people had vanished, how many lives had been lost, because he refused to believe?           The merest mention of Fox Mulder made Worley’s blood boil. He still hadn’t forgotten the rogue agent’s last foray into the Triangle, searching for that decades-missing luxury liner, the ill-fated Queen Anne. "Planes that hit the open ocean do not leave survivors, and life rafts cannot ‘bounce’ four hundred kilometers away from their original positions in the blink of an eye! You," he grated, thrusting a thick finger in Skinner’s face, "have been buying into that X-Files bullshit for so long, you don’t know the truth from a lie anymore!           "Anyone with half a brain knows that Fox Mulder’s half-baked stories are a pile of crap! He’s a slacker with too much imagination, and not enough responsibilities to keep him out of trouble! Bermuda Triangle, indeed!" And with that, he rose to his feet and yanked his office door open.           "Do yourself a favor," he sneered as Skinner and Kensington reluctantly stood. "If you find him alive somewhere, either fire that layabout, or turn him over to me! I’ll teach him what discipline really means!"           The door slammed on his parting shot, leaving Skinner and Kensington in the stark anteroom facing Worley’s embarrassed aide. "If you’ll just follow me, sirs," the young man murmured, and tactfully motioned toward the long, dimly-lit hallway.           Kensington returned the lad’s crisp salute instinctively, then blinked and peered closer. A slow smile brightened his ruddy face. "Bobby Jenkins!" he exclaimed, clapping a hand on the slim lieutenant’s shoulder. "My God, what’re you doing working for old Hogshead, son?"           Jenkins flushed with pleasure. "You remember me!" he marveled, straightening even further. "It’s good to see you, sir!"           "Hogshead?" Skinner’s dark eyebrows shot up in disbelief.           "Didn’t you notice the striking resemblance?" Kensington grated. "Not to mention his surly attitude. He just keeps getting worse and worse!"           Jenkins glanced cautiously up and down the hallway, then offered them an apologetic grimace. "The captain hates anything he can’t understand. And the Triangle scares him to death!  Sir."           Kensington casually waved away the automatic honorific. "I’m retired now, son, no need to ‘sir’ me. Frankly I think the Triangle scares us all. But refusing to help when innocent lives are at stake..." Bitterness darkened his angular face, and he slowly shook his head. "He deserves to be stripped of rank and publicly flogged for that."           The young lieutenant’s eyes gleamed with suppressed anticipation. Then he sobered again, and swung open the wide double-doors. "Sir, we all know about the charter plane’s crash. And I remember giving Penny piggy-back rides when she was still a baby. So if there’s anything at all I can do to help..."           "Hogshead would court-martial you for trying." But Kensington laid a grateful hand on Jenkins’ shoulder. "I appreciate the offer more than you can possibly know."           Worley’s staff car was already rounding the corner. The lieutenant quickly snapped to attention. "I’ll be careful, sir," he promised in an undertone. "You have my word."           The staff car screeched to a halt nearby, and a burly, grim-faced MP jumped out. "We’ve been ordered to escort you back to your plane, sir!"           "Old Hogshead just can’t wait to get rid of us!" Kensington muttered. Sighing, he climbed into the back seat beside Skinner. The door slammed behind him; then the sedan’s tires squealed as the sturdy vehicle lurched into motion again. Worley’s orders were obviously to remove them from the base immediately, and the guards were taking him very literally.           The ride was silent and uncomfortable--as, no doubt, it was intended to be. They’d not only accomplished nothing, they’d alienated the one man they needed most. Worley would be gunning for them now, hampering their every effort to rescue Penny and the other hapless passengers.           Still, Skinner reflected, perhaps the trip hadn’t been totally wasted. He was curious about young Lieutenant Jenkins, and his relationship with Kensington’s daughter. Once they were safely inside the terminal, he ventured the question.           "Oh," the Senator murmured, managing a faint reminiscent smile. "Bobby was your typical base brat, always underfoot, usually into mischief. He adored Penny, though--helped teach her to ride a bike, beat another kid bloody for pushing her off a swing when she was five. His father was a career officer, mother worked in the KP. It was inevitable that he’d enlist. I haven’t seen for about six years now. He’s doing well, if he can cope with Hogshead’s rampages!"           He fell silent for several long moments, then heaved a deep sigh. "At least we’re not totally without options," he murmured. "Alexander Stanwick has already promised his full financial support, and I’m not exactly destitute myself. Since Worley refuses to help, we’ll need to mount our own search. I’ll go meet with Alexander when we get back to D.C., and start things in motion." • • • • • • FBI HEADQUARTERS WASHINGTON, D.C. MIDMORNING - DAY 4           It had already been a very long day, and the lunch rush hadn’t even begun yet. Skinner could feel the clock ticking away for his missing agents, and dreaded what the afternoon would bring.           The answer was already waiting in his office.           "I deduce from your expression that Captain Worley was, as usual, a complete waste of time?" Alistair Smythe rose to greet Skinner, then shrugged as the younger man rudely ignored his outstretched hand. It was no more or less than he had expected.           Skinner shot the elegant old man a scathing glare. "I’ll bet you know which side of the bed I sleep on!" he snapped, and thumped gracelessly into his chair.           "Right side," Smythe retorted without batting an eye. Then an anxious frown curved his thin lips, and he leaned forward to brace both hands on Skinner’s desk. "We need to talk. I have reason to believe that Agents Mulder and Scully may be in grave danger."           Cold prickles ran down Skinner’s spine. "What kind of danger?" he demanded, bolting upright again.          The old man wearily eased back into his own chair. "Let me tell you a little story, Mr. Skinner," he proposed, then raised an authoritative hand before his adversary could protest. "No, please hear me out. Much of this story substantiates Agent Mulder’s lifelong work. And you may find it--illuminating."           Pressuring the Well-Manicured Man was useless. Smythe would either impart knowledge in his own way--or he’d leave. And despite his current impatience, Skinner knew better than to alienate the canny British operative. Sighing, he thumped back down and prepared for a long boring lecture.           "Once upon a time," Smythe began, the barest hint of amusement glittering in his hooded eyes, "there was a planet. It was a lovely place full of clean water, fresh air, many primitive life forms. During the planet’s ice age, one of those life forms learned to fashion tools, hunt prey, and use fire. They progressed beyond bestiality and developed the first tentative signs of civilization. They became the dominant species in a cold, often violent world.           "But unknown to them, this planet had already been settled by visitors from the stars." His voice dropped ominously. "Visitors who returned periodically to harvest food and water, much as a modern farmer might harvest a field of grain. And when they decided that this dominant life form was sufficiently advanced, the visitors performed genetic experiments on it. They altered those primitive cave dwellers to be genetically compatible with their own species."           Skinner’s round face twisted in disgust. "That’s kinky!"          Smythe frowned. "Interbreeding was not their objective," he chastened the FBI agent. "They wanted no abomination half-breeds. Total domination of the planet was their goal. Their genetically-altered savages were to be used as host bodies, in the same way that certain wasps lay their eggs inside insects. The young mature by immobilizing the host insect and feeding off it from the inside, then hatching when the insect dies."           "I’ve already seen the results of your alien wasp-buddies’ tampering," Skinner interrupted, his jaws clenched with mute anger.           "Ah, yes, that unfortunate corpse in Arizona," Smythe sighed. "We had hoped to eliminate the evidence before Agent Mulder became involved, but..." He spread both hands in a reluctant shrug. "Well, the best-laid intentions. In any case, I’m sure you also know that several decades ago, a select group of men were contacted by this superior alien race. In exchange for their assistance, they were offered immunity from the coming holocaust."           Skinner’s fists began to clench. "Of course, it never occurred to these men to refuse," he sneered.           The Well-Manicured Man’s eyes glittered with cold fury. "We were not in a position to refuse, with our oh-so-primitive technology. We stood no chance of resisting them. And we believed, at the time, that mankind would merely be enslaved, not slaughtered by the millions. The grim truth came as a considerable shock to my colleagues."           "But not to you?" Skinner prompted, intrigued despite himself. "You knew better, didn’t you?"           Smythe uneasily glanced away. "William Mulder and I worked secretly with the Russians at Tunguska to develop a viable vaccine against them. And when Agent Scully became infected with the black-oil virus, I risked everything to help Agent Mulder save her life."           "Tunguska," Skinner softly echoed. "Mulder stumbled upon that research facility with Alex Krycek. They tested your vaccine on him, and he survived."           The Well-Manicured Man slowly nodded. "The blood samples they took before he escaped helped us refine the vaccine for Marita Covarubias and Agent Scully. But have you never wondered, Mr. Skinner, where that original vaccine originated?"           Skinner had, on many occasions, and his pulse quickened with excitement. Outwardly, however, he maintained a bored facade. "I’m sure you’re about to tell me," he retorted.           If Smythe sensed his heightened interest, he gave no sign. "Politics abound everywhere, Mr. Skinner, even among the technologically advanced alien realms. Eons ago, resistance fighters within their ranks sought to prevent the planned holocaust. They chose a small island which, at that time, was within easy reach of the primary land mass, and seeded it with a genetically engineered spore. Its purpose was to counter the alien black-oil virus.           "Hiding the island from their own people was crucial, so they protected it with magnetic and gravitational anomalies. Primitive rafts or canoes could penetrate the barrier without incident, and would be drawn straight to the island. But their own powered ships would be seamlessly diverted."           Maybe he’d been associating with Mulder and Scully for too long, but the old man’s tale sounded just bizarre enough to be plausible. "And the spores?" Skinner prompted.           Smythe leaned forward in his chair. "They hoped that humans would discover the island, ingest the spores, and pass that protection onto their offspring. Within a few dozen generations, the entire limited population would be immune--and the returning aliens’ dreams of conquest would be destroyed."           "But something went wrong," Skinner deduced. "Or your precious little Syndicate never would have been formed."           The Well-Manicured Man sighed at his adversary’s well-aimed taunt. "Modern scientists theorize that a massive meteor collided with the earth, causing another ice age and, incidentally, the historic Biblical Flood. Continents shifted, land masses rose and fell. Knowledge of the hidden island and its unique properties were forgotten in the struggle to survive. By the next Golden Age, when mankind spread across the planet in vast waves, the island had drifted hundreds of kilometers from its original position. Perhaps," he concluded with an ironic grimace, "the resistance fighters protected it too well."           Ah, here was the moment he’d been waiting for. Skinner allowed cold suspicion to narrow his brown eyes. "So how did your Russian compatriots manage to locate the island, and devise a vaccine from these spores which were still miraculously alive after--how many millennium?"           Smythe admired tenacity and cleverness, and the agent facing him possessed both virtues. He inclined his silvered head in a respectful bow. "They captured a resistance fighter in Kazakhstan nearly two decades ago. His information led them to the island’s current position, and allowed them to devise a crude serum from the spores they discovered in a hidden cave. Unfortunately their vaccine required almost instantaneous application to prove effective. Over time, we have managed to refine it--but as you know, the allowable time span between infection and vaccination is still quite short."           Skinner leaned back to consider everything he’d just heard. "You believe that my agents have somehow managed to stumble on this mysterious little island," he finally concluded. "So the danger to them is--what? Exposure to these spores? By your own account, that should make them invulnerable to alien attack."           The Well-Manicured Man grimly shook his head. "Agents Mulder and Scully have already been infected with the black oil, and successfully vaccinated against it. We have no idea what effects exposure to the raw spores may cause. Need I remind you of what happened three years ago, when Agent Mulder was exposed to extraterrestrial radiation? He may suffer a relapse, one which could conceivably kill him this time. His lovely partner’s life is in equal danger."           A cold fist began to clench around Skinner’s stomach. "And the other refugees?"           Smythe’s eyes flashed with an emotion Skinner couldn’t immediately identify. Anger? Fear? Dread?           "The island’s location is known only to a select few," he murmured, staring down at his tightly clasped hands. Suddenly he felt incredibly old and very, very tired. "My sources indicate that a strike team is being assembled, even as we speak, to protect that knowledge. If this is true, they will not hesitate to kill whomever they find on that island."           So this was the crux, the thorny dilemma that had forced his wily adversary out of hiding. But who, Skinner wondered, was he so desperate to protect?           Frowning, he rose and paced the length of his office.           Smythe quietly watched him for a moment, then reached for his long coat and pulled a thick white packet from one inner pocket. "May I?" he urged, gesturing at the agent’s paper-strewn desk. At Skinner’s brusque nod, he carefully unfolded a detailed oceanographic map, and spread it out.           The charter plane’s location was already marked on the map’s multicolored surface, as were the life rafts’ last known positions. Broad, sweeping curves marked their probable destinations.           "Based on what we have determined about the rafts’ trajectories, we can safely assume that one is drifting near the Santa Luzia island chain, here." And he touched a long, weathered finger to a series of tiny dots several hundred kilometers north of the crash site.           "The other raft was heading south and east." And he pointed at the second curving arc. "Both regions should be searched--but I would stake my life on finding your missing agents in this second location."           Skinner lifted an eyebrow. "Because?"           "Because," the shrewd old man replied, "the Atlantic current flows from south to north. Of the two possibilities available, this is the least physically possible. Therefore it is the most likely place to find your missing agents."           Syndicate operative or not, Alistair Smythe had a valid point. If it was impossible, Mulder and Scully would find a way to manage it!           Very well, then. "Just how do you propose we reach this small, uncharted island that officially doesn’t even exist?" he demanded, bracing both hands on his desk. "And what do you expect out of the deal, in return for offering us this information?"           "The island’s protective barrier extends approximately thirty kilometers in all directions," Smythe volunteered. "I can provide you with accurate coordinates to its location. Slip through the barrier with a raft or sailboat, and you will be drawn straight to its shore. I’m told," he added with a wry smile, "that it is an extremely beautiful place.           "As to the rest," he hedged, seeming to withdraw inside himself, "I have, shall we say, a large personal debt to pay."           "I’ll bet," Skinner retorted, impatiently turning to pace again. "Let me guess. You generously offered Mulder your only existing vial of serum, so he could save Scully’s life in Antarctica. That put you in hot water with your Syndicate buddies, so you faked your own death. Now you have a chance to get a fresh sample of these marvelous spores, and start your damned research all over again. Am I getting warm?"           The icy contempt on Smythe’s face could have frozen a lesser man. "That damned research could save our entire race from mass extinction," he grated, stiffly rising to face his enemy. "This goes far beyond just the black-oil vaccination, Mr. Skinner. Agent Scully has been working feverishly to replicate Cobra’s universal cancer cure. His research was also based on the spores’ miraculous capabilities. We need those spores, more than you could possibly imagine!"           "With your precious Syndicate in complete control, of course," Skinner flung back. "So why bring me the information? You have resources I can’t possibly match!"           Smythe’s thin lips curved in a triumphant smile. "Perhaps. But by collaborating together, Mr. Skinner, you and I can achieve the impossible. And a strike team may already be en route to that island. Therefore, if you wish to see your two agents alive again, we have little time to waste."