Copyright:  Thursday, March 10, 2005 02:51:57 PM         FBI HEADQUARTERS J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING WASHINGTON, D.C. MID-AFTERNOON - DAY 4             Special Agent John Doggett hesitated briefly before entering Assistant Director Skinner’s austere office. This wasn’t the first time he’d headed a manhunt search for Fox Mulder. Time seemed to overlap for one quick moment as he recalled the last time his tall, charismatic teammate had mysteriously vanished.           There were important differences, though, between then and now.           Then, Deputy Director Kersh had been Doggett’s immediate superior. The retired Naval officer had initially seemed sincere about wanting to locate Mulder. But Doggett had swiftly realized that Mulder was considered an embarrassment to the FBI, despite his excellent success record. And Kersh had not only wanted Mulder permanently gone, he’d seen Doggett as a threat to his new promotion. So he’d deliberately set up the former Marine-turned-FBI agent to fail, in hopes of discrediting him.           When Doggett had refused to give up the search, Kersh had maliciously transferred him to Skinner’s department. And until Mulder was finally found, he’d been assigned to the X-Files Project as Agent Scully’s interim partner.           Three months later, an unusual case had sent them to Montana. Since the case had dealt with cult mutilations, he’d enlisted Special Agent Monica Reyes’s assistance. He and Reyes had met years earlier, when his beloved young son, Luke, had been kidnaped by a homicidal maniac. Luke’s murderer had never been caught, but she’d helped him recover the boy’s body, and had remained his friend and confidante over the intervening years.           After they’d joined forces again to locate Mulder, she’d transferred to D.C., and taken a position in the FBI’s Violent Crimes section. Then when Scully had eventually gone on maternity leave, he’d urged her to become his new full-time partner.           Monica noticed his slight hesitation, and offered him a wry smile. "Full circle again, huh?" she commented, shaking her head.           It was uncanny, the way she could practically read his thoughts at times. But Doggett was gradually becoming used to her unusual empathic abilities. "I’m getting too old for this!" he muttered.           Laughter danced in Monica’s dark brown eyes. Then Skinner’s door swung open, and she quickly schooled her expression. Properly sober-faced again, she followed her partner into the large, spartan office.           Since the X-Files Project’s closure three months ago, she and Doggett had been reassigned to Violent Crimes. Skinner was still lobbying to reopen the X-Files, but so far his requests had been ignored.           Officially, since they were now assigned to a different department, they were barred from investigating the charter crash. But that hadn’t stopped them from doing their own clandestine research. They’d spent the last two nights down in Mulder’s old office, working until dawn, researching his files and records.           Doggett had already reviewed all the files once before, when he’d first started working with Scully, so she’d concentrated on the charter’s crew and passengers. Her heart had plunged when she’d accessed classified data on the flight’s two youngest passengers. A senator’s daughter, a millionaire’s son. Either might have been prime targets for a kidnaping or assassination attempt.           She still hadn’t been able to rule out either option, and didn’t need a crystal ball to realize that this would be a difficult meeting.           Skinner and his two visitors rose to welcome them. She tried to see both men through Doggett’s keen eyes as they firmly shook her hand. His intensive military training had taught him to efficiently analyze appearance and body language, to determine true motives and loyalties. But she had an added advantage: her innate empathic abilities that allowed her to ‘read’ people’s emotions with a high degree of accuracy.           Alexander Stanwick was tall and rather handsome, in a refined sort of way. Self-confidence and a liberal dash of arrogance blended well with his angular face and silvered hair. His tailored business suit had probably cost more than her monthly rent, she mused with the faintest trace of envy. This was a man who had tremendous ‘presence,’ who could turn heads just by walking into a crowded room.           By contrast, Charles Kensington had thick sandy hair, a ruddy complexion, and the fiery temperament to match his appearance. His powerful body looked more suited to roping calves and training wild mustangs. She knew that he’d worked on numerous massive oil rigs while attending college in his home state of Texas. Though he looked completely civilized in his crisp suit and tie, she could sense something untamed just below the surface of his churning emotions. He was definitely not a man she wanted to cross.           Both men had good reason to be distressed over the charter’s crash. But Stanwick seemed additionally burdened with a heavy load of guilt. Was he been involved somehow? She’d have to compare notes with Doggett later, but he definitely bore further surveillance.           And there was a haunting familiarity about Kensington that surprised her. Somehow he was involved with the X-Files Project, and not as an enemy. That, too, would bear further investigation.           Then she realized that both men were scrutinizing Doggett and her just as intently. She knew what they were seeing: John Doggett still had the look of a disciplined soldier, with his broad shoulders, stern face, and close-cropped dark hair. She was smaller than her partner, almost petite by comparison, with straight brown-black hair and large dark eyes.           Kensington sized her up, accepted what he saw, and seemed willing to trust her skills and abilities. She found his modern attitude a refreshing change from Stanwick’s, who was subconsciously pondering whether a mere woman could possibly be an effective FBI field agent. She should be busy providing a proper home for her husband and family. And, just for a moment, she sensed that he was including Doggett in his idyllic little scenario.           That mental image almost made her laugh. As if John Doggett would ever risk opening his heart again to anyone, especially his field partner!           Well, she thought with a grim mental smile, she’d been proving herself against antiquated notions like Stanwick’s ever since she’d joined the FBI in 1990. If he needed proof of her abilities, she’d be happy to comply.           Doggett briskly motioned for the two men to reseat themselves, and came right to the point in his typical curt fashion. "Fifteen minutes ago, I received a ship-to-shore phone call from my old Marine partner, Kenny Hewitt," he informed Skinner. "We served together as a scout-sniper team in Lebanon, until I was wounded and had to return Stateside. Recently he was transferred to the U.S.S. Kennedy, where he serves as Chief Warrant Officer."           Skinner leaned forward, and steepled his index fingers together. Doggett never did or said anything without a damned good reason. It was one of the many traits that made him an excellent agent. "And the purpose of his call was...?" he prompted.           But here Doggett shook his head. "I’ve asked him to call back at this number," he temporized, gesturing at Skinner’s phone. "It’s better if he explains that himself."           A few brief moments later, the phone rang. He glanced at Skinner for permission, then pressed the speaker button. "John Doggett here," he replied.           "Johnny-boy!" Hewitt’s hearty voice boomed through the room, making everyone wince. Doggett quickly adjusted the volume lever. "Glad I caught you!"           Doggett’s expression was unreadable, but Monica thought she sensed a trace of embarrassment mixed with unmistakable affection emanating from her somber partner. Amused, she settled on the edge of Skinner’s desk to watch his face more closely.           Alexander Stanwick suddenly realized that he’d committed an unpardonable breach of etiquette. A woman had been left standing while he was seated. He swiftly began to rise. Monica favored him with a warm smile, but raised a hand to halt his instinctive gesture. "I’m fine," she whispered. "Really. Sit back down, please."           Hewitt heard her soft voice through the sensitive microphone. "Who’ve you got there with you, John?" he continued without a pause. "Introduce me!"           Again Doggett locked gazes with Skinner, who nodded. "I’m in Assistant Director Walter Skinner’s office right now," he informed the distant Warrant Officer. "My partner, Monica Reyes, is here, along with Senator Charles Kensington and Alexander Stanwick."           "Damn, boy, we got us a convoy!" Hewitt chuckled. "Pleased to meet you folks."           Doggett leaned forward slightly. "Kenny, I’d like you to repeat for A.D. Skinner what you told me in your first call," he requested.           "Righto, Johnny-boy," Hewitt agreed. Suddenly he was all business. "Agent Skinner, I hear through the grapevine that you might need a little help from me an’ the boys. Word on the ’waves is that two of your agents and a bunch of civilians went down in the Triangle three days ago, and old Hogshead ain’t lifting a finger to find them! Gonna get his butt busted back to Private if he keeps this up!"           Skinner’s eyebrows rose above his wire-rimmed glasses. Then he scowled in grim amusement. "I’d love to be the one to bust him," he vowed. "This grapevine, Chief Warrant Officer--it wouldn’t have started through a certain Lieutenant Bobby Jenkins, would it?" And he exchanged a meaningful glance with Kensington, who was avidly listening to every word.           "Wa’al, now, I wouldn’t be saying who starts these little rumors," Hewitt drawled with a chuckle. "But I’d guess you’ve got yourself a few good friends in key places! And you can call me Kenny--that title’s too damned convoluted for anyone to spit out more than once."           Despite herself, Monica started to laugh. Damned if she didn’t already like Kenny Hewitt! What an infamous pair he and Doggett must have made, back in the day!           "Kenny," Skinner obediently echoed, an appreciative glint in his own eyes. "It’s imperative that we rescue those downed passengers as soon as possible. Mr. Stanwick’s and Senator Kensington’s teenagers were aboard that flight. Their safety is of paramount importance."           Hewitt reflectively scratched his close-cropped scalp, and the harsh sound echoed clearly through Skinner’s phone. "Atlantic Ocean’s a mighty big place," he finally murmured. "You got a good starting place?"           "I can provide you with exact coordinates," Skinner assured him. "This is a secured line?" He was certain it would be; aircraft carriers were equipped with all the latest technology to maintain secure communications with their command centers.           The burly CWO made a rude sound. "I may be a fool, but I’m no damned fool! ’Course this line is secured!"           A slow smile lit Doggett’s grave face. Hewitt’s gruff banter hadn’t changed in twenty years and, God willing, it never would.           "Memorize these coordinates," Skinner ordered. "Latitude twenty-two degrees, longitude sixty-two degrees, declination..."           "Mr. Skinner, you’ve gotta be joking me!" Kenny interrupted, outraged. "The Kennedy is only fifty kilometers away from there right now! And I’m here to tell you, there’s nothing in that particular patch of ocean but more ocean!"           Skinner had expected his reaction, and kept his temper under firm control. "Those coordinates mark a very unusual island that can only be reached by an unpowered craft such as a canoe or sailboat," he elaborated. "Mr. Stanwick has offered us the use of his private yacht--but greater speed is essential right now."           Stanwick raised a startled eyebrow. Skinner ignored him.           Hewitt was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice was tinged with genuine concern. "Johnny-boy, I know you’re worried about your missing partners. But maybe you’ve been working a little too hard, ya know? Son, the Kennedy’s been through that patch of water dozens of times these past few weeks, and there’s not a single bare rock sticking its head up through those waves! Let alone a whole island!"           Skinner could appreciate his skepticism, but now was not the time for a detailed explanation. Not with two avidly-listening civilians in the room. "The coordinates are accurate," he replied. "Speed is imperative."           "Because...?" Hewitt demanded, his curiosity piqued.           Again Skinner was forced to choose his words with care. "If our analysis is correct, an elderly retired couple has taken refuge there with my agents and the missing teenagers. One of them suffers from a serious heart condition, and may be in need of immediate medical assistance. Every moment we delay lessens his chances of survival."           Stanwick visibly relaxed           "Wa’al," Hewitt drawled, "we’ve got a damned fine medical team aboard the Kennedy. Even if they are squids. Now we just gotta figure out how to sneak you aboard. Mr. Stanwick, how does your pilot feel about landing on an aircraft carrier?"           "He’s joking," Doggett quickly interjected, before the startled millionaire could frame a reply. "No matter how skilled he is, your pilot isn’t qualified to make that kind of precision landing."           Skinner glanced in Kensington’s direction. "Charles, you flew Navy recon before you retired. Can you call in a favor, and get us out there in a Greyhound or a military chopper? Preferably without arousing Captain Worley’s attention."           The husky Senator considered for a moment, then slowly nodded. "I think so," he murmured. "I’ll need to make a few phone calls."           "My secretary, Kimberly, can help you," Skinner nodded. "Mr. Stanwick, you may want to go with the Senator, in case he needs help persuading someone to give us a lift."           Stanwick favored him with a wry smile, and suggestively rubbed his thumb and index finger together. "It’s amazing what money and power can accomplish where common sense and decency fail," he agreed. "If you will excuse us..."           The three agents watched them leave, and heaved a collective sigh with relief when the door firmly closed. Then Kenny spoke up again, his husky voice plaintive with concern. "You’re leveling with me on this, now, Johnny?" he implored. "You really do think you’re gonna find an island at those coordinates? ’Cause it’s my ass in a sling if you’re wrong, beggin’ your pardon, Miz Reyes."           Skinner exhaled a deep breath, and nodded. "If my information can be trusted, we will find considerably more than just an island there. Play this very close to your chest, Kenny," he warned. "If these coordinates were to leak, The Football would look tame in comparison."           Doggett paled as Kenny released a low, reverent whistle. Monica blinked in confusion, then the oblique reference clicked, and color drained from her face, too. Everyone knew that the President’s bodyguards were top-ranked Marines. Few realized that those bodyguards’ primary job was actually to protect the nuclear launch codes locked inside his ever-present briefcase--which, over time, had gained the nickname of The Football.           "Highest national security levels," she whispered.           Skinner heard her, and soberly shook his head. "Global," he corrected. "Mulder and Scully may well have stumbled into the biggest hornet’s nest of all time."