Copyright:  Thursday, March 10, 2005 02:59:46 PM       NAVAL STATION MAYPORT JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA EARLY EVENING - DAY 4               Naval Station Mayport was a bustling hive of activity. Uniformed personnel scurried back and forth, intent on their business. No one seemed to notice as a single white military helicopter angled in over the ocean, landed near the base’s long sea-rimmed runway, and discharged four mysterious passengers.           Appearances, however, could be deceiving. Armed security forces were carefully monitoring the chopper’s clandestine arrival. They tracked its inbound flight path with watchful eyes and jittery trigger fingers--but since its arrival had been personally cleared by the base’s Commanding Officer earlier that afternoon, they prudently attempted no interception.           A pair of trusted aides were waiting to convey the four civilians to their next transport, a gleaming C-2 Greyhound idling on the nearest runway. This, too, had been quietly sanctioned--so Navy personnel closest to the big plane kept their eyes carefully averted, and went about their business without asking importune questions.           Agent Reyes instinctively backed away as their chopper rose into the air, hovered for a moment, then soared back out over the ocean. The backblast forced her to turn aside, shielding her eyes. Beside her, Doggett’s long coat whipped around his knees, then settled again, as he stepped forward to greet their two escorts.           "Petty Officer Rollins," the older officer introduced himself. He accepted their authorization papers from Doggett with a crisp nod. "Soon as you’re geared up, we’ve got a Greyhound waiting to take you out to the Kennedy."           A squadron of fighter planes suddenly roared by overhead. Doggett and his companions reflexively winced, but their two escorts barely even seemed to notice the deafening clamor. Rollins scanned their papers, then folded them and tucked them securely into his vest pocket. "Ensign Johansen and I will help you suit up," he shouted, pitching his resonant voice to carry above the din. "You’ll need helmets and life vests before you can go aboard!"           Kensington reminiscently turned to watch the squadron disappear. "VS-30 Diamondcutters!" he shouted to Stanwick over one shoulder. "Good formation! They haven’t lost their edge!"           Rollins’s tanned face displayed mingled surprise and respect as he nodded. "Yes, sir! We’re lucky to have them stationed here for a while! If you’ll follow us now..."           They hurried off the tarmac, and stopped at a rack festooned with bright yellow protective gear. Ensign Johansen helped Reyes and Stanwick adjust their vests, while Doggett and Kensington expertly followed his example. The barrage of noise instantly dropped to bearable levels as they pulled on battered flight helmets. Doggett threw his companions a reassuring thumbs-up, then tossed his carryall over one shoulder.           Before he could proceed to the waiting cargo plane, Rollins anxiously drew him aside. "Sir, I’m to tell you that the rest of your party is already aboard! You’re to board the Greyhound first, so that Mr. Smith can have a private word with you."           Kensington was standing close enough to overhear the Petty Officer’s request. He exchanged a startled look with Doggett. Mr. Smith? Kenny Hewitt hadn’t mentioned sending one of his Marines along as an escort. Had Worley gotten wind of their plans, despite their meticulous efforts to bypass his authority?           Doggett’s forehead creased in a worried frown. "Give me five minutes," he urged Kensington. "I’ll see what this is all about."           The Senator nodded, and uneasily watched as Doggett jogged across the wide tarmac with Rollins. They’d done so well, securing their own swift transportation out to the Kennedy without Hogshead’s certain intervention. He hoped that this unexpected development didn’t bode ill for the remainder of their trip.           The Greyhound was already in takeoff position on the long runway. As they approached, Doggett could see uniformed crewmen scurrying back and forth, completing their pre-flight checklist.           The massive transport’s normal function was to ferry supplies--and the occasional passenger--to any aircraft carrier within its substantial range. But it was, Kenny Hewitt had laughingly warned them, one hell of a ride! Ship-to-ship, the cargo plane was launched with sufficient force to attain its standard flying speed of 120 mph in only two seconds. And its deceleration rate was even faster.           Fortunately for them, the Greyhound was also capable of normal runway take-offs. Only their landing would be painful, as the Kennedy’s arrestor gear slammed them to a full stop almost instantaneously.           Doggett had experienced high-g transport before. Pilots found it exhilarating; their passengers dreaded it. Ideally he would have preferred taking an HS-7 helicopter. But the Kennedy was already outside the big chopper’s range. So like it or not, the Greyhound was their best choice, if they hoped to reach the Kennedy--and that distant island--in time.           The Greyhound’s large rear cargo door was down, a tacit invitation to board and ascend into its dark, gaping cargo hold. Rollins nimbly scrambled aboard the wide metal ramp, and offered Doggett a steadying hand.           Two burly Marines were guarding the bay doors, their M-16 rifles cradled in parade-rest position. Their relaxed pose was deceptive. Doggett knew, from long experience, how quickly they could swing those deadly rifles into action. He’d stood enough hours on sentry duty himself.           Rollins pulled Doggett’s authorization papers from his vest pocket, and grudgingly offered them to the nearer sentry. The Marine deftly shouldered his weapon long enough to scan the documents, then his eyes darted up to meet Doggett’s. Something indefinable passed between them, and Doggett felt his taut nerves relax. Once a Marine, always a Marine--and somehow one could always recognize another, no matter how many years had passed.           The sentry briskly folded Doggett’s papers, and handed them to him. "Permission to board granted, Agent Doggett! Mr. Smith is waiting for you inside. If you’ll follow me..."           Doggett tucked the papers securely into his carryall, and followed the big Marine up the gangplank. Metal grating clanked under his shoes as he stepped into the gaping cargo bay, and warily glanced around.           Bales and boxes filled most of the open space; they were obviously being snuck aboard a normal cargo run. Several solid flight chairs had been hurriedly bolted to one side of the deck, but they were all empty. Doggett took another step forward. The hair on his neck crawled as he peered into the deeper shadows. Where was their mysterious companion hiding--and why?           "Ah, Agent Doggett. You made good time, I see."           Doggett jumped and spun around as an unfamiliar, accented voice emerged from the darkness at his elbow. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded--but then the elderly white-haired gentleman moved into view, and he knew. Mulder’s mysterious one-time enemy, the elusive Well-Manicured Man.           "Alistair Desmond Carstairs-Smythe III," the old man calmly replied. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person."           A thin smile curved his lips as he stepped further into the late-afternoon sunlight. "I apologize for startling you, but it was imperative that I speak with you immediately," he informed the suspicious agent. "I’m sure you are already aware that if your mission is successful, you and your companions may face grave danger."           Doggett’s intense blue eyes pierced into his adversary’s, trying to pierce his cool composure. "Why should you care?" he retorted. "You and your shadowy Syndicate have stood against everything that’s good and decent in this world since before I was born!"           Smythe met his hostile glare without blinking. "Times change, Agent Doggett," he replied. "People change."           "Yeah, right." Doggett snorted in disgust, and spun toward the nearby MP, who was carefully pretending to study a blank spot on the curving metal wall.           "Agent Doggett." Smythe’s unexpectedly firm command made him hesitate. "You must be prepared for what you will find on that island. The danger is not solely from any assassination team."           Slowly the wary FBI agent turned back around. "What, then?"           Smythe grimly shook his head. "You will know if you find it," he hedged. "For your own sake, and the lives of your companions, I strongly urge you not to touch it, Agent Doggett. Not to remove it, nor to return with it. What you will discover on that island must remain there, for all our sakes. The entire world’s salvation depends on this."           And before Doggett could muster a scathing retort, he vanished without a sound into the murky shadows.           Doggett cautiously edged deeper into the plane’s gaping cargo hold, but the wily old British operative was gone. Scowling, he reluctantly turned back around to greet his approaching companions.           Monica threw him a questioning glance, but he subtly shook his head. There would be time later, aboard the Kennedy, to pass along the Well-Manicured Man’s cryptic warning. Now was neither the proper time nor place. "Everything’s fine," he lied. "Kenny’s ready and waiting for us on the other end."           Petty Officer Rollins swung up the ramp after Stanwick and Kensington, and politely waved toward their flight chairs. "If you’ll please strap in, I’ll inform the pilots that you’re ready to depart."           Doggett settled into one of the padded seats, secured his elaborate safety harness, then prudently tightened the straps another notch. "An arrestor landing can turn a man’s body to jelly if he’s not strapped in properly," Kenny Hewitt had warned them--and he knew from personal experience that it was no exaggeration.           Rollins briefly disappeared, then returned to double-check their sturdy harness configurations. Finally he tossed them a respectful half-salute, and dropped lightly back down to the tarmac.           The late afternoon sunlight faded as the C-2's ramp slowly rose. Then it slammed and locked with a hollow clang. Suddenly the bulging cargo bay seemed very large, and very dark. A shiver ran down Doggett’s spine as the engines thrummed louder, and the Greyhound began moving down the runway.           They were finally on their way. He prayed that they’d be in time.