NATIONAL AIRPORT WASHINGTON, D.C,
An hour later an unmarked auxiliary truck sat on the runway overlooking Haines Point, its engine idling. In the distance a private Gulfstream jet emerged from an unmarked hangar and taxied slowly down the tarmac. At sight of the Gulfstream, the truck's engines cut off. Two men in black fatigues hopped down from the cab and swiftly moved to the rear of the vehicle. They opened the doors and care-fully, deftly, removed a large translucent con-tainer, a cryobubble, its exterior a crazy grid of monitors and gauges, oxygen tanks and refrig-eration units. A thin layer of frost coated its interior, and behind this, dimly seen as though through fog, lay Scully. Her body strapped in, her limbs and torso so still she might have been dead; save that as the men carried the con-tainer from the truck, her eyes moved every so slightly, blinking.
The Gulfstream turned and rolled toward the truck, nosing through the darkness. When it was perhaps twenty feet from the waiting truck it halted. The men moved even more quickly then, bearing the container and its human cargo to the jet. As they did a door on the plane opened. Steps unfolded down to the runway, and a moment later man appeared. He stood at the top of the stairs, watching, then withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one. He stood there for a minute, smok-ing, as the men brought the container to the cargo hold and loaded it inside.
When they were finished the men turned and hurried back to the truck. The Cigarette-Smoking Man dropped his cigarette onto the tarmac and reboarded the aircraft. The steps retracted, the plane swung around and headed for the central runway. Ten minutes later its lights could be seen arcing through the night as it arrowed above the city.
CHAPTER 11
INTENSIVE CARE UNIT
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
WASHINGTON, D.C.
^T think he's coming out…"
JL "He is—he's coming to!"
"Hey, Mulder…"
In his bed, Mulder blinked painfully. It hurt even to think about opening his eyes, so for a long time he didn't; he only lay there listening to the voices above him. Men's voices, vaguely familiar.
"Mulder… ?"
He opened his eyes. Above him, ringed by hospital lights and banks of monitoring equip-ment, three faces were framed by the ceiling. "Oh god…" Mulder moaned.
Langly shook his head, his long hair falling in his face. "What's wrong?" Beside him the diminutive Frohike and Byers, courtly as ever, gazed at the agent in concern.
"Tin Man," Mulder whispered in amaze-ment, staring first at Byers, then Langly. "Scarecrow—"
He raised his head slightly, indicating Frohike. "—Toto." He winced, then sat up, gingerly rubbing his face and frowning at the bandage there. "What am I doing here?"
"You were shot in the head," Byers explained in a low voice. "The bullet broke the flesh on your right brow and glanced off your temporal plate."
Mulder ran a finger over the bandage. "Penetration but not perforation," he said woozily.
Langly nodded. "Three centimeters to the left and we'd all be playing harps."
"They gave you a craniotomy to relieve the pressure from a subdural hematoma," Byers went on. "But you've been unconscious since they brought you in."
"Your guy Ski
Langly broke in, "We got the news and made a trip to your apartment. Found a bug in your phone line—"
To illustrate, Byers dangled a minuscule microphone in front of Mulder's face.
" And one in your hall," Frohike added. He held up a small vial containing a bumblebee.
Mulder stared at it, eyes widening as his memory flooded back. "Scully had a violent reaction to a bee sting—"
"Right," said Byers. "And you called 911. Except that call was intercepted."
Mulder shook his head. "They took her—"
He pushed the covers off, moving shakily as he tried to swing his legs to the ground. As he did so, the door to his room opened a bit. Assistant Director Walter Ski