By Tim Scott
TScott2533@aol.com
 

Website:     http://www.geocities.com/timmscott.geo/
Rating:      R
Archive:     Yes to Gossamer, all others must ask permission
Spoilers:    We don't need no stinkin' spoilers!
Date: 1999/09/23
Summary:     SR-819 post episode story

Disclaimer:  The real Walter Skinner died in Vietnam.  He was
             replaced by a clone who...  Ooops, sorry.  Channeled
             Oliver Stone for a minute there.  But seriously,
             folks... I don't own 'em.  If I did I'd be spending
             my days on a Hawaiian beach with a gorgeous babe on
             each arm, and my nights just *rolling* in all that
             money and laughing like a hyena.

Notes:       My thanks to Jasmin (and her dad!) for their help
             with the  Vietnamese language.  Also those folks who
             were kind enough to email me with research assistance
             on topics relating to DC, where I've never been.  And
             to Khyber, PD and Martha Little for beta-reading
             above and beyond the call.  I've tried to keep the
             Vietnam war jargon to a minimum, but a "Lurp" was an
             LRRP, or Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol.  See "bad-
             ass mofo" in your dictionary.
 
 
 

"The first casualty when war comes is the truth."
                  -- US Senator Hiram Johnson
 
 
 

02/05/99
11:03pm
 

It's funny, the things you take for granted.

Sitting here in my empty apartment, staring out my balcony window at stars laid
out like diamonds on a jeweler's black velvet tray, I decide that I want
another belt of this excellent tequila.  So I reach out, pick up the bottle and
bring it to my lips, just as though it weren't a fucking miracle that my arms
are still attached.

Thank God for Dana Scully.

Of course, Dr. Scully would not approve of my crawling down the neck of a
bottle so soon after... whatever the hell she ends up calling what happened to
me.  Thoughts of Scully naturally lead to thoughts of Mulder.  I'm sure Mulder
will have some sort of alien-based explanation for the whole thing.

When I was a boy the old-timers used to call incredible advances in technology
"Buck Rogers" stuff, after a futuristic fictional character.  These days it's
"Star Trek" that points the way.  The more things change, the more they remain
the same.

The liquor slides like molten lava down my throat.  I can feel brain cells
throwing down their neurons and surrendering en masse.

When I got out of the hospital (for the second time in two days, goddammit) I
spent an hour pacing, unable to come to any kind of understanding of what had
happened to me.  What I did remember was the pain.  Unbelievable,
bone-breaking, soul-searing pain.  It took a while to sort out the conflicting
impressions, but I've got a pretty good idea of who got me.  If I'm right...
well.

I don't believe in coddling myself, as a general rule, but I'm taking one night
to get falling-down drunk.  Maybe an orgy of self-pity, safely hidden from
prying eyes, will deliver me from my demons.  Maybe if I drink enough I can
avoid thinking about what a coward I am.

I wasn't always.
 
 
 

At age nineteen I'd survived being raised on a west Texas farm, Marine boot
camp at Parris Island and my first six months in-country.  I was fucking
immortal, as all young men are.  I was at the peak of my physical condition and
sudden death with either hand, just like the rest of my platoon.

I don't care what anybody says, you haven't lived until you've found yourself
monumentally stoned on a summer night in the jungle.  Surrounded by the smells
of life and death, rotting vegetation and the sweetest-smelling flowers on
God's green earth, even the rain -- hell, even the wind on my bare chest -- was
a transcendental experience.  Of course, never knowing when a horrible, grisly
death would claim me added a certain tang to the mix, too.

Fuck Robert Duvall and his napalm, too -- just waking up in the morning felt
like victory.

That was where I learned what it's like to be part of something.  We watched
each others' backs in a seamless texture of paranoia.  The city boys who'd
never seen anything but concrete streets were paired with country boys who'd
grown up hunting deer and ducks, and the tables were turned when we hit Saigon
or some other urban ecology that had its own brands of predator.  Then it was
back to the jungle again.  If it moves, kill it and worry about what lies to
tell HQ when you get back to camp.  That's how you stay alive.  That, and
growing eyes in a circle around your head.

You learn which of the constant rustling sounds herald death in one of its
myriad forms.  You learn not to scream when a snake crawls over you in your
sleep because that would give away the unit's position.  You learn to keep
moving, terrified or not, until your body can no longer manufacture enough
adrenalin to maintain that level of fear.   You come out on the other side of
fear into a place where, although things still matter, they are transformed in
untranslatable ways.

Until that day at Vinh My, when everybody's luck ran out at once.  Well, except
for mine.  I got the million dollar wound and a ticket stateside, and all it
cost me was my life.

What a deal.
 
 
 

Blending back into the civilian population stateside was harder than learning
to move silently through the jungle.  Daddy met me at the airport and we stood
there for a moment, just looking at each other.  I wanted to scream at him,
"Why didn't you warn me?" but I couldn't, not really.  Even if I'd been of a
mind to listen -- an eighteen year old boy?  get real -- there's just no way to
tell someone what war is like.  Apart from the epic waste and stupidity of it
all there's the stark insanity of it.  Over and above the usual stupid shit
that all servicemen learn to deal with, things happen as a matter of course in
wartime that cannot be understood, merely accepted.

So we stood, and we looked, and we breathed; and after a moment we hugged, each
just wanting to be sure the other was really real.  Then daddy held me at arm's
length for a moment, looked me in the eye and said, "Now you've 'seen the
elephant'."

He gave me that short, sharp nod of his, and I gave it back, and neither of us
ever mentioned it again.  I took some time off to travel and think before using
my GI benefits for that college education that daddy had wanted for me all
along.
 
 
 

I hoist myself off the couch and stagger to the balcony, hoping the fresh air
will clear my head.  It doesn't, not really, but the cold does wake me up a
bit.  I shake my head.  Haven't thought about the war in a very long time.
It's an odd sight, DC on a clear night.  The stars above are outnumbered by the
many-colored lights I can see from the 17th floor.

In a blazing, but short, moment of clarity I realize I don't want to do this
any more.  Drink alone, that is.  Bad idea, drinking alone.  Leads to
alcoholism, they say.  Can't think of anyone to drink with, though.  Can't call
any of my old beer buddies, not that I ever had that many to begin with, but
since I made AD we've drifted apart.  My mind automatically veers away from
thinking too much about my solitary life.  Can't very well bitch about it since
it's my own damn fault.

Still.

I miss Sharon.  There's just no getting around it.  I miss having friends but
most of all I miss... her.  Even now, after all this time, I still find myself
turning to say something to her -- but she's not there.  And she never will be
again.  As I go back inside, closing the big glass door behind me, I tell
myself it's the wind that's making me shiver this way.

I need to get out of here.
 
 
 

In a bar downtown, over my third shooter, I look around and notice that I'm
still drinking alone.  I just happen to be doing it in a crowded room, is all.
I need to distract myself, fast, or next I'll start thinking about how most of
my days are spent alone, too.  Shit.

Amazingly enough, I get lucky for a change.  The inspiration comes like a light
bulb over my head.  I've been meaning to do this anyway, what better time?  If
it goes bad I can always blame it on the booze.  I congratulate myself on my
tactical sense and make the call from a pay phone in back.

I nearly hang up in disgust when a computer-disguised voice says, "Lone
Gunmen."  I *hate* those fucking things.  I open my mouth and then stand there
like an idiot when I realize I don't know his name.  The rampant paranoia
implied by the fact that they choose to answer their phone this way must be
contagious.  It's the only reason I can think of for what I do next.

The intervening decades disappear as the words come to me:  "Lam on noi voi
nguoi dan ong thap nho la toi muon noi chyen voi ong ay."  Let 'em chew on
that.

There's a short pause before a new voice comes on the line.  A human voice this
time.  "Hen gap o Wall mot tieng dong ho sau."

I agree.  As an afterthought I say, "BYOB."  I'm almost sure I hear a soft
chuckle before the line goes dead.
 
 
 

It's impressive even at night, the Wall is.  Black granite in a V shape, with a
statue of three grunts facing it.  There's a shocked look on their faces, like
they've seen their own names.  Two of them are white and one black.  I shake my
head, as always.  Leave it to the government to get *something* wrong.  The
ratio was the other way around, if I remember right.

The walls rise steeply as I descend the slope toward it, until they loom over
my head.  Almost feels like walking into my own tomb.  The guides are gone,
they only stay until midnight, so there will be privacy.  A siren screams its
way over the Arlington Memorial Bridge, reminding me that the world does not
revolve around my problems.

My father's voice comes to me then: <The Lord helps those who help themselves.>
 I'm working on it, Daddy.  I shake my head as my feet automatically take me to
the usual spot.  It's too dark to read the names, but that's okay.  I haven't
forgotten them.  There are so very many names...

The letters are only half an inch high but they go on for nearly  500 feet.  On
both sides of the thing, in chronological order of the day they gave their
lives so the rest of us could have instant coffee and MTV and all the other
benefits of "civilization".  The old bitterness rises up and tonight I make no
attempt to quell it.  I'm tired of a lot of things tonight.  Pretending is one
of them.
 
The National Park Service has a warehouse now, over in Lantham, just to house
the offerings that people leave when they come here.  Letters, flowers, medals,
uniforms...   All from survivors, or from loved ones of those who didn't
survive.  Not a damn thing from the government, of course.  The memorial itself
wasn't built until some vets made it to Congress and twisted arms.  Typical.

The ugly little fellow rounds a corner to my right, outlined for a moment
against the faint lights from the Lincoln Memorial to the west.  He stops when
he sees me and nods to himself before coming over to join me on my bench.  We
share a moment of silence before he digs a bottle of Wild Turkey out of his
capacious vest.  I produce my own and we clink the bottles together lightly and
each take a slug.

He speaks first.  "So now I'm an 'old gentleman', am I?  That was a hell of a
thing to say."

I shrug.  "Well, you never told me your name.  Be glad I could remember enough
of the language to recognize where you wanted to meet."

He nods and turns to face the Memorial.  "It was better when it was just the
Wall, before the politicians made 'em add the statues."  What can I say?  He's
right.

I can't take the suspense any more, I have to know if I guessed correctly, so I
turn to him and say, "Non Gratum Anus Rodentum."

His jaw drops.  When he can speak he says, "How the hell did you know?"

"I didn't until now."

He looks disgusted.  "Well, fuck me."
 

~~~

"I can't believe I fell for that.  Oldest fucking trick in the book.  Shit."
He shakes his head mournfully.

"What does it mean, anyway?"

"It's garbage Latin for 'not worth a rat's ass.'"

I suppress the victorious laugh that wants to bubble out, manage to hold it
down to a chuckle.  Nice to be right about something for a change.  He really
was a Tunnel Rat.  Then I shake my head.  No time for that now, and I don't
want to offend him.

So.

I stand and stroll over to the Wall, rubbing my fingers lightly over the names
engraved on it.  I turn to face him.  He sees my expression and rises to join
me.  At first I'm surprised that he sees so well in the dark, but I guess you
never lose some skills.  Together we pace and sip and he waits for me to say
what's on my mind.

"I was raised to 'yessir' my daddy, stand up when a lady entered the room and
go to church every Sunday.  Vietnam was a big change for me.  When I came back
I remembered Saigon, the insanity of it, the way you could buy and sell
anything -- anything at all -- and I decided I was going to make sure that that
never happened back here at home.  So I went to college and tried to learn to
sleep in a bed again instead of jungle mud.  Enjoyed clean clothes and hot
water whenever I wanted it.  Worked at losing my Texas accent, got my degree
and joined the Bureau."

The little man nods when I glance his way.  He's listening.  Okay.  I sigh and
keep going.

"Mulder wasn't the first blue-flamer in the Bureau.  I worked like a dog,
seventy-hour weeks, when they sent me to the L. A. office.  Organized crime.
Got all my promotions ahead of schedule, took every transfer they gave me
without a word of complaint.  Went where they sent me, did as I was told.
Finally a few years ago I made A. D., what I'd been aiming at all along."

I turn to face him fully.  "You remember what it was like?  Out there at the
sharp end, no one to help you, HQ getting everything wrong?  One FUBAR after
another, air strikes called in on the wrong positions, all that shit?"

My eyes must be dark-adjusted too, I can see his squint of silent rage as he
remembers.  We both nod and I continue.

"I remembered how there were always maybe five guys out of a hundred who did
their job right first time, every time.  And, if we were really lucky, one of
them would be in Forward Air Support or the Quartermaster department, someplace
that did some good.  That's what I wanted.  I never wanted to be top dog.  The
Director is a political appointee, he comes and goes.  His job is to be high
profile so the President will have someone satisfying to fire if the shit
splashes high enough."

The ugly man's smile is as thin as a boning knife.  He nods again.

"The Deputy Directors spend their time playing politics.  They can have it,
better them than me.  The A. D.s, we're the ones who get the job done.  That's
where I wanted to be, the right guy in the right place at the right time, so
the agents in the street -- out there on the sharp end -- get what they need.
Right now Cassidy is the top dog, and that's okay with me.  She earned it, and
I learn a thing or two from her every now and then.  And when she steps down,
I'll be the one in the Hot Seat."

Realization begins to dawn in the small man's eyes.  We reach the end of the
Wall, turn and begin pacing down the other side.  It's his turn and he knows
it.

"I went in-country in mid-December of '65, just in time to get dragged into
Westmoreland's Operation Crimp.  They didn't know shit about what kind of war
they were in yet.  They thought, you know, it's the Orient... what worked
against the Japs in the Pacific theater and the Gooks in Korea should work
again.  Crimp taught them different."

He sips and sighs.  "January 7, 1966 the choppers started bringing men into Cu
Chi province.  They knew Charlie was there but damned if they could find him.
Took heavy sniper fire for three days, couldn't find the damn shooters."  He
casts a sidelone glance at me.  "Know how they found the first spider hole?"

I shake my head.

"A sergeant sat down to relax for a second, jumped right back up again.  He
thought he'd been bitten by a snake or scorpion.  It turned out to be a nail
sticking up from a trap door.  That's how they found the tunnel complex."

His eyes are distant again.  "It went on for miles.  Miles!  We kept finding
food caches, enough for a fucking regiment.  And most of our troops were just
too damn big to fit down in the tunnels.  Some of the entrances were *inside
the HQ perimeter*, for God's sake!  So the call went out for little guys."

My mouth goes dry just thinking about it.

He licks his lips, his voice hoarse.  I'm fairly sure he's never told this
story to anyone.  We usually don't.

"They gave me a pistol, a flashlight, a compass, a gas mask & gas grenade and a
telephone attached to a whole lot of commo wire to drag along me so I could
call back to tell the guy at the tunnel mouth what was going on.  There was no
ventilation down there, some guys suffocated.  Booby traps, snakes, dead
bodies...  And the occasional live one."

He looks up at me.  "I was with the Big Red One.  First Division, Third
Brigade, Third Battalion.  I was supposed to be a rear-area electronics
specialist but I was the right size, so..."  He takes a deep breath and lets it
out slowly.  "I went down thirty-six times.  I held the record."

I nod, giving him something to focus on, a way back from the memories.
Eventually his voice strengthens.

"When I came back stateside I couldn't go home.  I went to Canada, did the
whole psycho vet routine.  Lived in the outback up there for two years.
There's still a lot of empty country in the Great White North.  Saw maybe five
people the whole time."

He inhales deeply again and then exhales sharply.  Now he looks anything but
harmless, like just-laid razor wire, sharp and aching to cut somebody.  I
remember things my DI told me about the Rats, how even the Lurps and the Green
Berets would step aside for them, and keep my hands empty and visible at all
times.

"Mulder doesn't have a clue about you, does he?"

The small man snorts.  "It's not like he has the background to recognize it.
Cut the kid some slack."

I nod and wait for him to continue.  He eyes me, realizes I won't give him any
excuses, sighs and starts walking again.  I follow and listen some more.

"So eventually I came back over the border.  Work was scarce.  In the regular
world, anyway.  The CIA can't work domestically, it's against their charter,
but they do hire the odd contractor from time to time when they want to cut the
Bureau or NSA out of the loop.  I made out.  But I got tired of the whole thing
after a few years.  Arranged my own 'death' and went to Baltimore, figured I'd
try the American Dream for myself, be an entrepreneur."

He chuckles.  "I was still perfecting my new identity, then.  The little guy
who tries to act tough.  That's when I met the guys.  And Mulder."

Bet there's a story there.  I ignore it, though, reminding myself to keep to
the topic at hand.  I ask the obvious question, the one I've wondered about
since he admitted what he was.  "Why *that* persona?"

He glances at me sidelong, decides to humor me.  "Camouflage, as you well know.
 When the shit begins to fly -- as we both know it will -- the next best thing
to being invisible will be to have them underestimate me.  It might buy a
second or two when I need it badly."

He stops walking, turns to face me.  The introductory feeling-out portion of
the evening would seem to be over.  I wonder briefly, as an intellectual
exercise, where his weapons are and who would be faster.  Then I put it aside.
For one thing, that's not what I'm here for.  For another -- I'd rather not
find out the hard way that I underestimated him.

I gesture to my left and head off in that direction.  I hear his footsteps
behind me as we head for my car.  It's a short trip, just up 21st and then left
on Virginia Avenue, to the Watergate Hotel complex.
 
 
 

It's warm in the hotel and we're just two more anonymous guests riding the
elevators up and down, getting off on random floors and strolling the miles of
expensively carpeted hallways as we talk.  Not even the Consortium, or whatever
the hell they call themselves this week, can bug every place.

The little man started to tell me his name on the way over but I stopped him.
Conditions being what they are, we're both better off if I don't know.
Besides, he wouldn't give me his real name anyway.

Unable to put it off any longer, I tell him what happened to me.  Krycek, the
nanites in my bloodstream, how Mulder and Scully saved my ass.  And how Krycek
will be along pretty soon to claim the pound of flesh nearest my heart.

His eyes go a bit wide but he says nothing.  I guess, working with my two rogue
agents, he's seen enough to not disbelieve me right away.  We walk for awhile
as he mulls all this over.  Two hallways and another elevator ride later, he
speaks.

"What do you want from me?"

I close my eyes briefly.  He hasn't dismissed me outright and he hasn't walked
away.  Thanks, God.  When I look over at him again  his face is still guarded.
He hasn't agreed to anything yet.  Fair enough.

"I figure you guys are Mulder and Scully's pocket miracle workers.  I need some
miracles and I'm willing to pay."

He cocks his head and looks interested.  I smile inside, knowing I've hooked
him.  Got you by the pride, old man.  Can't turn down a challenge, can you?

"Mission objectives?"

Ah, a man of few words.  I like that.  "Krycek uses one of those little
hand-held computer gadgets to control whatever this stuff is.  Like twisting
the volume control on your stereo, he turns the pain up and down as he
pleases."

My companion pales, considering this.  I nod at him.  "I refuse to be at the
mercy of every garage-door opener and TV remote control in the country.  I want
these things turned off, or better yet, removed from my body.  Failing that, I
want some kind of defense against them."

The little man nods.  "Anything else?"

I can feel my teeth grinding together.  "Yeah.  I want Krycek.  I want to know
where he lives, where he goes, everything you can get on him.  While you're at
it, I want the same thing on his bosses.  He may have done the job but they
gave the orders.  I want 'em all."

He sneers at me.  "You don't think we've been trying to do that all along?  Not
the bio-weapon thing, but the rest of it.  You think that, just because it's
you asking, we'll suddenly find what's eluded us for ten years now?"

I turn and head for the elevators again.  He trails behind me.  I punch the
button for the roof.  His eyebrows ride up but he says nothing.  Gravel
crunches under our feet as we exit the elevator and head for the southeast
corner.  The one with the view of Arlington National Cemetery.  Arlington --
the Garden of Stones.  It takes me a minute to get my voice under control.

"I was in LA in '71.  My partner, Ted Ames, and I learned that the biggest
heroin shipment in history -- up to that time -- was coming in to San Pedro.
Twenty-five million bucks worth of brown powder.  We got the time, the place,
the buyers, everything -- all the necessary intel.  This was in my 'wild man'
days.  I wanted to run a solo op, get 'em ourselves, but Ted was a company man.
 He insisted we go by The Book."

I turn to my companion.  He's leaning on a huge metal box, out of the wind, and
frowning in concentration as he listens.  I resume  staring at Arlington.

"Our boss told his boss, who told his boss.  Somewhere along the line somebody
decided we needed to make nice with the locals, so LAPD got involved.  And the
Harbor Patrol.  And Customs.  This was before DEA got chartered, otherwise
they'd have been in on it too.  I was sure someone would ask the Boy Scouts to
man the perimeter.  Why not?  Everyone else seemed to know about it..."

I sigh and glare at the night.  Nearly thirty years ago and it can still piss
me off.

"It became the biggest inter-departmental clusterfuck you ever saw in your
life.  Nobody trusted anybody else to do their jobs, all the agencies involved
were keeping secrets...  We didn't even use the same *radio frequencies*, for
God's sake!  With that many people involved... well, let's just say word leaked
out.  We never did find out exactly who blew it."

I sigh, remembering Ted.  Ted Ames, who taught me that working smart was at
least as important as working hard.  Who showed me the fastest ways to get a
302 approved.  Who kept my white ass out of trouble until I learned the ropes.
Who died just out of my reach as the crossfire pinned me behind a crate.

"Without going into too much detail, let's just say that nineteen law
enforcement officers died that night.  My partner among them.  After the fifth
cop got hit, well... things got a little confused.  It was like payday in
Saigon."

The ugly little man grins briefly at the well-remembered image before saying,
"Sorry about your partner, man.  What happened then?"

I shake my head.  "Well, there were no suspects to question since they all died
resisting arrest.  That much powder couldn't just disappear, much as LA
Narcotics would have liked to try...  This was before the seizure laws were
enacted, you know.  So there was a regrettable fire.  Nobody ever found the
money, either."

The little man straightens from his comfortable slouch against a huge air
conditioning unit.  "You didn't."

I take my glasses off, tug a shirt-tail out and wipe them.  "Ted left a
pregnant wife and a two year old daughter behind him.  He was nowhere near his
pension.  What choice did I have?  I set them up right and sat on the rest.
Clara still thinks it was an inheritance from a relative of Ted's.  We exchange
cards from time to time.  Maggie just finished her post-doctoral work at
Stanford and Pete is halfway to his Master's."

I turn to face him.  "The rest is yours if you do this for me.  This, and one
other thing."

The homely little man is still trying to process it.  He manages an inquisitive
look but that's the best he can do.  I force my voice to be calm and clear, as
I have on so many occasions.

"Krycek owns me now.  Whatever he says to do I will do.  Call me a coward, but
I can't face pain like that again.  I just can't.  So I will probably be forced
to lie to Mulder and Scully, maybe even worse.  I don't want to have contact
with you on a regular basis.  I don't want to hear from you again until you
have what I hired you for."

I dig out my key ring, slip one key off and hand it to him.  "This will get you
into a long-term storage unit in Falls Church.  The money is there, along with
a few odds and ends I've collected over the years.  Take it all.  It's yours
now."

He continues to gape at me as he accepts them.  I can't meet his eyes.

"If I fall before I achieve my objectives, I want your word that you will tell
agents Scully and Mulder what you've learned here tonight.  And tell them...
tell them I wish I had done it all differently."

He closes his mouth at this, recognizing the sound of a man who's decided to
play rear guard.  I can see in his eyes he'd like to say something more, but
there's nothing else to be said, is there?  So we nod to each other -- a short,
sharp nod -- and shake hands once before he straightens, does an about-face and
marches back to the elevator.

A great load has been lifted from my mind.  I turn to face the Garden again.
<Soon.  Soon I will be in good company again.>
 
 
 

The End
 
 

"War is hell."  --  William T. Sherman

"War is the extension of politics by other means."  --  Clausewitz

"Laws are inoperative in war."  --  Cicero

"Peace is the ideal we deduce from the fact that there have been intervals
between wars."  -- Jerry Pournelle
Th-th-th-th-that's all, folks!