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A New War #1: Maneuvers
by Lianne Burwell
October 1998
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Deep in the Russian woods stands a small cabin. Once it might have been a 
pleasant vacation home, appropriate for getting away from the strain of 
the life in Moscow under communist rule. Now, though, it was showing the 
signs of years of neglect. Part of the roof had caved in, after one 
winter too many without repairs, and many of the windows were broken. 
Those that were not were covered in grime, making them almost completely 
opaque.

Alex Krycek was used to grime. Sometimes it seemed like it was the only 
constant in his life anymore. He slept in grimy hotels, when he could 
afford to, wore grimy clothes, and he felt like he would never get clean 
again, even if he spent a year in a bathtub.

Poking through the rubble, Alex hunted for the fake floorboard that hid 
the compartment that he'd been told about. His luck was just as lousy as 
usual, though. Of course it *had* to be under the collapsed roof. The 
debris was so unstable that it took him more than an hour to dig down, 
but the hidden compartment was exactly where he'd been told.

He pried up the fake floorboard, shining his flashlight inside, and 
breathed a sigh of relief to find the file folders, covered in what had 
to be at least five years worth of dust. By the dim red light of his 
modified flashlight he opened the top file and scanned the papers inside.

His informant was right. This was big. This was potentially one of the 
most important things he'd found in his search for information about the 
aliens. In slightly more optimistic days, long ago, he might have been 
shocked at how well this had been covered up, but not anymore. Instead, 
his cynicism left him surprised that even this much had survived.

Mulder needed to see this.

Pulling over his battered backpack, Alex shoved the files in, not 
bothering to try keeping them in order. He was pressing his luck already. 
Closing the bag and putting it on his back, Alex started to get up. Then 
he froze.

A twig had snapped. It could have been just an animal, or something 
equally innocuous, but he wasn't going to take any chances with it. He 
turned off the flashlight, and the only light left was from the few beams 
of moonlight coming through broken windows and the non-existent roof. He 
moved to stand next to one of the broken windows and waited.

Paranoia was a wonderful thing, Alex thought to himself. After a few 
minutes, he was sure that there were at least a half-dozen men out there, 
no doubt heavily armed and with orders to shoot to kill. In a way it was 
flattering that they would send so many after him. He edged towards the 
back of the building, where the cabin backed on the woods. Hopefully the 
trees would shield him from view long enough to get away.

As he made his way away from the cabin, he was careful to keep to the 
shadows. Dressed in black, with his face covered by his ski-mask, it 
would be difficult to pick him out. He hoped.

A single shot, followed by a hail of bullets, quickly proved him wrong, 
and he gave up on being subtle. He ran for his life. Behind him he could 
hear shouts. It took a moment for it to sink in that they were shouting 
in English, though. Obviously, these were *not* local troops. That meant 
the Consortium.

Maybe.

Being better at evasive maneuvers than the shmucks behind him, Alex 
quickly lost his pursuers. Once he was sure that he'd evaded them, he 
headed for where he'd hidden his car. Circling in, he found only two 
watchers near it. Sharp blows to the base of their skulls left them 
unconscious, but basically unhurt.

Deciding that speed was more useful than caution, Alex headed for the 
main road. He needed to get out of the country and back to the US as soon 
as possible.

Not surprising, considering the hour, the road was deserted. Alex left 
his headlights off, running dark, and cranked up the speed up as high as 
the little car would allow, ignoring the persistent shudder that resulted.

He had barely gone five miles when he heard the distinctive 'thwooping' 
of a helicopter behind him. As the floodlight lit the road behind him, 
Alex groaned.

This was getting ridiculous.

* * * * *

The fake Ironhorse stood before him, gun held to Debi's head. The child 
was terrified, but trying to put a brave face on.

"Drop your weapons," ordered the stranger with the familiar face.

"Do what he says," Suzanne called out. She dropped her own gun. "Debi, 
look at me. Don't move. Keep your eyes on me." Her voice was low and 
soothing, all her attention focused only on keeping her daughter calm, 
despite her own fear.

"This place is a bomb," said the man, calmly, emotionlessly. "With about 
three minutes left. Just time enough for you to leave. I won't stop you." 
He paused. "But Debi and I, we're staying."

"Please let her go," Suzanne pleaded.

"You won't leave, will you? You'll stay and die, because you won't leave 
one child behind. That's why we'll win." He was sneering at them, now.

"That's why you'll lose," Harrison shot back.

"*You'll* never know, Blackwood."

"You'll die too," Kincaid pointed out, appealing to reason. It was wasted.

"I'm expendable," was all the man said.

Suzanne was nearly in tears. "Please, there must be some part of you that 
is still Ironhorse."

"I *am* Ironhorse," he said angrily, showing real emotion for the first 
time. "There is no other."

"You're wrong." The real Ironhorse was propped up against the doorway. He 
looked like hell, pale and weak. It had been barely an hour since 
Harrison and Kincaid had rescued the man from the alien base, pulling him 
from the cocoon he'd been left in after the Mothren had cloned him. 
Harrison still wasn't sure what the process had done to the man, but 
Ironhorse was fading quickly.

The clone smiled, faintly. "Good work, Brother. Now we can die together. 
There's... symmetry to that. We *are* the same, after all."

"Not the same. But linked..." Ironhorse paused, as though something had 
just occurred to him. "Linked..." He turned, slightly, to stare into 
Harrison's eyes. "It was good working with you." He turned back to the 
clone.

//No! Not this! I don't want to see this again!//

"Debi. Close your eyes." She squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

"Colonel..." Harrison took a single step, worried at the tone in the 
man's voice.

//Please!//

Ironhorse turned slightly, placed the muzzle of his gun under his chin...

//PLEASE!!!//

And pulled the trigger.

* * * * *

Doctor Harrison Blackwood shot up in his bed, a scream forcing its way 
out of his throat and tears burning in his eyes. For a moment he sat 
there panting, his pulse racing. He brushed sweaty curls out of his eyes, 
then put on his glasses so that he could read the old wind-up alarm clock 
sitting on the table next to the bed.

3:10 AM. He sighed. He wasn't going to get any more sleep this night. 
Actually, he rarely slept *this* late. It had been seven years since he'd 
slept through the night without being wakened by the dreams that left him 
screaming.

Seven years, since the night that Colonel Paul Ironhorse had died, a 
victim of the war with the Mothren, along with Norton Drake. It had been 
six years since the alien threat had ended and the war had ended, but he 
still couldn't escape the past.

He got out of the bed, still naked, and padded over to the window. He 
looked out at the moonlit scene. The Virginia forest shimmered silver, 
under the star-filled sky. The cabin had been an inheritance, long ago, 
which he had told no one about, not even his friends in the Blackwood 
Project. When the secret war had finally ended, and the chaos had faded, 
he had retired to the cabin, solitude and his memories.

Suzanne and Debi still stayed in contact. Kincaid even e-mailed him from 
time to time, from whatever part of the world he was in. He had trouble 
caring. The chaos of the final invasion had been almost completely 
forgotten, like the previous invasions. No one really remembered it, 
except for the four of them. He didn't care. He didn't care about much 
of anything anymore.

All he could do was continue to exist, and he only did that because he 
knew how angry Paul would be if he killed himself, or even just allowed 
himself to die. So he continued.

And so did the nightmares.

* * * * *

Fox Mulder was having a bad day. He'd 'found' information about an alien 
spacecraft being kept at an airforce base. He and his partner, Dana 
Scully, had snuck onto the base, looking for evidence. By now, they knew 
better than to try to get permission from anyone associated with the 
base, or even the military. Permission was usually refused, and the 
evidence always disappeared.

They'd gotten through the barbed-wire fence without trouble, although 
Scully had ripped her pantyhose and Mulder had a ground-in dirt stain on 
the knee of his dress pants that would probably never come out.

But someone must have known they were coming. The MPs were waiting for 
them, when they reached the hangar. In the face of a dozen soldiers with 
rifles, Scully had immediately raised her hands with a rueful expression 
that seemed to say that she knew that she shouldn't have gone along with 
one of Mulder's plans. Mulder tried to argue, but a rifle-but to the side 
of his head had convinced him that there wasn't any point. Besides, with 
the MPs waiting, any evidence would be long gone.

As usual, they didn't even try to detain or question the two agents. No, 
they just escorted the pair back to their car, and waited until the 
agents drove away. The only evidence that they'd even gotten in was the 
bruise to Mulder's temple.

It was just too damn humiliating.

"Mulder."

"Hmmm?" He turned his head, wincing slightly at the movement, so he could 
watch both Scully and the road. Scully was holding a piece of paper that 
he didn't recognize, along with the first aid kit. "What's that?"

"It was in the first aid kit. It wasn't there last time I looked." That 
meant that it was recent, since it had only been yesterday, when Mulder 
had scraped his knuckles in a fight with a goon from whom they'd gotten 
the information about this base. *Some* people who kept first aid kits in 
their cars never even opened them. Mulder's got used on a regular basis.

"Well, what does it say?"

"'Important info. Meet me, the usual place. K."

Scully was glaring at the paper, as though it were the man. It was 
strange. In many ways, Mulder had more reasons to hate Alex Krycek. The 
man had betrayed him, murdered his father, helped to keep him under 
the Consortium's control. But he had gotten over that. He had accepted 
that they needed to work together to beat the conspiracy. In a strange 
way, he'd come to respect the young man. Scully, on the other hand, still 
hated his guts. But she worked with him, when she had to. 

Mulder sighed, and pointed the car towards D.C.

* * * * *

It was nearly eight in the morning by the time they got back to 
Washington. Luckily it was Saturday, so they didn't have to go in to 
work. Mulder really wanted to go home and have a long shower and a longer 
nap, but that would have to wait until he'd heard whatever information 
Krycek thought was so important. He offered to drop Scully off at her 
apartment, but she refused.

The usual place was an apartment that the Lone Gunman had arranged for. 
The Consortium may or may not know about it, Mulder knew, but it was the 
chance they took. But thanks to the Lone Gunman, the connection was as 
protected as it *could* be. They regularly scanned the rooms for bugs and 
cameras for Mulder.

Mulder tapped lightly on the door before slipping his key into the lock. 
When he opened the door, it was to stare down the muzzle of a handgun. 
The gun was quickly gone, once Krycek had confirmed who it was. The 
younger man stood back to let them enter. He was dressed, wearing his 
usual denim and leather, but his hair still sparkled with beads of water, 
and one sleeve hung empty, indicating that he had been showering recently.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, brushing a fingertip across 
the bruise on Mulder's forehead, wincing with him. Krycek did things like 
that, from time to time, and it confused Mulder. He was never quite sure 
what went through the man's mind. Then again, he probably didn't *want* 
to know.

"A run-in with some MPs. What's up?"

"Found something that might interest you," Krycek said, pulling files out 
of knapsack that looked like it had gone through several wars, and 
spreading them across the kitchen table.

Mulder carefully kept between his two partners - one current, one 
former - as they bent over the files, even thought they'd done nothing 
more than glare at each other. It was weird, but he often had the urge to 
protect Krycek from Scully, even though he'd beaten up the man on a 
regular basis, himself.

Mulder sneezed at the dust rising from the pages, as Krycek started 
flipping open the folders.

"I got a hold of the records of a Soviet physicist named Katya Rodan," 
Krycek said, giving the last name a French pronunciation. "Ten years ago, 
she was part of a delegation that came to the States for disarmament 
talks. During that time, she came into contact with an old colleague, 
Doctor Harrison Blackwood, who was going to help her defect. In the end, 
she decided not to. The reason, according to her personal papers, was 
that Blackwood told her about an attempt by aliens to take control of 
Earth. She decided to return to the Soviet Union to help organize Soviet 
scientists in helping to fight back."

Scully looked dubious, but Mulder just waited.

"About a year later, there was a meeting, involving representatives from 
various countries, to discuss this alien threat. I've only found shreds 
of information. Most of the records have... vanished in the meantime. 
According to what I *have* found, the meeting was organized by Blackwood, 
along with the American government. Apparently, Blackwood's group was 
working with a General Wilson. About the time that things fell apart a 
couple years later, General Wilson... disappeared, along with all his 
records. Suddenly, there was no sign that the government had even *heard* 
of Blackwood or his project."

"Cover up?" Mulder asked, rhetorically.

"What do *you* think?" Krycek asked, only slightly sarcastic. "Anyway, 
Doctor Rodan's personal papers name the members of Blackwood's group. I'm 
still not sure how they got missed after she was killed," he added, half 
talking to himself.

"Killed?" Scully said, speaking up for the first time since they'd 
arrived.

"Killed. A car crash in a deserted area just north of Volgograd. There 
was no reason for her to have been there and there was no investigation. 
That happened about the same time that General Wilson disappeared. Within 
forty-eight hours of that, her home was destroyed in a fire, and her lab 
was ransacked. All of her papers were destroyed or stolen. Luckily, she 
kept backup copies of her personal papers, leaving them with someone she 
trusted. These are those copies. Also, everyone else that I've been able 
to identify as being at that conference has also died, all under 
mysterious circumstances. Like the doctor, their homes and workplaces 
were all either ransacked or destroyed at the same time."

"Sounds pretty suspicious to me," Mulder said, eyes glued to the papers. 
"Doctor Harrison Blackwood, astronomer. Norton Drake, computer expert. 
Doctor Suzanne McCullough, microbiologist. Colonel Paul Ironhorse, 
military liaison."

"I've done some digging. Both Drake and Ironhorse disappeared seven years 
ago, and are presumed dead. Doctor McCullough taught at the University of 
South Florida until her disappearance three years ago. Doctor Blackwood 
became a recluse. No record of where he is now. "

"And it sounds like *he's* the one we need to contact. But it doesn't 
seem like anyone knows where he is."

"There is one other possibility. Doctor McCullough's teenaged daughter 
was with the group when Doctor Rodan was at the group's residence. 
Government owned, by the way. It was destroyed in a massive explosion 
about the time that everyone involved started to disappear. According to 
her, the daughter's name was Debi. I checked and found out that Debi 
McCullough graduated from Quantico last year. She's assigned to the FBI 
office in Washington."

Both Mulder and Scully looked surprised at that.

"Well, that's interesting," Mulder finally said. "I think that we should 
have a talk with Agent McCullough."

TO BE CONTINUED