------------------------------
A New War #22: Waiting
by Lianne Burwell
October 1999
------------------------------

They had finally come to an agreement. Kincaid would allow Krycek go to 
the radar station where Mulder's plane was being monitored as long as 
Krycek agreed to stay in a wheelchair. Dr. Fraiser wasn't too crazy about 
the idea, but was smart enough to recognize a losing battle when she saw 
one. She just warned Krycek not to strain his stitches -- or else -- then 
let him go.

The radar station turned out to be a small room tucked in behind the main 
control room of the Stargate Project. Kincaid noticed that Krycek didn't 
even glance at the gate, so focused was he on what was happening with 
Mulder. At least Krycek had stopped ranting about what he was going to do 
to Mulder when he got his hands on the man. Kincaid definitely did not 
want to be in Mulder's shoes when Krycek got a hold of him. He would have 
been worried about what Krycek might do to the agent if it weren't for 
the obvious worry the man was showing. Krycek had finally gotten close to 
the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world only to have the 
Consortium yank it away from him and he was scared -- not that he would 
ever admit it to anyone.

Hammond was waiting in the room, along with the radar tech and several 
others. Kincaid smiled at the lovely Captain Carter, remembering the 
pleasant evening he'd spent with the young woman, then turned his 
attention to the large radar screen. "So, are you tracking?" he asked.

"For the moment, sir" the tech said, not turning around. "They're heading 
almost due east, at a steady speed. According to the airport, they filed 
a flight plan for Kansas City."

Krycek shook his head. "Doubt it. They wouldn't be stupid enough to let 
us know where they're headed. Besides, I don't know of any Consortium 
bases worth noting in the Kansas City area."

"How can you be so sure of that?" Hammond asked, frowning slightly.

Krycek sighed. "Because I worked for them for a number of years, until I 
figured out what they were *really* up to. That's when I started passing 
information to Mulder. Eventually, they figured out what I was doing and 
I've been working hard to keep a couple steps ahead of them ever since." 
Krycek smiled. "They did a very good job of training me. The few 
assassins who've gotten close haven't survived the experience."

"Oh," Hammond said, looking a little disconcerted. Kincaid wondered if 
this was going to be a problem, but just did a mental shrug. He doubted 
that Krycek cared. Just as long as the man didn't get between him and 
rescuing Mulder. Kincaid had the feeling that anyone who *did* get in the 
way was either going to end up dead or wishing he or she *was* dead.

* * * * *


After the phone call to Mulder, the five prisoners had been separated. 
The rooms they were locked in were featureless cells, down in some sort 
of sub-basement. While it might look like a typical country estate from 
the outside, the basement levels had turned out to house a thoroughly 
professional lab setup. Rather like the 'Cottage' that the Blackwood 
Project had been based in, Paul thought. However, they hadn't had cells 
at the Cottage.

Not that he was really thinking about it right now, though. Harrison was 
in a cell two doors down, though he wasn't sure just *how* he knew that, 
and he didn't like that separation. Paul paced the length of the tiny 
room he was in, unable to rest. The room was only seven feet square, so 
there wasn't much room to pace, and the floor, walls and ceiling were all 
the same unrelieved white, covered in some sort of yielding surface. 
Basically, it was a padded cell, like a cliched psychiatric ward.

Suddenly, the lights went out, leaving the room pitch black. Paul stopped 
in his tracks, looking around. He couldn't see a thing. There wasn't even 
a line of light sneaking around the edge of the door. He shivered 
slightly. This was familiar. Too familiar. Too much like the oblivion 
he'd spent eight years in before they'd found and revived him. He hadn't 
told Harrison, but while he couldn't consciously remember that time, he'd 
been having nightmares about it.

Then the lights came back on, far brighter than they'd been before. They 
cycled through colors in a seemingly random pattern, leaving him 
disoriented. Paul bit back a cry, and squeezed his eyes shut, backing up 
until he reached a wall. He slid down the wall, landing in a seated 
position with his face pressed against his knees. It didn't help. The 
lights were too bright to escape. He prayed that they weren't doing this 
to Harrison. With the enhanced senses that he'd developed during his 
solitary years, this would be worse than a torture.

"Who are you?"

The voice boomed from wherever the speakers were hidden, making Paul cry 
out in pain. The voice was mechanical, sexless, but he could guess who 
was on the other end.

"What do you want?" he called.

"Who are you?"

The lights were flashing brighter and faster, and the voice was louder. 
Paul clapped his hands over his ears.

"Colonel Paul Ironhorse, US Army," he ground out through clenched teeth. 
At the moment, there was no point in not telling them. Besides, it was 
what his training told him to do: when tortured, tell enough truth so 
that they won't recognize the lies when you tell them.

There was a long pause, then the lights faded slightly, and the color 
cycles slowed down. It was still painful, but a little more bearable.

"Colonel Ironhorse died eight years ago," the mechanical voice said. 
"Explain this."

"It wasn't me!"

The lights intensified for a moment, then died down again: a warning. 
"The Mothren cloned Ironhorse. Are you a clone?"

"No!" Paul paused. "No. They cloned me several times, then put me in a 
stasis pod in case they needed me again. It was left behind when they 
left. Harrison found it a week ago." A week. Was that all? It felt like a 
lifetime ago.

There was silence for a minute. Then the lights died down even lower to 
almost normal levels. "Where is that base?"

Paul swallowed. This was going to be tricky. How to give them enough 
without putting Vincent's people in danger?

"New York," he said.

"Where in New York?"

"I'm not sure." Immediately the lights cycled up again and he cried out. 
"I don't *know*!" he cried out, truthfully at least. He didn't know 
exactly *where* in New York it was, just that it was underground. The 
only thing he knew for sure was where the exit from the tunnels was that 
they'd used when they'd left and he'd be damned before he told them where 
*that* was.

* * * * *

Spender turned to the lab tech watching the monitors for Ironhorse's 
cell. "Is he telling the truth?"

The tech frowned at the readings. "Our sensors aren't infallible, but I'd 
say yes. He's probably holding something back, though."

Spender smiled slightly. "Going by his records, I'd be surprised if he 
wasn't."

Ironhorse's records were interesting reading. His skills were 
impressive.  In fact, there was a notation that he'd been suggested for 
recruitment by the Consortium, but a background check had determined that 
he was not likely to be cooperative if he learned of their true plans. 
His file had been tagged for observation and he was carefully kept away 
from any Consortium operations. His abilities were respected enough that 
he wasn't simply eliminated as a danger. His participation in the 
Blackwood Project had proven just how valuable -- and dangerous -- he had 
the potential to be.

And now he'd given them valuable knowledge: there was still at least one 
Mothren base undiscovered by them or their patrons. And if *they* found 
it first, they might find technology that would give them an upper hand 
dealing with the aliens. All they had to do was *find* that base.

"Get our people in New York hunting," he ordered. "And get everything out 
of him that you can to help find that base."

"Sir!"

Another tech was waving him over, and he moved to stand behind the man, 
looking at his monitor. On it, he saw Harrison Blackwood sitting 
perfectly still, staring blankly into the distance.

"What happened?"

"We were trying to question him about why the aliens want him captured so 
badly, and he just... blanked."

Spender frowned. "Anything in his medical files to explain why?" he asked.

"No, but..." The tech hesitated.

"What?" Spender demanded angrily.

"I've seen this reaction to the light and sound show before. At the 
Yucatan facility."

Spender thought about that, then finally understood. "A zone-out?"

"That's what it looks like, and the readings are consistent," the tech 
said, pointing to the monitors showing the man's brain activity.

"Well, well, well," Spender said, stepping back. "So Dr. Blackwood is a 
Sentinel. How very interesting."

And it was very interesting. They now had four Sentinels in their hands, 
and watchers on another five outside. Men and women with enhanced senses 
had the potential to be very valuable to their plans, both for and 
against the aliens. If they could figure out what *made* a Sentinel, they 
might be able to duplicate those abilities in others.

So far, all they'd been able to learn was that the abilities were 
genetic, although the scientists studying had not yet found the gene 
combination that created them, and that a period of intense solitude was 
necessary to activate those abilities. On a whim, he'd locked Krycek in 
the silo with the body-possessing alien and its ship, just to see if the 
young man was one of those who had the potential. He hadn't.

The other thing they'd learned was that a Sentinel without a partner -- a 
Guide, Mr. Sandburg called the partner in his notes -- was unstable, and 
often went insane. Through experimentation with the Sentinels they had 
they'd found that Guides were more common than Sentinels, and that they 
were instinctively drawn to 'bond' with a Sentinel. Once that bond was 
formed, the Sentinel stabilized. However, a Sentinel *separated* from his 
or her Guide quickly destabilized, in a matter of only weeks. As well, 
the bond was permanent. The only way that a Sentinel could 'bond' with a 
new Guide was if the old one was dead. They hadn't experimented to see if 
a Guide could re-bond after the death of their Sentinel since they had 
fewer Sentinels to experiment with. Besides, the Sentinels were the 
valuable ones. Guides were easy to replace.

Considering their behavior earlier, Blackwood obviously *had* a Guide, 
and he could guess who.

"Flood Ironhorse's cell with a knockout gas," he ordered. "Then put him 
in with Blackwood. Let me know what happens."

"Yes, sir."

Spender headed for the elevators, considering this new development. He 
wasn't sure how this would affect their plans, but it was important. He 
was knew that.

He stopped suddenly. Maybe *this* was why the aliens were so determined 
to get their hands on Blackwood. Then he shook his head. Blackwood wasn't 
the only Sentinel in existence, and there was no evidence that the aliens 
had made moves on any of the others. Still, it was a possibility.

* * * * *

"They've landed."

The announcement brought Krycek out of doze he'd fallen into. A glance at 
the clock said that it was about dawn, Colorado time. "Where?" he asked, 
scrubbing his face with his hand, already alert. Hammond and Kincaid 
were starting to move, also having fallen asleep in their seats. The only 
fresh person in the room was the radar man, since he'd replaced the last 
one only an hour earlier.

"Um.. almost directly east of DC. In Delaware."

Krycek cursed softly and slumped back in his wheelchair.

"I take it you know where they are?" Hammond asked

"It could be one of two places. Spender has a country estate in Delaware. 
It even has a small landing field. They could be there. It's close to DC, 
which is where the power is, but isolated enough that no one's going to 
come nosing around. The estate is a near-fortress, in terms of security."

"Have you ever been there?" Kincaid asked, his eyes hooded. Krycek could 
almost hear the wheels turning as the man started making plans.

"Once, and they didn't let me get a good look around. I think Spender 
wanted to cow me. It didn't work. It was a month after that that the 
first attempt was made to dispose of me." Krycek's mouth twisted as he 
remembered the clumsy attempt to blow him up. He still wasn't sure if the 
car bomb was seriously expected to eliminate him, or if it was just 
intended to scare him back into line.

"Anyway," he said, shaking off the memories, "it's well-isolated and well-
guarded. Getting Mulder and the others out of there wouldn't be to be 
easy. Worse would be the other possibility."

"Which is?" Kincaid asked suspiciously.

"The Consortium also has a heavily defended lab in Delaware, near an area 
called Blue Cove. It is *not* a nice place, from what I hear, and I've 
never been there. I say we try the estate first. Are your friends going 
to be willing to help us out?" he asked Kincaid.

The mercenary grinned. "Are you kidding? This is the sort of challenge 
they *live* for. Trust me. Wolfling will have men and weapons ready for 
us when we get there."

Krycek looked at him skeptically. "That fast?"

Kincaid snorted. "Not as fast as you're thinking," he said. "We are going 
*nowhere* until Doctor Fraiser gives her okay. Remember, you're still 
recovering from a gunshot wound."

"Now wait a minute," Krycek said, starting to push himself to his feet. A 
sharp pain shot through his abdomen made him drop back down into the seat.

"See? If you behave, my guess is that it will only take a couple of days. 
Push too hard and it could be a week." Krycek glared at the man, but 
Kincaid just ignored the expression. "And if you don't behave yourself, 
I'll have her keep you sedated for that whole time. Understood?"

Krycek snarled, but he had to admit that the man was right. He was in no 
shape for an assault on an armed compound. "Understood," he said 
grudgingly, resisting the urge to sulk. Assassins and double-, triple-, 
whatever-agents didn't sulk.

"Good. In the meantime, we can start planning. You don't need to move 
much to draw a map of what you *do* know of the estate, or to explain 
what typical Consortium security is like. Between us, I'm sure we can 
have a rough plan ready before we head east."

Krycek nodded, still not happy, but relaxing. His instincts were shouting 
for him to do something *now*, but common sense said that this was what 
he *should* be doing. For now.

"Fine, then," he said. "Let's get started."

* * * * *

Despite his best efforts, Mulder hadn't been able to get a single word 
out of his captors during the long flight. Instead, he'd amused himself 
by timing the flight and trying to figure out all the possible places 
where they could be going. Canada, Cuba, Florida, somewhere over the 
Pacific Ocean. All were possibilities.

But he knew where they were headed. Washington, DC, or someplace nearby. 
Knowing Spender, it was the only possibility that made sense.

The sky was bright around the window shades when Mulder felt the plane 
start to descend. He hadn't been allowed to lift the shades, so he 
couldn't confirm his hypothesis by seeing the landscape below, but the 
timing confirmed that they were headed almost due east.

His guards had never wavered in their diligence, and he had to admire 
their focus. In a way it was almost reassuring. It told him that they 
intended to keep him alive. If they wanted him dead, they would have 
killed him already.

When the plane landed, he followed Mr. Nondescript down the stairs and 
found himself not at any of the expected DC airfields, but on a small 
paved runway in the middle of nowhere. A black limousine was parked at 
the end of the runway, its motor running. Mulder headed for it, followed 
by his guards.

The driver opened one of the doors, and Mulder was summarily shoved into 
shoved him in, and the door was slammed behind him.

"Hello, Agent Mulder."

Mulder pushed off the car floor and dropped into one of the seats. 
Sitting opposite him, smoking one of his ever-present cigarettes was, 

"Spender."

* * * * *

Wolfling hung up the phone with a grin as wolfish as his namesake. He'd 
been waiting for Kincaid to get in touch with him, but he'd been a little 
surprised at the reason. On the other hand, John Kincaid never had boring 
problems.

He opened the kitchen door and called out to the man working on his bike 
there. "Grendel! War counsel. Put out the call."

"Gotcha!" The man wiped off his hands on an oily rag before heading off 
at a leisurely pace.

Wolfling headed back inside and started bringing the beer in from the 
garage. If they were going to plan an assault on a heavily armed estate 
near DC, they were going to need plenty of grease for the mental wheels.

He was already grinning at the thought. This was going to be the most fun 
he'd had in *years*.


TO BE CONTINUED