Countdown to Looking Glass (NCIS/DC Universe crossover)

[Brky2020]

Chapter 41

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

11:45 a.m. EDT

—we know little about what’s going on in Washington other than what’s already been reported. The Washington Navy Yard was attacked two hours ago. The entrance to the facility was destroyed by a bomb, and CNN has multiple-sourced reports of ‘massive’ gunfire within and near the facility.

At this hour, Anderson, the facility has been secured according to the same, single source you and I have: the White House. The District is still under martial law, in effect, as civilians have been ordered to shelter in place at their places of work, or their homes, or-

-Excuse me, Jim. I need to break in with a couple of news items we’ve just learned about. The first is a car bomb has exploded outside the New York Stock Exchange, where trading had been suspended right after the Navy Yard attack, before resuming at 10:10 a.m. Eastern. This happened literally seconds ago…we can’t contact Alison, who normally would be covering the day’s trading for us. The second item concerns some sort of attempted attack on Andersen Air Force Base in Guam about 15 minutes ago.—



—footage from NBC affiliate KUAM, as you see, shows a massive fire at one of the entrances to Andersen Air Force Base, which is an important staging ground for Allied forces in any potential conflict—



—we can see large plumes of smoke coming from the area of the Stock Exchange all the way here at ZNN’s offices here in Manhattan—



—(a reporter from WABC-TV in New York is speaking with a woman in her late twenties who’s slightly shaking despite it being 82 degrees and humid in the area. They’re standing outside a Starbucks in Lower Manhattan)

(Reporter) Ma’am, can you tell me what you heard and saw?

(Woman) I was walking to, uh, to work, I was in Duane Reade filling a prescription when I heard this ‘BOOM’ (she spreads her hands wide) and everything froze for I don’t know how long. I was here on 9-11. I saw the second plane hit the tower. So next thing I know I’m close to the checkout register near the entrance, and I see one of the windows has this giant crack on it. I hear noise outside, me and a few other people walk out and see people running and I hear cop and fire sirens and see haze on Broadway, on the other side of Exchange-

(Reporter) You were at a Duane Reade on Broadway just north of Morris?

(Woman) Yeah. Anyway, I look up and I start to see smoke above the buildings across the street, and this guy comes out of nowhere, he’s wearing a security guard uniform, and yells at the crowd that they blew up the Stock Exchange and we need to get out of here now. So everybody starts running, or going as fast as they can, we all start running south away from the explosion. I ran, I don’t know, five blocks before I ran out of breath. I realize I’m in front of Battery Park, and see police telling people to get inside. That’s all they said, ‘get inside’, so I walk fast to a Starbucks nearby, and I go in and it’s packed and people are saying the Russians bombed the Stock Exchange.

(Reporter) And you’ve been here since.

(Woman) Uh-huh. I live in the Bronx and they’re saying the trains are shut down and you can’t walk anywhere on the island?

(The Reporter realizes she’s asking him a question, and puts his finger on his earpiece to make sure he can hear the anchors at the WABC studios) That’s news to me.—



Washington

Navy Yard, NCIS headquarters

As Gibbs walked off walked off the elevator onto the floor where he and his team worked each day, everything appeared to be normal.

The clocks along the left and back walls were undisturbed, as were the portraits of the NCIS most wanted criminals on the left wall. To his right, the hallway leading to his team’s bullpen, the stairs and the head was empty, undisturbed by debris. Other than the floor being almost completely empty, it seemed undisturbed by the chaos caused by the attackers who detonated a bomb at the Navy Yard’s main entrance and began shooting towards the complex at anything in sight.

The six Marines with him weren’t the only persons authorized to be on the floor at the moment. Procedure in case of an attack on the Navy Yard required the Marine contingent on site to secure the buildings before NCIS personnel were allowed to return to their work stations. Two other Marines were already there, near the back elevator, and four of their comrades would arrive in short order. The Marines, plus Gibbs, would proceed to sweep the floor for insurgents and other unauthorized persons and unwanted surprises.

Everyone else — including Gibbs’s four agents, and all of McCallister’s ‘suits’ — were ordered to remain in their shelters until given the all-clear by Marine Colonel Jedidah Smith, who was in charge of Navy Yard security. Gibbs got clearance mainly because Colonel Smith trusted that Gibbs could take care of himself; the Colonel also knew Gibbs, a fellow Marine, would find his way there one way or another.

As four of the Marines split off, Gibbs and a Marine the size of a professional football linebacker headed towards the stairs to check the men’s and women’s heads. Gibbs stopped at his team’s bullpen to see if any damage had been done, and that’s when he noticed the numerous divots in the windows overlooking the Yard and the Anacostia River. The windows were installed a year ago and said to be all but impossible to be penetrated by weapons used by local criminals and insurgents and most military forces. Of course, the Soviets and their World Pact partners — as was the U.S. military and its allies — were constantly working on bullets that would break through such windows, along with much more destructive projectiles.

None of the windows were broken, but Gibbs noticed a couple of holes in one of the upper windows. He squinted at the window, then began walking to his desk.

“Sir?” his Marine partner asked, as Gibbs opened a drawer. He took out a pair of glasses and put them on, then grabbed a Nikon digital single-lens camera, walked back to the windows and began taking pictures.

“Two of the bullets made it through,” Gibbs explained. “I’m guessing MTAC was the target.”

“‘Made it through’? And how can you tell who was targeting what from those two holes you’re looking at?”

Gibbs lowered his camera and turned to the Marine. “We know the ‘who’, Sergeant. The location of those ‘holes’ tells me someone was trying to shoot at someone, or something, above floor level. There are two things on this floor that a shooter, or sniper, can see from outside this building: the stairs, and MTAC.”

“There were a lot of people on the floor when the attack began,” the Marine said. “Someone could’ve been shooting at people running up the stairs.”

“All personnel working in this building were told this morning not to take those stairs until the windows were reinforced, because they would be potential targets for a sniper,” Gibbs replied, having resumed taking photos of the bullet holes in the window. “Everyone on this floor, including my people, got away from these windows as fast as they could when the attack began. They either ran, or crawled.”

“Crawled?”

“My agents’ desk right behind us are in clear view of anyone outside. DiNozzo, McGee and Ziva hit the ground the moment they heard gunfire outside. They crawled to the back wall, then ran like hell for the back stairs.”

“Ah, okay. So, if there was no one on the floor to be a target, then why shoot ‘up’?” the Marine said, pointing upwards. “If you wanted to take out MTAC, wouldn’t you use a man-portable missile launcher?”

“Not if you were shooting at someone upstairs,” Gibbs said. “Like someone you thought might be the Director.”

When Gibbs finished taking his photos, he and the Marine went up the stairs and found confirmation of his theory: there was a hole just above the ‘M’ of the MTAC sign, and another just above a panel to its left, next to an elevator door. Neither bullet had entered MTAC itself, but the casings were found embedded in the wall.

Gibbs, Colonel Smith and Director McCallister — who arrived at the Navy Yard shortly after Gibbs began taking photos of the bullet holes in the wall — watched the Marines extract the damaged casings, then closely examined them.

“Point three-zero caliber,” the Colonel said as he, Gibbs and McCallister looked at the two casings atop the seat of a folding chair. “Also known as a 7.62 millimeter Russian caliber.”

“I’d like Abby to look at them in the lab to be sure,” Gibbs said.

“You’ll get her, Gibbs,” McCallister said. “I’m sure she’ll verify what Colonel Smith just said. There’s one weapon that comes to mind that can hit those targets” — he pointed at the wall — “from distance: an SVD.”

“Dragunov sniper rifle,” Gibbs added. “Better be glad you were working from home when all this went down.”

McAllister ignored the Colonel’s glare. “If we’re done here, we need to talk. Navy Yard wasn’t the only place hit.”

“I’ve heard about the New York Stock Exchange and Guam,” the Colonel said.

“It gets worse,” McAllister said.

A few minutes later in McAllister’s office, he, Gibbs and the Colonel looked at a map of the United States superimposed on the large flat-screen monitor on the wall opposite the director’s desk. The map was marked with numerous red, yellow and orange dots.

“A power plant in rural Kentucky southeast of Cincinnati was attacked; dozens dead, more injured,” McCallister said. “Someone detonated a car bomb on the Bridge of the Americas just outside El Paso. The car came from the Mexico side and sped towards the American side at up to 95 miles an hour. A stolen truck made a run towards the Hoover Dam and was destroyed by Marines when it refused to stop. And a woman pulled out a machine gun inside a shopping mall in Montana and shot three people before getting her head blasted off by a local. All of that, gentlemen, within the last two hours.”

Gibbs eyed the red dot over Baltimore. "What's going on there?", he said, pointing to the dot. "You know I recruited DiNozzo from Baltimore, when he was a detective. He hasn't been able to contact his former colleagues since the riots started there a few days ago."

"The riots started back up," McCallister replied. "O'Malley and the heads of those citizens groups had come to an understanding, when somebody wearing a BPD SWAT uniform tossed a couple of grenades at the protestors."

"Wearing a SWAT uniform," the Colonel said. "Spetsnaz."

"Shot two uniformed officers before he was gunned down by a legit SWAT member," McCallister added. "Didn't matter. Some of the more radical protestors got the crowds stirred up and attacked police at three locations. Now they're descending on the business district. O'Malley's ordered the whole city shut down. Governor Ehrlich is sending the state National Guard to lock down the entire county. O'Malley's doing it from Towson; he ordered the city government to evac there. Half the city's trying to join him, and get out before the Guardsmen shut down the roadways."

“Spetsnaz here, in the U.S., on the ground committing acts of terrorism, and I’d bet they’ve done a good job covering their tracks,” the Colonel said. “We know the Soviets are behind this, but there’s no hard evidence yet. Of course, when the gloves come off…” The Colonel’s voice trailed off.

None of the three men spoke the obvious: in the event of impending war with the West, Soviet doctrine dictated terrorist operations would be conducted within the U.S. and its allied countries, the intention being to destabilize those countries and create as much chaos as possible. The CIA and similar Western government agencies would do the same within the USSR and its World Pact allies. The purpose is to create so much domestic instability that the enemy can’t act when war breaks out.

Gibbs remembered that from his past anti-terrorist training exercises, and he also remembered what a retired Naval Admiral once told him: “Spetsnaz blowing up stuff in New York, Peoria and everywhere else means one thing: War is coming and nothing short of an act of God Himself will stop it.”

The morgue

Ducky and Palmer had been among the first NCIS employees to be allowed back to their regular workplaces, because their expertise was needed to examine the bodies of the 11 killed during the attack on the Navy Yard.

With Marines standing guard inside and outside the morgue, Ducky and Palmer put their surgical gowns over their flap jackets, and helmets over their surgical caps before starting on the first victim: a 26-year-old Marine on his first assignment.

Kate stood nearby, giving Ducky and Palmer plenty of room to work while close enough to see what they were doing. She was there because Ducky had convinced the guards she would be handy as an extra assistant. He really wanted to keep an eye on her and monitor her emotional and psychological health. Too much had gone on in the past few days for Ducky to make a detailed profile of Kate after the Indianapolis explosion. After her breakdown, Kate’s demeanor abruptly changed, stoic like stone, locking up whatever she felt or thought deeply inside.

Looking at Kate standing with her arms folded, her face as unreadable at stone, he found himself angry at McCallister for ordering her to stay on the job. Ducky knew she needed time to properly grieve, and to be around those who loved and cared for her. Neither putting her back to work nor putting her with friends who had to concentrate on work much of the time wasn’t what she needed.

What surprised Ducky was Kate going along with the director’s directives without complaint. He expected her to walk off the job, or demand to return home to see her surviving relatives. Instead, she wanted to stay in Washington. He wondered if going back to Indiana right now was too much for her to bear, and if that was the real reason she had decided to stay in Washington.

Ducky decided to resume his work. Upon looking down at the cadaver on the table, the concept of death suddenly imprinted itself on Ducky’s mind: the victims in the morgue, those killed in Indianapolis, the murder of Jenny Shepard, and the potential deaths of billions more in the not-too-distant future.

He shivered and nearly dropped his scalpel.

“Are you all right, Dr. Mallard?” Palmer asked from the other side of the table.

“Yes, I’m quite alright, Mr. Palmer,” Ducky replied. “I merely felt a sudden chill. Shall we continue?”

Palmer, thankfully, didn’t prattle on in response as he usually did, silently making a Y-incision on the cadaver instead. Ducky looked over to Kate, still looking on silently, and cursed himself for not being able to stop what he was doing to give her his undivided attention.

The door into the morgue suddenly opened, and Ducky looked up to see Gibbs enter. The team leader glanced first at Ducky and Palmer, then at Kate. She began to approach him but stopped with a raised hand from Gibbs, who walked towards the autopsy table where the medical examiners were working.

“Long day, Duck,” Gibbs said when he stood next to Ducky.

“Indeed, Jethro,” Ducky said as he examined a gunshot wound on the chest of the corpse on the autopsy table. “Meet Samantha Mathis, a mailroom clerk out for a walk when we were attacked. This poor woman’s heart exploded instantly when she was shot by her killer. This wound in her bicep came before or after she was shot, but it didn’t bring about her demise. Also, she didn’t suffer, unlike two of our other guests.” Ducky turned his head back towards the drawers in the corner of the room. “They were shot in such a manner that, from what I’ve been told by a couple of the Marines I spoke with earlier, they bled out, probably aware of their fate and unable to do anything about it.”

“Wish I could tell you different, Duck.”

“Children.”

“Duck?”

Ducky laid his scalpel down on the table and turned to Gibbs. “One of the Marines informed me he saw one of the attackers. A boy, probably no older than 13 or 14. The regime that rules Thailand with brutality takes its boys and turns them into violent killers. Murderers, who did this.” Ducky gestured around the morgue. “The Congressman Daniel Inouye once said it was ‘one of the horrors of war, that you can train a person, train them to hate, train them to kill’.”

“’It’s a terrible thought’,” Gibbs replied, finishing the quotation. “On my way here, someone had a TV set on. Someone detonated a bomb on the Golden Gate Bridge. Thirteen police officers were killed by unknown assailants trying to attack an elementary school in Nebraska. Straight out of the Russians’ playbook.”

“It’s begun,” Ducky said. “Jethro, Mr. Palmer, a myriad of choices out of our hands have led us here. Ms. Mathis,” – Ducky looked at the corpse’s face – “I cannot stop the madness, any more than I can turn back the clock and prevent you from meeting your fate the way you had. What I can do, my dear, is ensure that, as long as you are in my care, that you are treated with dignity and respect. My assistant, Mr. Palmer, will lightly swab the wound on your shoulder for residue. Jimmy, please.”

Gibbs nodded at both men. “Do your jobs. I’ll be back later. Duck, I’m going to take Kate for a walk.”

“Of course,” Ducky replied, and Gibbs turned towards Kate, who had moved over near the refrigerated slabs. He gestured his head towards the door, and she followed him into the hall, and into the elevator. After they entered the elevator, Gibbs hit the switch stopping its movement and turned to Kate as the lights dimmed.

“How are you doing?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she said without emotion.

“How are you really doing?” he asked her again, this time more gently. “It’ll stay between us, and Duck.”

“Really, Gibbs, I’m fine,” Kate replied, trying to maintain a stoic façade in front of Gibbs while she looked away towards the door. Even so, she couldn’t hide a tear leaking from the corner of her eye.

“You’re not,” Gibbs said. “I’m not. No one here isn’t ‘fine’—”

“We were attacked, Gibbs. So, yes, you’re right. I’m not ‘fine’.”

Gibbs put a hand on her arm, a simple gesture the usually reserved woman didn’t allow many people to perform. Kate met his gaze, and moments later she reached out to hug him, and the tears began to flow as she wept.

Soon afterwards, after her eyes had dried and she had regained enough of her composure, Kate broke the embrace of the man who had become her second father, and spoke Clair's name.

“Clair?” Gibbs replied.

“She had a…thing for me from the beginning, and it freaked me out. I…we…didn’t know if she was one of McCallister’s creeps, or brain damaged, or what. When...when Indianapolis happened, I forgot about her. But she didn’t forget about me, and to her credit, she didn’t take advantage of me. She never really took advantage of me.”

Kate paused, and at Gibbs’s demeanor, continued.

“Today, she found me and said she wanted to tell me something she thought could actually help me. First, though, she apologized for her actions, although she did say that ‘in another time and place, we might not only be good friends, but more’, that she knew I wouldn’t act on feelings for a coworker and that she respected me for it. Then she told me why she wanted to talk. She read my file, with the director’s permission, just like she read yours and all our files, so she knew my background. She used that to remind me of the crap I fought through just to get here, and that I was…strong.”

Kate paused, her voice weakening, and regained her composure.

“Clair reminded me I still had family, back home and here. You, Abby, Ducky, Tony, McGee, Ziva, Palmer. She told me I was strong, Gibbs, and had people who loved me, and that I still have my faith, and because of all of those things that I would survive.”

Kate looked at Gibbs, wondering if anything she just told him was true.

“She’s right, Kate,” he said, embracing her as she broke down in tears once again.

7 p.m. EDT

--This is ZNN Tonight, with John King, live from Washington.

‘Terror Grips the West’. I’m John King, reporting from an undisclosed location somewhere in the nation’s capital.

It’s been more than nine hours since the terror attack on the Washington Navy Yard opened the floodgates for dozens of incidents in the United States and its major allies. The Chicago subway system was shut down this morning after a mustard gas attack at a station inside the city’s famed Loop. Later, a bomb inside a stolen FedEx truck exploded when it was rammed by a Denver police cruiser before it could reach its intended target: the terminal at Denver International Airport. Terrorists are being blamed for the deaths of 41 people by two hand grenades in Baltimore, where protestors had reached a tentative agreement with city officials to end unrest; instead, the city is in chaos, the Maryland National Guard having shut down all roads leading out of the city.

That's just the beginning. Car bombs exploded on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and the Bridge of the Americas in El Paso. At least 15 people, local law enforcement and retired military veterans, were killed defending the Blue Valley Elementary School in Blue Valley, Nebraska, against an attack by unknown assailants. Miraculously, there were no casualties among those in the school at the time.

Saboteurs managed to disrupt power to millions along the west coast after attacks on several power stations. Three people died after a woman randomly shot targets at the entrance to Fort Hood before she was killed by base security personnel. In London, the British History Museum was shut down when a bomb exploded in the facility; 33 adults and 17 children are dead, dozens more injured. An explosion in the Golden Mile entertainment district of Sydney, Australia killed at least 24 people. A soccer match between two of Italy’s premier clubs was called off by threats of shooters lying in wait at Milan’s main stadium.

The questions authorities are trying to answer at this hour are who is behind the bombings and why. No one, including any of the known Islamist terrorist organizations or the Mexican cartels, is taking credit for the attacks. However, within the last hour, the Soviet Ambassador to Canada claims weapons found at the scenes of the various attacks can be traced back to Al-Qaeda and the Mexican-based Reynosa Cartel. Mikhail Vorontsov’s allegations to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation are being denied by multiple government and military sources…--

[Brky2020]

Chapter 42

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

7:40 p.m. EDT

Ducky's house

At Ducky’s house, McCallister’s suits kept a close eye on its occupants, generally taking a hands-off, eyes-on approach.

Sometimes, the suits had to get their hands dirty.

When Tony inadvertently let all of Mrs. Mallard’s corgis out of the house, everyone was needed to corral the cute, vicious dogs. All the corgis were quickly found and returned to their home, and a few of the agents returned to their stations with some extra scratches. DiNozzo was met at the front door with a stare from Ducky that froze the younger man in his tracks (and almost made him drop the animals on the concrete porch).

With the corgis safely back inside, Ducky went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He heard the others talking down the hall as they made their way into the rec room to watch a movie: it was Kate’s turn to pick the film, and she chose Something’s Gotta Give from a few years before.

The kettle on the stove whistled, and Ducky walked over to turn the stove off and pick up the kettle. Putting down the kettle on a nearby countertop, he turned to grab a bag of Yorkshire Tea to put in his mug. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket as he poured the hot water in the mug; waiting for the tea to properly brew, Ducky pulled out the phone and hit the red button, declining the call.

McCallister’s people weren’t monitoring his calls as they had after the new director took over as head of NCIS, but Ducky still didn’t trust his phone to be secure. Like the others on ‘Team Gibbs’, Ducky had taken care to watch what he said when he thought McCallister or his people were listening.

Ducky was tired of their constant presence in his life, especially his home. He deferred to Gibbs’ strategy of waiting out the director, but Ducky thought he soon would speak out and confront McAllister on the overt presence of the suits, and the more covert surveillance he thought McAllister had approved. The killers of Jenny Shepard no longer presented a threat to the team – unless, as darker rumors persisted, McCallister was the one behind her murder. Ducky never quite believed that, though; he thought the man wouldn’t go that far, to kill Americans and fellow NCIS personnel.

He wouldn’t. Right?

The tea was ready, and Ducky pulled out the teabag and put it in the garbage. Turning back to get his mug, his cell phone buzzed again. He stopped, looking around for anyone else in the vicinity, and then looked at the phone’s screen.

There wasn’t a number, but the phone kept buzzing. Ducky decided to answer it. “Donald Mallard.”

For a few seconds, the caller said nothing. “Who is this?” Ducky said, deciding to give the caller five more seconds before ending the call.

“Donald,” the caller said, three seconds later. Ducky recognized the voice of a former colleague from his days in the British Army’s Secret Air Service, someone he hadn’t spoken to in years.

“Are you trying to sell me something?” Ducky remembered using the phrase from his time in the SAS to speak with colleagues when out in public; the phrase meant ‘how can I help you’.

“No, my friend. Jimmy and Ruth have headed off to elope. They’re heading for the countryside, but the balloon has left. God be with us all.”

The call concluded with a recording of a short electronic musical phrase played at the end of a series of videos meant to be broadcast in Ducky’s homeland of the United Kingdom only when nuclear war was unavoidable.

Ducky stood frozen in place as the other line went silent and a chill shot up his spine.

It was 12:40 a.m. Thursday morning Greenwich time in Britain, 7:40 Wednesday night in Washington. If Ducky had been in the UK and in front of a television watching any of the British Broadcasting Corporation’s channels, he would have seen the BBC logo abruptly appear onscreen, followed moments later by the voice of a woman reading from a script:



--This is the BBC.

We have interrupted our regular programming. The BBC will be bringing you news on the developing geopolitical situation, and important information which may be vital to you in the coming days. Stay tuned to the BBC for news and for announcements from the Queen, the Prime Minister, government ministries and the military.—

After a few seconds of a pitch-black screen, Ducky would have seen the animated image of the mushroom cloud from an atomic bomb against a blue background. Seconds later, the screen would change to a red background, with three words in white starkly explaining just what the viewer was watching.

NUCLEAR

EXPLOSIONS

EXPLAINED

A male voice would begin reading: “Nuclear explosions are caused by weapons such as H-bombs or atom bombs…”

This time, the airing of the first of the 20 Protect and Survive videos was no mistake.

Elsewhere, Gibbs was in his basement, working on yet another of his boats, with a television set playing nearby. The set was over 20 years old, and still working in near-perfect condition, set to the local CBS affiliate. The sound was loud enough for Gibbs to know the news anchors were making light conversation, probably a transition between stories. He turned back to his boat.

He put down his brush and jar of varnish when he noticed one of the anchors stuttering while reading from a script. He saw her coanchor gently take the paper, then saw the man’s face grow chalky white almost in a single instant. Gibbs walked towards the TV.

--“A college friend of one of our staffers who is from the United Kingdom directly confirms the Reuters and United Press wire reports, that the UK has taken over all commercial broadcasting within its country. All stations, radio and television, are broadcasting BBC news coverage and a program intended to be aired over British television when a nuclear war was bel—“

The screen went dark. An icy pulse went down Gibbs’ spine as he remembered a conversation he and Ducky had about British preparations for a conflict with the Soviet Union and the World Pact. A television program officially named Protect and Survive, after a set of pamphlets intended to be distributed to the British public, fit the description of what the anchor said before he was cut off. Gibbs also knew if war was imminent, the government would begin media censorship, First Amendment be damned.

Gibbs waited a few seconds, lightly hit the side of the set twice, and looked in the back of the set to make sure all of the cables and wires were as they should be. He then went through the other area channels his set could pick up from the large antenna he had installed after President Broome’s assassination in February.

The Baltimore and Washington network affiliates on the UHF band (channels 2 through 13) were on the air, carrying local news or weather. The stations from Baltimore, Washington and further out in Virginia and Maryland either carried news, sitcoms, dramas or infomercials. None of the news programs said anything about war or a declaration of war.

Gibbs hit 9 on his remote and saw a WUSA Technical Difficulties graphic. From the anchors’ reactions to the script, he figured something had happened, somewhere, that either was a precursor to or the signal to the beginning of war with the Soviets. He went to his radio on the workbench and scanned up and down the AM and FM dials, but there was nothing about war and certainly nothing about Britain gearing up for it.

He considered getting in his truck and driving out to Ducky’s to discuss the situation. But too many of Riley’s suits were around the mansion, and Gibbs wanted to keep as many cards to his vest as possible when it came to the director. Plus, Ducky had told him to stay home after he hurt his knee the day before, and Gibbs didn’t want to aggravate the joint any further right now unless he absolutely had to.

Gibbs then heard his front door slam, and he reached for his handgun in its holster along the right hip. Though the steps sounded familiar, Gibbs wouldn’t let his guard down, just in case, and he aimed his gun towards the doorway connecting the basement steps with the annex.

Seconds later, Gibbs lowered his aim and put his weapon back in the holster.

“Damn, Jethro. I’d have driven into Virginia to get something else if I had thought Chinese would’ve made you draw your weapon,” Mike Franks said, carrying two boxes of Chinese food in each hand as he descended the stairs. “Chinese and gas stations were all I could find open around here and I knew you wouldn’t want warmed-over cold pizza from the 7 Eleven.”

“Mike,” Gibbs said, his voice trailing off. What was wrong with him, that he drew a gun on an ally? Or that he wasn’t sure who it was coming into his house in the first place. “You didn’t have to do that,” he finally said as Franks made his way towards the work bench, where Gibbs had pulled up another stool, and had begun pouring bourbon into a emptied-out nail jar.

“Nonsense. Save them cowboy steaks for another time,” Franks said. “Let me treat you to dinner for a change.”

“Will I like it?”

“Of course, you’ll like it,” Franks protested. “Kung po chicken, plenty of veggies, two large for six bucks and tax. It’s a great deal. It’s that place five blocks over I went to last time I was here.”

Both men began digging into their meal, and Franks noticed the graphic on the TV screen. “Isn’t there something else on? I know you’re working on that boat, but you usually have something on in the background.”

“I’m waiting to see what comes on afterwards,” Gibbs said, explaining what aired before the station briefly went dark. “Something’s happening, Mike.”

“Something else’s happening, too,” Franks said. “Before I explain my…theory…did you do any cleaning down here. And don’t tell me ‘no because Ducky’. I’ve known you too long, Jethro. You ain’t gonna let a little knee-ache keep you in a chair. Hell, look at that thing over there.” Franks nodded towards the boat frame. “You’ll have that done by the end of the week.

Gibbs smiled. “No bugs, Mike. Did find a couple when I got here, but I squashed them. So you can talk freely here.”

“Good,” Franks said between bites. “Before I tell you about who I met at that bar you sent me to, I wanna tell you about the first part of my ‘theory’.”

“‘Theory’?”

“Just eat and listen, Probie. First part has to do with those kids Riley’s got guarding you and your team. And me. Some of them were at Paulie’s, too.”

“Mike—“

“I said, ‘just eat and listen’,” Franks said in a semi-agitated tone. “Guess I’ll tell ya the second part first. So I’m there for happy hour, and it’s the same people this afternoon who’ve been there every single day since you sent me there. Nobody new, nobody absent, TV sets set to ZNN, ESPN and Channel 7. I order a Córdoba Light, in a bottle.

“This time, though, someone new walks in. Very attractive woman, slender, kinda tall in her heels, blonde. Sexy, too, though she called herself Jack. Has to be in her thir—“

“Mike.”

“I’m the one tellin’ the story, Probie. Anyway, she sits down next to me, orders a Rolling Rock, and we start talkin’. Tells me she’s a psychologist, works for DIA, transferred here from Afghanistan. I tell her I’m an ol’ bastard who’s trying to get back home to Mexico but if that ain’t gonna happen, I’m gonna start looking at beach property down in Florida…just so you know.”

“I trust you’re going somewhere with this,” Gibbs said, with one eye on the TV set.

“She chuckles, then reaches into her bag and pulls out this thick folder. And shows me a dossier on me, and says ‘now, let’s reintroduce ourselves. Former Special Agent Mike Franks, NIS, retired, I’m Special Agent and Forensic Psychhologist Jack Sloane, DIA’. She takes out a few more dossiers from that folder, on you, Ducky, DiNozzo, Kate, Abby, Ziva, McGee, even Ducky’s last two assistants, and on a couple other agents you worked with, Stan Hurley and Paula Cassidy.”

Gibbs kept his countenance neutral but Franks realized his former probationary agent and second-in-command was greatly concerned. “What happened, Mike?”

“She nodded towards the front and back entrances, and a couple of big guys up front, and scary-looking biker types in back, covered them both. So I couldn’t just get up and walk out. I took a drink and asked her politely ‘what in the f*** is going on?’”

“I wouldn’t have been polite, Mike.”

“I wasn’t either, Jethro. The barkeeper came over and said ‘you can trust Jack, Mike, just like you can trust all of us. Sit down, and listen to what she has to say’. Then he walks away, and she says ‘now that we’ve been introduced, let’s talk. I have some things you’ll want to know about’.”

“What did you talk about with her?”

“She told me about the ring, Jethro, same things you told me. I told her I believe in facts, not science fiction. Said she’d show me if she got clearance. And she told me she could show me something — someone — else you’d been looking for the past few days.”

“Hollis.”

“Pulled out her cell phone, placed a call, and I spoke with someone who said she was Hollis Mann. Sounded like the woman on the cassette you played for me—“

“What did she say, Mike?”

“Said she knew you’d been looking for her but you needed to back off a little. Let her come to you, and it sounds like she wants to come by later tonight.”

“You didn’t tell her ‘yes’?”

“No, but my gut told me she’s coming by tonight whether you like it or not.”

Gibbs sighed and wondered what in the hell he’d gotten himself into and if the bad guys, whomever they were, had somehow gotten the jump on him. Paranoia or not, his gut had been telling him things were beginning to spin out of control, not just between the superpowers but in regards to matters closer to home.

Franks sensed Gibbs’ discomfort, and what he said next threw Gibbs a curveball.

“Jack said you were right to be suspicious, but you’ve been suspicious of the wrong people,” Franks said. “She says McCallister’s not your enemy, that he’s trying to protect you and your people and NCIS. The real enemy is some of the people connected with these rings who are almost as bad as the Russians, are the ones you need to worry about.”

“What people?”

“Jack said Hollis would explain, tonight, but they were ‘bad seeds’,” Franks said. “Willing to let billions of people die to save their asses.”

Gibbs drank the last of his bourbon and refilled his jar, took another drink and got up and paced the basement, then turned to Franks. “What’s your gut telling you…hell, why didn’t you come to me as soon as you got out of there?” Gibbs said. “You should’ve gotten back here—“

“Jack and the bartender and ‘Hollis’ told me it might draw suspicions,” Franks replied. “We’re supposedly on the ‘bad seeds’ radar, but me stopping off for Chinese would’ve drawn a lot less attention than heading straight here.”

Gibbs paced some more, then stopped in front of the TV. WUSA had returned to the air and now carried CBS News coverage. Gibbs’s earlier interest in what the TV stations were and weren’t saying had gone by the wayside, and he was zeroed in on Hollis and her whereabouts and whether he and his people had just made a new set of enemies.

“I’m going to Duck’s, have McGee do some computer stuff, get ZIva to see what her Mossad contacts might now,” Gibbs said. “Mike, you stay here and don’t let anyone in other than me or my people—“

“I think you’re stuck here, Jethro. One of those SUVs are parked behind your truck—“

“The hell with them!” Gibbs snapped as he began walking towards the stairs. “I’m going—“

“You’re going to stay put, Probie!” Franks yelled back, in a tone he hadn’t used since a time years ago when Gibbs, as a stubborn and too-confident probationary agent, had nearly screwed up a case and severely angered Franks in the process. “Think with your head!”

Gibbs stopped, then turned and shot Franks the look he reserved when one of his people got too off track or babbled too much. The older, retired agent didn’t flinch.

“Jethro. I taught you to use your head, and go with your gut and what made sense, not your emotions,” Franks said calmly, and firmly. “You’re upset about Hollis, and worried about her. That’s on top of being worried about your own people, including the ones you can’t protect. And you’re afraid the ones you thought you could protect, you can’t.

“That’s not when the case starts getting away from you. The case starts getting away from you when you get too distracted and upset to think with a clear head, to be able to hear what your gut’s tellin’ you, and not have it muddied up by your fears—“

“My ‘fears’,” Gibbs said, still standing in place.

“You need to ask yourself right now, Jethro, if you’re in control of what you can be in control of or if you’re starting to lose focus. If you’re losing focus, that’s when you’ll start to lose control, and that’s when you veer off track and put yourself and your people in real danger. Before you do anything, Probie, think. Think about what’s going on, and what your next steps need to be. Then take those steps. Use your mind and your common sense, and listen to your gut, but don’t let your fears or anxiety talk you into doing something you know deep down you shouldn’t.”

Gibbs stood in place for a minute, sighed, and walked back to the workbench. He sat down on a stool, pulled his phone out, and looked at it. “You’re sure those people at the bar were on the level.”

“I wasn’t sure about anything the first day I went there, on Monday,” Franks said. “Now? My gut’s tellin’ me they’re on the level. Whatever’s going on with that thing, whatever threat there really is to you and your team—“

“To you too, Mike. You’re as much a part of this as anyone.”

“Well, whatever’s going on, those people are in the know.”

Gibbs took a bite of his Kung po chicken, now growing cold. “So we wait…but if I don’t hear from her by midnight, I’m going after her.”

“And I’ll go with ya’,” Franks said as he took a drink of bourbon. “I’m thinking, though, we’re gonna learn more about whatever is going on real soon.”

8:32 p.m. EDT

Arlington, Virginia

The Pentagon

Colonel Steve Trevor sat at his desk, waiting for a phone call, and read through some of the reports from the past 36 hours on the thousands of terrorist acts committed across the nation. Spetsnaz, or one of the special forces/terrorist units from another Pact country, were wreaking havoc across the country and everyone, military and civilian both, were so far on the defensive. Things had calmed down within the past 12 hours, but he knew the Soviets could start up again at any time, wherever they wanted.

He cursed Army General Samuel Lane and the bastards here in the Pentagon, and on Capitol Hill, for not paying enough attention to the Spetsnaz threat. They should have put The Wall in charge, he thought as the thumbed through the file about the aborted attack on the Sultan Ahmet Mosque in Istanbul. Forty-seven Turkish and NATO soldiers had died protecting the Muslim holy site from Ugandan and Syrian special forces hellbent on turning it into a hole in the ground. The Wall would've known what to do, more than these clowns.

Instead, Lane was in charge of the U.S. military. Long enamored with the former Air Force General Curtis LeMay (who wanted to bomb both the USSR and Cuba to the stone age during the Cuban Missile Crisis), Lane was most definitely looking for a fight with the Soviets. It didn't seem to matter to the man that the 'clash between civilizations' would most likely lead to the greatest disaster in the history of the world and, probably, the end of all life on the planet.

Trevor would've spit in the man's face if he could. Even though he was Air Force and Lane was Army, as head of the Joint Chiefs Lane was still his commanding officer, and therefore Trevor had to follow his orders. So, the Colonel sat at his desk, waiting for the phone call.

His desk phone finally rang, and he picked up. "Trevor."

"General Lane, Colonel. It's been one hell of a day -- couple of days, in fact."

Trevor couldn't argue the fact. "Yes, sir."

"I have a mission for you. Go to Andrews, now. A flight will be waiting for you."

"May I ask where, General?"

"Port-au-Prince." Haiti was the nearest neutral nation to the mainland, and the nation's capital was as stable a place to do business in as anywhere in the world. What kind of business does he have in mind?

"You'll be sent to a secret location. You'll be told more at Andrews. Go, and good luck. If things go well, we might be at peace 24 hours from now."

Lane then hung up, leaving Trevor to wonder what in the hell was going on. He wondered while packing up his gear, and began walking towards the door where his driver was waiting, to take him to Andrews Air Force Base.

8:42 p.m.

Andrews Air Force Base

Arlington, Virginia

The short trip -- Andrews had been relocated to the former Reagan International Airport, with the airport moved to Andrews's former location in suburban Maryland -- was uneventful, and Trevor's driver drove him all the way to the 747 waiting for the Colonel on the tarmac, dropping him off at the stairs leading up to the jet. The Colonel was greeted by a CIA officer.

"You want to tell me what this is about, Mr.--"

"Trent Kort."

"Mr. Kort, I'm listening."

"Inside, and in the air. General Lane's orders."

Trevor sighed. He hated the subterfuge when he worked for Task Force X, and he hated it now. The 747 -- bearing the markings of LASER Airlines, one of the top airlines of neutral Venezuela -- took off from the runway, then turned east, towards the Atlantic Ocean. Trevor assumed it would then fly due south into Port-au-Prince; using his secure MilNet-equipped smartphone on the drive from the Pentagon, he learned it would take just under three and a half hours to arrive in Haiti.

There were a dozen people in all onboard the plane. Two were in the cockpit flying the 747, a third was the stewardess, and four men and three women in dark suits sat in seats surrounding Trevor and Kort in the first class section. "Want to tell me what this is about now, Mr. Kort?" Trevor said, rather impatiently, as he turned to the bald CIA agent sitting next to him.

Kort reached into a briefcase that had been laying in his seat when he and Trevor boarded, and pulled out a folder. "This is a dossier on your counterpart, Colonel," Kort said, handing him the folder.

"My counterpart?" Trevor said, opening the folder. A photo of a Soviet military official was on the first page, followed by a biography. "I don't see any blond hair on his head, Mr. Kort, In fact, he looks more like you than me."

"Your counterpart in terms of his role in the Soviet government," Kort replied. "Meet Lieutenant General Dmitri Pushkin. One of the top-ranking officers in the Soviet Red Army, and someone who the Kremlin has used to speak with us through back channels in the past."

"Name sounds familiar."

"His father, Sergei Pushkin, was involved with the Soviet space program when Stalin was still alive. He later devised an armored battle suit--"

"The Rocket Red program. I remember it now. We developed our own version."

"The Ultramarine program. I understand there was a conflict some time ago."

"I was there -- and before you even think of asking, it's all classified. This Dmitri Pushkin. Was he involved in the Rocket Red program?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny--"

"Kort..."

"Those particular details are, as they say, 'above my paygrade'. There may be someone else you could ask, but we seem to be veering off-topic--"

"It's on-topic because if he was involved, how am I supposed to trust this guy? And what am I going to Haiti to talk to him about, anyway?"

"You and he will discuss what a truce between powers would look like."

11:04 p.m. EDT

—the Pentagon has just announced that U.S. Navy ships off the coast of the Turks and Caicos Islands were closely approached by Cuban naval vessels earlier tonight. A military spokesman at The Pentagon told CNN that two Cuban destroyers came within 500 feet of the USS Grand Canyon, a Spruance-class destroyer, just 12 miles south-southwest of the Turks and Caicos Islands, where some U.S. Navy and British Royal Navy ships are currently stationed. According to the spokesman, the Cubans backed away after being challenged by the Grand Canyon’s captain, and headed away towards Cuba—

“Jesus. Wonder what really happened?” Franks said, turning up the volume on the TV with the remote, as both men sat at the workbench. “Think there was some shooting?”

“If there was, they’re not telling us,” Gibbs replied. “There’s going to be a lot of things that we’re not going to get told.”

“Makes sense, if you’re trying to keep people from panicking,” Franks said. “Damn good thing Boehner went on TV last night to talk about those attacks, tell people the government’s on top of things, that the ‘terrorists’ won’t prevail. I’m thinking some of it’s true.”

“You that cynical, Mike?” Gibbs said with a chuckle.

“I don’t think if the Russians bombed Chicago or whatever, the feds would put a lid on it. You’d hear about it somehow.”

“I think yesterday was just the start, Mike. The Soviets have a scary team in place to destabilized the West, as much as possible before they move into Western Europe, or the Middle East, or wherever.”

“How many Spetsnaz?” Franks referenced the Soviet Union’s version of the U.S. Navy SEALs and the Army Rangers, elite special forces typically run by the USSR’s KGB intelligence service.

“Thousands, tasked with attacking government, military and civilian places. Power plants, airports, government agencies, churches, neighborhoods. Put as much fear into the public as possible. If they can completely destabilize the country ahead of military action, they’ll do it.”

“And when they start trying to destabilize the country is when you know things are about to go to hell,” Franks said. “If they do that to us, we’re going to try doing it to them. When you let that genie out you can’t quickly put him back in his bottle. He’s gonna do what he was let out to do, and you have to hope the bastards who have the genies with the nukes bottled up decide not to let them out.”

Gibbs’ phone rang, and both men looked at the ID screen. Unknown Caller.

“You gonna get that?” Franks said. Gibbs gave Franks a look, and hit the green button on the keyboard.

“Gibbs.”

His countenance lifted just a bit when he heard Hollis Mann’s voice on the other end. “Heard you been looking for me, Jethro.”

“You didn’t pick up your phone,” he said. “Where in the hell have you been?”

“I’ll tell you in a few. Your door’s still unlocked, right?”

“I’ll meet you, Hollis. Too many ears around here. Give me a secure address—.”

“No, Jethro, I’ll meet you, in a few. Don’t worry about the ears, the ones that can listen are friendly. And speaking of, I’m bringing friends.”

Gibbs got up from his stool, phone in hand, ready to run up the stairs and out to his truck. “The hell you are, Colonel. Like I said, too many ears—“

“Your truck’s blocked off and your basement is as secure a place as any to talk.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. Just stay there. There’s too much you need to know. You should hear my and my team’s footsteps in five.” Then Gibbs heard a click, disconnecting the call.

Gibbs growled. “Guess she’s coming here, Mike. Five minutes. With ‘friends’.”

Franks looked at the bottle of Jim Beam, now less than a quarter full. “This better not a social call, because between this and the four bottles of beer in the fridge, there’s barely enough for the two of us.”

“My gut’s telling me we’re both going to want to be sober,” Gibbs replied, “for whatever she’s about to tell us.”

True to her word, Hollis arrived within five minutes of ending the phone call. Gibbs and Franks heard the door open, then heard several sets of footsteps going across the living room and kitchen floors, before seeing a familiar silhouette at the entrance to the basement.

Hollis didn’t break stride, and neither did the four people with her, until Hollis stopped in front of Gibbs and embraced him tightly. “Sorry for the cloak and dagger, Jethro,” she told him. “The people I work with, and for, had to do their due diligence on you and your people before agreeing to let you all in.”

Gibbs pulled back and looked at the other people in the room. Two of them he knew, one of which was Brent Langer, an FBI agent, was one of Gibbs’s agents years ago, before his current agents joined NCIS. The other, Roger Cooke, was with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and had worked with Gibbs on a case a few years before.

Two of the three women in the room were strangers to Gibbs, but one was very familiar to Franks. “Jacqueline Sloane,” the slender blonde said with a firm handshake. “You can call me ‘Jack’. Good to see you again, Mike.”

“A pleasure,” Franks said, shooting Gibbs a wink.

“And who are you?” Gibbs said to the slightly taller brunette standing between Sloane and Hollis.

“Joanna Teague,” she replied, also giving a firm handshake. “I’m with the Agency.”

“CIA.”

“Indeed,” she said, pulling a laptop from her bag. “May I borrow your workbench?”

With a nod from Hollis, Gibbs assented, and Teague opened the laptop. “The information here explains the history of, and the science behind, the ring as close to layman’s terms as possible,” she said. “There’s a lot to take in. Be patient. We’ll answer any questions you have as best we can.”

Gibbs and Franks watched an advanced presentation program describe the ring and the science behind it, much of which went over both men’s heads. They more easily grasped the historical data, beginning with parallel events in 1999 in the American state of Wyoming; the Soviet republic of Georgia; and the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region of China. Three separate portals – one in each country – connecting Earth with another universe. Specifically, a fixed point in an identical region on another universe’s Earth.

Although scientists struggled to understand how these portals worked, they managed – with the approval of their respective countries’ governments – to keep the portals stable and to replicate and control the phenomena. A secret summit in November 1999 in Shanghai saw Chinese Premier Li Xeng convince U.S. President Colin Powell and Soviet General Secretary Vladimir Putin to keep the existence of the portals a secret and to use them for peaceful purposes.

Seven and a half years later, the portals had become an open secret among the top government and military leadership of the major countries, and to certain powerful figures in the civilian world. What Li feared could come to pass – nations using the technology as an escape route in the event of total nuclear war – was coming closer each day to becoming reality. And those in the know were dividing into two distinct and contrary groups: one group wanted to use the technology to save as many people as possible, the other group to preserve its own influencers’ interests and lives.

“All that’s a hell of a story, but what the hell are Gibbs and I supposed to do with it?” Franks asked after the presentation ended.

“Knowledge is power,” Teague told him. “More people by the day are finding out about this. The group that’s out for itself already is lashing out, trying to eliminate any threats to its interests. That includes us…and you.”

[Brky2020]

Chapter 43

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

11:41 p.m. EDT

Ducky’s home

Something’s really hinky with the internet, thought McGee as he stared at the error message on his laptop.

The young agent sat at a table in the guest room he was staying in, going through numerous British-based websites at Ducky's request. Within the last hour, several of those websites had gone, and stayed, offline. All of the affected websites had gone down after the time that Ducky said the British government had taken over its domestic media outlets. No official announcement had been made yet by any British government or military agency, but McGee considered Ducky’s word to be as authoritative as any news outlet.

Ducky told him the BBC’s own website would still be online. He was right, and the news articles that were accessible didn’t appear to contradict the organization’s reputation for independent, nonbiased reporting. However, most non-news content had apparently been taken down, although the sports section was still online, and it told him quite a bit.

McGee learned the Wimbledon tennis tournament, scheduled to begin next month in London, had been postponed indefinitely, as had the rugby league Super League competition that included British and French clubs. There was also a story about the English Football Association’s request for its clubs to suspend competition, with no reason given. The two Formula 1 auto racing events scheduled next month for Montreal and Indianapolis (for obvious reasons) were cancelled.

The Italian association had suspended play after the terrorist incident in Milan a few days before. There was a short paragraph about the European Champions League soccer competition being cancelled pending 'current events'.

Other than news, sport and weather, the BBC’s website had been stripped bare. McGee was about to visit another website when he came across a link in the BBC’s UK section. The link took him to a subsection titled Protect and Survive. A quick scan of the subsection showed information on how to survive a nuclear exchange, including sealing up one’s house, how long to stay inside and how to dispose of the dead.

He was reading about conserving batteries for radio usage when the BBC site went blank for a few seconds. It was replaced with a graphic, white text on blue background, which read

BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF DEFENCE AND IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE CIVIL DEFENCE ACT, THIS WEBSITE IS NOT ACCESSIBLE TO VIEWERS OUTSIDE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.

IF YOU ARE A CITIZEN OF THE UNITED KINGDOM AND YOU ARE CURRENTLY OUTSIDE THE U.K., YOU ARE URGED TO CONTACT THE U.K. EMBASSY IN THE COUNTRY YOU CURRENTLY ARE IN, OR THE U.K. CONSULATE NEAREST TO YOU.

IF YOU ARE A CITIZEN OF ANOTHER COUNTRY, YOU ARE ENCOURAGED TO MONITOR TELEVISION, RADIO, NEWSPRINT AND INTERNET IN YOUR LOCAL AREA FOR NEWS AND INFORMATION.

The other U.K.-based media websites – Sky News, Channel 4, The Times of London, Daily Mail and other outlets in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland – showed the same graphic.

“Todd,” McGee shouted to the suit standing outside in the hallway, “get Ducky up here, now.”

“Tim, I’m supposed to stay here—”

“Get him in here now!” McGee heard himself shout with more determination than he had ever used on the job. Todd stared at him, then looked toward a colleague down the hall, unseen from McGee’s seat, and took off for the stairs.

A couple of minutes later, Ducky and Ziva made their way into McGee’s room, with Todd standing in the doorway.

“I am sorry,” Ziva said to Todd.

“What?” Todd replied, just before the door shut on him.

Ziva locked the door behind her, then walked over to the table, where Ducky was looking over McGee’s shoulder. In a near-whisper, McGee explained to them what he had discovered, then showed them the graphic that appeared when he typed in the BBC’s web address.

At Ducky’s urging, McGee typed in addresses for other British-based organizations, including the Church of England; the Liverpool football club; the Sainsbury’s supermarket chain; and a U.K.-based email provider. Every website showed the same graphic.

McGee turned to look at Ducky and saw a look of anguish on the doctor’s face. He saw the concern in Ziva’s eyes and got up from his chair to offer it to the older man. Ducky sat down and took a handkerchief from his jacket to wipe his eyes, twice. As the significance of the graphics and the inaccessible websites dawned on him, Ducky masked his emotions the best he could, as not to upset the younger people with him.

McGee and Ziva saw right through it. At first, they were concerned something had happened to Ducky, then understood what he was doing, and why.

“Timothy, Ziva,” he said, quietly. “Britain is very much an American ally, but when she is threatened she will not hesitate to act in her own interest, particularly when faced with an enemy who can destroy her in minutes. What you see there” – Ducky pointed to the laptop – “is one of the first visible signs of a programme that has probably been going on for days, if not weeks.”

“A programme,” McGee said, in confusion.

“A programme of transitioning to war.”

Gibbs’s basement

Franks’ response to Teague was his reaching over the laptop on the workbench for his cigarette lighter and, without saying a word to anybody, taking it – and himself – up the stairs and out to the front porch.

As he exited the top of the stairs and walked into the foyer between the entrance to the basement and the upstairs kitchen, Gibbs decided to go up there and bring him back downstairs. Hollis shook her head at the others, told them to stay there, then ran to catch up with Gibbs.

Outside on the front porch, Franks had lit a cigarette. He looked up and down the street at the houses he could see from his vantage point, then at the night sky. He saw and heard four helicopters in the distance, and noted they probably were SuperCobras.

Gibbs opened the front door, Hollis a step behind him, and both walked out onto the porch.

“Marine copters on patrol. Here, in America,” Franks said to them. “Nobody here gives it a second thought, anymore. Damn shame.”

Hollis saw the suits in their vehicles on the street, in front of the house and further up the street, as well as another suit standing in front of the house on the sidewalk. She walked right up to Franks. “Mike, we want you to see the Pentagon ring for yourself,” Hollis told him, lowering her voice so only they, and Gibbs, could hear. “We’d like all of your people to see it, but that’s not possible yet.”

“You might as well be telling me ‘we’re gonna jump in a space ship and go to Mars’,” Franks said. “They told me all that at that bar, and I even halfway believe it, but…”

Franks shook his head and took another draw on his cigarette.

“But what, Mike?” Gibbs said.

Franks exhaled away from the other two people with him, so the smoke wouldn’t blow on them. “What you’re talking about?” he said to Hollis. “Fantasy.”

“Fantasy?” she said. “We’ll get you there and you’ll see it for yourself—”

“It may be as real as those helicopters up in the sky, but it’s a fantasy,” Franks said. “Both sides—”

“We need to finish this conversation downstairs,” Hollis interjected, her tone suggesting that Franks not argue her point. He put his hands up, then dropped his cigarette in the ashtray next to the door that Gibbs had one of the suits put on the porch a few days before.

Downstairs in the basement, Franks sat himself back at the workbench, and took a sip from his jar of bourbon. “What I was saying before you dragged me down here, Colonel Mann, was that both sides need to sit back down at the table and work out their differences. That’s the way to save lives. Not by sending people through some magical escape route that everyone was hellbent on hiding from the whole damn world.”

“They’re not going to sit down at the table, Mike,” Gibbs said. “Geneva was the last chance. There’s going to be a war, soon. I’m not leaving my people here to wait to be blown up – and that includes you. We’re going through.”

“You gonna pile everyone in the van and just drive into a restricted area, Jethro?” Franks said. “Who else on your team knows?”

Gibbs was silent, but his reaction gave Franks his answer.

“You better start talkin’ to them, then,” Franks said. “Better do it quick, too. Colonel” – Franks looked at Hollis – “if you can get me and Jethro away from Riley’s ‘protection detail’, then I’m up for a field trip.”

“There’s a risk,” Teague said, “that we’ll run into the wrong people and get caught.”

“You do know what I did for a living, right?” Franks said, prompting a half-smile from Gibbs. “Risk comes with the territory. I may be retired, but I can still take care of myself.”

“That work for you, Jethro?” Hollis said to Gibbs.

“Works for me,” Gibbs replied.

“Tomorrow night,” Hollis told both men. “It’s becoming more and more difficult for the powers that be to keep a tight lid on this thing, especially now that they’re preparing for a world war. Knowledge of this thing keeps leaking out. It’s possible we may run into others, like you, who want to see the ring for themselves. Or, someone who sees us as competition for the last seats on the plane and would try to eliminate us.”

“What about security?”

“Security measures have changed in the past few days,” Cooke said. “The people running this thing here in the States realize that knowledge of this thing is getting out and they’re trying to eliminate the leak. So, there’s a good chance we’ll run into hostiles, likely former military personnel, including ex-SEALs, ex-Green Berets, ex-Rangers working for contractors, looking to eliminate threats like us.”

“But they’re much more of a threat if you’re there to get onto the main floor and go through the portal,” Langer said. “If you’re there to observe, from the vantage point Gibbs and Colonel Mann were at before? The odds of confronting those guys drops significantly.”

“But there’s still a risk,” Gibbs said.

“Yes, there is,” Teague said. “And if the risk is too high for you three to go is for you to decide yourselves.”

“We’re going,” Franks said.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

1 a.m. EST

--This is ZNN Overnight News, with continuing coverage of the Global Crisis. From New York, I'm Lynne Russell. Here are the headlines at this hour:

Al-Qaeda has taken credit for the attack on the Arabian Hotel in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia two hours ago that has reportedly left at least 300 people dead. That number reportedly includes embassy personnel from the Soviet Union and East Germany. The Soviet news agency TASS reported a response from Soviet General Secretary Ogarkov, who condemned the attacks as ‘butchery’ and offered the USSR’s help to Saudi authorities. The Saudi government has not yet commented on the USSR offer.

Shots were fired between Costa Rican and Nicaraguan forces along their countries’ border, just outside the Costa Rican town of Los Chiles. No deaths were reported, although two Costa Rican soldiers were shot.

Virginia State Police and Virginia National Guard helped Greene County and Stanardsville, Virginia police turn back eight busloads of people from Baltimore. A spokesman for Stanardsville mayor Franklin Glasberg said the leaders of the caravan told the mayor and sheriff they were coming to ‘establish camp’ in Stanardsville as refugees and that the town should expect thousands more refugees in the days to come. The caravan left peacefully with a National Guard escort back the way they came into the state.—

Washington, D.C.

Riley McCallister’s home

2:09 a.m.

An aide burst through the door to McCallister’s office in the basement, waking the NCIS director from his hour-long nap.

“Sir,” the nervous young man said, “there-th-there, uh, there’s been, ah—”

“Spit it out son,” McCallister said, wiping his eyes. “I said don’t wake me until 0500 unless something happened. So tell me what happened.”

The aide handed McCallister a note that was sent to NCIS from the Department of Defense two minutes before.

0103 EST FRENCH NAVY FRIGATE FLOREAL FIRED UPON BY IRANIAN FRIGATE ROSTAM 26 MILES WNW OF DUBAI IN PERSIAN GULF FLOREAL RETURNED FIRE BOTH SHIPS TOOK DAMAGE FRENCH AND IRANIAN COMMANDERS ORDERED STAND DOWN

0140 EST USAF JETS IN SUPPORT OF FRENCH NAVY TASK FORCE WERE PAINTED BY SOVIET AIR FORCE JETS IN SUPPORT OF IRAN NAVY TASK FORCE USAF RESPONDED IN KIND NO SHOTS FIRED

0153 EST SOVIET AND EAST GERMAN JETS COME WITHIN 40 YARDS OF CROSSING BORDER INTO WEST GERMANY IN VICINITY OF NATO REGIONAL HQ IN KASSEL

0201 POTUS ORDERS MILITARY READINESS LEVEL RAISED TO DEFCON 2

“Shit,” McCallister muttered, as he got up from the cot in his office and ordered the aide to bring him a cup of coffee. The director wouldn’t get any sleep anytime soon.

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

2:23 a.m.

The Triumph nightclub on Avenue John Brown was packed and it was loud. Trevor saw that the queue of people looking to get inside was three blocks long, and he and his driver, Kort, heard the music another block away.

"You couldn't have picked a quieter place?", Trevor said, as Kort drove past the nightclub's entrance, looking for a small parking lot outside a bank.

"We can conduct our business there," Kort said. "The Russians may be disciples of Marx, but they love to party. Especially when the political officers aren't around."

Kort quickly found his destination. Two armed guards stood along the street, guarding the entrance into the lot. Kort rolled down his window, pulled out two U.S. $50 bills, and handed them to the lead guard, who pointed to the last open space in the lot. Kort pulled his West German Mercedes-Benz SUV into that space.

"The political officers are always around the Soviets," Trevor replied. "They're probably all over that nightclub."

"So is the Agency," Kort replied, opening the driver's door to get out of the vehicle. Trevor followed suit, and went to the back of the SUV, and saw Kort put a shoe-sized metal box inside a duffel bag.

"What's inside the bag?", Trevor asked.

"Gifts, for our friends."

"What's inside the box?"

"Insurance."

The two men made their way down the side of the building to a rear, alternate entrance. Trevor thought the six Haitian guards had enough weapons on them to supply a battalion. Kort took them in stride as he flashed his CIA badge and gave them each a 500₽ Soviet ruble note. Trevor could only guess as how much Soviet -- and American -- money the Agency had to blow like that.

He and Kort were ushered down a hallway to a small room where two men awaited them. The men sat at a small table near a bar, while two television sets -- tuned to a Haitian news network and United Nations Television One, respectively -- played on the side wall. The taller, larger and balder of the two men stood up to greet Kort and Trevor.

"I am Dmitri Pushkin," the man said, shaking both Americans' hands. "It truly is a pleasure to meet you both. You are Kort, and Trevor, da?"

"Yes," Trevor replied. "Who's your friend?"

A smaller, thinner man with sandy blonde hair wearing a brown suit remained seated, barely acknowledging the Americans. "We call him Boris," Pushkin said. "Boris. After the cartoon."

"Cartoon?" Kort said.

"Moose and squirrel. Boris and Natasha," Pushkin replied, not waiting for Kort and Trevor to get the Bullwinkle reference. "Ah, perhaps you are both fatigued from your long journey."

"Not as long as yours, I'd guess," Trevor said.

Pushkin looked at Boris, who shook his head. Pushkin then smiled at the Americans. "It has been a long journey for us all. The night is still young, as your American singer Billy Joel would say--"

"Surely you didn't come all this way to quote Billy Joel," Trevor said, suddenly annoyed at the overly friendly Russian and his surly friend. "Why are we here, Pushkin?"

"You are a man who gets to the point," Pushkin replied. "We are here for business."

"Business."

"The most serious kind. You both serve your country. Boris and I serve the Soviet Union. And we all serve humanity--"

"You have some kind of message from Khalinin?" Trevor said as images from the Indianapolis explosion went through his mind. "Because I have one for him--"

"Colonel, Colonel, Colonel," Pushkin said, with a disarming smile. "Please, let us not get off on the wrong foot. We have much to talk about. So let us relax!" Pushkin snapped his fingers, and then the women appeared in the doorway.

[Brky2020]

Author's note: IOTL, the European domestic seasons would have finished by now, as would have the UEFA Champions League competition.


ITTL, domestic unrest in the U.K. caused the English FA to suspend play two weeks; the Premier League began its season in September as a result. A heavy snowstorm in early January further postponed the season another two weeks. That in turn -- along with a three-week suspension of play in Italy after 13 fans and police officers were killed in rioting that occurred during a match between two Sicilian Serie A clubs -- affected the Champions League schedule.


On Saturday, May 26, 2007, Real Madrid beat Lokomotiv Leningrad 3-2 in extra time at Madrid, Spain in one Champions League semifinal; A.C. Milan beat Chelsea 2-1 in the other semifinal at Stamford Bridge in London. The final, scheduled for June 17 in Munich, West Germany (accounting for the scheduled end of the English football season June 10), officially is still scheduled but UEFA will likely make a decision on postponement by week's end.


The English Premier League table, with two weeks remaining, is as follows:


Manchester United 23-8-5 77 pts


Chelsea 21-9-5 72


Liverpool 20-5-11 65


Tottenham 18-10-8 64


Arsenal 18-10-8 64


Leeds 17-8-11 59


Newcastle15-11-10 56


Everton 14-8-14 50


Manchester City 14-7-15 49


Aston Villa 12-12-11 48


Portsmouth 14-6-16 48


Charlton 13-8-15 47


Sheffield United 12-10-14 46


Fulham 11-9-16 42


West Ham 11-9-16 42


Sunderland 12-5-19 41


Blackburn 9-13-14 40


Southampton 9-11-16 38


Birmingham 6-6-24 24


West Brom 4-7-25 19

[Brky2020]

f I had the time and knowledge, I'd create a faux Wikipedia page for the State of New Troy, which ITTL is an island east of New Jersey and Delaware. Twenty-three miles of water -- the Jersey Sound -- separate the island from the mainland. Strikers Island (outside Gotham harbor), the northernmost point of New Troy, is directly east of Asbury Park, New Jersey. The state's southernmost point, Swan Park in the southern portion of the borough of Bakerline, is directly east of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

New Troy joined the Union on May 2, 1789, one of the Original Fourteen Colonies that founded the United States of America. Over the years, two major cities dominated the state, separated by farmland and forest (and, later, urban sprawl).

Metropolis, the "Apricot City", is the state capitol and has a population of 5,745,289 as of 2005. It's best known as the home of Fortune 500 company LexCorp, a technology company still run by its 56-year-old founder Lionel Luthor (he named the company after his son Alexander a.k.a. "Lex", who died at a young age). Metropolis also is home to Galaxy Communications, which owns and operates The Daily Planet newspaper, NewsTime magazine and WGBS-TV (which was to be the flagship station of the Galaxy Broadcasting System, a would-be fourth network that folded in the late 1980s). Metropolis is bright, cheerful, and optimistic -- a stark contrast to its sister city.

Gotham, which had a population of 5,126,741 as of 2005, is as dark as Metropolis is bright. Gotham is known for three things: its Gothic architecture, its perpetual problems with corruption, and the psychotic criminals that held the city in their grip during much of the last decade. Years later, although crime is way down and the downtown area is finally being redeveloped, it's still easy to buy off city government officials and most people in the city's police and fire departments. The most prominent corporation is Wayne Industries, which has holdings in everything from construction to technology.

In recent decades, the forest and farmland between the two cities has largely given way to the much smaller city of Bludhaven (population 213,262 as of 2005), and 17 smaller towns and bedroom communities that connect Bludhaven and Metropolis. Bludhaven has had its own problems with civic corruption and large-scale unemployment; WayneTech, LexCorp and FedEx are the only corporations willing to make a commitment to the city.

Directly to the west of Bludhaven lies Metropolis-Gotham International Airport, the ninth busiest airport in the United States. The Weisinger Expressway connects Metropolis, Bludhaven and Gotham, and the New Troy Parkway circles the island. New Troy is connected to the mainland by the Siegel and Shuster Tunnels (to Delaware and southern New Jersey) and the Kane Tunnel (to northern New Jersey).

[Brky2020]

Chapter 44

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

2:27 a.m. EDT

Trevor saw the two scantily-clad, slender Haitian women appear in the doorway almost instantly, and both made their way to the bar. The woman wearing a pink bikini came back to the table with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses, then put the glasses in front of the Americans. She filled them up and put the bottle to the side of the table, to Trevor's right. The woman in a lime bikini pulled two bottles of Bud Light from the mini-refrigerator behind the bar, and put both in front of the Soviets. Both women then left the room.

"Beautiful, aren't they?", Pushkin said, with a grin. "It is too bad we cannot enjoy their company, since we have much to discuss."

"I have lots I'd like to discuss," said Trevor.

"Of course, my new American friend," Pushkin said, as he grabbed his bottle of beer. He tore the bottle cap off with his teeth and spit it out on the floor, then raised the bottle to make a toast. "To friendship!", he said, jovially; Trevor stared at him, while Kort and Boris glared at one another. Pushkin looked around the table, shrugged his shoulders, and sat down. "In Russia, good drink is an occasion for relaxation. You do not seem, how do you Americans say it...?"

"I'm not in the mood," Trevor growled. "I'm up past my bedtime and I'm damn cranky. And I keep thinking about the people who've died in my country the past couple of days because of your people."

Boris turned his glare from Kort to Trevor.

"It is unfortunate," Pushkin said, hands spread out. "I have heard of the...unrest in the United States."

"I'm sure you have," Kort deadpanned.

"Would it help matters if I told you of equally offensive atrocities committed against the Soviet people in their own homeland in the days since the Indianapolis bomb?", Pushkin said. "Americans and Frenchmen blew up a school in Kiev today."

“Is this what the Soviet leadership is telling you?”, Kort replied. “ Maskirovka.”

“Smoke and mirrors.”

“I wouldn’t put it past the KGB to blow up that school — if that in fact happened — as a means to an end,” Trevor added. “Boris, you have anything to say?”

Boris said nothing.

“I saw the pictures,” Pushkin replied, with regret and anger in his voice. “We have not been able to catch the men. It is regrettable, da, these operations conducted by the West.”

"Is that what your political officer ‘Boris’ told you?", Kort replied. "Perhaps he knows more than you."

"I'd bet the farm he knows a lot more," Trevor added. Boris's eyes darted between the Agency officer and the U.S. Air Force Colonel. The KGB officer then whispered something into Pushkin's ear.

Pushkin shook his head repeatedly. "My apologies, my friends," he said. "My comrade here is concerned greatly that our meeting is not going as well as we would like."

“I’m starting to think it’s a total waste of time“, Trevor said. "Why are we here, Pushkin? If you have a message from Moscow and it's anything other than 'we screwed up, royally, and we're going to back down now and pay you back a hundred-fold for all of the death and destruction we've caused', all this is, is a waste of time--"

"General Lane sent you because we could talk to you," Boris interjected. "We are not in the business of 'wasting time'. Perhaps the atmosphere here is not conducive to an open discussion."

Trevor’s expression was unreadable. He wondered what in hell the Soviets knew about Lane, and this mission the General had assigned him, and about anything else the American government didn’t want the other side to know.

“I propose we move this discussion to a more open area,” Pushkin said. “There is a table reserved for us, near the main dance floor—“

“Out of the question,” Kort said to Pushkin. The CIA man then turned to Trevor and nodded, and both men stood up. “Colonel, it seems to me that we have reached—“

“Wait, wait, wait!”, Boris shouted, as he stood up with both hands up. “Please. Give me one more minute. I promise it will be worth your wait.”

The Americans glanced at each other. “Clock’s ticking, comrade,” Trevor replied, he and Kort still standing.

“The two of us represent factions within the Soviet Union — Comrade General the military, myself the KGB — that wish to eliminate the power controlling our nation that threatens the world.”

“More than wish,” Pushkin added. “We have the means to eliminate the threat.”

Trevor sat back down. “Wait a minute. Did you just say what I thought you said?”

Boris whispered in Pushkin’s ear, again.

“This is not maskirovka,” Pushkin said. “We both serve the Soviet Union, but we also serve the greater cause of humanity. Come back this evening, through the front door. The nightclub will not be open to the public, so we will be able to speak more freely.”

“Why not speak here, and now?”, Trevor said.

“The walls have ears,” Boris replied. “Give us the day. Then the ears will vanish.”

Washington, D.C.

6 a.m. EDT

Contrary to the legends about Leroy Jethro Gibbs, the man did sleep.

He hadn’t gotten much sleep overnight, however. After Colonel Mann and her associates left his house, Gibbs decided to get some shut-eye on the cot in his basement, while Franks took the couch upstairs. Sleep came quickly to both men, who, despite the presence of a dozen suits inside and near the house, nevertheless slept with loaded handguns underneath their pillows.

Gibbs forgot about the very loud alarm clock on his workbench. It did its job, and woke him up right at 5:45. He stretched, then trudged upstairs to make breakfast and coffee. Seeing Franks snoozing on the couch, he turned on the TV in the kitchen and lowered the volume as not to wake up his friend and mentor.



--This is ZNN, the Satellite News Network, simulcasting on our sister channel, HNC. Here’s the headlines at this hour:

Allied and Pact forces worldwide remain on high alert, following skirmishes over the Persian Gulf and the border between the two Germanies in the past few hours.

ZNN has learned from its bureau in New Delhi that India Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, also the Secretary-General of the Non-Aligned Movement, has spoken with the American and Soviet Ambassadors to India, hoping to use them to reach their countries’ leaders so he could speak to them directly about brokering a peace treaty.

Back home in the U.S., both the House and Senate reconvened at 5:15 a.m. to vote on two items: approving the Rock Act, which effectively would turn the media over to government control, and reinstituting the draft. As you see in this live shot, Capitol Hill is swarming with military guards. The White House, the Pentagon and other federal government buildings also are under heavy guard at this hour.

Police presence has as much as tripled around the Soviet Embassy in Washington and Soviet consulates around the country. Five people were arrested in San Francisco after attempting to rush past police and engaged armed guards in front of the local Soviet consulate.

Coming up next: Carol Costello will talk with Katharine Weymouth, the publisher of the Washington Post, about the Rock Act—


Gibbs took the TV remote and clicked through the channels until he found a black-and-white episode of The Andy Griffith Show. With Andy, Opie and Aunt Bee talking in the background, Gibbs cracked open some eggs over the skillet.

A short while later, Franks woke up to the smell of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. He sat up on the couch and saw Gibbs staring at him.

“Probie, why don’t you just tell me ‘Mike, get your ass over here. Breakfast’s gettin’ cold’?” Franks grumbled, without complaint. Gibbs smiled, and went over to the refrigerator to get some butter and molasses. The men had time to eat, and almost finish their coffee before Gibbs’s phone rang.

“Gibbs,” he said, and the person on the other line told him about a dead Navy SEAL discovered by a Metro police officer on foot patrol. Always prepared for any situation, Gibbs got up, grabbed his NCIS cap and jacket from a coat rack next to the dryer, and told Franks he was coming along.

On the way to the crime scene, Gibbs got a call from an unknown number. His hunch that it may be Hollis or someone connected to her paid off. “Yeah, Gibbs."

“Jethro. It's Hollis.”

“Hollis? Are you—“

“Listen. Meet me and others at the park near the old Pentagon Centre, take the back way in.”

“‘Back way in’? Tell me—“

“Sneak in, don’t be seen. Get there by 10:30. We’re going in, early.”

“Early?”

“Early. If we go tonight, there’s a good chance we get caught by the wrong people. We go now, we probably don’t get seen at all. You in or out?”

Gibbs looked at Franks. “You said 10:30. I just caught a case.”

“You have three agents, one who should have his own team by now, two who probably will lead their own teams in time, and a Mossad agent who can probably protect them all by herself. Again, Jethro. In? Or out?”

Gibbs paused. “In. But I go to my crime scene first, check it out, hand it off. Then Mike and I head out.”

“Good enough. See you then, and stay safe,” she said before hanging up.

Franks had watched Gibbs throughout the entirety of the call. “Hollis?”

“Looks like the ‘field trip’s happening a lot earlier than tonight, Mike,” Gibbs said.

Rock Creek Park

7:16 a.m.

Gibbs’s truck — followed as discreetly as possible by two of the suits, in a very conspicuous shiny jet black Ford Expedition SUV — pulled in front of a Metro DC police cruiser. He and Franks got out of the truck and began looking for whichever police officer was in charge, and found their man about 50 feet away.

A middle-aged man in a light blue shirt and dark blue tie stood next to a woman who was squatting over what looked like the victim. Gibbs barely recognized the woman from having visited the NCIS morgue as a guest of Ducky’s a few years ago, but didn’t know the man. Time to take care of that, thought the NCIS agent as he briskly walked their way, ignoring the dull ache in his knee while putting on a pair of the gloves he and his team always wore at crime scenes.

“You must be Gibbs,” the man said, reaching into his right pants pocket to pull out his badge and ID. “Detective Sportelli, Metro PD.”

Sportelli glanced at Franks. “You the new director? This guy must be a pretty big deal if you’re showing up—“

“Hell no,” Franks growled. “Retired NIS agent Mike Franks.”

“My mistake. Saw the news on TV about that woman Shepard getting killed; they showed the picture of the guy who replaced her — McAndrews? — okay. Well, he’s not here, so I guess this is a run of the mill case.”

“There’s never a ‘run of the mill’ case, and this man’s a pretty big deal to someone, maybe including the killer,” Gibbs said, taking a few moments to look at the victim. The deceased laid face-up, dressed in civilian clothing, and a very prominent wound in his chest. The African-American looked to be in his early 30s and, Gibbs thought, was big enough to play linebacker for the Redskins and, as a SEAL, wouldn’t be an easy kill. Was he a SEAL, though?

“You find ID on him?”, he asked Sportelli. The detective shouted at an officer, who went to his squad car and came back with a clear bag that contained a leather wallet. Gibbs took the wallet out of the bag and quickly found what he was looking for. The body now had a name: Chief Wendell Sears.

“Figured this guy would be overseas, if he were Navy,” Sportelli said. “Could be fake.”

“That’ll be for my people to determine,” Gibbs said firmly, to remind the detective that this was an NCIS case — his case — now.

Gibbs handed Franks the bag to hold onto and told him to give Tony and Ducky a call to see where the rest of the team were at, and took a look around the body. Ignoring Sportelli and the woman, Gibbs looked at the small blood pool under the chest. He really wanted his people there to take over the scene, and Ducky’s initial thoughts on the timeframe and method of death.

Instead, he had to make do for the moment with the people around him. He knew Sportelli wouldn’t give up the scene until Gibbs’s team arrived, so Gibbs turned to someone who he didn’t know, but gambled on trusting on account of Ducky’s brief mention of her as a friend and colleague years ago.

“So you worked with Dr. Mallard?”, Gibbs asked the woman, who was momentarily confused as to who he was talking about. Then he saw the recognition, and a broad smile, on her face.

“Ducky,” she said. “He certainly is a friend, and a colleague. We’ve known each other quite awhile. You must be Gibbs.”

“Yep. And you?”

“Oh. Jordan Hampton. Doctor Jordan Hampton. The new Medical Examiner of the District of Columbia. The man who had the job before quit. I was told he took his family out west, to some place in Oregon, he thought would be safe.” If the worst came to pass, she didn’t say, although Gibbs read it in her eyes. “I’m surprised Dr. Mallard’s not here.”

Gibbs looked over at Franks, who held up one finger on his right hand. “Less than five minutes away, Dr. Hamilton,” he said, glancing at her and then down at the body. “You got anything I can use right now?”

“Whoever did this to him had to have some kind of advantage on him, or maybe knew him pretty well,” she said, as a couple of more vehicles arrived and pulled off to the side of the road nearby. Gibbs saw the NCIS examiner’s van, and a blue Chevrolet SUV. Ducky and Palmer got out of the van, and the rest of Gibbs’s team out of the SUV.

“Guess I’ll take over, now,” Gibbs said to Sportelli.

“You can have it,” the detective replied.

The rest of Gibbs’s team arrived, and after catching them up on the victim, Gibbs had Kate, McGee and Ziva wait with Ducky and Palmer, and pulled Tony off to the side. “This is your case, DiNozzo. Call me if something goes haywire, but otherwise I’ll be off the grid for a few days.”

“What’s going on, Boss?” DiNozzo said, knowing Gibbs wouldn’t hand over control of a case unless he were under orders, or working another case. “The Mustache pull you off?”

“Me and Mike’s working something,” Gibbs said. “I’ll let you and the rest of the team know as soon as I can. For now, you’re in charge.“

“They—“

“They’ll listen to you, Tony. This is something I’ve got to get taken care of.”

Tony saw the concern, fear and gravity in his mentor’s eyes. “This thing. How serious is it?”

“Big. Bigger than you imagine,” he said. “Gotta go.”

Gibbs was closer to his truck than to his team, but walked out of his way to go to them. “DiNozzo’s running point on this one,” he told them. “Got something that Mike and I gotta take care of.”

“Gibbs?” Kate said. “Take care of what?

“DiNozzo’s in charge,” Gibbs replied, and said nothing else despite her and the others’ pleas. When Tony arrived to take charge of the scene, Gibbs and Franks were on the road, heading towards their destination.

Arlington, Virginia

The former Virginia Highlands Park

11:00 a.m.



--lots going on here in the District and throughout the nation, and the world. This is WTOP 103.5 FM and WTWP 1500 AM, Washington, D.C. We’ll go now to CBS News at the top of the hour.

(CBS News Radio sounder airs)

CBS News, this is Scott Pelley.

Police in New York City have arrested 47 protestors at an impromptu peace gathering in Times Square that started peacefully but soon turned rowdy. Chris Silber reports:

“A crowd estimated at 3,000 began gathering in Times Square just after 7 a.m. Eastern, in time for the start of the television network morning shows. Six men and women in green T-shirts with peace signs, guarded by a dozen men and women in black T-shirts, also with peace signs, stood in the intersection of Broadway and 47th as the crowd grew. By 9 a.m., New York City police had shut down Times Square both to foot and vehicle traffic; cameras and reporters from local stations and national networks, including CBS, were recording the leaders calling for the United States and Soviet Union to cease hostilities and agree to live in peace.

Nearly 40 minutes later, a few dozen protestors began arguing with NYPD officers, and minutes later several protestors appeared to attack four officers standing in front of a squad car two blocks away on 45th Street. Within minutes, over a hundred police officers, including members of the NYPD’s SWAT Unit, descended on Times Square to restore order. New York Police Commissioner Frank Reagan:

        We live in troubling times, and although we enjoy the rights to assemble and to protest, right now we must exercise those rights in an appropriate manner, at appropriate times, in appropriate venues. I do not doubt the organizers meant well, but these impromptu protests are hotbeds for those who would mean them, and all of us, harm. I wholeheartedly commend and support our officers who did an extraordinary job of keeping the peace in a situation that could have quickly turned into tragedy.

At this hour, the NYPD is being assisted by New York National Guardsmen in clearing Times Square, which remains closed to all traffic. Chris Silber, CBS News, Times Square in New York City.”

The British Army was called in to break up a similar protest in London’s Hyde Park that turned violent. The BBC reported three deaths and dozens more injured after the mood of the protest, organized by musicians John Lennon, Freddie Mercury and Pete Townsend, turned rowdy when members of the banned leftist political organization One Earth, One Government clashed with British military veterans.

Indiana National Guardsmen were called in to break up rioting this morning at FEMA camps around Indianapolis. The camps have seen protests the past few days over food and medicine distribution and from residents who want to go back home. A five-mile area around the site of the bomb that destroyed the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on Memorial Day remains closed to civilians; portions of surrounding Marion County are being reopened to residents pending federal and state inspections and other factors. This is CBS News.

President Boehner signed the controversial Rock Act into law this morning…--



“Turn that crap off, Jethro,” Franks grumbled, reaching to push the power button on the truck radio before Gibbs could react.

“Got something against the news, Mike?” Gibbs said as he looked out towards the large complex of buildings where they would go, once Hollis and her people arrived. With his truck parked just south of the intersection of the former Hayes and 15th Streets, on the southbound lane right next to the park, Gibbs kept an eye out for them and for anyone else.

“If I wanted to hear propaganda I’d listen to Radio Moscow,” Franks said. “When’s the last time you heard anything about Indianapolis? It ought to be the lead story on every newscast and in the newspaper. You hardly hear much about anything going on there. That’s the Rock Act for ya.”

“Kate called me last night, before Hollis and her people showed up,” Gibbs said. “Her uncle, the governor, said nobody’s going into the city anytime soon because of the water supply. Much of it’s contaminated and not all of it by the bomb.”

“Russians?”

“Or their friends. FEMA thinks some of the reservoirs were ‘spiked’ right before the explosion—”

“Which no one is saying was a nuke. If that wasn’t a nuke, then these things burnin’ a hole in my pocket aren’t cigarettes, either. Whatever it was, it was an act of war, and why in hell the President’s not already declared war makes no damn sense.”

“War on who, Mike?”

“The Soviets. No way the Islamists or the cartels could’ve built a nuke that powerful.”

“Maybe, Mike, it’s because once we go to war with the Soviets, it’s over.”

Franks conceded Gibbs’ point, and decided to change the subject. “If we’re gonna listen to the radio, then the least you could do is let me see if there’s some decent music to listen to—”

“They’re late.”

Franks started to speak, paused a moment, then spoke. “Maybe they’re taking their time gettin’ here, Probie. Wasn’t easy to sneak in past those Arlington cops back there, near that old Exxon station. Hell, whoever’s running that thing up there” – Franks pointed to the nearby complex – “probably already knows we’re here.”

“Hollis told us how to come in here, Mike.”

“She said the park, Jethro. Not on the street. Hidin’ under a couple of trees ain’t gonna cover us.”

“Wanna go out and look around, Mike? You’ve been complaining about not being able to go out and smoke since we left Rock Creek Park.”

“Not my damn fault you don’t want any smoke inside your truck, Probie,” Franks said, with a smile. “And I didn’t survive all those years working for NIS by being a fool; I’ll light up after they show up and we get out of this thing.”

Franks settled for the moment for chewing a piece of gum, scanning the area for any sign of anyone else besides them. “They’ll show up, Jethro. Don’t worry. My gut tells me they’ll be here before you know it.”

“Probably,” Gibbs said. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing, yet.”

“What’s your gut telling ya?”

“I know what she said about tonight, Mike. Something doesn’t seem right about—”

“Jethro.” Franks pointed behind them. Gibbs looked in his rear-view mirror and saw a plain-looking black van pulling up behind them, slowing down about 20 feet away.

“I see it,” Gibbs said.

“Your girlfriend own a black van, Probie?”

Gibbs reached for his SiG-Sauer, pushing the growing sense of dread out of his mind. “On my six, Mike, but keep your eye on the facility.”

Both men got out of the truck and headed towards the van. Gibbs was relieved to see Sloane behind the steering wheel and Langer besides her, but kept an eye out for any sign of unexpected company.

“I don’t like this, Jethro,” Franks said as the pair slowly made their way to the van. “This whole area’s restricted, or it’s supposed to be, but nobody’s around.”

“You’re wrong—“

“The damn Pentagon less than a mile away is swarmin’ with security and soldiers. This place, if it’s what she says it is, oughta have a whole damn Army division here protecting it.”

Gibbs pointed to a nearby building. "Probably hiding in plain sight," he said, although the lack of anyone else in the vicinity made him concede Franks' point. He thought at the very least the area had to be heavily monitored, and the sight of a security camera perched on the side of a nearby building confirmed his hunch. "Second floor, next to the window on the corner: security camera," he said, pointing to the building for Franks' benefit. "They're probably hidden all over the place."

"So we're being watched. I hope her people are the ones watching."

The side door of the van opened, and Gibbs saw Hollis waving him in; as he approached the van, he saw Teague and Cooke both holding semi-automatic weapons, looking ready to fire at will. Both men got in, sitting on buckets set out for them.

“Jethro, I hope you’re not married to that truck out there,” Hollis said.

“Hollis…” Gibbs said with a groan.

“We’re going to have to abort,” she replied. “We got intel on the way over suggesting we’re running into a trap.”

“It’s reliable, Boss,” Langer said to Gibbs. “Contact within the Bureau who knows about the ring said there’s a civil war of sorts between those who want to open it up to the public and those who want to keep it a secret.”

“When did your contact reach you?” Gibbs asked.

“Not long after I called you when you were at Rock Creek Park,” Hollis said, apologetically.

“Jesus, lady,” Franks interjected. “You ever hear of a cell phone!?!”

“Mike…”

“Don’t ‘Mike’ me, Jethro! For all we know we might be walking into a trap—“

“Which is why we need to leave,” Sloane said, looking outwards towards the complex. “This van’s sturdier and more powerful than she looks. Zero to 60 in two seconds, we’ll be out of the line of sight in sec—“

Gibbs’s hand was on Sloane’s wrist before she or anyone else knew it, keeping her from being able to take the van out of park and into reverse. Gibbs barely saw Hollis chop down on his arm above his wrist, hard enough that he loosened his grip on Sloane’s wrist long enough for her to slip her wrist out of his grasp.

“You do that again and I’ll chop your head off, Jethro,” Hollis said in a menacing tone. “Literally.”

Gibbs glared at her, she at him. Franks saw Cooke and Teague with their handguns pointed downwards and their fingers on the trigger, and reached over to put himself between Gibbs and Hollis. “Colonel,” Franks said to Hollis, “does the situation warrant not investigating this ring that you and your people spent half of last night trying to convince me to visit?”

“It does, former Agent Franks, and in my opinion it also warrants us withdrawing imm—“

“DUCK!”

Franks found himself knocked down to the van floor by Sloane, who was trying to cover him. In the corner of his eye, he saw Langer dragging Gibbs downwards and Hollis diving between Langer and himself.

A second later, he heard an ear-splitting explosion that cracked the front window of the van and caused it to shudder for a few, long seconds. That was followed by another explosion that Franks figured wasn’t too much further ahead, and probably aimed at Gibbs’s truck.

Hollis was the first of them to look up, and she glanced at Gibbs, then her team and then Franks. She — and the others — saw flames about five feet in front of the van, through the cracked front window, and flames not far away, near the truck.

Then she noticed the old Cadillac in the intersection that wasn’t there before, and a glint from inside the vehicle.

Shooter.

Her training kicked in almost before she could think of what she needed to do.

“HIT THE DECK!”, she yelled, and seconds later the windshield and front grille of the van were peppered with gunfire. “Cooke! Give me the key,” she barked, while crawling towards the back of the van, and a locker. She took the key, used it to open the locker, then pulled out a couple of semi-automatics. After handing them to Gibbs and Franks, she took another semi-automatic for herself.

“We’re gonna have to fight our way out of this one,” she said, checking the ammunition in her weapon. “Question is, are they with the General or are they garden-variety Spetsnaz?”

“Doesn’t really matter at this point, does it, Hollis?” Langer said.

“Nope,” she replied. “Jack, you get out of here. I’ll get out and draw fire while you—“

Gibbs reached and grabbed her by the arm, with more force than he wanted and with far more fear than he wished. “You.”

“I won’t ask my team to do something I won’t do myself,” she said, turning away from Gibbs to head for the back door. He stopped her before she could turn the handle.

“I’ll go,” he said. “You take Mike and your people—“

“My turn to play hero, Jethro…I love you, you bastard.”

He stared at her, speechless, as she turned the handle. “Do me a favor. Don’t name that boat in your basement after me…Jack. You heard my orders.”

She got out, and he leapt out of the van behind her, both to cover her and to shoot at whomever was trying to kill them.

As they ran back towards a large tree to use for cover, he saw one of the assailants, dressed in all-black garb that he had seen somewhere before, during one of Jenny’s mandatory intelligence sessions. North Korean Special Guards, he though; North Korea had lent use of its military and intelligence resources to the Soviets over the past ten years, and these special forces were probably doing the equivalent of contract work for the KGB. Whoever they were, they were bad news, at least for Hollis and himself and the five friendlies stuck in the van.

Gibbs reached in his pocket for his cell phone; he was going to have to call in McAllister on this one, and deal with the consequences later. But he only felt his wallet and keys, and cursed. It must’ve slipped out of his pocket in the truck, he thought. Damn these pants DiNozzo told me I had to buy.

Looking over at Hollis, Gibbs saw a flash of anger and surprise in her eyes as she shot at the enemy. He remembered her telling Sloane to get the hell out of here, and winced when he noticed the van was still there. Is it drivable? Gibbs ducked to see if there was any fluid leaking from below the engine, but couldn’t tell from his distance.

Out in the intersection, one of the vehicles moved further east, and Gibbs knew the assailants were trying to get a clear line of sight on them. If they had a missile to fire at the van…

“We’re going to have to ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ it to draw their fire, Jethro,” Hollis said, breaking Gibbs’s train of thought. Her comment clarified in his mind that he wasn’t likely to make it out alive.

“We’re not going to make it,” Gibbs replied.

“Maybe not us, but they can,” she said. “Bonnie and Clyde.”

“You mean Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“Yeah. Got my movies mixed up. All this time and I had no idea you were a movie aficionado.”

“Nope. I saw it when I was in basic training, and again when DiNozzo brought his DVD player over to watch with me.”

“You remember how that movie ended?”

“Yeah. Freeze-frame.”

“I’m taking a few of them with me,” she said, running out from behind the tree before Gibbs could say or do anything to stop her.

Law enforcement personnel are trained to run to the battle, trained to overcome a human’s natural tendency to do whatever it takes to survive. As an officer in the United States Army, Hollis Mann had undergone hours of training to become a soldier. Yes, she was an investigator — unlike NCIS, the Army’s Criminal Investigative Command (often referred to as CID) pulled its agents from the ranks of active or reserve Army personnel — but at heart she was a soldier. Especially in light of the ever-present and growing Soviet threat, which had manifested itself in front of her.

As she ran towards the three vehicles and those firing at her from behind and within them, the ring came to Hollis’ mind. She pushed it aside to think of her teammates, and of Gibbs, who she heard yelling and firing behind her. She put his face in her mind’s eye.

Then she felt a sharp pain in her stomach, and felt herself falling, and thought it was strange that she didn’t feel herself hitting the street.

Her mind began to drift, even as she saw the backs of her teammates — her friends, her comrades-in-arm — run towards the battle, then stop. Had they been hit? No…they’re turning around? Fight! Or run like I order – ord —

Hollis screamed in agony at the intense pain that abruptly manifested itself back into her stomach, and sensed that her strength was quickly ebbing. The pain subsided a little, but enough that she could retain her concentration for one more thing.

She saw Jethro to her left, and saw the blood splatter on his pants and shirt, and for the first time figured out why her stomach was hurting so goddamned much.

Only then did it dawn on Hollis that it was now or never to say her last words. This man, this enigma, this bastard, this man of honor would hear them, and she wanted no one other than him with her, now.

“Hollis. Stay with me. Cooke’s calling for backup.” She could see the fear that he was losing her in Gibbs’s eyes, and she mustered her best smile to try to reassure him.

“Is alright, Gibbs,” she said in a near-whisper. Her energy was running low and about to run out, and the sky began to turn dark. “Come closer.”

He put his ear next to her lips. “In my jacket. Pack-et. Yours. Give the letter to Jo. Says you’re on the team.”

“Hollis, you can tell her yourself,” he whispered, as Franks and Sloane made their way over to them. “Stay with us. Backup’s comin’.”

“Je-thro,” she said, drawing out his name. “Do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Your next ex-wife. Don’t be…be ass. Tell her…why my name’s on…boat…tell…her…you love her…”

The light went out in her eyes as she exhaled her last breath.

Gibbs shut his eyes tight for several long moments. When he opened them, they were more moist than he wanted, and he noticed the others around him. Hollis’s eyes were closed.

“Probie. She’s gone,” Franks whispered.

“Did we get the bastards?” Gibbs said in a low roar.

“Jethro—“

“DID WE GET THE BASTARDS?” Gibbs screamed, the full force of his fury being directed at, but not to, his mentor. “DID WE GET THE ASSHOLES WHO DID THIS???”

Franks grabbed his mentee’s shoulders firmly and looked him right in the eye. “Every last goddamned one of ‘em, Probie. They won’t hurt anyone else ever again.”

“That’ll do,” Gibbs whispered, then looked at Franks and Langer, the two still-living people there whom he trusted the most. “Help me get her into the van. We’re going to Ducky’s.”

“That’s impossi—“ Teague said, shutting up at a glance from Langer.

“Joanna, let me,” Langer said. “Boss. We can’t. That’ll draw attention we don’t want right now. There’s a safe house in Manassas. We can bring Ducky there a helluva lot easier than we can take you to him right now. Trust me.”

“Ducky’s,” Gibbs repeated.

“Probie,” Franks interjected, with a soft, but firm, voice. “The man’s right. We gotta go to their safe house. We sure as hell can’t stay here. This place’ll be swarmin’ with God knows who in minutes. If you don’t trust them, if you don’t trust Langer, trust me.”

Gibbs pondered Franks’s advice, while Langer, Cooke and Teague picked up Hollis’s body and carried it to the van.

“I trust you, Mike,” was all Gibbs said from the time they walked to the van, during the ride to the safe house, and while Teague and Cooke cleaned up Hollis’s body the best they could once they got to the safe house.

Gibbs stayed silent even as flashing red and blue lights lit the darkened living room and kitchen of the safe house, and during the subsequent knock on the door.

Langer opened the door after consulting with Teague.

McCallister was there.

Gibbs had so, so many things to say, but squelched all of them deep inside his soul for the moment.

[Brky2020]

Chapter 45

Manassas, Virginia

Thursday, May 31, 2007

5:32 p.m.

“You going to let me in, Gibbs?"

The safe house that Hollis’s team took shelter was is located in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood.

The area was quiet not just due to its residents – many of whom were either retired seniors, or young couples with families – but also due to the regular Manassas police presence protecting its residents from suspected drug-related and general criminal activity going on at the apartment complexes less than a mile away.

Those who lived in the neighborhood were used to law-enforcement vehicles flashing blue-and-red lights every so often. Those cars and SUVs belonged to the Manassas police, responding to the occasional break-in, robbery or drug-related activity.

On rare occasions, the vehicles with the blue-and-red lights represented another agency. In front of this one-story brick house, there sat ten SUVs and one sedan, all with flashing lights, all from NCIS, whose director stood on the front porch impatiently waiting to be let in.

“Gibbs,” Teague said. “Let the man in. Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

Gibbs heard her but didn’t budge. A thousand thoughts were rampaging through his mind, all suggesting Riley McCallister, the director of NCIS, was behind the ambush at the complex, the deaths of Hollis Mann and Jenny Shepard, and God knew what else. Rage, not logic, dominated his thoughts.

Franks, on the other hand, was one of the few people who could break through the fog of animosity that clouded Gibbs’s mind.

“Jethro,” Franks said firmly. “Let the man in. Hear him out.”

This time, Gibbs listened, stepping back far enough for McCallister to step inside and go to the center of the living room

“Special Agent Gibbs, Retired Special Agent Franks,” McCallister began. “CIA Agent Teague. FBI Agent and former NCIS Agent Langer. ATF Agent Cooke. DIA Forensic Psychologist Sloane. The shooting incident with Lieutenant Colonel Mann is officially gang-related,” McAllister said. “Major General Binder – the Commanding General of Army CID – wants to know what the hell happened up there today.”

“He wants to know ‘what’ about what?”, Teague asked.

“Why are you here?”, Cooke interjected.

“Why are you here?”, asked McCallister. “Agent Gibbs?”

McCallister was peeved, but not surprised, that his agent kept silent.

“Maybe we’re gettin’ ready to play a game of poker, Riley,” Franks said. “Invited players only.”

“Which I might halfway believe if I saw a poker table in here,” McCallister replied. “I already know what happened up there today.”

While the other four agents looked sideways at one another, Gibbs and Franks kept their gaze steady on the director.

“I know why you two” – he glanced at Gibbs and Franks – “met the rest of you, and Lieutenant Colonel Mann, at an officially restricted federal complex in a neighborhood closed to the public and anyone else not authorized to be there. I know your team, Agent Teague, were racing to the scene to get to my people before they could be ambushed – and that you all were ambushed anyway. Four North Korean special forces agents, on hire for the KGB, hoping to get access to the facility with the Ring.”

The five federal agents, and the sole officially retired fed, stood stone-faced, waiting to see what else the NCIS director knew.

“I know about the Ring. I’ve known about it for some time now,” McCallister said. “Gibbs, I knew you and Lieutenant Colonel Mann visited the complex. I know she wanted Mike Franks to visit it too, to see it for himself, as a step towards getting your entire team to visit it. And, when and if the time comes, to go through it. I’ve seen it, too.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Sloane said. “Please tell us you had no idea the ambush was coming.”

“Scout’s honor,” McCallister said, although no one else in the room completely believed him. “You’re lucky there were only four of them, and they weren’t the elite-level North Koreans. There’s a lot of terrorist activity being sponsored by the Kremlin right now, people. Lucky for us, there aren’t an infinite supply of top-level special forces to carry it out. A lot more of it’s being farmed out to third-string operatives and below—”

McCallister stopped talking when he saw Gibbs, whose glare had turned menacing, slowly making his way over to him. “Jethro,” Franks said as the others saw what Gibbs was doing; Teague reached slowly for her handgun.

Gibbs finally stopped, both men’s noses literally an inch apart. McCallister met the man’s glare with one of his own, Gibbs enraged with grief, McCallister attempting to establish himself as the alpha dog in the room.

“I read up on you long before I accepted this job, Gibbs,” McCallister said with a lowered, even tone. “I know you’re a man of few words. But I’m your boss, Gibbs, and you’ve obviously got a problem with me and you need to tell me why.

Gibbs thought of Jenny, and Paris and Moscow and butting heads with her after she took the NCIS job and of her body laying in her car at the park. And he thought of Hollis, of the first time they met on the job at the golf course, and the nights they spent together in his basement and her apartment, and of her body laying on the ground at the facility. Two women, both of whom he loved, whose lives were taken in a hail of bullets.

“I can accept that you weren’t behind this, that you didn’t know about the ambush, Director,” Gibbs said. “Tell me. Were you behind the death of Director Shepard?”

“No, I was not,” McCallister said.

“Do you know who killed her, Director?”

“Sergei Mishnev, Agent Gibbs. You already know that, though. Is there something you want to say to me, Agent Gibbs?”

There was, and Gibbs suddenly realized it was the wrong thing, that Hollis’s death had shaken him far, far more than he realized and that he had lost track of his emotions. Gibbs understood if he didn’t regroup now, he’d fly off the track in ways that neither his people, these other agents nor himself needed right now.

McCallister didn’t kill Jenny Shepard, nor did he kill Hollis Mann. Gibbs saw Pablo Hernandez in his mind’s eye, and the caskets of Shannon and Kelly Gibbs, and had a flash of himself, insane with rage, setting up a nest across the Anacostia River so he could blow McCallister’s brains out in revenge.

It was time for Gibbs to get ahold of himself.

“You gonna arrest us, Director, for knowing about this ring?”

McCallister paused. “There’s enough people in town who know about the damn thing already. No friendly’s going to shoot at you for going there when the balloon goes up. Visiting hours are out of the question, though. Pentagon’s going overboard in securing the premises. You show up now, you will get shot at, by Rangers, SEALs, Knights, whichever elite-level forces the Pentagon can spare.”

“Have you spoken with our directors?” Teague said.

“No, Agent Teague, I haven’t spoken with anyone from the Agency or the Bureau or ATF or DIA about this. As far as the Major General, I kicked it up to SecDef. Army CID won’t be a problem going forward.”

“Gibbs,” McCallister said. “I had your truck towed to someone I know in town; I’ve emailed Agent DiNozzo with the owner’s name and the address of his garage so you can do your due diligence, satisfy yourself that the man’s on the up-and-up. You’ll have your truck back by Sunday afternoon, good as new.”

“I can fix it myself—”

“Thought I’d save you the time and trouble of rebuilding an engine,” he said, turning to walk back to his car. He took a step, paused, and turned back. “I’m sorry about Hollis, Jethro. I really am.”

That wasn’t much consolation to Gibbs, who watched Mccallister walk back to his SUV, and watched the caravan drive away.

Cooke shut the front door, and Teague snapped her fingers. “We’re done here,” she said, pulling out her copy of the letter than Hollis gave Gibbs before she died. As Teague read its contents aloud, Gibbs followed along silently.


I hereby nominate Leroy Jethro Gibbs and Michael Aaron Franks for membership. I trust them inherently to uphold the purposes of this team and to maintain its secrets when and wherever appropriate.


“So reads the letter,” Teague said to Cooke, Langer and Sloane. “Does anyone second the nomination?”

“I second it,” Langer said without hesitation.

“So do I,” Cooke said seconds later.

“As do I,” Sloane added.

“And I do as well,” Teague said. “As there are no nays, the nomination carries. Mr. Gibbs, Mr. Franks, welcome to the team.”

Gibbs acknowledged the honor with a slight nod. Franks cleared his throat. “Well, that’s nice, Agent Teague, but having gotten shot at today by the equivalent of Kim Jong-il’s second-string junior varsity death squad, and seeing someone important to my family die, what exactly are the purposes of this team I just became a member of?”

“To get as many people through the ring as possible when the time comes, plain and simple,” Teague said. “And the time will come, too. Gibbs, Hollis had another letter for me to give you, of a more personal nature, to read at your leisure.”

She went to her purse that was laying on the couch, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Gibbs. “We’re pulling out, people,” she announced. “Gibbs, Mike, we’ll be in touch soon. Agent Langer will take you two back to your house.”

Gibbs nodded and walked outside, while Franks made small talk with Langer and the others gathered their belongings scattered around the living room. The sky was cloudy, and Gibbs could smell the humidity in the air; he looked down the street towards the west and saw some ominous-looking black clouds in the distance.

Fitting, Gibbs thought as he looked around the neighborhood. A few people were staring outside their doorways or through blinders or parted curtains, and a couple of kids down the street were staring as their mother yelled at them to get inside. Gibbs wondered if he should say something, maybe tell the mom to lighten up a little.

He wondered, since he was a member of this team, how many kids and parents he could round up on a moment’s notice, if he needed to. Should he go down the street and—

“Jethro.”

Gibbs turned his head and saw an impatient Franks standing to his left. “Langer’s ready to go. They all are.”

Franks pointed to Langer’s white Toyota Camry parked behind a red truck Cooke was getting into, and ahead of a gold Corvette driven by Sloane that was pulling out of the long driveway. Teague was inside a black Mercedes-Benz SUV parked ahead of Cooke, in front of the garage.

Langer stopped before he got into his car, having pulled an envelope left underneath the wiper on the driver’s side. “Boss,” he yelled to Gibbs, holding the envelope high for him to see from a distance.

Gibbs took it only after he got in the front passenger seat and locked the door, and didn’t say a word until Langer got to his house. Suits were all over the property and parked in front of Gibbs’ house, and Langer had to stop in the middle of the street next to one of the SUVs to let both men out.

“Thanks,” Gibbs said, reaching in his wallet for a $20 bill. Langer held his palm out. “Ride’s on me, Boss. Don’t worry about it.”

“Langer…”

“I’m serious, Gibbs,” Langer said. “We’ll be in touch, but you need me for anything, pick up a phone. I’ll be there.”

“I know,” Gibbs said. He threw the bill down onto the seat and shut the door before Langer could protest. He nodded at the agents guarding the front door, went through it as one held it open for him, and didn’t stop until he got to the basement.

One of the agents stopped Franks as he walked onto the porch. “Director said to us only that you two had a rough day,” she said. “You need anything — takeout, beer run, whatever — say the word.”

Franks took a few steps past her, stopped, and turned around. “A cold bottle of Corona wouldn’t be bad right now,” he said to her. “A bottle of bourbon, too. I don’t think either of us are hungry.”

He walked inside, and down to the basement, where he saw Gibbs already at work on his boat, stenciling an H on its side. One look from Gibbs told Franks it’d be a good idea for him to go upstairs for awhile and watch a movie.

Over the next hour, Gibbs sanded and varnished the boat, stopping every so often to add another letter to its side. Eventually, he got too tired to go on, but didn’t stop until he had gotten Hollis just right. The cot near the workbench beckoned Gibbs, who realized he needed a few hours of sleep to recharge.

The cot held sturdy as Gibbs flopped down onto it. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something besides the day’s events. Shannon and Kelly came to mind and he quickly pushed thoughts of them away. Not today, hon, he thought, certain that Hollis and everything he didn’t want to dwell on would quickly follow and embed themselves in his brain.

The thing was that there wasn’t much else Gibbs could dwell on. He read books and watched movies on occasion, but it’d been a long time since he picked up a Jack London novel or since DiNozzo came over with his DVD player. Gibbs found himself searching through a myriad of memories — Iraq, Stillwater, Mexico, Moscow, Paris, Baltimore — trying to find something he could fall asleep to.

His mind kept going back to his team.

Kate, who had in her own right become one of NCIS’s best agents while harboring a secret.

Ziva, the Mossad officer forced on him who had become another daughter to him, who had discovered a new life and family far away from her domineering father.

McGee, the young and naïve agent who had progressed leaps and bounds in just a few years, who Gibbs realized he had been too hard on.

Abby, the lab rat who charmed her way into his heart from her very first day and, though he was reticent to admit it, had perhaps filled some of the hole in his soul caused by Kelly’s death.

Palmer, scared to death of him and nervous as hell, until that day where he did to the terrorist what Kate couldn’t do to Ari, and since then had changed his personality completely.

Ducky, who Gibbs felt a kinship with from the day they met, and was one of the true friends who would call him out on his bullshit and be there no matter what.

And Tony, the son he never thought he wanted to have, whose wisecracking attitude masked his competence. He wondered why in hell Tony hadn’t taken Jenny’s offer of the head job in Rota, indeed why he still stuck around in D.C….

DiNozzo…DAMMIT! The case!

Gibbs jumped off the cot and grabbed his phone from the workbench, calling DiNozzo five times. Each time he got a busy signal. Nothing.

Cursing under his breath, Gibbs called Ducky, and this time someone picked up. “Jethro!”, said the doctor on the other line. “It’s very good to hear from you. How are you and Mike Franks?”

“Mike’s fine. Where’s DiNozzo?”

“Upstairs, wrapping up the case.”

“Wrapping up the case? Already?”

“You may not believe it, although Tony is writing an extensive report for you. He’s having the others do the same. I’ve never encountered a case completed in a single day before, even with agents having double- and triple-checked the—“

“DUCK,” Gibbs blurted with a bit more annoyance than he wished. He hoped Ducky would take it as normal behavior.

“My apologies, Jethro.”

“You in the morgue, Duck?”

“I am, Jethro. I sent Mr. Palmer back to his home-away-from-home and told him to watch a movie, or game, or whatever was on the Telly that’s not news-related.”

“News buggin’ him, Duck?”

“The news is ‘bugging’ us all, Jethro. The case was a welcome respite, in that it took our collective minds off current events and finally gave us something to focus on.”

“How’d it get wrapped upo quick?”

“The killer came to the Navy Yard and turned herself in.”

“Her?”

“The victim’s wife. She thought the victim was cheating on her, because by her logic he shouldn’t be here in the States at all. He was here to visit his mother who lives in one of the poorer parts of the District. He never got to saw her, unfortunately.”

Gibbs cursed after remembering that Riley had his truck, then remembered his car was still in the driveway. “How did the wife kill him, Duck?”

“A pool stick. A metal pool stick.”

“Say that again, Duck.”

“She stabbed him in the back with a metal pool stick. She had followed him since a friend told her he had arrived at Washington-Baltimore International last night. She put her weapon in her car and followed him from the airport into the city and confronted him at a gas station. Then she cut his tires, and he ran. And she followed him.”

“Go on.”

“She caught up to him at Rock Creek Park. They argued, and he walked away. Enraged, she ran back to her car, grabbed the cue, and ran until she caught up to him. Then she thrust the stick into his back. It went through his heart, and he fell, dying seconds later.”

“You know, Duck, I’m not sure—“

“Unsure you believe this. I understand, but the cue did kill him. Did I tell you the tip of the cue was sharpened?”

“No, Doctor, you didn’t. That might explain how it could penetrate skin and muscle.”

“The wife was an athlete in high school, a state champion in the javelin event. She has kept herself in outstanding physical shape over the years, and in fact is what Anthony called ‘buff’.”

“‘Buff’.”

“Her muscles are very well-toned, and at six feet and 195 pounds, has the strength and power to thrust the pool cue into a larger man — the victim — with such force as to kill him instantly.”

“Where’s Tony, Duck? I called him five times and he never picked up. He broke Rule—“

“Rule three? Or it Rule three-A? He was acting under the Director’s orders.”

Gibbs sighed. The mention of McAllister caused the day’s events to come flooding back into his mind. He pushed Hollis to the side. “What did Riley say to him? To you?”

“Only that you were on a special mission,” Ducky said before pausing.

“Duck?”

“And, only after the killer confessed and taken back to holding, did the Director say that Lieutenant Colonel Mann had died,” Ducky added. “He didn’t mention you or the case you were on, but…”

“Everyone put two-and-two together.”

“Yes…Jethro, how are you holding up?”

“I’m…I’d…I’d like to see the case notes, like to talk with Tony, but I’m too damn tired to do anything but try to get some shut-eye,” Gibbs admitted. “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow — and I will be at work in the morning and I expect everyone there.”

“Certainly, Jethro,” Ducky said. “It’s good you recognize that you need some rest, because otherwise I was going to order you to rest. I still may give that order, if I don’t like how you look tomorrow.”

“Duck…” Gibbs thought of the ring, and of what Teague said back at the safe house: the time will come. “I’m not sure I’m going to have that luxury.”

“Luxury?”

“We need to talk, tomorrow, in private. I can’t go into details now, but trust me that it’s as important as anything we’ve ever talked about.”

“Alright, Jethro. Is this related to Hollis?”

Gibbs felt a sharp stab in his gut. “Indirectly,” he said. “Clear time in your schedule. Ten-hundred hours.” 10 a.m.

“Of course, Jethro. For how long?”

“As long as it takes,” Gibbs said. “Until then. I gotta get some sleep.”

“Get your rest, Jethro,” Ducky said. “I’ll inform the others you and Mike are…well. We’ll speak tomorrow. Until then, have as good a night as possible, under the circumstances.”

Ducky’s voice gave way to silence, and Gibbs groaned at the thought of his being well. He wasn’t going to be well for a long time, but he hadn’t really been ‘well’ since he lost Shannon and Kelly. Gibbs’s eyes drooped as he looked for the place where he picked up his phone, and then saw the envelope he hadn’t yet opened. He read the one from Hollis after he got back home, but he had tossed McAllister’s envelope aside. Gibbs didn’t need his gut to tell him that he really needed to open the director’s envelope.

Using a flat screwdriver as a letter-opener, Gibbs saw a folded note and a flash drive. He opened the note.

Have your man McGee decrypt this, stat. You’re going to want to know what’s on it. McAllister.

Gibbs took the drive and note, shoved them down his right pocket, and then fell back onto the cot. As sleep overtook him, he tried to focus on something different and more pleasant. He thought of the treehouse in the backyard he had built for Kelly, and of the only time he and Shannon had been there, together, watching Kelly play teatime with her dolls.

This time, at least in his dreams, he got to keep his promise of teatime, with the two people he still loved more than anyone else.

10:32 p.m. EDT

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

"They blew us off," complained Trevor, as he paced the floor of the kitchen in the CIA safe house located in the southern portion of the city. "I'm of a mind to pull rank and get the hell out of here."

"That would not be wise," said Kort, who sat at the dining table with a half-warm, half-full cup of decaf coffee and a half-eaten danish. "The Soviets and their Dominican 'allies' -- the Fuerzas de seguridad Dominicanas -- are on the move, in the city. Tonight is not the time."

"You still don't think this was some sort of trap by the KGB?"

"No, I don't," Kort replied, taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

"So we wait for Boris and Rocket Red to give us the okay...Kort, we should be dictating terms to them."

"I disagree. The Rocket Red Brigade will follow Pushkin. So will a significant portion of the Red Army and the remainder of the Soviet military. Boris represents a faction within the KGB that will take control of the agency and neutralize the sitting Politburo. This in turn will end the war before it can begin."

"So we're putting another Putin into the hot seat. Remember how well that worked out?"

"This is different. Khalinin sees himself as the 'Stalin of the 21st Century' but cannot kill enough of his opposition. There is a large amount of opposition to him, Colonel. These men we will meet tomorrow represent that opposition. We, as you already know, represent the U.S. government. Agree on terms that both parties can live with, and we have our peace."

It's a simple solution, Trevor thought. Too damn simple. Something's way off about this but I can't quite put my finger on it yet.

Friday, June 1, 2007

Gibbs's house

7 a.m. EDT

Gibbs really didn’t want to wake up. He had dreamed of Shannon and Kelly many times before, and always treasured those ‘visits’, although he had never spoken of them to anyone else.

The worst part of it, always, was waking up to the real world. Usually, he awoke to his basement, the boat, and a partly-full bottle of bourbon on the workbench.

This time, Mike Franks was there too, and the expression on his face made Gibbs assume the worst.

“Mike?”, Gibbs said, groggily.

“Jethro,” Franks said, calmly and quietly. “I let you sleep as long as I could. Had to get you up. Coffee’s upstairs, one of the suits is makin’ us breakfast. She’s a pretty good cook, too.”

“Mike. What in hell’s going on?” Franks’ expression hadn’t changed, and Gibbs wasn’t going to let it slide. “Did something happen?”

“Jethro, I would’ve woken you up but Ducky—”

“What happened, Mike?” Gibbs said, already exasperated. “Are we at war?”

Franks realized that he’d done a lousy job of hiding his anxiety. He pulled a stool over near the cot and sat down. “There was some sort of peace concert in Australia. They’re like, 14 hours ahead of us I think. Celebrities, musicians, actors, athletes, a huge target.”

“Target for what?”

“Someone blew up the Sydney Opera House,” Franks said. “Destruction was total. Thousands dead. News is being real careful to assign blame, but if you read between the lines you can pretty much assume it’s from—”

“It’s from Moscow,” Gibbs said.

“There’s more,” Franks said. “News says there’s some big storm, Barry or something, that's about to turn into a hurricane. They’re evacuating Florida up to Orlando. ZNN says there’s been a bunch of accidents from Key West up to the Everglades, cars running into one another. Fox says the Cubans got a little too close to a United flight out of the Canal Zone taking civilians up to Texas.”

“You’re a lousy newscaster, Mike,” Gibbs said with a grin.

“You’re a lousy audience, Jethro, without some caffeine in you,” Franks joked. “You’re the one who wanted to go into work, right. You’re not gonna do that, sleepin’ down here all day.”

Navy Yard, Washington

9:03 a.m.



--again, CNN’s Christiane Amanpour is on the ground in Bangkok, Thailand. Christiane?

Susan, people are filling the streets of Bangkok, celebrating what we understand as the military overthrow of the country’s Central Committee and Politburo. About an hour ago, state radio and television returned to the air after going off abruptly around 4:30 p.m. local time. A general, confirmed to be known dissident Anuphong Phaochinda, dressed in the uniform of the former Royal Thai Army, sat at a desk and announced the retirement of the Central Committee and Politburo and the reestablishment of the Kingdom of Thailand under the emergency government of the Royal Thai Army, with the aim of reestablishing democracy and freedom by and for the Thai people.

Christiane, what is the atmosphere like in Bangkok?

Susan, people are happy, overjoyed that the Communist government has apparently been swept from power in what effectively is a bloodless coup. After the announcement on state media, military and civilian police looked on as people began to dance and sing, flying the flag of the Kingdom of Thailand. There is a tenseness underlying the celebratory mood, though. I can tell you according to a reliable source, the military is gearing up for a confrontation with the Soviets, who were instrumental in the murder of the last Thai monarch, Rama IX, and his family, and the founding of the People’s Republic of Thailand.--


Tony hit the mute button on the TV set behind his desk. He needed to take a final look over the report on the so-called ‘Pool Cue Case’. Gibbs hadn’t seen it yet, and he wanted it to be up to the boss’s usual standards.

Twenty minutes later, Tony finished the report and wondered where in hell Gibbs was.

“Penny for your thoughts, Tony?”

He looked up, and saw Kate with her chin on her palm. He looked closely at her, seeing less of the pain and rage from Indianapolis, and more of the Kate Todd he knew and loved.

“You gonna stare at me all day, Tony?” Kate said, with a hint of snark and in a good-natured way. The last couple of years had seen the relationship between the two evolve from borderline mean-spirited bickering to friendly, supportive, good-natured bickering between brother and sister.

“Oh! Sorry,” he said. “Wondering where the boss is.”

“He’ll be here,” she replied. “Even Gibbs has to rest. I’m sure he’ll be here before you know it.”

“Gibbs will be here, Tony,” interjected Ziva, from her desk on the other side of Gibbs’s desk, across from McGee. “He is strong. He will survive what he endured yesterday.”

“You have such a gift for subtle, smooth transitions, Ziva,” Kate said.

“Are we talking about…that….when Gibbs gets here?” McGee asked.

“No,” DiNozzo and Kate said together.

“Why not?” Ziva said. “Even just to give our constipations.”

McGee’s mouth flew open, and Kate slammed her palm over her mouth. “You mean condolences, Ziva,” DiNozzo said.

“That is the word I was looking for, thank you, Tony!” Ziva said.

“Uh, I wouldn’t go out of my way to bring it up,” McGee said. “Might be too soon, too raw.”

“I kinda agree with McGee,” Kate added. “Business as usual.”

“I am not saying we have to speak of Lieutenant Colonel Mann when Gibbs arrives for work,” Ziva said, “only that he is strong and will get through what he endured yesterday. He will survive. He will, eventually, move on.”

“He’s moved on from a lot, over the years,” Tony observed. “A whole lot more than most.”

The next moment, the nearby elevator dinged, and everyone in the bullpen turned their heads to see if Gibbs would walk out onto the floor. This time, he walked off, holding a box filled with five large black coffees from the Sundollars kiosk inside the front entrance, and a 48-ounce Caf!-Pow from the building cafeteria. He noticed all four of his people watching him intently, as he walked from his elevator to his desk.

Gibbs had Tony's coffee in hand before the senior field agent had stepped away from behind his desk. “Got somethin’ to say, DiNozzo?”, Gibbs said as he handed him his coffee.

“I’m sorry, Boss,” Tony said, taking the coffee. “We all are.”

Gibbs silently took the other coffees, passing them to Kate, Ziva and McGee.

“We are here for you, Gibbs,” Ziva said.

“Anything you need,” McGee added.

“Anything?” Gibbs said. “What about that report?”

Tony scrambled to grab the report off his desk, nearly knocking the bottle of creamer on to his keyboard. Kate, meanwhile, caught Gibbs’s eye, and both saw the same sadness in the other’s face.

He knew Kate would let it alone for the time being, and made a mental note to talk with her later on. Right now, there was a report to be read, after a few more stops. He looked up towards MTAC, and McCallister’s office. The director, he had already decided, would have to wait.

“Gonna check with Abbs and Duck,” Gibbs told his people. “Anyone comes looking for me, tell them to wait.”

Forensics Lab

Acknowledging the two suits outside the lab with a nod, Gibbs firmly gripped the Caf!-Pow in his right hand and braced himself.

Abby Sciuto saw him enter the lab and ran full force at him, launching herself into his chest and wrapping her arms around him in the tightest hug he could remember being in.

“Gotta let me breathe a little, Abbs,” Gibbs said, which caused the pig-tailed, gothic ‘lab rat’ to back away, but just briefly. Moments later, she wrapped her arms around his neck, making sure to give the man room to take a breath.

“Gibbs, I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered. “Tony told me what happened yesterday and to give you some space, otherwise I would’ve been over last night.”

“I know that, Abbs.”

“I wish there was something I could’ve done…something anybody could’ve done—“

Gibbs gently put his hands on Abby’s upper arms, and just as gently pushed away enough where her chin was off his shoulder and he could look her in the eye. “Abbs, there wasn’t anything anyone could have done. They ambushed us. She died in the line. She went out saving the rest of us.”

Me, he thought.

Abby looked at him for several moments, not wanting to say a word, but just to be there with and for the man who had become a father to her. She, like the rest of the team, knew about Shannon and Kelly, and his own parents, all gone. Abby knew Director Sheppard personally, and could almost feel Gibbs’ pain over her loss, even though he hadn’t spoken of it to her or — as far as she was aware — to any of the other team members.

She also knew Agent Michelle Lee, blackmailed by the North Koreans, killed by Gibbs himself to prevent a mass bombing incident here in Washington. She didn’t know some of his other associates, like Agent G Callen, but saw the pain on his face the time McGee mentioned him, in passing, in the bullpen. Hollis’s death added to the list of the dead in Gibbs’s life, and Abby wanted to help support Gibbs anyway she could. She needed him right now, and she knew he needed her, and the rest of the team, no matter how stoic of a front he presented to them and to the rest of the world.

“We’re going to be okay, Gibbs,” she said, then almost uttered a profanity after realizing that she had spoken it in the form of a question, instead of a declaration of truth. Abby wanted to be strong for him and not be selfish and let her own fears filter out — like she had inadvertently done just now.

Gibbs looked her in the eyes, again, and smiled. “We’re going to make it, Abbs. All of us.” He thought of the ring, and Hollis, and thought a prayer: God, if You will still hear this old bastard out, don’t let those be empty words.

Morgue

Gibbs walked in after nodding to the two suits guarding the door, and saw Ducky alone, sitting at his desk.

“Duck,” Gibbs said to the older man, who was thumbing through a book. “What’cha doin’?”

“Ah, Jethro!” Ducky said, looking up from the thick tome on his desk. “I’ve been reading through a rare copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare published in 1854, sent to me by a friend from Scotland, whom I went to Eton College with. Did you know I once performed the lead role in the school performance of Julius Caesar?”

“No, Duck. That’s one thing you haven’t told me about,” Gibbs replied.

“It was an interesting experience, to say the least. I received high marks for my performance as Caesar and was even asked if I was going to consider a career in the performing arts. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I had considered the matter rather briefly; however, my interest in medicine was far greater than that of acting, and obviously prevailed regarding my choice of career.”

“Pretty thick book, Duck,” Gibbs said with a smile. “You read it through this morning?”

“No, Jethro,” Ducky said with a chuckle. “William Shakespeare wrote a known number of 37 plays and 154 sonnets, all of which are contained in this, as you put it, ‘thick book’. As beneficial as a regular reading of Shakespeare would be to you or I or to anyone else, I simply do not have the time.”

With a nod from Ducky, Gibbs took the book and began carefully turning its pages. Although he preferred to read the likes of Jack London and Wallace Stegner, Gibbs remembered having read some of Shakespeare’s works during his high school years in Stillwater, Pennsylvania. He remembered Julius Caesar as one of Shakespeare’s tragedies.

Given the previous day’s events, the small irony was not lost on Gibbs.

“Duck,” he said, “you and McGee have any luck with the lock on the door?”

Ducky looked at the entrance to the morgue, and the two men standing guard. “It will work, for a short while. Our friends cannot stand out there forever and will find a way inside eventually, but if you need to talk, of course I am here.”

“Appreciate that, Duck.”

“I cannot say with full certainty, however, that mine aren’t the only listening ears in the room.”

“Don’t worry about that, Duck. Palmer around?”

“He’s working out his personal feelings in the gymnasium. I’m quite worried about him, as you know. But please, sit.”

Gibbs pulled over a chair and sat. Ducky got up and pushed the button on the wall, just to the right of the desk, that would lock the morgue doors for 15 minutes. He then sat back down at his desk and faced his friend. “Jethro, once again I cannot express how truly sorry and hurt I am for the loss of Hollis. She was a wonderful, vibrant, intelligent, amazing woman and I know how much you loved her.”

“Thanks, Duck, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Not now.”

“Really?” Ducky said. “What is it, then?”

Gibbs then told his friend the most amazing, and almost unbelievable, story the Scotsman had ever heard.

10:57 a.m. EDT

msnbc



—the Senate voted 101 to nothing, with three abstentions, to reinstate the draft. At the moment, the bill is being discussed in the House—

11:12 a.m. EDT

CBS (continuing news coverage)



—Bernie Sanders, the senator from Vermont who abstained, released a short statement via his office. It reads, quote: '"I, alongside Senators Feinstein and Kennedy, abstained from the vote on the draft bill. My reasons for abstaining are my own. I am not fearful of provoking the Soviet Union. Instead, I am fearful of what will happen as we send our young men and women off to fight in a war that, ultimately, no one can win. Once the first shot has been fired, the fighting will not stop until the final remaining missile silo has been emptied, until the final nuclear device has been detonated. What I do fear is, at that point, there will be nothing left on the planet. Nothing of the great civilizations, including this country I love, no life whatsoever. My abstention stands not as a protest, but as a plea, to my colleagues, and to those who lead my nation and that of the Soviet Union, to stop their march into madness while they still can.”—

11:20 a.m. EDT

ZNN



—numerous protests, over the draft bill and the Rock Act, have spontaneously erupted across the country in virtually every city and town—

11:46 a.m. EDT

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
KYW-TV



—massive looting throughout the city, especially here in Center City. We’re getting reports of violence at protests in Fishtown, University City, Logan Square—

11:47 a.m. EDT

WPVI-TV



—police and the few National Guard units in the city have been forced to use extreme measures to protect themselves against the increasingly violent mobs that have overtaken the Center City and much of Greater Philadelphia—

11:48 a.m. EDT

Radio Free Philadelphia pirate FM radio station, broadcasting illegally on seven different FM frequencies



—it’s a damn lie! It’s all a damn lie! People are exercising their Constitutional right to assembly and to protest, and they’re met with rubber bullets and water hoses! In some places, with metal bullets! One thing you won’t hear from the ‘lamestream’ media: injuries and deaths. Well, maybe to the pigs who are enforcing the government’s illegal Rock Act. Not to the people the pigs are maiming and killing! We’ll tell you right now what we know, via sources: two dead, 21 injured among the citizen protestors—

11:49 a.m. EDT

Louisville, Kentucky

WLKY-TV



—Mayor Abramson has declared a state of emergency for much of Metro Louisville after the third day of protests throughout much of the city, including the West End, the Highlands, Shively, Smoketown, Okolona—

10:53 a.m. CDT

Lubbock, Texas

KCBD-TV

(A group of Texas Tech University students have taken over the station, forcing network news coverage off the air and the station to switch to live coverage from its news studios)

—We are not Communists! We are not Reds, just Red Raiders, and just red, white and blue!

We do not want to be marched off to our deaths in Germany or Panama, and do not want to see our families and friends left behind waiting for the deaths from a nuke! The government and military clearly don’t want anything but war, while the people they say they serve don’t want war! The only thing the powers in charge will listen to is force, and if you, the people, rise up, they’ll listen to you! So rise up—

(In the distance, there are sounds of doors being kicked in, and people running towards the studio)

Rise up and fight! Stand for your inalienable rights—

(Someone nearby shouts ‘turn that goddamn camera off, now!’)

Omigod, they’re here! They’re coming for us—

(Gunfire can be heard for 1.3 seconds, as the wide-eyed students freeze, in the direction of the gunfire. The screen then goes to black.

The station does not return to the air)—

Transcript from Fox News Channel, from 11:57 a.m. EDT


--

TRANSCRIPT

(FOX NEWS LIVE, June 1, 2007)

….

HILL : And there it is. 481-33, 21 abstentions, the House votes in favor of the Draft Act, which now goes to the White House for President Boehner to sign into law. Men and women, 20 to 34, all eligible, selected by lottery according to birthdate. Brian, briefly, your thoughts?

KILMEADE : E.D., this should have been done weeks ago. All hands are on deck. We’re on the verge of war with a country that, time and time again, has announced its intention to take over the entire world by any means necessary.

HILL : Steve?

DOOCY: I wholeheartedly agree. I do hate that this has to happen, but it’s necessary. The President is going to sign this shortly, and it’s the last piece of the puzzle to be prepared to fight a global war. We all hate—

(SCREEN GOES BLACK. FEED IS SILENT FOR FIVE SECONDS, THEN REPLACED WITH A VOICEOVER FROM AN UNAUTHORIZED SOURCE)

UNKNOWN : With your Congress voting to reinstate its draft, America has shown its willingness to wage war on the peace-loving peoples of the world. This action ordered by the war-mongering capitalists of the West will not go unanswered outside nor inside your own borders.

(SCREEN REMAINS BLACK FOR 16 MORE SECONDS BEFORE FNC FEED IS RESTORED)

HILL : That was. That was not authorized, not by Fox News Channel, not an official message from the White House or the Pentagon. OhmiGOD.

DOOCY : Not an authorized, uh, the enemy has apparently spoken, without permission.

KILMEADE : This was not authorized by Fox News Channel and definitely not the opinion of us here at Fox News nor of the American people. In fact, if that is you, Moscow, know this: you may have spoken but WE are not intimidated. … America stands strong. Against Soviet aggression. Next, a special edition of Your World With Neil Cavuto begins after the top of the hour.

(END TRANSCRIPT)

--

Although war had not been formally declared, the Soviets began their work of softening the American homeland for the increasingly inevitable confrontation between the two great thermonuclear powers.

12:13 p.m. EDT

The Capitol building, Washington

Five Congressmen and Congresswomen narrowly miss being mowed down by a Spetsnaz agent with a machine gun. The agent, who imbedded himself into the Capitol building by killing a security guard and taking on his identity, is himself killed by a legitimate guard.

6:24 a.m. HST

Honolulu, Hawaii

Shortly after lifting off from Honolulu International Airport, a United Airlines 747 jet is hit by a missile from a man-powered, shoulder-fired launcher. All 219 people aboard, including a Naval Lieutenant Commander by the name of Stephen McGarrett, die.

12:40 p.m. EDT

Raleigh, North Carolina

Four Wal-Marts throughout the metro area, all packed with shoppers trying to get as much as they can ‘just in case’, are hit simultaneously with shoulder-fired missiles. First responders arriving minutes later are hit by similar missiles. The attackers escape, but not before killing hundreds and injuring hundreds more.

11:51 a.m. CDT

Manhattan, Kansas

The town’s main hospital is destroyed when a suicide bomber walks into a packed emergency room and detonates the bomb embedded in his vest. At the same time, a stolen FedEx delivery truck carrying a giant bomb crashes into the main entrance.

12:03 p.m. CDT

Port Arthur, Texas

A Texas Air National Guard plane – ‘borrowed’ from the USAF – successfully destroys a tractor-trailer filled with explosives headed straight for the Port Arthur Refinery. East German agents had stolen the Wal-Mart truck in Victoria, Texas; packed the stolen truck; then headed for the refinery.

12:16 p.m. CDT

The Texas/Mexico border

U.S. Border Patrol and FBI agents and members of the Texas Rangers fire on a group of armed men attempting to sneak into the U.S. over the Rio Grande. Due to an agreement between the White House and the Mexican government, U.S. agents are allowed to cross into Mexican territory to survey the damage: all 30 insurgents dead, some of which are known to be allied with Cuba, Bulgaria and Angola intelligence. Seven Mexican Policía Federal personnel also are among the dead.

12:29 p.m. CDT

Chicago, Illinois

WGN-TV

(Shot from a helicopter over the city near the John Hancock Tower, zoomed in on smoke clouds rising from Wicker Park. The news anchors cannot communicate with those in the copter, so viewers are hearing the anchors’ voices instead of the reporter in the copter with the pilot and cameraman)



—that’s Wicker Park, where we are told insurgents from the city’s Russian-born community are engaging CPD SWAT forces. Steve?

Allison, I’ve just been handed a note which says, quote, ‘Mayor Daley has declared martial law throughout the city of Chicago effective immediately. Anyone not in their homes are advised to get to their homes immediately, if that isn’t possible, get to a safe area—

(Sound goes out, the lights flicker, and the screen goes dark, just as much of Chicago loses power)

11:33 a.m. MDT

Salt Lake City, Utah

KUTV-TV



—Oh Lord, omigod, the Tabernacle has literally exploded just now, it’s collapsed, IT’S COLLAPSED…oh no, those men have weapons, they’re aiming at us, run, run RUN--

1:34 p.m. EDT

Navy Yard, Washington

NCIS Headquarters

Gibbs ran out of the rear elevator and was in the bullpen by the time Ducky decided to walk briskly to where Gibbs and the rest of the team were, standing in front of the giant flat screen television monitor.

“Turn it up, DiNozzo,” Gibbs barked, and Tony obliged, turning the remote all the way up.



—…this is ZNN. I’m Lucille Lane, and we’ve just been handed a statement from the White House, quote, ‘The United States homeland is under attack via numerous domestic terrorist operations across the country. The President is aware of the situation and is helping coordinate a national response to attack the insurgents and protect the American people. The President urges all Americans to seek shelter immediately, and to obey local law enforcement’. And that’s it. That’s all there is. That’s all the White House has to say, at the moment.—


“That’s it?” Kate shouted. “Broome would’ve raised fire and rain by now!”

“What do we do, Boss?” DiNozzo said to Gibbs, whose desk phone incidentally rang at that moment. Gibbs walked over and picked it up on the second ring. “Gibbs. … Yeah. … Yes, Director. … That’s what you want? … Yes, sir."

“Are we going out?” Ziva said.

“Staying put,” Gibbs replied, the relief on his face visible to everyone else.

“Seriously?” McGee said. “We need to be out there.”

“Probie’s right,” Tony said, and all four of Gibbs’s agents began shouting over one another to be heard, shutting up only when Gibbs put his fingers to his lips to emit an ear-piercing whistle.

>PHREEEEEEEEEETTT!!!<

Satisfied his people would stay quiet for the moment, Gibbs spoke. “We stay here until we are requested by D.C. Police, understood?”

The others nodded or murmured yes, and Gibbs turned his attention back to the television set.

12:46 p.m. CDT

Topeka, Kansas

WIBW-TV

--(Peter Ross, the governor of Kansas, is giving a speech outside the state capitol building

I urge all Kansans to cooperate with local law enforcement and to keep themselves safe, as we coordinate with the Kansas National Guard and federal military forces at Fort Leavenworth and—

(A loud bang is heard, and the Governor’s head dissipates instantly. Moments later, screaming is heard, and members of the Kansas Highway Patrol’s Protective Services Detail are seen shooting at someone, or something, off camera, just before the screen goes black)

10:51 a.m. PDT

Hoover Dam

A team of Army Rangers, assigned to guard the facility on the Colorado River along the border between California and Nevada, engages in a firefight with Spetsnaz agents who are attempting to destroy the dam. The insurgents are all killed, at great cost: all 12 Rangers are dead as well.

1:58 p.m. EDT

New York City, New York

CNBC

--trading has been suspended here on the floor, but not before the Dow fell over 1700 points in just over one hour—

2:01 p.m. EDT

Associated Press

--BREAKING

NEW YORK (AP) – A TRUCK BOMB HAS EXPLODED ON THE GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE—

2:02 p.m. EDT

Detroit, Michigan

WJR-AM

--the Ambassador Bridge has collapsed after reports of at least three bombs, one under the bridge, and now…there is another report from Detroit PD of a massive explosion inside the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel—

11:02 p.m. PDT

San Francisco, California

KGO-TV

--multiple bombs have exploded on the Golden Gate and San Francisco-Oakland bridges—

1:02 p.m. CDT

St. Louis, Missouri

KMOX-AM

--a truck bomb has reportedly exploded in the vicinity of the Arch—

11:03 a.m. PDT

Los Angeles, California

KTLA-TV

--(shot from copter over the famous Hollywood sign)

The sign, every letter, is burning, and as you see here, the assailants are in a white SUV being chased by LAPD—

1:04 p.m. CDT

Nashville, Tennessee

WTVF-TV

--multiple explosions now being reported throughout downtown Nashville all the way into the West End—

11:05 a.m. EDT

Seattle, Washington

KIRO-TV

--THE SPACE NEEDLE IS COLLAPSING, THE NEEDLE IS COLLAPSING, OHMIGOD, IT’S COLLAPSED—

2:06 p.m.

Navy Yard, Washington

NCIS Headquarters

Director Riley McCallister’s office

Gibbs paced the floor in the waiting room just outside the office.

“Can I make you some coffee, Gibbs?”

His seeing Cynthia Sumner – former Director Shepard’s secretary – back at her desk was both a pleasant surprise and a sad reminder to the agent of all he had lost. Jenny, Hollis, Shannon and Kelly…Gibbs pushed them out of his mind to focus on why the current director had called him up to this office.

“Thanks, Cynthia,” he said, as she got up and turned to the coffee maker behind her seat. “Guess you missed this place.”

“More than I let on,” she answered, reaching out to hand him a cup of steaming black coffee. “Director McCallister called me last night and asked me to come back. He said the former secretary ‘up and quit’, and didn’t say why.”

“No idea,” Gibbs said. “You back for good?”

“I don’t know,” she replied as the phone on her desk beeped twice. She looked at the phone, saw that it beeped again, and picked up the receiver. “Director Shepar—sorry, McAllister, will see you now, Agent Gibbs. Sorry about that.”

Sumner half expected the man to admonish her for apologizing by bringing up his rule about apologies being a sign of weakness.

He surprised her, instead. “Don’t be. I miss her too.” That made Sumner smile, and with that, Gibbs opened the door and walked into McCallister’s office.

The director stood in front of a group of newly-installed monitor along the wall opposite his desk. The large flat-screen monitor closest to the door, that had been there for years, played Fox News coverage of the ongoing terrorist attacks across the nation. So far, only the United States had been hit, but if the scrawl across the bottom of that particular monitor was any indication, America’s Western European allies were preparing themselves for similar terrorist actions. The newer monitors looked to Gibbs like something straight out of MTAC, showing everything from charts and graphs to what looked like surveillance footage of various landmarks around Washington.

McCallister was looking at a monitor showing a Mercator-type world map, only the borders of the various countries, continents and islands were drawn in either blue, red, yellow or green on a jet-black background. There were red asterisks all over the U.S. and its territories and a few in Finland, Bahrain and South Africa. Thin red, blue and yellow rectangles dotted the Atlantic, Pacific, Indian and Southern oceans, while similarly colored triangles hovered over the Sea of Japan, Central Europe, the Panama Canal Zone and Southeast Asia.

Gibbs settled in a few feet to McAllister’s left, content with looking at the monitors for the moment to figure out what was what.

“The Soviet Ambassador’s refused to meet with Boehner,” McCallister abruptly said, keeping his gaze on the Mercator-type map. “The bastards won’t even pick up the phone. They’ve walled themselves off inside their embassy, Gibbs, and so have every last one of their allies. Even Thailand’s shut down. You’ve heard about Thailand?”

Gibbs nodded. “Heard the nationalists kicked the Communist regime out of Bangkok.”

“The Communists still hold much of the countryside, but there’s intense fighting all over, between the rebels and the Commies,” McCallister said. “Intelligence suggests the next flashpoint will be in the Dominican People’s Republic, and when that happens, the shit’s really going to hit the fan."

“Kinda looks like it already has, Director,” Gibbs offered.

“Yeah, Gibbs, except the Soviets are holding back. That won't last much longer."

“When?”

“Hours, maybe a day or two. State’s telling embassy personnel in all Pact countries there’ll be a brief window of time when the Pact embassies in the West start evacuating all their personnel, ambassadors included. When that happens, our people will need to get out fast. There’s a mutual understanding that we’ll let their people leave our territory and vice versa during that time — afterward, if you’re in the other guy’s turf, you’re considered an enemy combatant and are fair game."

“Fair game for what?”

“Capture, interrogation, hell, even shoot you if you look at the other guy cross eyed.”

Gibbs sighed and took a long sip of his still-warm coffee. “You think there’s any way to stop this, Riley?”

“There’s too much in motion now that you couldn’t stop everything. You’d have to be Hyperman to do everything that would need to be done, and he’s a comic book kid’s fantasy. I’m not sure either side wants to stop it at this point, anyway. Too much pride and lust for power. So the rest of us plan.”

“To escape.”

“You said it, not me. Anyway, you and your team belong to me, not to Boehner or SECNAV or the Bureau or whatever other bastards might want to make use of your talents. Not unless the Soviets actually decide to invade the East Coast, but the Pentagon thinks the Soviets will nuke us to Hell first, so you don’t have to worry about Jarvis — now there’s a bastard — drafting your people for his personal security guard.”

“Jarvis is one of the hawks in Congress, right?”

“There are a lot of turds sitting in the hallowed halls of the House, and Clayton Jarvis, Republican from Maryland, is one of the shiniest and one of the most dangerous. You see him even looking at one of your team, shoot him.”

McAllister didn’t smile as he made the comment. Gibbs started to follow up on the comment, but his attention was drawn by the SPECIAL REPORT graphic on the television monitor to the left of the newer monitors. McAllister noticed it, too, and hurried to his desk to pick up the remote and turn up the sound.



—This is Shepard Smith, here at Fox News Channel headquarters in New York City. President Boehner has asked Fox News, and every other broadcast and cable network and channel, this time for a special address to the American people. We present that, now. The President of the United States, John Boehner.

(The face of Smith gives way, briefly, to the Presidential Seal, and then to a shot of the President, sitting at his desk in the Oval Office of the White House. Viewers can see armed Secret Service agents outside the window)



My fellow Americans,

Today, we have been hit with hundreds of terrorist attacks across our country. Beginning with a threatening message from someone who hacked into three cable news networks, cities, towns and villages were hit with attack after attack, from a pipe bomb that exploded in the main post office building in Blue Valley, Nebraska, to the truck bombs that collapsed the Space Needle in Seattle; the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City; and the Ambassador Bridge in Detroit. As our military and civilian law enforcement teamed up to respond, the attacks kept coming. Even now, in this brief moment of respite, our hospitals and clinics are overwhelmed with the vast numbers of people who have been injured. Almost all of our nation is under martial law.

And yet, these brazen attacks have not demoralized the American people. Already, there are stories of brave men, women and children, risking their lives to save their fellow citizens. People dying so their fellow man can live. The bravery of special forces fighting to save the Hoover Dam, the power plants of Chicago, the wheat fields of Kansas. Just as the American people stood firm when the mushroom cloud rose above the Indianapolis Motor Speedway five days ago, they are standing firm now. Our enemies have attempted to deliver a 1-2 punch to you, America, but you refused to give into fear, and you remain standing tall. I admire you deeply, and your resolve will be needed in the days to come.

I can now tell you, based on valuable intelligence gained at great cost by some of the best we had in both our military and intelligence communities, that we in the government know who is behind today’s attacks, and was behind the bombing in Indianapolis on Memorial Day. I refer not to Islamists, nor to Latin American strongmen, nor to the cartels in Mexico and Colombia. I am referring to the evil men of the Politburo of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and specifically the evil man who took leadership of his country in a coup d’etat: Marshal of the Red Army, now General Secretary, Mikhail Khalinin. They, and no one else, want an all-out war that they know could destroy the entire globe, literally.

They have goaded us into such a war, and I, along with Congress and our military, have stood resolute in not taking their bait. We have waited not out of fear, not to appease our enemy, but to avoid starting a global war as long as possible. I demanded our people make certain they knew who was behind the Indianapolis attack before we mounted any type of response. I demanded the same when these terrorist attacks began a few hours ago. In both cases, the evidence to us was clear, and it pointed directly to Moscow.

The time for caution has passed. Our enemy has forced our hand, and it will quickly find it has unleashed a beast.

These acts of aggression will not go unanswered, nor go unpunished, regardless of whom is perpetrating them. These terrorists, and that is what they are, will not destroy us. They will not destroy what we stand for, our values and our convictions. America will not bow to our enemies. America will stand tall. Do not lose heart, my fellow Americans. Now is the time to stand, and to fight, wherever the battle takes us, be it in our homeland or overseas. Look in yourselves, look to each other, and look to God, and let us prevail in this, our finest hour.

Thank you, and may God keep us, the United States of America and her people, in the days to come.—


“The shit’s just hit the fan,” McAllister said as the shocked visage of Shepard Smith filled the monitor.

4:23 p.m. EDT

New York City

Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx are wracked by numerous explosions throughout the city’s subway system. Soviet and Soviet-allied agents engage in firefights with NYPD officers and New York National Guardsmen throughout the five boroughs.

4:55 p.m. EDT

Atlanta, Georgia

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport

A TWA 747 airliner, hijacked by four Soviet agents, is destroyed when a US Air Force F-15 Eagle launches two missiles, hitting the large jet before it can get off the ground. Intel will later suggest the hijackers were attempting to fly the plane into the Georgia Dome in downtown Atlanta, which had been opened hours before to displaced travelers.

2:27 p.m. PDT

Los Angeles

An American Airlines 747 carrying civilians from U.S. bases in Japan and China lifts off from Los Angeles International Airport headed for Denver. It never makes it, after North Korean hijackers take control and crash into the second-most congested stretch of freeway in American, Interstate 405 from California State Road 22 to Interstate 605. Initial casualty estimates are over 2,000 dead.

3:02 p.m. EDT

Berkeley, California

University of California

Activist Angela Davis makes an impromptu appearance on campus, in front of the famous Campanile-Sather Tower. With dozens of television cameras and a growing crowd of students, Davis — who left the Communist Party USA in 1991 — calls on the U.S. and USSR to meet again in Geneva to discuss peace, then says Boehner “should not conduct himself as a warmonger on behalf of his corporate puppeteers”. A group of student-athletes take exception to the comment, and storm the press conference. Davis, and six others, are killed in the subsequent melee.

7:08 p.m. EDT

New York City

Central Park

Over 70,000 New Yorkers defy martial law and the threat of more violence to attend a peace vigil. Nevertheless, panic ensues after insurgents known to be associated with the Angolan secret police attack NYPD officers. While the Angolans and NYPD engage gunfire, the crowd quickly descends into a frightened mob; dozens die, hundreds more are injured.

7:26 p.m. EDT

Gainesville, Florida

Rock musician Tom Petty is shot dead by a sniper during a concert for peace at the University of Florida’s Ben Hill Griffin Stadium.

7:01 p.m. CDT

Houston, Texas

Local television newscasts begin airing reports of area hospitals and clinics being ‘besieged’ by people complaining about an abnormally strong strain of influenza. Local news also reports on jammed highways throughout the region, with some drivers reporting feeling extremely ill.

9:39 p.m. EDT

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

As Kort and Trevor left their safehouse, neither were aware they were being watched.

"Maskirovka," whispered the Beast.

9:55 p.m. EDT

ZNN

Continuing news coverage with Jack Ryder, interviewing evangelist and pastor Jimmy Swaggart

— RYDER : So, Reverend Swaggart, what would you have us do.

SWAGGART : Repent. Get right with the Lord.

RYDER : How about the Lord does some smiting, starting with the Kremlin?

SWAGGART : You mock Him, Mr. Ryder—

RYDER : I’m not mocking God, Reverend. I’m asking, where is He, why hasn’t he taken out the people determined to blow us all to kingdom come?

SWAGGART : Whether you ask sincerely, or in jest, Jesus Christ is giving you, and your audience, and the entire world, yet one more chance to get right with Him. This world is going to be destroyed by fire, if not now, then someday.

RYDER : You seem like you can’t wait.

SWAGGART: My heart breaks, Mr. Ryder. This is no joke. This world with all of its conveniences is going to go up in fire! You have a choice, and I cannot say how long the Lord will wait before removing His hand from you, from all of you. So I ask you, Mr. Ryder, and you in the audience. Are you prepared for the world that's coming???—

[Brky2020]

Chapter 46

Friday, June 1, 2007

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

10:07 p.m. EDT

When Kort pulled the SUV in front of the Triumph nightclub, almost no one was there. In fact, after going through the police checkpoint three blocks away, both noticed no one was on the street, or in the adjacent buildings. Trevor had heard of ’special arrangements’ made for unofficial meetings between representatives of the Allied, neutral and Pact nations. He had been in one of those meetings before, in Mumbai. He didn’t like that meeting, and he didn’t particularly like this one.

Trevor got out right as Kort did, and both made their way to the front. Two local Haitian men, both brandishing AK-47s, waved them in with the barrel of their automatics after Kort and Trevor showed their ID badges. Trevor was surprised to see nearly two dozen men and women, all armed, spread throughout the interior of the nightclub. One of the women, who Trevor guessed was of Latin origin, guided him and Kort through the main dance floor and up a short flight of stairs onto a balcony. He saw Pushkin and Boris waiting for them, with bottles of water and cans of Coca-Cola on their table.

“Welcome, my friends,” Pushkin said, with his sincere-but-overbearing grin. “As you see, the club is private this evening.”

Neither American acknowledged the Soviet military officer nor his KGB comrade, who sat with his arms crossed. Boris wasn’t glaring at them, however, and Trevor tried to take that as an omen. His gut still told him something was wrong, however.

“You spoke as if peace was a possibility,” Kort said as he and Trevor sat down.

“It is,” Pushkin said. “I have read up about you, Colonel Trevor,” he continued, looking at Trevor. He then turned to Kort. “Agent Kort, you not so much. We have not have, ah, as much luck finding information on you.”

“Good,” Kort replied, staring at Boris. “I’m sure your friend would understand.”

“Da,” Boris replied.

“I see we both are perhaps much more alike than not,” Pushkin said. “KGB, CIA, not so talkative, until they need to speak. Us military types, can be the same way, but in general are more open.”

“You think so?” Trevor asked Pushkin.

“I do,” Pushkin replied. “I have read up on you. Task Force X has been known to us for decades. You have been known to us for years, Colonel. Your activities have earned you a great deal of respect among the Red Forces.”

“Charmed,” Trevor replied. “Wish I could say the same for your ‘Red Forces’. Kinda hard to, considering your leader’s behind a lot of this mess we’re all in.”

“Many of us behind the ‘Iron Curtain’ feel the same way, Colonel. Perhaps before we talk…business…it would help if I told you a little about me, and if I told you a story.”

“Do I have a choice?”, Trevor said.

“I would hate for you both to have come this way for nothing,” Boris interjected. “Comrade Mikhail does like his stories.”

Trevor looked at Kort, who gave a short nod. “Go ahead,” Trevor replied.

“As you were involved in your Task Force X, I was involved in the Soviet equivalent,” Pushkin said. “We too had our share of adventures to save the Rodina and, sometimes, the world.”

“Were your mission parameters the same as ours?”, Trevor asked.

“Da,” Pushkin said. “By any means necessary. Some of our missions haunt my dreams to this day. There is one I would like to share with you.”

Trevor nodded his assent.

“Years ago, an alien ship crash-landed in the Ukraine, in the middle of a wheat field,” Pushkin said. “It was one of the most prosperous such fields in all of the Soviet Union. It was at a time we were having difficulty making our agricultural quota.”

“The U.N. helped bail you out, as I recall,” Trevor said.

“That is correct,” Pushkin said. “The shutdown of nearby fields, and the evacuation of workers, did not help. I was part of the investigation. I was in my Rocket Red suit, since we had no idea what — or who — was inside. I was ordered to open the hull however possible and secure whatever was inside. I would be the first human to make contact with this alien race was asked to open the ship, a significant responsibility if you think about it. I was, of course, a soldier, not a diplomat, so I acted as a soldier. Using a laser, and brute force, I cut a square in the hull. I was not prepared for who I found.”

Trevor noted the hint of sadness in Pushkin’s last sentence. “Who did you find?”

“We — I — found a young alien humanoid woman, unlike any woman I had ever seen before,” Pushkin said, with a smile. “I would have said she was in her early twenties. Golden skin unlike any other here on Earth. She was nearly two meters tall. That would be — how would you say it in your measurement? — over six feet tall? She was athletic, and beautiful. She should have been the pride of Soviet sport, a better player than your Cheryl Miller and Sheryl Swoopes.”

“You said she was beautiful?” Trevor said, thinking of his own lost love.

“Her skin was gold, with a hint of orange. It glowed, almost as much as her innocent, sweet smile. Her eyes were jade, and shone as brightly as the sun. Her hair, long and flowing, as red as fire. She called herself Corey-ann-der — we never could decipher her language — but I called her my Starchild."

“Your country was having trouble making its agricultural quota, as I recall,” Trevor said.

Trevor recognized the pain in Pushkin's voice and almost let the story end there. "What happened to her, Sergei?"

Pushkin blinked hard, and looked back at Trevor. “Khalinin and his KGB allies” — he glanced at Boris, who looked down at the table —“are what happened to her. She, and her people, were deemed a threat. I was, at the time, ordered to deal with a different threat, in the former Yugoslavia. When I came back, I was simply told the threat had been dealt with, for the good of the Soviet Union and the peoples of the world. All of the things we are told every time we committed an atrocity."

Trevor looked away. He had his own past actions on his conscience, and never really would forgive himself for some of them. He was certain Kort — who was pensive as he listened to Pushkin’s story — had been involved with, if not committed himself, some brutal actions as a member of the Agency. God only knew what Boris had done in his role with the KGB.

“Why are we here, Mikhail,” Trevor said; the Soviet officer had managed to make a connection with him, whether he liked it or not.

Boris looked at Pushkin, who nodded.

“The Soviet Union and the world Communist movement are ruled by a madman,” Boris began. “Our leaders have not been as exemplary as your people would like, not as many of your leaders wish to portray themselves. But we have not have a madman in power since the ‘great’ Stalin.”

“Khalinin has already began purges throughout the government and the military and he is beginning them in the KGB,” Pushkin added. “He is demanding loyalty to himself and only himself. To be loyal to him is to be loyal to the international socialist movement, to the USSR, to the Rodina; he is even talking about removing the statue of Lenin on top of the Palace of the Soviets and replacing it with one of himself!”

“I’ll grant you he’s probably nuts,” Trevor said. “Can he be removed?”

“Can he be deposed?” Boris continued. “Yes. There are significant elements now within the Red Forces, the government, the KGB, to eliminate him and secure Moscow. Preparations are being made to do so. We would expect something to happen within 72 hours. When it does — not if, when — the new ruling committee will approach your President Boehner about peace. This will not happen until Khalinin is removed.”

“What do you want from us?”, Kort said.

“Tell your superiors what I just told you,” Boris replied. “Tell them to wait. Tell them that the new Central Committee will come to them, soon enough. We—“

Boris turned his attention from the Americans towards the front of the nightclub. He swore he saw the front wall shake.

Then, Boris heard a loud sound, and saw the front wall collapse. Nine seconds later, he saw a giant of a man walk through the dust cloud, heading right towards him.

The guards opened fire, and their bullets — from Soviet AK-47 assault rifles, German MP5 submachine guns, Chinese Type 77 pistols and Type 85 submachine guns — all bounced off the man, all 2.2 meters and 170 kilograms of impenetrable bone and muscle.

Then, he took the giant red machine gun in his left hand and mowed down the guards, taking care not to shoot at or near the four men at the back of the balcony. Pushkin stood his ground and watched the massacre go down, while Kort, Trevor and Boris hid behind the table they had flipped on its side after the giant walked in.

“Who — what — in God’s name is that?!?”, Trevor yelled towards the end of the giant’s shooting rampage.

“Boris knows of him,” Pushkin replied. “Tell them, Boris. Tell them of the Beast.”

Boris was frozen in fear. Pushkin unfroze him with a cuff to the back of his head. “Tell them, comrade, about the KGB Beast.”

“Anatoli Knyazev,” Boris said after the shooting had ended. “He is KGB. I have met him before. He is referred to often as the Beast. He is a ruthless mercenary, sent to eliminate threats to the Soviet Union, by any means necessary.”

The Beast was dressed in a dark blue and red mask, a dark blue sleeveless shirt with three thick red horizontal stripes on his chest, and dark blue pants and gloves. Trevor had just noticed the Knyazev wasn’t holding the machine gun; his left arm was the machine gun.

And Knyazev was slowly walking their way.

None of the four fled. Trevor’s mind flashed back to one of his last missions with Task Force X in Gotham City a few years before: Operation Mop-Up, in which the Task Force led a platoon of special forces personnel from all four branches of the military, backed by a Army regiment trained in urban warfare. The mission was to eliminate the psychopaths that had terrorized the city. They did so at great cost: over 17,000 civilians dead, 4,200 from the regiment and platoon, not to mention everyone on the target list.

One of them was a man named Bane, who Trevor distinctly remembered as being over seven feet tall, probably 400 pounds of grotesquely proportioned muscle, and having tubes injected into his shoulders, neck and back.

It took the so-called ‘God killer’ sword to dispatch the maniac permanently. Trevor would fall back on God, not luck or his extensive swordsmanship training, as the reason he lived to tell the tale of how he took down Bane. The God killer sword was locked down tight, in the Charlottesville-based vault operated by the Agency’s A.R.G.U.S. division. Trevor figured there was no way his Beretta M9 pistol would make a dent in the blue-and-red garbed maniac walking his way.

The Beast stopped at the stairs and lowered his arm/weapon.

“Comrades, and imperialists,” Knyazev said. “Attention. Moscow is speaking.”

A couple of beats later, the Beast continued. “The uprising against Khalinin, the General Secretary and Marshal of the Soviet Union, has ended. Nineteen out of every 20 of his enemies — the enemies of the workers of the world, the Rodina, the world revolution — have been purged. The rest are being purged. That includes you.” Knyazev looked at Boris and Pushkin, then at Kort and Trevor.

“You are aware of the October Agreement, yes?”, Kort said, as cool as Trevor had ever seen him. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on the man; Trevor, on the other hand, felt a few beads sliding down his neck.

“An agreement made by a would-be imperialist,” Knyazev said. “An illegal agreement.”

“We are abiding by it.”

“Are you going to beg for your lives?” Knyazev said, dismissively.

“I think we’ll stand and fight,” Trevor interjected. Whatever he was, Trevor decided he was a man, not a coward. He would fight to the death for what he believed in, and if that meant dying alongside two Russians he believed were trying to do right, that’s what he would do.

Pushkin wasn’t going to let him die so easily, though.

With no warning, Pushkin — not a small man himself — launched himself at the Beast, knocking him off-balance with a punch to the jaw. “Get away, friends,” he yelled between punches. “Go!”

Kort looked back, and saw the flames coming from the rear entrance. Trevor smelled kerosene. “Arson,” he said to Kort and Boris. “That bastard’s got us good.”

The only possible way out was past the brawling Knyazev and Pushkin; both men’s punches were landing hard, each blow echoing throughout the dance floor. There was no way to get around them, since they were brawling and tossing each other from one side to the other too fast for any well-trained human to dodge.

Abruptly, with a grasp and a squeeze of his hand and a loud crack, the fight was over. Pushkin had passed, and Knyazev turned towards the three other living souls in the room.

Boris broke from behind the table, pulled out his Makarov pistol and began shooting as he walked towards the Beast. He emptied one cartridge, put in another, then resumed shooting. The bullets bounced off Knyazev’s forehead and chest; he waited for Boris to walk within arms length, then grabbed him and threw him 40 feet against a side wall, killing the KGB officer instantly.

That left the Americans.

Kort then reached for the pistol hidden in his trousers, pulled it out and aimed for the forehead. He pulled the trigger six times; the first bullet found its mark, the other five were for insurance.

Seventeen seconds after Knyazev died, his body fell to the ground, on top of the gore created from Kort’s first shot.

“What the hell was that?” Trevor said, gaping.

“Insurance,” he said, rearming his pistol with another cartridge. "The bullets are made of a substance called Nth metal."

“Why…you could — you should have done that earlier!” Trevor yelled. “You could have spared those men’s lives! They died for nothing!”

“I disagree,” Kort said. “We must leave. The authorities will be here very soon and we do not want to be here.”

Kort was 20 feet away, heading for the remains of the front entrance, before Trevor moved. He caught up with Kort outside, and both men were six blocks away by the time the local police arrived. A ‘friend of the Agency’ had them booked on a flight to San Juan and in U.S. airspace before the local authorities could think to find and question either of them.

Saturday, June 1, 2007

8:10 a.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

WJLA-TV

—As you can see behind me, dozens of U.S. Army soldiers whom we in the media have been told have just returned from Afghanistan, are surrounding the Soviet Embassy. You can also see dozens of protestors defying the martial law order, and police trying to keep them separated from the line of Army personnel, who are protecting the embassy itself—



New York City

WCBS-TV

—both LaGuardia and JFK are taking on dozens of flights from World Pact countries, We know the Cuban and Bulgarian consulates have been evacuated, with all personnel heading east, off Manhattan Island, towards both airports—



Indianapolis, Indiana

Indianapolis Star website

BOEHNER: SPEEDWAY BOMB

DETONATED BY THE SOVIETS

Anti-Soviet protests all over the state

Residents in FEMA camps ‘want blood’



John Lennon, speaking to MTV:

—I’m…I’m bloody speechless. I don’t know what to do, what to say. They aren’t listening to the people. They aren’t listening to the sane people in their own governments. I’ve done something I haven’t done in years, not even when Paul and Linda were killed in the plane crash. I prayed, to God. I asked God to intervene. Maybe I’m talking to the bloody wind. It can’t hurt. I’m scared to death, you know?—



WHAS-AM, Louisville, Kentucky, open lines for listeners, ‘Jeff’ from Salem, Indiana talking with host Joe Elliott:

—I lost people up there, man. I got family and friends, people I went to school with, living in these FEMA camps and they ain’t going home. Everyone here in town knows someone who died or knew someone who died or someone living in those camps. Yeah, I’m pissed. (Bleep) Bernie Sanders, (bleep) the Democrats, let’s bomb the (bleep) out of the Russians. They attacked us. Why haven’t we dropped a bomb on Leningrad or some other city of theirs? Huh? We that damn scared of them? I’m not. No one here in Indiana is. They show their (bleep) heads around here, we’re blowing them clean off their shoulders.—



Notice from an Exxon gas station, Fairfax, Virginia:

OPEN 8 AM TO 4 PM DAILY PER STATE AND LOCAL MANDATES

10 GALLONS PER VEHICLE, NO EXCEPTIONS

CURRENT PRICE IS 5.49 PER GALLON, WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REVISE THE PRICE AT ANY TIME WITHOUT PRIOR NOTICE

THREE ITEMS OF FOOD AND BEVERAGES PER CUSTOMER ONCE PER DAY, NO EXCEPTIONS

DRIVE-OFFS WILL BE DEALT WITH SEVERELY AND SWIFTLY; ARMED GUARDS ON SITE WILL SHOOT WITHOUT WARNING IF SITUATION WARRANTS



Drudge Report

Wyoming the last state to declare statewide martial law…

‘Patriot’ groups fighting Russian-born residents in streets of Chicago…

37 dead after crowd rushes police protecting Publix supermarket in Jacksonville…

Reverend Billy Graham: ‘The only answer now is in Christ Jesus’…

Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists move Doomsday Clock to 30 seconds before midnight…



AMERICA UNDER SIEGE

SOVIETS REMAIN SILENT

CONGRESS TO MEET TODAY IN CLOSED SESSION



ESPN.com

EVERYTHING’S CALLED OFF



Sign on the front lawn of a home in Omaha, Nebraska:

We’re gone for awhile. Please don’t take anything from our home. And please say a prayer, that the Russians don’t take our homes and families and our lives from us.



Washington, D.C.

9:47 p.m. EDT

Two black SUVs pulled up on the lawn of the empty two-story house across the street from Gibbs’s house, and he and Franks watched the rest of Gibbs’s — their — team get out of the vehicles.

Without saying a word, Gibbs waited on his people as they got to the house and walked through the front door held open for them by a suit. He followed Franks, who himself walked in behind Ducky, the last person in the line of people briskly heading towards the basement stairwell. Gibbs nodded to the suit standing upstairs outside the stairwell before making his way to the workbench; everyone else were either standing by the bench or by the boat that took up a significant portion of the center of the basement.

“Mustache let you bring us here, Boss?” Tony said, breaking the silence. “Things must be real bad for that to happen.”

“What’s going on, Gibbs?” Kate said. “I mean, really going on?”

“Is this it?” Palmer interjected. “We going to war?”

“Boss, why are we here?” McGee asked.

Gibbs didn’t say a word in response.

“I have been told nothing by my contacts in Mossad that add to what has already been reported on the news,” Ziva said, “or is in the briefing from Director McCallister given to us to read on the way here.”

“There’s a reason you all are here,” Franks said, from the corner of the workbench he had taken over. “This is definitely need to know.”

“Does it have to do with Hollis?” Kate asked. She, and everyone else, saw the brief glimpse of anguish in his eyes. They saw it go away an instant later, replaced by his usual demeanor, as if he shoved his personal pain to the side to concentrate on his job.

“Nope,” he said with steel in his voice, enough to convince the others not to bring her up for the rest of the meeting.

“Then what is it?” Palmer said, with respect and with none of the timidity he had been known for. Gibbs noticed that Palmer didn’t have his glasses on, and looked more muscular than he remembered. Gibbs then realized he hadn’t touched base with Ducky enough to know about what was going on in his assistant’s life. Tony — who hung out with Palmer off work and probably knew him more than anyone else besides Ducky — hinted at Palmer dealing with some personal issues.

“Jimmy, give Agent Gibbs the floor,” Ducky said firmly, and without admonishment. Gibbs looked at the doctor, then at Tony, who mouthed ‘I’ll explain later’. Gibbs nodded, and looked at the clock on the wall. Then his phone rang, and he picked it up, listening and saying nothing.

“They’re in the neighborhood,” Gibbs said. “Oughta be here in a few minutes. When they get here, hear us out till we’re done, then ask whatever you want.”

“Want to give us a hint, Gibbs?”, Kate asked. Gibbs started to say ‘no’, then reconsidered it, and answered her.

“Yeah,” he said. “The government and military both have their hands in projects you wouldn’t believe are on the up-and-up. This is the mother of them all. Just hear them — me — out. Trust me on this.”

Before Kate, or the others, could ask what ‘this’ was, Langer appeared in the doorway at the top of the basement stairs. He made his way down, laptop in arm, followed by Teague, Cooke and Sloane.

Langer opened the laptop, and began to explain about the ring Gibbs and Hollis saw, as well as its sister rings around the world. Langer showed video of the ring from the Pentagon, and pictures of other rings from 'restricted areas' elsewhere in the country.

“Ask your questions,” Gibbs said, and no one spoke up for the next minute. All of Gibbs’s team looked skeptical to varying degrees, Palmer and Ziva being the most skeptical, and Tony being the most willing to believe.

Finally, Palmer stood up and said what was on his mind, and those of his teammates. “The only reason I’m taking this seriously at all is because I know you don’t bullshit around, Gibbs. But this is the craziest thing I’ve heard in my life.”

“Fair enough,” Gibbs replied. “The rest of you agree with Palmer?”

They all nodded.

“You believe me when I say that I saw something?”

They all nodded, and Ducky remained quiet while the other team members decided they had something to say, all at once, and all talking over one another. A loud whistle from Gibbs silenced them, but he knew they needed to have their say. He nodded at DiNozzo.

“Okay, Boss. I believe you and Hollis saw something,” Tony said. “What if it’s what they — whatever’s down there — wanted you to see?”

“Fair question,” Langer interjected. “Wanna see the video again?”

“Could be from a Hollywood studio,” McGee said.

“It’s not,” Teague said. “It’s real.”

“If it is real,” Ziva said, “and there are others like it around the world, why have we not heard about them yet?”

“Panic, greed, national security, to keep our people from going somewhere that would put them in danger,” Cooke said. “To keep out something on the other side from coming over here and creating havoc.”

“Great,” Kate said. “That thing is supposed to be our salvation, and the authorities are scared of what’s waiting on the other side? Assuming it’s real.”

“It is, Agent Todd,” Sloane said. “You have every right to be skeptical.”

“It’s called ‘common sense’, Agent Sloane,” Kate shot back. “I’ve heard about black ops projects the government is supposedly involved with. This was an alien craft sitting in Nevada, I’d be more inclined to believe you. I take The X-Files and Star Trek for what they are: fiction.”

“It’s real, Kate,” Gibbs said, quietly, and with more conviction than she’d ever heard from him. That unnerved her, but she didn’t want it to show. She tore her gaze away from Gibbs, finding it easier to maintain her skeptical countenance with a stranger.

Sloane’s look of sympathy unnerved Kate almost as much as Gibbs’s tone. She turned away from Sloane back towards Gibbs only to notice her other teammates looking at their leader. Their expressions mirrored the small conflict raging inside her own mind and heart: not wanting to believe Gibbs was insane, or pulling an elaborate (if sick) joke, or anything other than he believed what he was saying, but finding it all but impossible to believe in something they regarded as real as UFOs.

“Boss, I gotta ask,” Tony said, as calmly as Kate remembered him ever speaking. “Are you pulling one on us?”

“No, Tony. I’m not.” The tone of Gibbs’s response was this is as serious as it gets.

“This some kind of psych test?”

“No.”

“Something Mustache pulled out of his ass?”

“Definitely not.”

“So take us,” DiNozzo said. “Take us all. Now.”

“Impossible,” Teague said. “You’ve all heard what happened there. The area is locked up tight—“

“So how in hell are we supposed to get there, if that’s where we end up having to go when the missiles fly, then?”, Palmer said with a sharp tone and in a somewhat confrontational manner.

Palmer and the other team members followed Gibbs’s eyes as he looked over at the other agents. “The Pentagon ring is off limits right now,” Teague said several moments later.

Cooke suddenly had a brainstorm, and he wondered how neither he nor his teammates had thought of it before. “We can’t take them near the Pentagon. We can take them to another ring,” he said.

“And you came up with this just now, Agent Cooke?”, Franks said, mirroring the thoughts of the other NCIS personnel in the basement.

“That’s a great idea!,” Kate added, with much sarcasm. “Stop talking about where we can’t go and talk about where we can go!

“But where can we go?”, McGee interjected, before Cooke’s fellow agents could come to his defense. “How many of these things are there? And how do you know they all don’t have the same level of security — and be just as impossible to get into?”

“Assuming they’re real, McMulder,” Tony said.

“Devil’s advocate,” McGee said. “Can any of you offer an alternate location that we can visit tonight?”

Cooke held up his hand to silence Teague, Langer and Sloane, then pulled out his cell phone. “How secure is this basement, Gibbs?”

“You can talk to your people, Roger,” Gibbs replied, and Cooke walked to the foot of the staircase before placing his call. He spoke with someone while Gibbs’s team talked amongst themselves, and Teague, Langer and Sloane huddled nearby, whispering amongst themselves.

“I wonder what they’re discussing, Tony,” Ziva said as she observed the huddle.

“The weather on Mars,” Tony cracked.

Ziva turned to look at Gibbs, who was talking with Kate. “I wonder if there is something that we are not able to see because we have closed our eyes to it,” Ziva said.

“You mean closed our minds,” Tony said. “My mind’s working just fine, Ziva, and my eyes are wide open.”

“Look at Gibbs,” Ziva said. “He saw something, Tony.”

“Maybe it was what Mustache wanted him to see,” DiNozzo said. “Aliens? Come on.”

“No one said anything about aliens—“

“Then other Earths. Parallel worlds. That’s Star Trek, Ziva. Major Comics. Sci-fi. Not even McGeek believes it.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“Do you?”, DiNozzo shot back.

“My eyes are open to the possibility,” she said, “but only because of Gibbs.”

“Gotta admit it’d be one helluva thing if it were real,” Tony said. “McGee would never let me live it down.”

“He wouldn’t agitate you like that, Tony,” she said, spotting McGee making small talk with Palmer. “How is Jimmy doing, Tony? You spend more time with him than the rest of us.”

“On the surface, he’s doing great,” Tony replied. “Thing is, I can’t get past the surface.

“Perhaps McGee will have better luck,” Ziva said.

McGee, in fact, had looked for an excuse to get with Palmer one-on-one, and Palmer was willing to converse, about everything from the weather to McGee’s now-stalled writing career. “How’s the book coming along, McGee?” Palmer asked.

“The manuscript’s sitting in a box in my apartment, assuming someone’s not broken in there by now. I didn’t have time to get it when McCallister gave the order to leave. I’ve been free-writing some, but nothing’s really come of it.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a pretty decent science fiction story here.”

“Already done. Stargate SG-1. That what this sounds like to me, more than anything else,” McGee said. “What’s been going on with you?”

“Nothing, just work.” Palmer wore a Washington Redskins T-shirt that showed off his muscular, 185-pound frame. The medical examiner’s assistant was no longer the slim, shy young man who had a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. He was a slightly older, and much more confident, man who made the ladies’ (and some of the gentlemen’s) heads turn whenever he walked past. He also seemed more brooding, and DiNozzo had tried without success to find out what was going on in Palmer’s head that had made him that way.

“Don’t give me that, Jimmy. You’re way more confident now than you were when you replaced Gerald. You’re working out like a monster. Tony said he didn’t work out as much as you when he played at Ohio State.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Palmer said. “All I have is a weight set I bought from the guy down the street from Dr. Mallard’s house. Tony played at a major college program. He had all kinds of equipment—“

“You’re way more buff than most anyone at the Navy Yard, probably as much as the Marines,” McGee said.

“So why do you not sound like that’s a good thing?"

“It is, it’s great,” McGee said. “I oughta be down there on those things. The weight-lifting’s good for you, Jimmy.”

“Then what are you getting at, Tim?”

McGee paused, to make sure he didn’t respond in the wrong way. “Is something bugging you?”

“No,” Palmer said. “Why?”

“Because you look like…like something’s going on and you’re trying to hide it. Something you’re trying to deal with on your own.”

Palmer sized McGee up, trying to figure out what the young agent meant. “I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re asking,” Palmer said with a smirk. “But I’m flattered, really.”

McGee’s mouth flew open. “That’s not what I…dammit, Jimmy. You’ve been hanging out with Tony a little too much.”

Palmer chuckled. “Probably, although some of his ideas about women make sense. Too bad I can’t test them out right now.”

“That’s what got you pissed?”

“No, and I’m not pissed. About anything.”

“Jimmy, look,” McGee said. “You have friends here. If you ever wanna talk—“

“Nothing to talk about,” Palmer said as he turned away from McGee to walk over to the frame of Gibbs’s boat, then picked up some sandpaper to smooth out a rough edge on a plank. McGee sighed in frustration, and looked over towards Abby and Ducky, who were in the middle of a conversation.

“Uh-oh,” Abby said. “McGee tried to say something to Jimmy.”

“Someone needs to get through to that young man,” Ducky replied. “I know Anthony’s spent quite a bit of time with him during the team’s long sojourn with my mother and I.”

“Tony says he can’t get Jimmy to open up, though,” Abby said. “Something going on with his family, but Jimmy won’t budge. I’ve tried to get him to open up. All he wants to talk about now are movies and working out. It’s like someone reached in his brain and hit a switch.”

“Perhaps you and Anthony will be the ones to get him to open up,” Ducky said. “I have tried to encourage him to speak openly. I’ve even told him it would be a pleasure to see a glimpse of his old self. Mr. Palmer reacted in a manner I didn’t expect.”

“He didn’t yell at you, did he, Ducky?”

“Nothing of the sort, Abigail. He replied in a most calm manner that I hadn’t come to expect from him, and said ‘That idiot’s dead and buried, Dr. Mallard. I choose my words more carefully, now’. Clearly, something is going on with Mr. Palmer, and I assure you, Abigail, I have not given up on him by any stretch of the imagination.”

Ducky put a reassuring hand on Abby’s arm. “That is one of the most pleasant things I have observed about this team, Abigail. The banter flows, but we have gone from a group of four coworkers to a family of sorts. We’re all there for one another, even when we can’t be with our own families.”

“Your mother’s still around, Ducky, and you live with her.”

“That is true, Abigail, but I cannot be there for her as much as I would like. My regular duties prevent that, and her mind is beginning to slip away, as you know. Even now I see moments when she doesn’t know who I am.”

“Ducky,” Abby said. “I’m so sorry. I wish there were something somebody could do.”

“She’s lived a full life, already, and every day with her, no matter how she can be sometimes, is truly a gift,” Ducky said. “How have you been holding up? Any luck contacting your brother Luka?”

“None,” she said with a hint of sadness. “I emailed Agent Pride in New Orleans a month ago. He emailed me back, said he couldn’t find him anywhere. There’s a missing persons report out on him, now. You know what Gibbs would say: ‘until you find a body—‘“

“‘There’s always hope’…How about the nuns you had been living with? Have you spoken with them recently?”

“A few days ago,” Abby said. “They’re scared. There are security guards on site, now, 24 hours a day, and at the church, too. Sister Fran says the neighborhood’s gotten worse since the Indianap—since Memorial Day. More looting, more fights in the streets, more cops chasing whomever. I’m scared, Ducky. That’s why I’m hoping Gibbs is right about this ring, and someone’s not playing a trick on him.”

“Do you believe him, Abigail?”

Abby started to say yes, then put herself on pause, and thought about her answer. She looked at Gibbs, whom she knew was not someone who easily brought into such fantastic stories. For him to think this was the honest truth meant he had to have come across hard evidence — like seeing the ring for himself.

“I trust him, Ducky,” she said. “I always have. We all have, and do.”

Gibbs noticed Abby and Ducky looking at him and nodded back at them, then turned his attention back to the conversation between Kate and Franks.

Franks — for years Gibbs’s ‘boss’, when NCIS was the Naval Investigative Service (NIS) and Franks led the Washington-based Major Case Response Team — had been reading up on Gibbs’ team members and, when possible, getting acquainted with them.

Kate had fascinated the older man the most: the spunk Gibbs spoke of from her early days was still there, tempered by a few years of experience as an NCIS field agent. She still challenged authority, but had come to realize she had plenty to learn, especially from those — like Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva — who had more experience in certain areas. Kate had become more strident on one specific thing: that she was as capable of excelling in her job as an NCIS agent as any man, and she (and Ziva) had the full backing of former Director Shepard.

Gibbs, of course, had always had Kate’s back.

Franks, in approaching Kate, had avoided the Indianapolis Bomb and instead asked her, flat out, how she would have fared if she, and not Gibbs, had been Franks’ probie?

“I would have nailed it,” she flat-out told him. “A lot of what I learned from Gibbs came from you, and I like to think I’ve done pretty well so far.”

Gibbs acknowledged her with a nod.

“You hear that, Probie?” Franks said. “I don’t know whether to thank Kate or ask her why on earth she’s bent on bullshittin’ me.”

Kate chuckled, and Gibbs — chuckling right alongside her — was pleased to see her lighten up. Despite Tony and Abby’s — and his own — best attempts, Kate’s personality was still shaped in large part by her upbringing and her staunch Catholic faith — and, on occasion, her innate sarcasm, which had mostly been tamed but still flared up now and then.

The bombing at the Indianapolis 500 would have been psychologically devastating to most people, according to Ducky, who had taken profiling classes to add to his considerable skill set. Ducky pondered it was a miracle that Kate hadn’t turned into an emotional wreck, and credited that as much to the woman’s inner strength as to the considerable emotional support she had from the team.

But, Kate still wasn’t out of the woods, not by Gibbs’s standards. He cursed himself for not having had more time to help her. He had to rely on his team to pick up the slack. That didn’t mean he couldn’t do what he could do, whenever he had the chance.

“You wonder why I spend so much time down here, building boats?”, Gibbs asked Kate. He pointed to the nearby frame of a boat, with Hollis’s name clearly visible on the near side while Palmer, McGee and Ducky looked over the frame from the far side. “It’s because he nearly drove me crazy.” Gibbs pointed his thumb at Franks.

“It was for your own good, Jethro,” Franks growled, good-naturedly. “You were so raw starting out I had to yell at you every night, just to get you to where the other Probies were. Gettin’ you to where I wanted you took a lot longer. Kate, he ever tell you he was more like DiNozzo at the beginning?”

“I’ve heard that story before, believe it or not,” she said. “I’m still not sure I believe it.”

“It’s true,” Gibbs said. “It’s one reason I was so hard on Tony when I brought him aboard. I didn’t want him to screw up the same ways I did when Mike brought me on.”

“I just can’t see it, though,” Kate replied. “You…seem like you’ve always been Gibbs, the Gibbs I’ve known you to be. A way different guy than Tony. I’ve never seen a wall full of VHS tapes and DVDs in this house. I don’t think you’ve ever bought a VHS tape in your life.”

The three people laughed. “I’ll grant you that, Kate,” Gibbs said.

“We’re getting off track, people,” Franks interjected, looking at Kate. “So you think you would’ve done pretty good as an agent if I’d gotten ahold of you instead of Gibbs.”

“I said I would’ve nailed it,” she replied. “And probably turned out the same, or about the same. A lot of what I’ve learned from Gibbs came from you, after all.”

“So, does that mean you’d be head-slapping people instead of elbowin’ them, then?”, Franks quipped, and Kate smiled. The conversation had made Gibbs happy, and he was about to raise the subject of head-slap lessons when he noticed Cooke waving to get his attention. Moments later, all of the conversations in the room came to a halt when Cooke put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle.

“I’ve got a destination,” he announced. “Not the Pentagon, but not too terribly far. But if we’re going, we’ve got to leave now.”

“Go where?” Franks said.

“Richmond, Virginia,” Cooke replied, then turned to Teague, Langer and Sloane. “Had to pull some strings.”

“Fine by me,” Teague told him. “Richmond?”

“Baltimore’s the closest, but the whole city’s gone SNAFU and is about to go FUBAR,” Cooke said. “The ring’s locked up tight, and you’d have to go thru blocks full of gang-bangers and survivalists and cops just looking to throw some outsider in the slammer — and the last thing any of us needs is to be stuck in a Baltimore jail.”

“I’d heard from someone I worked with in Baltimore P.D.,” DiNTonyozzo said. “She said it’d gotten bad there. I turned on the local news station — WBAL, I think? — on the way here. The Sun, the TV and radio stations are working out of Annapolis, that’s how bad things are in the city.”

“What about Charlottesville?”, Langer asked Cooke.

“Out of the question,” Cooke said. “You have to have Presidential-level security clearance to get in there.”

“What’s in Charlottesville besides the University of Virginia?”, asked Sloane. “It’s a small town, like Mayberry.”

“Whatever it is, the White House doesn’t want anybody knowing,” Cooke said. “Hagerstown’s too far away. Dover, Toms River in Jersey, Bristol in Tennessee, Wilmington in North Carolina, all too far.”

“So what does that leave?”, Teague asked.

“Norfolk was open, but takes a little longer to get there and the way security is down there right now, we might not get in until 5 a.m. And there’s the matter of the NCIS field office down there, which puts a cramp on the cover story I’d like to use.”

“What cover story, Roger?”, asked Gibbs.

“Dr. Mallard,” Cooke said, “is the NCIS Medical Examiner’s van still at the Navy Yard?”

“It’s in the garage,” Ducky said. “But we don’t have an active case.”

“Gibbs,” Cooke said. “Call your director, tell him you got a tip about a victim in Richmond, at the raceway—“

“How’s the Mustache gonna buy that?”, Tony interjected.

“He already knows about the ring,” Cooke said. Noticing the mixture of confusion and horror on the faces of Gibbs’s team members, Cooke followed up and asked, “didn’t Gibbs tell you?”

Tony and the others looked at Gibbs. “Does Mustache really know?”, DiNozzo asked.

“Yep,” Gibbs said.

“Hell, we’re screwed,” Palmer blurted out.

“No, we’re not,” Gibbs said, as if everything was alright. He pulled out his cell phone and called McAllister. After speaking with the director, Gibbs snapped his phone shut. “I hope you brought your gear with you,” Gibbs told his people.

“Yeah,” Tony said, speaking for the group. “It’s stuffed underneath the seats in that SUV. Not a lot of room to work with—shutting up right now, Boss.“

Gibbs smiled. A stern look often did as much good as a head-slap.

“Cooke, you and the other three follow us,” Gibbs said. “Kate, you’re with me and Mike. The rest of you, follow in the van…let’s go!”

Gibbs was almost proud of how quickly his team got up the stairs and out of the house.

Richmond, Virginia

The trip from Gibbs’s house to the Navy Yard was uneventful, as was the drive from the Navy Yard to Interstates 695 and 395. The caravan — the NCIS M.E.’s van, Gibbs’s truck and Teague’s sedan, surrounded by SUVs assigned by McAllister himself — wasn’t put at risk once. Washington and the rest of the District of Columbia was, at the order of President Boehner, secured by two Army platoons and the entire D.C. National Guard. Virginia National Guard helped local police secure I-395 from the Potomac thru Alexandria.

Once I-395 became I-95 south of Alexandria, the caravan was joined by two grey Humvees with Virginia State Police markings on the sides. The missile launchers and machine guns visible on the ringmount atop both Humvees gave away that these were military, not civilian, vehicles. Police in all 50 states, and territories, and all major cities had at least four military-type Humvees in their fleets. Because of D.C. to the north, Norfolk to the south and whatever it was the feds were doing on the now abandoned UVa campus in Charlottesville, the Virginia State Police had 40 Humvees in its fleet.

Gibbs was behind one of those Humvees, and thought it a little odd that the drive from D.C. had been — so far — peaceful.

“We’re either secured tight or sittin’ ducks for Spetsnaz,” said Franks, who sat in the middle of the back seat.

Kate looked on both sides of the interstate; at the moment, the caravan was passing near Fredericksburg. Off to her left in the direction of the town, she saw a faint reddish and orange glow. Kate didn’t want to imagine what might be going on there. “I won’t dispute the need to be secure when going out,” she said, looking back for another glimpse at the glow; one of the Humvees blocked her view. “These military vehicles with us, though; it’s a little overkill, don’t you think?”

“Might be the safest way to get anywhere, now,” Gibbs replied.

Traffic down I-95 was light, if one didn’t count the presence of Virginia State Police sedans and SUVs at least every mile. Tractor-trailers carrying food, gasoline, medicine and other essential items went north and south, along with civilians going to and from work; the near-universal curfew hadn’t excused second- and third-shift workers from their jobs. So far, according to various media outlets, people were still going to work in most areas of the country, the most notable exception being Baltimore.

Once the caravan reached the Henrico County suburbs north of Richmond, the state police peeled off and gave way to Richmond Police Department SUVs and Humvees. Once the caravan got into the city, it quickly became apparent that there was no one on the streets other than police and the occasional ambulance or National Guard vehicle. Gas stations were open, but had one or two civilian vehicles parked and at least two police vehicles. Some of the police cruisers looked like they had been through the wringer, adorned with dents, scratches and mud.

Four Richmond police vehicles — two sedans, an SUV and a Humvee — surrounded the caravan as it entered Gate 4 of the vast Richmond International Raceway complex at 1:07 a.m.. The 60,000-seat motor racing venue was well-known for hosting races from the three divisions of the NASCAR and IndyCar auto racing series, as well as concerts and other public events.

The last event held at the track was from NASCAR’s top-flight Nextel Cup Series in early May. That piece of trivia was brought up by none other than Langer, who caught up to Gibbs after the caravan parked in front of the garages on the west side of the infield. It shouldn’t have mattered to Gibbs, who knew little about NASCAR and had no interest in the sport.

However, his gut suddenly began suggesting something more disturbing than a pack of Spetsnaz or criminals lying in wait behind the garage bay door being lifted by two of the police officers. Gibbs looked around the darkened venue and had the thought that it wouldn’t be around much longer.

He pushed aside the thought of what kind of bomb would wipe the facility off the face of the Earth, and focused on the now-open bay. One of the officers had a flashlight that she shined on a mannequin wearing a sailor’s uniform.

“That supposed to be the victim?”, Tony asked the officer. The ‘victim’ had a plastic ‘spork’ from a fast-food restaurant stuck halfway through its skull, and was covered in ketchup. A half-full ketchup bottle lay a few feet away from the mannequin.

“You needed a reason to be here, right?”, said the officer, a short, muscular woman who grinned at the sight.

“Does he have an ID?”, Ziva asked.

“No,” the officer said. “Call him Dale. Dale Earnhardt, Dale Jarrett. Or Jeff, Ward, Ricky, Kevin, whatever you want.”

Ducky made his way over to the mannequin, having left his medical examiner’s gear in the NCIS van. “This reminds me of a story,” he said. “Back home in Edinburgh, in Scotland, I was given an opportunity to visit a faux crime scene, at the small home of a pensioner who was the uncle of an acquaintance of mine, an Edinburgh police inspector. The pensioner had recently passed away, and have left his ‘estate’, such as it was, to his nephew. The nephew decided to recreate an infamous crime scene from after the Second World War where a reclusive veteran, recently returned from service in the British Army, was killed with a stab to the skull—“

“Duck,” Gibbs blurted out tersely. A moment later he realized he was too gruff, but he wanted to get to the reason they all were here, and looked to the officer. “This where you go to get in?”

“Yep,” she said. “See the shack?”

Gibbs squinted — his vision wasn’t the best in any case, and especially in a darkened area like the vast garage bay used by the teams that competed during the NASCAR and IndyCar races held at the track. However, he did see a small, square-like building about 40 feet away, and along the wall next to a large Chevrolet sign.

He also saw another officer — a tall, slender man with a swimmer’s physique — open the door to the shack. A moment later, lights came on from inside the shack, partially illuminating the surrounding area; the tall officer then opened another door inside the shack.

“That’s where you’re going, folks,” the stocky officer told the group. “The shack over there was manned last month by myself and my partner inside, and by one of you guys.”

“One of ‘us’ guys?”, Kate said.

“Feds,” the woman replied. “Follow me.”

Kate and the others did as they were instructed. She was the first of the group to enter the shack, and she saw what looked like the inside of an elevator. “Two at a time,” the tall officer said, and Gibbs nodded to Ziva. The Mossad officer joined Kate inside the elevator, and the elevator shaft descended. It ascended three minutes later, and it took nearly 20 minutes for the rest of the team — Tony and McGee; Ducky and Palmer; Sloane and Cooke; Gibbs and Franks; and finally Teague and Langer — to join Kate and Ziva in a waiting room area a mile below the garage bay’s surface.

“An elevator?”, Tony mused aloud. “I figured some kind of James Bond, giant magnets attached to steel cables falling from the ceiling and pulling up the floor to reveal some giant platform, rising from the bottom, that takes us to a vast underground complex—“

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs said, turning his gaze from his agent to the tall officer who accompanied Teague and Langer on their trip down. “You gonna show us where this is?”

“No,” he replied, as he stood next to the elevator. “Your host will, though. He should be here in a minute.”

It was a four-minute wait. The door on the far side of the waiting area that Gibbs, Kate, DiNozzo and Teague tried to open finally opened on its own. A tall, African-American woman, dressed in a black business suit walked through; she scanned the room, and fixed her gaze on Teague.

“What a surprise,” Teague said drolly. “I never expected to see you here, Quinn.”

“I got reassigned stateside,” Quinn replied. “Just as you did.”

“A colleague from the Agency,” Teague told the others. “Shall we,” Teague said to Quinn.

“Please follow me,” Quinn answered, leading the group down a long hallway that led to two Army Rangers guarding a steel door. With a nod from Quinn, the Ranger on her right stepped aside and away from a dull-orange glowing panel he had stood in front of. She put her left hand against the panel, and a few moments later the door began to open, in the opposite direction of the hallway.

The sight that awaited the group was nothing like they had ever seen in person.

For Gibbs, it resembled what he and Hollis saw at the Pentagon site; a large area with people moving around or standing. Some of the people, wearing civilian clothing or white lab coats, stood or sat at desks in front of laptops and computer monitors. Some had laptops, or palm-sized tablets. There were soldiers all around the area, several standing at attention, several armed with weapons that he was sure were ready to use at a moment’s notice.

Gibbs figured he was the only person in the group who noticed what else was in the vast, stadium-sized area. He finally allowed himself to look at the area’s centerpiece: a gigantic, circular object that looked like a ring of fire and electricity, hovering a foot above a ten-foot-high machine probably 80 feet long, atop a platform that was probably seven feet high. He could see through the ring, a 70-foot-wide by 70-foot-tall object, probably two feet thick.

He looked at his watch. It was 1:43 a.m. He gawked at the ring.

He looked back at his watch. It was 1:51. He looked around at his team and at Teague’s people. No one looked tired, just awed; even Quinn looked as if she was amazed at the sight. Still, neither he nor his people could keep this up all night.

“Agent Teague,” he heard McGee say from his left. “Can we see the other side?”

“Quinn?”, Teague said to her fellow CIA agent, who motioned for the group to follow her around to the other side. The ring and the machine were at the back of the platform, which had a space that stretched out at least 50 feet, with a set of stairs at the end leading down to the floor

Gibbs, and everyone else, saw the grey, barren brick wall they stood near while gawking at the ring from the other side.

“Transit about to begin. All personnel report to secure areas. Countdown one minute.”

Everyone in the area heard the voice of a male with a British accent, but the voice didn’t come from the speakers in the back or sides of the vast room or the front of the platform. It seemed to come from inside the ring itself.

The few people on the platform in front of the group quickly made their way down the stairs, and one of the soldiers on guard motioned for the group to step back 10 feet. The voice counted down to zero, and the ring began to rotate, and glow, and crackle.

The rear wall faded, and gave way to another sight: a trio of flags and a vast, open area behind them, visible only within the radius of the ring. The wall remained visible outside the ring.

“My God,” Ducky said.

“What in hell is this, Jethro?”, Franks said to Gibbs. “This what you and Hollis saw?”

“Yeah,” Gibbs told him.

Tony made his way to Gibbs’s side. “Boss. I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ll never doubt you, ever, ever again.”

“No need to, Tony,” Gibbs told him.

“Gibbs?”, Kate asked. “What’s there?”

“X-Files stuff,” McGee answered for his boss.

“That’s what I thought when I saw this, Agent McGee,” Cooke said.

“We must go through, yes?”, Ziva said.

“Absolutely,” Palmer replied.

The ring ‘cooled down’ and resumed its normal glow, and someone on the other side walked right up to it and seemed to do something — punch buttons, move levers, no one on the group’s side of the ring could tell what. Seconds later, a set of stairs lowered on a set of cables from the top, until landing on the platform.

Quinn began walking, rather briskly, towards the stairs. She stopped halfway up, turned to the group, and waved them over. “Come on!”, she said, with a grin. “This is the fun part.”

“What ‘fun’ part?”, Ziva asked.

“Visiting another universe!”, Quinn said. “Let’s go. We don’t have all night.”

Palmer turned to the others. “Don’t tell me we came all this way for nothing,” he said, looking at Gibbs and Teague. The ex-Marine turned to the other CIA agent (that he knew about) in the place.

“We didn’t, Mr. Palmer,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The group went up the first series of steps, then the second, portable series of steps, into another world.

“‘Through the looking glass we go,” Kate said, the last of the group to walk through into a world that looked like their own.

She went down the stairs on the other side and joined everyone else on an identical platform. They saw civilians at desks or with laptops, and soldiers either standing at attention or walking around the area with weapons. The flags they stood in front of, however, weren’t there on the other side — which had a different meaning now.

“Don’t touch,” McGee heard a booming male voice say from the floor, scaring him off from touching the blue and white flag in the middle. McGee, and the rest of the group, quickly saw the man who gave the warning jog up the stairs, and into plain view.

“Harry Langford, MI-6,” said the tall, athletic, man who — except for his three-day-old beard — was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, without a tie. “You must be the, what is the saying? ‘Brothers from another mother’. You look as lovely as ever, Miss Quinn.”

“Charmed, Mr. Langford,” Quinn said.

“What’s MI-6 doing here?”, Franks interjected. “Shouldn’t FBI or Homeland or someone American be here?”

“If this is America, Michael,” Ducky replied.

“Ah, another Brit,” Langford said. “Let me show you the flags, and I’ll explain,” he said, holding out the flag on the left, in the center, and on the right: a close replica of the Virginia state flag; the United Nations flag; and a flag with a British Union Jack in the upper left corner superimposed against two red bars sandwiching a white bar. “Now look behind you, along the wall."

Each group member saw the British Union Jack partly visible along the near back wall of their current location.

“You’re in the Dominion of Southern North America, which stretches from here to the Pacific Coast,” Langford said. “The DSNA is independent, but in close association with Great Britain.”

“You won the Revolutionary War?”, Tony asked.

“Lost. The DSNA was formally established in our early 20th century, but its roots came in what on your world, I believe, was called the ‘Civil War’. We — Britain — initially agreed to support the Confederates in exchange for numerous concessions, including the end to slavery. Then we and the French found ourselves fighting the Americans after the Confederate government collapsed. The Yanks sued for peace, we rebuilt the old Confederacy, and fought the Yanks off two more times that century. Two more times again in the 20th, in both wars.”

“America and Britain are allies where we’re from,” Teague said. “That’s not the case for you.”

“Not on my world, Miss…?”

“Agent Teague.”

“Agent Teague. On this world, the U.S. government allied itself with greedy corporate interests, which controlled both the executive and the military by the early 20th century, and began a long alliance with Germany which culminated in the ascension of Charles Lindbergh to the Presidency in the 1930s, just in time to solidify the U.S.A.’s ties with Germany — by then ran by the Nazis. We fought the Nazis in North America to a stalemate on two fronts during the Second Great War. Hitler and his lot eventually were overcome, and with Germany split between us, the Free French and the Soviets, the United States entrenched itself into isolationism. The corporate interests completely took over the nation, expelling or killing its minorities, and have proven to be a persistent threat to individual liberty and global peace for the better part of seven decades.”

“This America of yours sounds like a terrible place to live,” Ducky said. “I assure you, none of these people besides me are reflective of anything like it.”

Langford looked at the older man for a few moments until realizing why Ducky looked so familiar to him. “I recognize you, sir, more specifically your counterpart. He served with distinction during the Persian and Filipino Wars. A proud Scot with a million stories to tell. He was a good man. That’s why I’m so disappointed to see you with this lot.”

“I assure you, Agent Langford, that the integrity of each of these men and women, individually and collectively, is of the highest caliber,” Ducky replied. “I am sorry your prejudice seems to prevent you from realizing that.”

“I get the feeling you don’t like us very well,” Tony interjected, before Langford could reply to Ducky.

“That would be a logical conclusion,” Langford replied. “Nevertheless, here you are. And here I am, as well. I have my duty, regardless of personal observations, and I will perform it.”

“Is that ‘duty’ to insult us?”, Kate said.

“Part of it is to show you a piece of the mystery,” Langford said, ignoring the latter part of Kate’s question. “As fantastic as this must be to you, you are, in fact, in another dimension, similar to your own. I will show you a slice of it. Come with me.”

Langford turned heel and went down the stairs onto the main floor. Gibbs caught Teague’s eye, and she joined him, both going down the stairs, and the remainder of the group following them down to the floor. Langford didn’t look back until he came to the door leading to a hallway, and saw Gibbs and Teague less than 50 feet away.

Sighing, the MI-6 agent waited on his unwelcome guests, then led them to an elevator like the one that took them to the ring from their own world. Langford was the last person to go up, to a garage bay, where the group — now guarded by a contingent of British Royal Marines — awaited him.

“This looks like the bay we rode down from,” McGee said. “So does the stadium.”

“This track, sir, holds proper motorsport,” Langford said, proudly. “Formula One. Sports cars. The North American Touring Championship. Stock car racing done properly and safely. The Americans race their Fords and Chevys like a drunk lot trying to wreck on the Motorways. That isn’t what you’re here to see, though.”

“I’m guessing it’s not a darkened garage,” Gibbs said, dryly.

“Follow me, Yank,” Langford said. The group — surrounded by the Royal Marines — walked outside, to an open spot of the infield beneath a 107-foot-tall BP sign. Langford pointed south, and the group understood what he wanted them to see: the skyline of this world’s Richmond, bright and colorful, with over a dozen skyscrapers in the distance rising above the much nearer bleachers surrounding the raceway’s track.

“Holy…”, Tony muttered. His eye caught the featured skyscraper, a spire in red, blue and white rising high above the other buildings, higher than any building he knew of on his own world.

“Ten million people live here,” Langford said. “We have our problems, but we have built a good nation with a good culture. A good people, multiethnic, proud and British.”

“You love being British, don’t you?”, Langer said. “I almost want to go there. I hope everyone there aren’t the prick you are.”

“If you say so, Mr.?”

“Agent Langer.”

“Ah. I keep forgetting you’re American federal agents. At least you’re not the politicians or the corporate masters directing their every move—“

“That’s not true,” Sloane interjected, with a hint of anger in her voice.

“Perhaps not now,” Langford said, “not in your situation. The military’s probably taken over now. Of course, they have their corporate masters—“

“I think you’re viewing us through the lens of the local Americans a bit too much,” Cooke said. “Maybe you ought to take a deep breath and—“

“And go back? And send you back where you came from?”, Langford said. “I couldn’t agree more. It’s high time you go back, anyway. It’s too bloody late to be up.” He looked at his watch. “Even the pubs are closing now.”

The MI-6 agent headed straight for the elevator. To the last person, the Royal Marines assigned to the group looked apologetic.

4:54 a.m.

Washington (in the team's home dimension)

Leroy Jethro Gibbs’s home

McAllister had agents waiting on the team once they returned to their home dimension through the ring, and each agent was responsible for driving the vehicles the team had driven or rode in. Every person tried to get some sleep while the caravan — again accompanied by Richmond police, then Virginia State Police and, finally, Metro DC Police vehicles — made its way up I-95 into Washington.

Exhausted, everyone straggled into Gibbs’s living room, and either fell onto the couch, or in the recliner, or on the floor. Gibbs pulled up a chair, and considered addressing the group, then thought better of it. He needed some rest, himself; after checking with the lead suit on the scene, he nodded to the women to take the beds upstairs, and he pulled a cot out of a closet, setting it up with help from another suited agent near the kitchen.

He fell sound asleep after his head touched the pillow at the head of the cot, and Gibbs dreamed of Shannon and Kelly, the three of them picknicking in a park, running through the grass, under a warm sun.

8:00 a.m.

CBS News continuing coverage



—Welcome back to continuing coverage of the ongoing international situation. I’m Russ Mitchell, with me are Maggie Rodriguez and Jeff Glor. Bob Schieffer and Katie Couric are both getting some needed rest. There’s been a lot that’s happened in the past few hours, and we’ll start in West Germany. CBS News sources confirm reports by The Associated Press, the BBC and other news outlets of a large number of West German citizens fleeing west, away from potential attack in the event of a conventional military conflict between Allied and Pact forces.

Closer to home, a Ford automobile plant in Dearborn, Michigan was attacked by terrorists overnight. Eleven are dead and dozens more injured.

Georgia National Guardsmen were called upon to put down food riots in Atlanta. Some civic leaders were upset over certain stores in some inner-city neighborhoods having been restricted to being open eight hours a day and to distribution of food and other necessities to those stores.

Portions of Denver are still without electricity at this hour. Insurgent attacks yesterday afternoon initially shut down more than three-quarters of the city’s power grid. While power has been restored to much of the city, an estimated 34,000 customers are still without electric or telephone service.

An estimated 560,000 men and women have signed up at military and National Guard recruiting offices, according to a Pentagon press release. Millions of young Americans will learn at noon Eastern today whether or not their numbers will come up in the Selective Service draft lottery, the first in nearly four decades, since the Vietnam War.

There are sporadic ongoing protests against the draft lottery across the nation, primarily at college campuses. The largest, at the University of California in Berkeley, saw protestors chant ‘PEACE NOW’ at California National Guardsmen separating them from a group of counter-protestors from the Conservative Student Union at Cal.—



Gibbs got his sleep, such as it was, and after he sat up on his cot discovered he wasn’t the first person from the group to wake up.

He smelled the bacon and coffee coming from the kitchen and walked towards the kitchen until he saw the person standing over his oven, cooking eggs.

“DIdn’t know you were a cook, McGee.”

McGee turned his head and saw Gibbs. “Making scrambled eggs and bacon, and the coffee pot’s percolating, too,” the younger agent said as he stirred the eggs on one of the skillets, and reached for a spatula to flip over the bacon cooking on another skillet. “I couldn’t get much sleep.”

“Not any time,” Gibbs replied as he walked towards the cupboard and pulled out a loaf of bread. “I’ll start making some toast. Gonna need more food.”

“Ronnie” — one of McCallister’s ‘suits’, who had guarded Gibbs’ house the longest — “said there’s a truck coming with milk, cereal, fruit, bagels and cream cheese.”

“Where’s he at now, McGee?”

“Driving the truck.”

Gibbs put the bread in the toaster and pulled down the lever. “He been gone long?”

“Twenty minutes. Ronnie said the director knows people. There’s a place where we can get food. Lots of it.”

“’Lots’, McGee?”

“Not just for breakfast and not just for us. For the neighbors.”

“Makes things a little easier on us,” Gibbs said, reaching in his pocket. Satisfied the object he was looking for – the flash drive McAllister gave him – was there, Gibbs put it on the counter close to where McGee was cooking the scrambled eggs.

“Got something for you, McGee,” Gibbs said, nodding towards the flash drive. “I’ll take care of the food. Grab that, and some coffee, and head downstairs.”

McGee picked up the black-and-red thumb-sized drive and turned it with his thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?”

“Director gave it to me. Said you would know how to crack it and get to the files,” Gibbs said. “Whatever’s on it, he wants us to know.”

“Does it have anything to do with what’s we saw earlier?”

“Find out.”

McGee poured a mug of coffee – he had learned to tolerate drinking his black – and, flash drive in his pocket, went downstairs. He found a laptop waiting for him on the workbench; he decided he’d ask who it belonged to after he decrypted the drive. Searching through the laptop’s operating system, McGee found the decryption programs he helped write a few years back. This is good, he thought. I don’t think I have the time to figure out a new decryption program.

Although he got more entrenched in his work, McGee didn’t fail to notice Gibbs walking down the stairs into the basement with a plate of food. Gibbs had trained him to work under any circumstance while knowing where he was and who was around at all times.

“Headed upstairs, McGee,” Gibbs said, looking over the younger man’s shoulder at the laptop screen, which showed a series of folders. “Stop every so often, eat some food, drink some coffee. That’s an order.”

“Roger that, Gibbs,” McGee replied. He had no idea what order the folders were in or what was in them. So he picked a random folder.



CORTEXIN STUDY

—in the study, Cortexin had a pronounced and lasting effect on a variety of animal subjects during the three-year testing period at Walter Reed Army Medical Center—

—Cortexin stimulates the reasoning abilities of non-homo sapiens species to the equivalent of a third-grade reading and reasoning level in an average human being—

—reporting rates of 46.7 percent using Dalmatian canine subjects increasing in size, strength and endurance, which could prove useful on the battlefield, as cavalry or—



“What the hell?”, McGee whispered. He closed that folder and opened another file.



SPECIAL FORCES

—two new special forces units attached to the Army:

Atomic Knights

Black Knights

Both forces report directly to CJCS, who reports in matters pertaining to these units to, in order: POTUS; SECDEF; SECARM; CSA; and CIADIR. They act alone or in tandem with other military and intelligence units—



McGee went through the other folders, one by one:



—project to create a soldier capable of full self-sufficiency in battle. Nicknamed the ‘One Man Army Corps’, the Army and Marine Corps—

—a similar project between French, British and West German military units named Project Heracles—

—testing on the Brother Eye surveillance satellites went forward at Naval facilities in Okinawa, Japan, helping coordinate U.S., Japanese and South Korean efforts to contain North Korean spy drones over the Sea of Japan—



McGee didn’t stop until he searched through all 48 folders on the drive. The last folder made about as much sense as anything he’d seen in the past several hours.



MULTIVERSE

— CLOSED

3 10 15 26 27 28 29 30 31 40 42 43 48 49 50 51

RESTRICTED

P 6 13 14 16 18 19 20 22 25 37 39 41 45 46 47 W

OPEN

1 2 5 7 8 9 11 12 21 23 24 32 33 34 35 36 38 44 52 53 D M—

[Dan]

Just double checking this wasn't a Story Only thread.

Reading through this, I think you have the characters of the main people down really well. The double bonus of this being ATL NCIS and NCIS, (the series), being fictional gives you a lot of scope to remodel certain events and people, and I think you've handled that well.

Looking forward to following this one.

[Brky2020]

Sept 6, 2018 7:09:03 GMT Dan said:

Just double checking this wasn't a Story Only thread.

Reading through this, I think you have the characters of the main people down really well. The double bonus of this being ATL NCIS and NCIS, (the series), being fictional gives you a lot of scope to remodel certain events and people, and I think you've handled that well.

Looking forward to following this one.

Thank you for your kind words Dan! 

[Brky2020]

Chapter 47

Saturday, June 2, 2007

Washington, D.C.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ home

10:04 a.m.

“Multiverse?” McGee shouted the word loudly enough that he was sure someone upstairs would have heard him and come downstairs, and see him with the laptop full of information that a lot of people would kill for. He really didn’t care.

Until now, McGee thought he had kept a level head regarding what he had heard and seen just hours before. He had expected the thumb drive to contain information relating to the drive, or to the ring system, and had prepared himself for that. There was nothing about the schematics of the machine that powered the ring, or any usable information on the network of rings around the world.

Instead, McGee uncovered files full of things he at first thought might be a red herring, or someone’s idea of a joke. Had Tony handed him the thumb drive instead of Gibbs, McGee would’ve rolled his eyes and told his teammate something along the lines of ‘nice joke, Tony, at least you’ve finally graduated from putting super glue on my keyboard’. If it had been some stranger, like someone from the CIA or Naval Intelligence, McGee would have set his mind for some kind of spy game that NCIS had been pulled into.

Either scenario would be well within the 30-year-old agent’s limited frame of reference. His world involved criminal investigations involving sailors, Marines, military officers, civilians and, on occasion, KGB and Mossad officers.

What he had uncovered from the thumb drive, however, wasn’t applicable in the real world that he lived in. Comic books? Movies? Television? Science-fiction novels? All yes.

Still, he had managed to keep an open mind regarding what he saw in Richmond, and in the alternate dimension he and his teammates had briefly visited. He saw all of that for himself, and therefore he could more readily accept it.

What he couldn’t accept were stories of giant dogs, atomic soldiers, or super surveillance satellites; those were the stuff of comic books and TV shows from the 1960s, not of 21st-century reality.

And yet, Gibbs was treating what was on the thumb drive as Gospel truth. That unnerved McGee more than anything. Gibbs didn’t seem capable of conceiving of the ideas in these file folders. Gibbs, as no-nonsense of a hard-ass Marine as there was, didn’t even seem capable of pulling a prank.

If Gibbs is taking this seriously, McGee thought, then what in hell have I just seen? McGee had skimmed over most of the many files and sub-folders on the drive. And he had to debrief Gibbs soon.

McGee looked over at his plate, half full of cold scrambled eggs and stale toast, and his coffee mug, a quarter full of lukewarm coffee. He wasn’t too hungry, but surely there was something upstairs that could tide him over until lunch. And it wouldn’t hurt him to take a quick trip to the restroom – nor to stretch his legs a little.

He got up from the stool he had sat on for two hours, stretching as he took a final look at the laptop’s screen. Forty-eight folder icons, all full of insanity (assuming everything there was true), daring him to sit back down and uncover more of their secrets.

“You’ll wait,” McGee muttered. He turned to head towards the stairs, found himself nose-to-nose with a grinning and mischievous Tony, and yelled in surprise.

"AAAAHHHHHHH--dammit, Tony!"

“That never gets old. I oughta do that more often,” Tony said with a chuckle. “Going somewhere, McRecluse?”

“Tony, damn it,” McGee half-shouted. “What the hell? And how you’d get down here, anyway?”

“Gibbs is on the front porch seeing who’s still in the neighborhood, Franks is smoking his ninth cigarette of the day and those other agents went home,” Tony said. “Come on Probie. You know I’m messing with you—”

“Like messing with me—”

“And I know you like it when I mess with ya? Right?”

“No, Tony. I don’t like it—”

“You shouldn’t have said that, McGee. That makes me want to mess with you more.”

“And what if I said, ‘I don’t mind’?”, McGee said with a sigh.

“I’d do it anyway,” DiNozzo said with a wink. “Everybody’s asking about you, McMissing. Boss told us you were working on something for him and to stay upstairs—”

“You probably should’ve listened to him, Tony.”

“And yet here you are, with a laptop,” Tony replied, looking over McGee’s shoulder at the icons on the laptop’s screen. “No screen saver, either, huh? What’s on there, anyway?”

“None of your business,” McGee said, firmly.

Surprised by McGee’s boldness, Tony stood with his mouth open for a few moments. He quickly came back to his senses. “Look at you, Timothy Aloysius McGee, all grown up, standing up to big brother. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m so glad,” McGee deadpanned. “Now, if you’ll—”

Before McGee could react, Tony moved behind him and right against the workbench and in front of the laptop. “Picked your pocket just like I did to Steve Alford, on the road in Assembly Hall my freshman year!” McGee instinctively reached in his pocket for his wallet, and found it there, and saw Tony break out into a wide grin. “Remember, Timmy. Big brother’s got plenty of moves to teach you. Now, what’s on your laptop?”

“It’s classified, Tony!”

“Probably the long-awaited-by-no-one rewritten sequel to Deep Six,” Tony mused as he grabbed the laptop, then ran towards the stairs. “Tommy and Lisa get together?”

“Tony—”

“Did Amy finally get her man…Agent McGregor?”

“Tony—”

“Did you give Kate a new name besides ‘Mae Codd’? She hated that. Didn’t speak to you for days. Gave you the glare – and I thought Gibbs’s glare was nasty. Speaking of, what’s L.J. Tibbs up to—”

“TONY!” McGee caught up to Tony and attempted to pull the laptop from his hands, but Tony was quicker, and ran back to the workbench. “Tony, if I tell you what’s on it, if I show you what’s on it, will you shut up?”

“Hmm…maybe,” Tony mused. “I want the juicy stuff, though. Like is Mae dating a certain FBI hottie from Brooklyn? I hope not. Kate’ll kill you for sure and I’m not sure if Ziva could save you.”

McGee eyed Tony with some suspicion, then took the laptop. “There’s no Deep Six material here, Tony. It’s crazy.”

“What’s crazy, Probie?”

“All of it.”

Tony held a hand up as McGee clicked on one of the folders. “Wait, McGee. If that really is classified—“

“I know you, Tony. You won’t let this go.”

“No, I won’t want to let it go, but I really don’t want you to get into trouble, either.”

“Tony…Gibbs didn’t say anything about reading you in, but he didn’t say not to read you in, either. I know you’ll keep quiet about what’s on this flash drive, too.”

Tony noted the hint of fear in McGee’s eyes. “There’s a time to screw around and a time to get down to business. Something’s got you worried.”

“I don’t know what to make of this, Tony,” McGee said as he briefly glanced at the laptop. “Any of it.”

“It have anything to do with that trip down to Richmond?”

“No, most of it doesn’t.”

“Then what’s got you freaked out?” Tony looked McGee in the eye and put a hand on his arm to reassure his teammate and friend.

The gesture didn’t work.

“The parts that don’t have anything to do with what we saw or what Gibbs and those people talked about.”

“Tell me, Tim,” he said, without jest. His usual tendency to irritate the other agent was long gone; his primary concern was for the younger man’s mental and emotional well-being. “I won’t say a word to anyone, not even Gibbs.”

“Tony—"

“Swear on a stack of Bibles. Or my stack of classic movie VHS tapes, and I mean the classics. Casablanca. Citizen Kane. Maltese Falcon. Whichever works for you.”

DiNozzo chuckled, and McGee allowed himself a slight grin. “I don’t know where on earth to start, Tony.”

“Give me the Cliff’s Notes,” DiNozzo replied, and McGee did his best to summarize the contents of 47 file folders in 10 minutes.

Afterwards, DiNozzo wasn’t sure what to think. Most of the contents to him seemed, as they did to McGee, like something from a 40- or 50-year-old comic book.

Except, Gibbs thought whatever was on that flash drive was factual and important.

And there was that case a couple of years before in July 2005, after Ziva joined the team. The case that took the team down to North Carolina, where they worked with the NCIS office at Camp Lejeune to find a missing, and eventually dead, Gunnery Sergeant who was the only son of President Broome’s Chief of Staff.

Working with the other team was weird enough – the team was led by a Navy Commander on active duty but attached to NCIS, and his people referred to each other and to Gibbs’s team individually as ‘Special Agent ____’ or ‘Doctor ____’ – but one of the interrogations unnerved DiNozzo like nothing else he’d ever encountered.

June 25, 2005

NCIS field office

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

Interrogation Room #2

With Gibbs, Kate, Commander Will Coburn, Gunnery Sergeant Shel McHenry and Agent Maggie Foley watching from the observation room, Tony sat down at the small, wooden table across from the prime suspect, Bryndon Smith.

“Let’s see,” Tony said, making a small show of leaning back in his chair while lazily reading the dossier on the suspect. “Bryndon Smith – what kind of name is Bryndon, anyway? – says here you’re a biologist currently visiting at Duke. That’s in Durham, right? Right down ol’ Tobacco Road. Say, you catch any basketball games?”

Smith, wearing one of the best poker faces Tony had ever seen on a human being, sat expressionless.

“I wasn’t a fan either. I preferred the Big Ten. Played for Ohio State, in fact, football and basketball. Been awhile, though, since I’ve watched an entire game. Job makes it hard to follow college hoops, or any sports. That’s one reason I watch so many classic movies. Easy to pop in a tape, get an hour through, get called into work a case for, say, 10 straight days, then go home and pop it back in.”

Smith sat straight as an iron rod, while he remained expressionless.

“Enough about me, though. You…you have quite the past. Some guy on some blog called you ‘a contemporary of Richard Dawkins, who besides stirring up the religious right co-wrote a paper with you that almost won a Nobel Prize’. Remember that? But nobody really knows what was in it, because the government did that thing where they mark out what they don’t want the public to know.”

Tony exaggeratedly flipped through a few pages while Smith said and did nothing and showed no expression. “You’ve been around the block, Smitty – you know, I like calling you Smitty. You got that Clark Gable thing going, though…but Smitty it is. Anyway, Smitty, you’ve done work for the feds, the Brits, the West Germans, the Japanese, been all over the free world doing something, but I can’t tell what.”

Smith blinked, for the first time since he entered the room.

“I haven’t been able to find out whatever it is that you do because it’s classified,” Tony said. “Whatever the hell it is, the Agency’s involved, and so is something that we, that is, my Boss and my team and the Commander who runs the NCIS office and his people can’t come close to getting any information on.”

Smith locked eyes with Tony in such a way that almost jarred the NCIS agent. He’d seen that look once before, when Ari Haswari appeared in Kate’s apartment a few weeks before after the terrorist/Spetsnaz agent tried to kill everyone on Gibbs’ team.

Tony pushed on. If he could survive Ari, he surely would be able to handle this guy.

“Look, whatever you’re doing with the Agency or God knows who else in the name of national security, I’m sure it’s all above board and for baseball, apple pie, truth, justice and the American way. I don’t care about that.”

Ignoring Smith’s increasingly unsettling stare, Tony reached in the back of the folder he was holding for a couple of photos of the victim whose death both NCIS teams were investigating: Marine Gunnery Sergeant Michael MacIntyre.

The first two photos DiNozzo put on the table were of MacIntyre in better times: in full uniform sitting in front of the American flag, and at liberty with other members of his unit while serving in Afghanistan.

The next three photos were of MacIntyre at the crime scene, severely disfigured by a rash that neither Ducky nor Coburn’s medical examiner Nina Tomlinson could make sense of. The middle photo showed the Marine’s death mask – Coburn didn’t allow Ducky to close the victim’s eyes and mouth until after McGee took the photo – and even now, the anguish in MacIntyre’s face was as apparent as the day he saw him at the crime scene. Tony wondered if that particular photo might get a response from the man sitting across from him.

Instead, Smith kept boring a hole into Tony's soul.

“He is what I care about right now,” Tony continued, stating the victim’s name and rank. “The last person he was seen with was you. We know because you both were on surveillance video at a Speedway convenience store in Jacksonville near the base. You gave him a coffee after you put something in it when no one was watching.”

Tony looked up at the video monitor in the corner of the small room. Smith didn’t break eye contact with the agent, who watched the feed.

“Not gonna watch, huh?”, Tony said. “Guess you think since you were there, you think you don’t have to see it again. I don’t want to see it again. But I did. Wanna know why? Because I’m trying to figure out why you would murder a man in his twenties, who did nothing more than serve his country.”

Smith, finally, showed some emotion: anger. Tony, initially surprised by Smith’s reaction, found himself getting angrier, and determined he would not lose this glare-off or whatever game this bastard was playing. Bryndon Smith would not get the best of him. Not today.

“Answer me,” Tony said, coolly. Smith’s anger grew, although he only showed it in his eyes.

“Answer me,” Tony repeated, this time with some anger of his own. Although he had kept his emotions at bay, his anger at the horrible manner of McIntyre’s death and at Smith’s reaction in the room had abruptly manifested and was about to boil over.

He looked back, briefly, at the large mirror where he knew Gibbs, Coburn and the others were watching. He remembered Coburn’s admonition: ‘keep your composure’. As good of a Christian as Coburn was, the commander also liked to throw his weight around, as he showed Tony and the rest of Gibbs’s team the past 10 days. But Gibbs was his boss, not the commander, and he knew if it came to it that Director Shepard outranked both Coburn and Assistant Director Michael Larkin and would have his back.

Satisfied that he wasn’t alone, Tony fell back on the unspoken rule he used for certain situations – like the one involving Bryndon Smith – that neither the handbook nor experience covered and required a rather strong approach: WWGD – What Would Gibbs Do?

Tony gathered up the five photos and put them in the folder, then laid it on his chair. With all his might, he slammed his palms down onto the surface of the table. That created a crack where his left palm hit the surface, along with a loud bang that reverberated in his ears for several moments.

“ANSWER ME!”, DiNozzo yelled at Smith. “WHY DID YOU KILL GUNNERY SERGEANT MCINTYRE?!?!?”

Smith cocked his head, and smirked. “Impressive, Agent DiNozzo. I believe I saw that scene on television, once.”

“Finally, he talks,” Tony shouted to the mirror behind him, and to those behind it. Turning back to Smith, he leaned into the suspect’s face until their noses were a hair’s width apart. “You want to answer my question now, jackass?”

“You won’t like the answer,” Smith said.

“Try me.”

Smith scooted his chair back six inches to give some space between himself and his interrogator, while he unblinkingly kept his eyes on Tony. “There are things afoot in this country, this world, that you cannot possibly have conceived of in real life, Agent DiNozzo. Born in the Northeast, your mother died, your father left you to grow up alone while he tried to find consolation in war reenactments or by befriending Saudi princes. Good enough to play intercollegiate football and basketball at a high level but not good enough to turn—”

“Why did you kill Gunnery Sergeant MacIntyre.”

“—Not good enough to turn professional. You did save a young man’s life while walking the streets of Baltimore, an admirable act despite the fact you were supposed to be at the arena with your teammates before the national championship game. Of course, had it not been for the East German Stasi threat, you’d have been in Seattle, but that’s a minor footnote in the long cold war between—”

“Why. Did. You. Kill—”

“—East and West. You turned to police work to find fulfillment, and you found success. Peoria. Philadelphia. Baltimore. Then you were recruited to NCIS, and you became Leroy Jethro Gibbs’s right-hand man. They say you should have your own team by now, but you stay—”

“Kill. Gunnery Sergeant MacIntyre.”

“—you stay out of loyalty? Has to be. It isn’t like Leroy Jethro Gibbs is going anywhere. Of course, Gibbs has some skeletons in his own closet, and perhaps subconsciously you know this, so you’re waiting—”

Ignoring the jab at Gibbs, Tony picked the folder back up from the chair. He then pulled out the photo of MacIntyre’s face, frozen in agony, and put the picture on the table. “Look. This is what you did.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Unbelievable,” DiNozzo said. “Video doesn’t lie, pal.”

“Doesn’t it? You’re a film aficionado. You have heard of Hollywood, right?”

Tony pointed to the monitor, showing Smith taking a pill from a small bottle near the coffee machine in the convenience store. It then showed Smith pouring creamer and sweetener in the cup before walking over to MacIntyre, who was at the counter. “You thanked him for his service and offered him a cup of coffee as a gift. Said it was a lucky guess when he asked how you knew he liked half-and-half and Splenda.”

The monitor showed McIntyre walking out of the store, and Smith milling about for three more minutes before leaving himself. “Didn’t even try to go back and pick up that prescription bottle, did you?”, Tony said. “Our people told us MacIntyre probably started feeling the aftereffects of whatever it was you gave him after he got on the road. Had enough time to realize something was wrong, and he was headed in the direction you’d expect him to go in if he were headed for the nearest hospital.

“Only thing is, he ran out of time. Skin started peeling off. Probably was lucid enough to realize he had to pull off the road to keep from killing somebody else. So he pulled off of the road and reached for his cell phone. He was starting to bleed from his fingertips, and he may not have been able to clearly see the numbers on the dialpad. Now I’m not God, so I don’t know if he figured the hospital wouldn’t be able to help him, but for whatever reason he called NCIS at Camp Lejeune. He told the agent he was attacked and, according to the audio from the call, began convulsing. I heard that call, Smith. Towards the end, he couldn’t speak. His vocal cords were failing him. All he could do was grunt while he was grasping for air. And then, nothing.”

Smith looked at the photo, then back at Tony.

“He died, Smith. Didn’t take long to connect you to the crime, once the local TV news ran their stories on his death—”

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”, Smith interjected, turning his glare back to his interrogator's eyes. “You want to know if I killed this man.”

“You offering to confess?” Tony went to the chair next to the door and picked up a notepad and pen, then walked back and tossed both onto the surface of the table. “Don’t you dare leave a thing out.”

Smith looked at the pad and pen, picked the pen up as if to write, then threw it and the pad against the wall to his right.

“So that’s how this is going to be,” Tony muttered. “You’re on thin ice, pal—”

“MacIntyre was dead before he suffered that unfortunate malady,” Smith said, with a calmness that made Tony feel as if his spine had instantly been encased in ice. “He is one of millions of victims and there will be more.”

“You—”

“You, Agent DiNozzo, are no fool. You seem to be a wise man, underneath the façade you wear around your teammates. Open your eyes. How many tragic deaths have befallen those in the military, the government, the media, lately? How many more will there be? Who is behind their deaths, Agent DiNozzo?”

Tony pointed to the monitor – which, thanks to the tech in the observation room, now showed the photo of the dead MacIntyre’s visage, frozen in agony – while never breaking eye contact with Smith. “He is the focus here, Smith.”

“There are many things going on behind the scenes that will soon affect us all, Agent DiNozzo, but because I see you are a persistent man—”

“Damn right.”

“I will answer your question, after asking a question of my own: do you truly think I killed that man?”

“Are you serious?”

“I did not kill Gunnery Sergeant MacIntyre, if that is what you are asking. I could not save him, but I could spare others, and I have. It is why you and your people are alive.”

“You’re—”

“I am not finished speaking, Agent DiNozzo. I have much to say in so little time. I know you have recording devices and I know you and some of the people behind the glass have excellent memories, so stay silent while I give my ‘confession’, as it were. I work for a secret agency that is attached to no government. This agency was formed by citizens of the world to bring about peace, to prevent war between the two great powers. This agency, sadly, came to the conclusion that such a conflict was inevitable. That conflict, Agent DiNozzo, may not completely destroy the world but will devastate it. What we – I, and others like myself – do is to save who we can, however we can.

“There are many who would profit in some way from a Third World War. They know unless an outside force that doesn’t exist were to subjugate the entire world, that such a war is now inevitable with the next two to five years. They have set into motion the machinery that will expedite the war. They will save themselves, if at all possible, and leave the people to fend for themselves. You prosecute me for the death of one man. You need to see the bigger picture.”

Tony finally sat down, with the folder, pad and pen in his lap. “If you’re trying to talk your way out of—”

“I am not finished, Agent DiNozzo.”

“You’re not making any sense, Smith.”

“The bigger picture, sir. Ask why your government is allowing thousands to die while it and its corporate masters speed towards a war that will destroy them. Ask why your government has no plan right now besides sending as many panicked people as possible into the unknown at the last minute, to other worlds, instead of making peace with the Soviets. Ask why their grand plan to save the nation is modeled after the Jewish myth of the Exodus. Ask why their answer is to profit and flee while the people run—”

The door into the interrogation room opened unexpectedly, but Tony didn’t see either Gibbs or Coburn walk in. He saw eight men in black suits and ties and sunglasses, six of which aimed submachine guns right at him. The other two picked Smith up by his arms and carried him out of the room.

Over Tony's protests, the six men didn’t leave until one got some kind of order in his earpiece. They swiftly ran out of the room, ran down the hallway and ran out of the building; he started to run after them, then heard banging from the door leading into the observation room. Moments later, he was thrown against the wall by a charging McHenry, who had managed to break down the door (and nearly break his own shoulder, and Tony's back, in the process).

Tony and the others ran to the parking lot, but the eight men in black, and Smith, were long gone. They were never found, and MacIntyre’s case was never officially solved.

The present

Tony had nightmares about the interrogation for days, then purged the incident out of his mind. He hadn’t thought about it until now, when McGee came across the contents of File Folder #48 on the laptop.

OPERATION EXODUS 

“What’s in there?”, he asked McGee, who showed him the list titled ‘MULTIVERSE’.

“Numbers and letters, that didn’t make much sense when I first saw them, under open, restricted, and closed categories,” McGee said. “Maybe they’re the worlds people go to from those rings?”

“Makes sense, McGee,” Tony said. “Closed is where you don’t go or want to go. Open is where you want to go or are able to go. Restricted is self-explanatory. But that can’t be all that’s there. Go further into the folder.”

“I’ll try,” McGee replied, and the tech-savvy agent finally hacked his way into a series of subfolders. Tony saw the file name on one and pointed to it.

RECOMMENDATIONPOTUS.010207

“Open it,” Tony said. McGee clicked on the file, and a Word document appeared on the screen. Both men began to read.

THE RECOMMENDATION OF THE OPERATION EXODUS COMMITTEE TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

January 2, 2007

Mr. President,

For the past eight months, this committee, made up of members of the House of Representatives and the Senate, along with representatives from the military (United States Air Force, Army, Marine Corps and Navy); from the intelligence community (the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Military Intelligence Agency); and from federal government agencies (the Department of Homeland Security and its Federal Emergency Management Agency subdivision) has met to discuss ways to protect the general public in the event of a full, global nuclear conflict between the United States and its allies and the Soviet Union and its allies.

This committee has reviewed thousands of documents, interviews and attestations from individuals regarding the potential and likely outcomes of such a conflict. The conclusions this committee has come to numerous times are that there is no way to protect the vast majority of the American people in the event of a nuclear exchange. Even if the majority of the public were placed in non-targeted areas, they would be subject to subsequent lethal amounts of radiation and fallout, and the combined federal, state and local government and private organizations to feed, clothe and care for these refugees would be very limited both in time and in scope. In essence, it could not be done.

Therefore, this committee must turn its attention to what can be done for the general public in the event of a nuclear war. Rather than leave the public to its fate, there is one possible course of action that can be taken to save as many people as possible. This course of action carries significant risks, mainly provoking the Soviets into a possible sneak nuclear attack in the event the action was executed. It also forces a gross presumption by us towards our interdimensional allies. Namely, they will accept our refugees without question, and includes the possibility some, many or all of those allies will not accept our refugees. But it is the only course of action we see as plausible, and we unanimously see it as the most moral and ethical course of action.

That action is to open the ring system to the public in the event an all-out nuclear exchange becomes likely. Other countries – including the Soviets – are coming to this conclusion. We cannot deny our own citizens the opportunity to flee to safety when our enemies are doing the same for their own people.

“That’s their plan?”, McGee said. “Run?”

“That’s what he meant,” Tony mused. “Sonofabitch. That guy finally makes sense.”

“Who’s ‘he’ and what ‘guy’, Tony? What are you talking about?”

“Bryndon Smith,” McGee heard from behind him, and he and Tony turned at the same time to see Gibbs, who somehow had snuck up on them both.

“Boss?”, McGee said, rather loudly. He looked over at Tony, then to Gibbs, and then the thought came to the younger agent that Tony wasn’t brought up as part of the debriefing Gibbs mentioned during their earlier conversation. “Uh, Boss, I’m sorry, I – I’m sorry for, uh—”

“What have I told you about apologies, McGee?”, Gibbs said, without anger, irritation or any other sign of being remotely upset. “You’re not the one who should be apologizing anyway.”

Tony's eyes grew wide a moment later, as the fleeting thought of enjoying McGee’s discomfort was swept away by the thought that he had some explaining to do, and quickly. “Uh, Boss, you’re right. I’m the one who—”

“I need to apologize,” Gibbs interjected. That surprised both of the younger agents. Gibbs rarely apologized about anything; he even had a rule against it.

“You?”, Tony said. “For what?”

“To all of you, including the ones upstairs,” Gibbs replied. “The MacIntyre case a couple of years ago, McGee.”

“The one we worked with the military team in North Carolina.”

“The one that got buried,” Gibbs said, with a hint of disgust. “The suspect said things that never made sense, at the time.”

“Now they do,” Tony said. “You think what’s on that screen is what that guy was talking about?”

“Yep,” Gibbs said. “I’m also sorry I didn’t see it earlier, even when Riley handed me the thing,” Gibbs added, referring to the flash drive. “The ring at the Pentagon was enough to deal with. I never thought about the MacIntyre case until DiNozzo made the connection just now.”

“Boss?”, McGee said. “There’s a lot on this drive. I can start with the highlights, and give more details as we go.”

“Do it,” Gibbs said. A half-hour later – and at least one look-in by everyone else upstairs from the doorway at the top of the stairs – Gibbs had seen enough to satisfy his curiosity.

“What do you think, Boss?”, Tony said. “I mean, what do you even do with all this stuff?”

“At least we know where to go if things get bad,” McGee said. “A couple of places…right, Boss?”

Gibbs got up and, without a word, headed towards the stairs, and stopped a few feet short before turning around. “You two coming?”, he said to Tony and McGee, both of whom were still sitting on their stools at the workbench.

“Yes Boss!”, both said in unison, seemingly bouncing off their respective stools. “On your six, Boss!”, Tony added.

“Bring that laptop,” Gibbs said, as he headed up the stairs. Once all three men got upstairs, they saw everyone else huddled around the new HDTV set McAllister had installed in Gibbs’s living room, watching CNN:

1:09 p.m. EDT

CNN

-- Kiran Cherry : For those of you just joining us, the Soviet Union has expelled all journalists and others affiliated with a Western media outlet. All 19 members of our CNN bureau in Moscow, our only authorized bureau in the Soviet Union, and their families were put onto an Aeroflot airliner hours ago and flown to neutral territory in India. Joining us now by phone from Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai is CNN Senior Soviet Correspondent, and Acting Moscow Bureau Chief, Jill Dougherty, whom we hadn’t heard from since around 4 p.m. Eastern time yesterday. Jill, how are you and everyone else holding up?

Jill Dougherty : We’re holding up pretty well. There are 24 of us, including a three-year-old boy, here in Mumbai. We aren’t the only ones from a Western media outlet here in Mumbai. There is a group from the French Agence France-Presse, four reporters from the British Guardian newspaper, a group of 20 people from ABC News, eight more from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and single reporters from Belgium, Japan, Taiwan, Brazil, Australia, Spain and Nigeria.

Cherry : Jill, we’re hearing from other media outlets that their bureaus in Moscow, Leningrad and elsewhere throughout the Soviet Union were raided about the same time CNN’s was. The reports from other media outlets are consistent: a raid by KGB and local police around 8:30 p.m. Moscow time, those in the Western media offices or, in a few cases, their individual apartments, were given just enough time for personal belongings and then taken to the airport and put aboard an airplane headed for neutral territory, either India, Finland, or northern China.

Dougherty : That’s correct. This was a coordinated effort.

Cherry : Jill, from what I understand you and the other CNN personnel and their families were rounded up early in the morning Moscow time, and allowed just enough time to get their belongings before being taken to the Moscow airport to be—

Dougherty : We all were in the CNN offices when what we believe to be KGB agents, accompanied by Moscow police, barged in around 3:30 a.m. local time, I think that would’ve been 8:30 p.m. on the East Coast, and told us we had 15 minutes to gather our personal belongings, that we were being evicted from the Soviet Union.

Cherry : ‘Evicted’?

Dougherty : That is correct. ‘Evicted’ is the term they used. We could take personal items, such as clothing and photographs, but we had to leave our notes, our laptops, our computers with us. There were five KGB agents and 38 police officers, all armed. We were not able to do anything to our computers nor notebooks, as we were all threatened with bodily harm should any attempt be made to destroy what the lead agent called “harmful propaganda”.

Cherry : Jill Dougherty in Mumbai. Jill, I know there were two children there, and three spouses but, you’re saying you were told you had to gather your personal items and be ready to leave in 15 minutes and not to do anything to your notes. That had to be…journalists do not readily give in to such threats.

Dougherty : As Acting Chief, I made the decision for all of us. I told the KGB agent he could have whatever else he wanted as long as he allowed all of us safe passage out of Moscow. I will admit that was difficult for me to do, although I didn’t have much time to decide. There were transcripts of conversations with sources in our notes, in our computers. As a journalist I do not want to give those up and I would be willing to be imprisoned, even die, to protect my sources and to stand for the integrity of my profession. There is a part of me that feels as if I betrayed my profession and the principles it stands for by doing this.

Cherry : Giving the KGB your notes and computers.

Dougherty : Yes.

Cherry : Jill, you mentioned spouses and children. Were they the deciding influence in you making this decision?

Dougherty : Yes, along with the other 18 men and women. I knew, as soon as the KGB burst in early this morning, we were either going to be placed into custody or sent away.

Cherry : ‘Placed into custody’, what does that mean, exactly?

Dougherty : Bianna Golodryga, from ABC News, was taken into custody from the ABC News office this morning. ZNN’s Clarissa Ward was thrown into a KGB vehicle when ZNN was raided. Charles Wheeler from the BBC, was arrested at the BBC bureau in Moscow on charges of espionage. All, we were told, ‘placed into custody’, which we were told means they will be charged with crimes against the Soviet Union, tried by a military court, sentenced and sent to serve their sentence.

Cherry : What kind of sentence?

Dougherty : I wasn’t told specifically by the KGB agent I spoke to, but he implied it was ‘quick and appropriate to charges of espionage’. We know about the CIA agent who was given the same sentence for allegedly spying on Chernobyl two years ago and sentenced to death within a week. I asked the KGB agent if these journalists’ sentence would be similar; he said nothing, but gave me a very slight nod of the head.—

“Now they’re kicking our reporters out,” Palmer said, with some anger in his voice. “I hope we dropped their asses in the middle of the ocean for some Russian sub to pick up.”

“Anything else on the news?”, Tony asked the group.

“Congress is still in session and no one will say about what,” Abby replied. “Some plane trying to spread poison on some farms in Iowa was shot down.”

“Long lines at the supermarket and longer lines at the gas station,” Kate added.

“And everybody’s waiting on the Selective Service draft,” Palmer said. “Gibbs. You guys find out something downstairs?”

Tony and McGee looked at each other, then noticed everyone other than Gibbs looking back at them.

Gibbs stepped forward before either man could say anything, and loudly cleared his throat. “We did,” Gibbs replied, nodding towards the suit standing next to the front door. “We have a new mission.”

“And what is that mission, Jethro?”, Ducky said.

“We can’t save everyone, but we can save some,” Gibbs said. “Take your phones, and don’t worry about them,” nodding towards the suit near the door. “They’re with us. The ones who are here, and at Ducky’s watching his mother. Wouldn’t be here if they weren’t with us.”

“Thanks for answering the question we were all thinking about – I think – Gibbs, but what about our phones?”, Abby asked.

“Start calling people you know, starting with family,” Gibbs said. “Got a text from the director, while McGee was downstairs working on a project I’ll tell you about in a bit. If we can get them here, we will, and they’ll come with us.”

“You mean the ring?”, Palmer asked.

“The sooner the better,” Gibbs replied. “Stop wasting time and start calling.”

Everyone other than Gibbs, Ducky, Franks and the suit whipped out their cell phones almost simultaneously.

“My mother is my only relative here in the States, and my only living relative anywhere,” Ducky told Gibbs and Franks. “I am quite overdue for a phone call. She will be concerned.”

“Go ahead, Duck,” Gibbs said. Ducky walked over to the stairs going to the upper floor of the house and sat down. “Mike. Got anybody you need to call?”

“A lady friend in Mexico, I suppose,” Franks replied. “My son didn’t make it.”

“Corporal O’Neill,” Gibbs said. “Mike…”

“Got killed in Afghanistan a year ago. Marines came down and told me,” Franks said. “He looked me up the year before. We spent all of one afternoon fishing and the better part of a night catching up. I owe his CO a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

“What do you mean?”

“His CO called in a few favors to get him down there. That was when the Reynosa cartel was doing their crap along the border. The CO brought it himself, killed by some Commie bastard near the Panama Canal.”

“Mike, I’m sorry—”

“What’s done is done, Jethro. I hope they” – Franks pointed to the rest of Gibbs’s team – “have better luck.”

* Abby couldn’t reach her brother in New Orleans. When she called the NCIS field office, she got a busy signal; a phone call to the New Orleans Police Department revealed that the local field agent, Dwayne Pride, had been missing since Thursday after reports of East German Stasi agents near the Naval Support Activity New Orleans facility. “Damn,” Gibbs muttered, when Abby told him.
* Tony managed to get in contact with his father, Anthony DiNozzo Sr., who was staying at a hotel in New York City. It was the first time the men had spoken in years. DiNozzo Sr. said that things ‘were insane’ in Manhattan, but that he was confident that he could get away if he had to through the help of a Saudi sheik. Senior refused Junior’s pleas to get to Washington – “I couldn’t if I wanted to. The NYPD has the city locked down tight and the airports aren’t open to civilians” – and told his son to take care of himself. Junior went down to the basement after the call and didn’t come up until Gibbs went down and got him.
* McGee’s father, Admiral John McGee, had been recalled to active duty and was the captain of the USS South Carolina in the Persian Gulf. McGee’s mother didn’t answer – he figured she was somewhere in Spain, having hooked up with a businessman from Madrid after she separated from the Admiral – but his sister Sarah picked up on the first ring. Sarah was in town, staying at Waverly University (having finished up her freshman year), and she agreed to leave if McGee would come and get her. Gibbs nodded to Ronnie, the head suit on the premises, who assured McGee they would get Sarah to the house.
* Kate called her uncle Charles, the interim Governor of Indiana who took his niece’s call from the emergency state government headquarters in Bloomington. The Governor assured Kate he, her cousin Maureen and the other remaining Todd family members had “a way of escape should the worst happen”, and wouldn’t say how, nor anything else other than “trust that Marine you’re with.”
* Palmer got in contact with his parents, who were with a group of survivalists out west. The father called his son a fool for not going with them months ago, told him to head north to a small upstate New York town named Durvale, then wished him well before hanging up. Palmer went out in the backyard to be alone with his anger.
* Ziva called her father, Mossad Director Eli David, who assured her he had a way to get to a local ring complex should the worst happen (assuming that he didn’t have to sacrifice himself for his country or his agency), and that she had a greater chance of surviving by staying with Gibbs.

Gibbs thought of his parents, and of Shannon and Kelly, and while he wished all four were alive, he had to admit to himself he was glad none of them were alive at this point in time. There were other people he could help, though.

* Gibbs called NCIS Agent Stan Burley, who currently was serving as Agent Afloat onboard the USS Philadelphia destroyer in the Gulf of Mexico. Gibbs simply told Burley “you’re needed in Washington”; a hour later, Burley was onboard a UH-1Y ‘Venom’ Navy helicopter, headed for Homestead, Florida, where he’d board a C-130 headed for Washington.
* Gibbs then called NCIS Agent Paula Cassidy, who currently was Senior Special Agent at the NCIS field office in the Canal Zone, and told her what he told Hurley. She gave Gibbs the current situation in the area: American, Cuban and Soviet forces lay between Panama and the homeland, and she’d try to get to Washington as soon as she could, probably through Mexico, Texas.
Satisfied he had gotten through to Burley and Cassidy – and grateful that both were alive, and that both had ways to get to D.C. – Gibbs looked for somewhere to sit down, to take a breath and figure out the next steps for his team, and himself.

He’d have to make that spare moment later.

“Turn up the TV!”, Tony yelled.

The channel was turned to WRC, the local NBC network affiliate, which was carrying network news coverage. Gibbs recognized the anchor, Brian Williams, and saw both fatigue and fear in the man’s eyes.

--"NBC News has learned from multiple sources on the ground in West Germany and within both the Pentagon and the U.S. Army that there was a confrontation between French and East German fighter jets an hour ago along the border between Fulda, West Germany and Meiningen, East Germany. We are told only that one French jet and two East German jets went down along the border. No other information…excuse me, I’ve just been handed a note…Soviet Premier Khalinin has just made a statement…I’ve been given that statement, which came to us from the Soviet TASS press agency, and we also have the audio version from Radio Moscow which has been provided to us and the rest of the media from the White House. We will play that for you now.”



The Americans have finally played their hand, accusing the Soviet Union of the atrocities in Indianapolis and throughout the globe, from London to Montreal, Tokyo to Paris, Melbourne to Tel Aviv. And now their French lackeys attack patriotic socialist fighter pilots protecting their own people. Two of the people’s servants in the German Democratic Republic have been executed on behalf of a war-hungry America. The poker faces of the warmongers in Washington poker faces have been wiped away and show to the entire world their hunger for war. Accusing us of destroying their own people, they not only lie to the so-called ‘free world’ about these atrocities, but commit them themselves! America is behind the attacks on the London subway system, the religious centers in the West, the nuclear plants in Japan! Blame Boehner, not the noble Soviet people! And they commit atrocities by the hour in the portions of the world that are truly free, ruled by the workers, inside socialist nations, too many to count! Our forces inside the Soviet Union have heroically prevented many acts of American-backed terrorism, at great cost; thousands of innocent Soviets are dead. And now, the Americans and their Western European lackeys line up, preparing for war.

And yet, we stay our hand. As the American poet Robert Frost once said, ‘two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by’. The American eagle and its lackeys, and the noble, Marxist bear and its friends, stand together. The broad path leads to destruction. The road less traveled leads to peace. It can make all the difference, Mister President. If only you will stop listening to the war-mongering capitalists in your country and its government and military, and take the courage to follow in the path of Karl Marx and listen to your people. For the sake of your people, I will stay my hand. But I cannot withhold it if you continue to attack us.

There is a road to peace, President Boehner. And that road begins with you laying down your arms, surrendering to an international board, and giving your power and authority and those of the capitalists pushing you towards Armageddon to your people. The choice is yours, Mister President, but it is also the choice of the American people. Rise up, throw off your chains, embrace socialism, and join the world brotherhood of socialists. We will not lay a heavy yoke upon you, our burden is non-existent, our—



“And that is where the speech cuts off. We are told the President will give his response shortly. This is NBC News, it is 1:07 p.m. in the Eastern time zone, I’m Brian Williams, and you’ve just heard from the Soviet Premier Khalinin—”

[lordroel]

Are we going to see more characters from the DC Universe.

[Brky2020]

Sept 8, 2018 14:42:16 GMT lordroel said:

Are we going to see more characters from the DC Universe.

Yes.

[lordroel]

Sept 8, 2018 16:52:44 GMT Brky2020 said:

Sept 8, 2018 14:42:16 GMT lordroel said:

Are we going to see more characters from the DC Universe.

Yes.

Nice.

Does the Gorilla City also exist here ore have the like a certain island also been nuked.

[Brky2020]

For readers of this site (and AH dot com) only:


ZNN Radio News at this hour. I’m Ted Werbin.

Hours after 37 members of Spain’s Congress of Deputies were shot to death, Spanish Prime Minister Mariano Rejoy reaffirmed Spain’s commitment to NATO and the Allied Powers.(Translator) We will not give in to Communist terrorism. Spain stands proudly with the free world as a proud member of the free world. Our resolve has not lessened by this horrific attack; it has only been strengthened.

NATO forces continue to build up along the West German borders with East Germany and Czechoslovakia, as the West German government moves from the capital of Bonn to a secure location.

West German citizens continue to flee westward, meanwhile, but reports out of Zurich indicate the Swiss government may close its borders within the next 24 hours.

Civilians continue to be airlifted out of the Panama Canal Zone, and military officials tell ZNN they expect the last groups to be delivered to secure locations in the continental U.S. soon.

Rationing on gasoline, water and other essential items in California went into effect at midnight Pacific time. Governor Richard Riordan signed the bill passed by both the Assembly and Senate at 11:59 p.m., and it went into effect two minutes later. The bill is intended in part to prevent price gouging at the pump and at stores: yesterday in Los Angeles, a gallon of regular gasoline was as high as $9.79 at one store, while most supermarkets were charging an average of $5.29 for a loaf of white bread.

Texas Governor George W. Bush has authorized the Texas National Guard to use ‘appropriate measures’ in preventing Cuban- and Dominican-backed Mexican drug cartels from breaking through the so-called Texas Wall. The New Mexican National Guard had killed 40 heavily-armed members of the Reynosa Cartel trying to sneak past a Border Patrol checkpoint in Columbus, New Mexico.

The National Hockey League has declared the Anaheim Ducks and Ottawa Senators co-champions of the league. The series, scheduled to begin Monday night, was postponed after the Memorial Day attack on Indianapolis and cancelled when the league’s Board of Governors voted Saturday to end the season.

The National Basketball Association, on the other hand, says it will resume both of its conference finals series when, quote, “international hostilities cool down”. Commissioner David Stern told ESPN that the worst-case scenario would be to extend the playoffs into next season’s preseason. There would be a one-game playoff between the San Antonio Spurs and Utah Jazz for the Western title, and the Cleveland Cavaliers and Detroit Pistons for the Eastern title, with the winners playing in a single game for the league championship.