18:52 Zulu
USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, in the Mediterranean Sea
Lieutenant Adam Richards charged through the corridors of the Supercarrier, heading for the Reactor Room.
Lieutenant Adam Richards was a fighter pilot, not an engineer. A fact that the man guarding the Reactor Room reminded him as he tried to get past him.
"You are not authorized in this area, sir," the sailor said.
"Listen to me," Richards said, "The Number 2 Reactor is going to go critical in a minute and a half. If we don't stop it, the ship will be lost."
"And how do you know that the reactor is going critical, sir?"
"I can't explain right now. You have to trust me."
The sailor stopped to think for a minute. Then he reached for the intercom. When he turned his back, Richards hit him on the head, and forced his way into the Reactor Room.
When Lieutenant Richards was apprehended by shipboard security, he had no memory of having stricken his fellow sailor, nor of how he came to be in the Reactor Room, nor how, while in the Reactor Room, he had had undone the obvious sabotage that certainly would have sent the Number 2 reactor critical.
8:45 AM EST—FBI Headquarters
Dana Scully had made a habit of dreading her partner's early-morning surprise briefings.
Mulder had called her at seven in the morning—obviously excited about something. Obviously, a new x-file. But the more excited Mulder was about it, the stranger it was likely to be.
She took a deep breath, set herself, and opened the door to the office she shared with him.
And Mulder wasn't there. Figures, she thought, and turned to sit at her desk. She jumped when she realized that Mulder was standing right behind her.
"I got you coffee," he said, and handed her a cup.
"Thanks," she said, taking the cup from him.
He sat in his desk chair, and leaned it back as far as it would go. Obviously not talking. Obviously waiting for Scully to ask.
I can hold out as long as he can, Scully thought. She perched herself on the edge of her desk, and calmly sipped her coffee.
They sat there, regarding each other in silence, for a full five minutes. Then, Mulder: "So, did you catch the game last night? I think we could be in for a Subway Series this October—"
"Alright, Mulder," Scully sighed. "What's the case?"
Mulder slid forward, and reached into his file cabinet. "Missing Persons," he said, and handed her a file.
She opened the folder. The first page was a dossier—of a Nobel Laureate. The document was a summary of the government information on one Dr. Samuel Beckett—physicist, physician, archaeologist, musician… Current as of the Fall of 1985.
"You're telling me that a Nobel Laureate is missing for fifteen years, an no one notices before now?" Scully asked.
"Not exactly," Mulder replied. "When Beckett vanished, he was involved with a top-secret project based in New Mexico that was going to be shut down as a failure. No one has seen or heard from Dr. Beckett since the night before the project was to be shut down."
"Was the project terminated?"
"No. And that was fifteen years ago."
"So, we're going back to New Mexico?" Scully asked. In her tenure on the x-files with Mulder, it seemed as though New Mexico had become their second home.
"No," Mulder said. "The Mediterranean."
"OK… I see how they're connected…"
"When he vanished, Beckett was working with the Navy on a time-travel project. Over the course of the last fifteen years, a number of unusual incidents have been recorded, in which principal players demonstrated skills they couldn't possibly have, as well as knowledge of the immediate future. Afterwards, these people have at best shaky memories of the incidents themselves, and no knowledge of those skills."
"What sort of skills?" Scully asked.
"Semi-literate individuals exhibiting advanced medical knowledge. Tone-deaf people playing piano. Fighter pilots with knowledge of nuclear power systems."
"So you think that Beckett is leaping around through time, temporarily inhabiting these people's lives?"
Mulder nodded. "And the most recent example occurred a few days ago on the USS Eisenhower on patrol in the Mediterranean Sea. A pilot, claiming knowledge of sabotage, forced his way into one of the reactor rooms and repaired the equipment. When questioned later, he had no knowledge of any of it."
"Sounds like an issue for the Navy," Scully said.
"Typically, it would be," Mulder said. "But because the sabotage is being considered an attempted terrorist act, and because you and I still have Terror Squad credentials…"
I don't believe this, Scully thought. I'm finally going to the Mediterranean. But to Italy? Greece? The French Riviera? No. An x-file on an aircraft carrier. "Fine," she said. "Anything else I should know?"
"Well… Now that you mention it. The Navy does still have its own interest. We therefore will be 'assisted' by the JAG corps…"
09:45 Zulu
JAG Headquarters
Sam felt himself "land."
He took a second to try to orient himself—as much as he could, anyway. Each time he leapt—each time he spent some time in another person's life, he recovered a little bit more of his own. But each time he leapt and landed again, part of the gain was lost. It was like taking two steps forward and one step back. And in the journey of a thousand miles, how many more steps back? As a habit, he started calculating: A mile is 1570 yards—
"Harm—the Admiral wants to see you and me right away."
Sam looked up. He was sitting in an office. On the desk in front him were documents and folders—legal size. Glancing at them, Sam thought they looked like court papers. Not that he would necessarily know—law was not one of the degrees Al had told him he had.
Standing in the doorway was a young woman—in a marine's uniform. A Lieutenant Colonel, if Sam remembered his military rank insignia correctly.
"Uh, I'll be right there, Colonel," Sam said. He made a show of shuffling some of the papers on his desk.
"You OK Harm?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
"I can't remember the last time you called me Colonel."
Right, Sam thought. This is obviously someone 'I' work with. You don't usually address co-workers with their titles. He peered at the nameplate on her chest, which read "Sara McKenzie." He took a guess. "Sorry, Mac. You caught me off guard."
Mac smiled. "Glad you're not turning formal on us. The Admiral is still waiting?"
Guessed right, Sam thought. He stood up, and caught his reflection on the office's interior window. Naval duty-whites. Commander's bars. The Admiral, Sam thought. Al's an Admiral.
He followed Mac out into the main office area, eyes scanning the environment. Must be the JAG Corps, he thought. He'd had a run-in with JAG on a leap, once. He'd been accused—the leappee had been accused—of murder. Sam thought it had something to do with Al, but he couldn't remember what.
They walked into a large, wood-paneled office. There were two men in Navy uniforms. One, apparently smoking a cigar, was looking out the window. The other was sat behind the desk.
"Thank you, Tyner. That will be all," the man behind the desk said. The office door closed.
"Admiral, these are the two officers who will be conducting the investigation and keeping our friends from the FBI in line. Commander Harmon Rabb; Lieutenant Colonel Sara McKenzie. I'd like you to meet Admiral Calivicci."
The man with the cigar turned around, and looked straight at Sam.
"Oh, boy," Sam said.