Fifteen minutes were wasted arguing over whose transportation would be used to travel to Siberia. Scott Summers knew what the end result would be. Or, at least, he knew how he was getting to Siberia. So he used the time to call the mansion. It wasn't a very long conversation. Just long enough to let Hank (who was always good enough to answer the phone) know that he would be leaving for Siberia and to have a bag prepared and brought to the secondary hangars.
"Okay," Scott said when he'd had enough of the bickering between Dr. Valerie Cooper and their tag-a-long, Silver Sable. "That's enough. We've wasted enough time."
"Silver, your jet is ruined," he said, looking into the angry woman's severe eyes. "And Dr. Cooper, we don't have time for you to fill out the paperwork or get approval for a visit to north Asia, much less find an available jet and pilot. We'll take a back up jet the X-Men keep on hand for just such emergencies."
Scott didn't even wait for a response. He simply wrote down the address of the hangar, located several miles north of Xavier's Institute, and handed a copy to Dr. Cooper and another to Silver Sable. "Meet me here in an hour and a half. Pack warm but light. It's a small jet."
He could have just as simply sent them to the mansion, where the Blackbird sat waiting. He had no desire, though, for either of them to see the inside of the X-Men's jet or to tie up the Blackbird for such a small group of people. The back up jet would do fine. It had the equipment he needed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the taxi he'd called pull up. He turned and walked briskly to the white and yellow car. He looked at his watch, noting the time, as he said, "If you're not there, I'm leaving without you."
Scott used the hour it took to arrive at the secluded hangar to make several phone calls, which helped to shed a small amount of light on Bishop's reason for being in Siberia and the locations he'd visited while in that enormously vast region. More than anything, though, he discovered that Bishop, too, had taken one of Xavier's jets. That, he hoped, would make their current mission far, far easier.
As the cabbie drove slowly up the gravel road to the fenced airfield, he let out a slow whistle. "What are you doing out here? Testing missiles?"
It was just the perception they had tried very difficult to manufacture when they had built this place. Scott, not even bothering to look out through the windshield, knew what the driver was seeing. A runway that looked as if were littered with pot holes and uneven concrete slabs, grass spurting through at irregular intervals. A rusty hangar filled with holes and spiderwebs. The only thing about the airfield that looked new was the sparkling fence that surrounded it, marked with numerous huge signs warning of the voltage coursing through the metallic links. They were no joke, Scott knew, but they were only telling half of the story. Trespassers would be met with security rivaling the mansion's own. Logan had stressed over and over again that there could be no weak links in their security, a truth Scott knew only too well.
Instead of reacting, Scott simply pulled a money clip filled with neatly folded bills from his pocket. He shot a glance at the meter and pulled out the appropriate amount, including an extremely generous gratuity.
"It was my father's," Scott lied. "I'm trying to fix it up."
"Hey, thanks pal!" the cabbie said, his face glowing as he counted the money Scott handed him. "You sure you don't need a ride back into town?"
"I'm sure. Thank you." Scott shut the door behind him, shoving the money clip back into his pocket, and walked slowly towards the gate. He turned, staring through the windshield at the driver until the discomfort of his gaze prompted the cabbie to back up and pull out of the driveway. When he was confident the taxi was gone, Scott walked up to the gate and found a concealed keypad. After supplying a numeric password, voice and hand verification, Scott pulled a small key from the backside of his watch and slid it across a reader. Finally, the gate swung open. He turned his eyes as the three-dimensional hologram that covered the field shifted with the opening fence. It was highly disorienting.
When he stepped inside, there was Emma Frost, leaning impatiently against the rear door of one of Xavier's classic Rolls-Royce. Her lips, painted white, were bunched unhappily. Her arms were crossed, and the top portion of her face was almost completely hidden behind large, white-lensed sunglasses.
"Emma," Scott said, stopping just inside the fenced area as the gate closed automatically behind him. "I thought Hank was coming."
"He was," Emma said after a moment's pause. She uncrossed her arms and pushed off of the car. "Until I found out why he was leaving. You weren't going to call?"
"I left a message…"
"In the room, yes, I know. I'm coming with you."
"That's not a good idea," Scott said, shaking his head. "You're co-headmistress of the Institute. One of us needs to stay at the school." He could feel a tingling in the back of his head. She was reading his mind. As frustrating as it was, he didn't raise any mental shields. He had nothing to hide.
"So you're leaving me to deal with the shitstorm from the bus attack," Emma said. Scott knew the anger in her voice was more from hurt feelings than any aggravation at school-based responsibilities. She'd been a teacher before Scott ever was, and she was good at it. "Leaving me alone to deal with those wretched parents and the mental anguish of the students."
This isn't about you, Scott thought towards the woman who he firmly believed he loved, despite their ups and down. He didn't have to be a telepath to know what Emma was thinking—Would you have left Jean?
It was an old fight and a sore subject. Maybe it always would be.
"Okay, so I can't leave, but why not take Logan? Hank? Hell, even Bobby or that brat Kitty and her Neanderthal boyfriend. Why must you go alone?"
"I'm not going alone…" Scott began.
"I'm not talking about Dr. Cooper or that silver-haired tramp," Emma said, cutting him off.
Yep, she read my mind, Scott thought.
"Something or somebody made Bishop think he needed to attack an ambassador who we both know its highly unlikely he'd ever heard of. I could help you. You need me on this one," she said. Her voice was as close to pleading as it ever came.
Scott was slightly taken aback. "You're really worried about me," he said aloud, though it was meant more for himself.
"Of course I am!" she said. "And I just don't understand…"
"I'll be fine," Scott said, stepping forward. With just a few steps, he'd covered the distance between them. He ran his hands up and down her biceps and shoulders and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "I need to do this one," Scott said, looking deeply into her icy blue eyes. "Right now, with everything that's going on, I need to do this. Alone."
She looked at him, her eyes shifting from one lens of his sunglasses to the other. She was trying to understand, he knew. He wasn't sure he understood himself.
"Fine," she said finally, knocking his hands away. She turned and opened the back door of the car and pulled out a black duffel bag. She dropped it discourteously to the ground. "If you want to be alone, I'll leave you alone."
She dropped into the driver's seat of the car and revved the engine to life. Scott watched without comment as she veered towards the gate, waited for the fence to open, and then the outrageously expensive tires squealed as she zoomed out of sight, throwing gravel and dust behind her.
He shook his head as the gate closed once again. He stepped over to the duffel bag and unzipped it. There, on top, was his visor. He shifted the contents. A change of clothes, heavy jacket, boots. Whoever had packed the bag had known what they were doing. He closed it up and hefted it towards the hangar, which sparkled like new under the descending sun. He had a lot of work to do, and, checking his watch he noted, not much time to do it in. Working in silence, he started his walkaround, prepping the jet for takeoff.