Author: Vikki
Disclaimer: The SMK characters and the Agency are copyrighted to Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Productions. I'm borrowing them for my own amusement, and I'm not profiting from doing so. This story and any new characters I have created are copyrighted to me; please don't distribute or reproduce my story without permission.
Timeline: First season, between "There Goes The Neighborhood" and "If Thoughts Could Kill"
Summary: Top secret missile plans have been stolen from the U.S. Army, and Lee has only a few hours to retrieve them. Just his luck: he stumbles into Amanda.
Rating: PG
Author's note 1: I wanted to try something outside my "comfort zone" as a writer. My SMK comfort zone is mid to late third season and mid-fourth season to early post series, so first season is definitely far, far outside. I hope this works for you.
Author's note 2: To all grammarians who may think there is something a little "off" in certain sections of this story, I apologize in advance. I happen to be one of you . . . but I decided to try a method suggested in a book I've been reading on the subject of fiction writing, and my betas agreed that the result was more readable than the strictly grammatical version. Thanks to Mary, Julie, Fling, Jobsies and Pam for input at various stages. All remaining errors are my own.
Author's note 3: Unless I made an extremely lucky guess, there has never been a High Frontier Research and Development Facility. However, High Frontier was the name of the organization, under the leadership of General Dan Graham, which promoted the Army's HTK technology in the early 1980s. I wasn't able to locate the name of the actual research facility.
--SMK--SMK-SMK-SMK-SMK-
PROLOGUE
Streaks of pink and orange softened the dreary expanse of predawn sky. The pale gray of impending sunrise created a stark contrast to the inky forms on the ground: a cluster of squat, colorless buildings huddled behind a towering, barbed-wire fence and massive iron gate. A sparse layer of low-lying fog partially obscured the muted landscape, the beam of a huge spotlight casting ominous shadows as it cut through the misty gloom. An eerie quiet was broken only by the muffled stomp of booted feet as two sets of uniformed guards crossed paths on yet another circuit of the top-secret military facility.
Always alert for signs of trouble, the four guards turned to watch as a small group of men emerged from the closest building. The newcomers staggered under the weight of large, steel barrels which they dumped, one by one, into the receptacle of a waiting trash truck. Two of the men brushed dust from their chilled hands and mounted into the passenger compartment of the vehicle, while the rest scurried back toward the relative warmth of their laboratory.
The mechanical groan of a large engine replaced the former stillness, and the brightness of two headlights joined the searchlight's efforts to banish the lingering vestiges of night. The hulking vehicle lurched and crept ponderously forward. After a cursory stop at the gate, where it was waved through by a yawning sentry, it moved out of the compound and slowly built up speed.
It was soon was swallowed by the early morning traffic, blending easily with the delivery vans, garbage trucks and tractor-trailers that constituted the majority of the denizens of the road at such a dismal hour.
By the time the low wail of sirens pierced the solemn silence of the High Frontier Research and Development Facility, its trail had disappeared.
CHAPTER 1
Late morning sunshine permeated Amanda King's cheery kitchen, gleaming on the spotless counters and polished floor. Hand-sewn gingham curtains, bordering the room's open windows, billowed gently in a soft breeze flowing from the freshly mowed yard.
The lively homemaker picked up two brightly colored hot pads and carefully lifted the lid from a large copper pot. A plume of aromatic steam rose from the vessel and quickly dissipated in the cool autumn air. Smiling down at the simmering contents, Amanda inhaled deeply. There was nothing quite like the scent of homemade chicken soup. One whiff was enough to warm her to her toes and make her mouth water in anticipation.
After swirling a wooden spoon through the thick concoction, revealing the chunks of meat, pasta and vegetables hidden beneath the bubbling golden broth, she lifted a tiny sample to her lips. Perfect. Soup from a can could never compete.
As she adjusted the heat control and replaced the lid, her mother bustled into the kitchen, clad in worn slacks and an oversized shirt. A broad-brimmed hat was perched on her silver blonde head, held snugly in place by a wide ribbon tied under one ear. However, despite being dressed for one of her favorite leisure activities, Dotty West's expression was anything but happy. Her eyes were brooding, and her lips compressed in a dissatisfied frown.
"I thought you were playing Bridge today," Amanda said, setting the spoon on a ceramic holder and picking up a dishtowel to swipe the short trail of broth she had dribbled across the stove.
"I was supposed to, but Muriel has a bad cold, and I can't practice without her." Stopping beside the back door, Dotty began to pull on a pair of thick cotton gloves. "I'm going to take out my frustration on those climbing roses around the trellis. I am determined," she added, putting sharp emphasis on each word, "to have properly trained roses next spring, so I need to get them pruned and tied before the first frost." She paused to select a pair of wicked-looking shears from her basket of gardening supplies, vigorously squeezing them open and closed several times as though already tackling the recalcitrant stems. Then she gave a soft huff of discontent. "Not that tending roses will help my Bridge game. If Muriel's not well enough to play by Saturday, we'll have to drop out of the tournament."
Reaching to one of the dark-toned cabinets, Amanda pulled out four leaf-patterned ironstone bowls. "Maybe you should find another partner."
Dotty wagged an admonishing finger in her direction. "You wouldn't say that if you had more experience in working closely with one person. Changing partners isn't as easy as it sounds. Partners get used to working together; they know each other's habits . . . each other's strengths and weaknesses." She smiled reminiscently, her eyes softening in the way they always did when she spoke of Amanda's father. "I remember Bridge nights with your daddy. We could practically read each other's minds, and we always--"
"Bickered over every missed trump the next morning," interjected Amanda, pursing her lips to stifle a chuckle, as she set the bowls on the counter and pulled open the silverware drawer. She knew her mother's innate high-spirits disguised a keen sense of loss.
Dotty's smile turned wistful. "Of course, dear. How else could we have learned to understand each other so well?" A longing sigh escaped her before she turned her mind to her more immediate dilemma. "Muriel and I won't ever have the psychic connection I had with your daddy, but we've been playing together for months. I couldn't adjust to a new partner by Saturday."
The clatter of soup spoons was muffled by a stack of napkins, and Amanda turned to check the pan of biscuits cooling on the counter. The crusty tops were warm under her probing fingers, and a faint, yeasty sweetness filled her nostrils. "Well, I'm sure if it's just a cold, she'll be felling better by the weekend."
"You know, dear, Muriel lives alone, and someone really should drop by her apartment to see if she's all right," Dotty said, her eyes drifting from the plump biscuits to the simmering soup. "Poor thing, she's probably surviving on canned soup and stale crackers."
Amanda grinned at the mother's less-than-subtle tactics. "Would you like me to stop by her place this afternoon? I can take her a nice container of homemade soup."
Dotty gave her a complacent smile. "Would you, dear? The drug stores are full of cold remedies: decongestants and antihistamines and cough suppressants. For my money, though, there's nothing like a bowl of homemade chicken soup to conquer a cold." Shooting her daughter an exaggeratedly contrite look, she added, "If it isn't too much trouble."
"It won't be any trouble at all," Amanda said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. Mentally adding a mission of mercy to her already busy afternoon schedule, she said a silent prayer that the ill woman wouldn't be in a talkative mood. "I'm going into Georgetown to distribute some resumes. Muriel's apartment is only a few blocks from Edison Publishing, so I'll deliver her soup first, while it's still hot, and then I can make my other stops."
"I still don't understand why you didn't get that job at Hunneycutt Typewriter," said Dotty, her brow wrinkling in displeasure. "There simply couldn't be many applicants with your qualifications. You type . . . you take shorthand . . . you get along with everyone. Someone from Hunneycutt even called here to follow up after your interview." Dotty's puzzled frown transformed into a mild grimace as several thuds and a youthful shout resonated from somewhere over their heads. "Do you think it was held against you that you have children?"
"Now that you mention it, Mother," Amanda said, turning away to hide the flush she felt rising on her cheeks at the reminder of the disruption a certain good-looking federal agent had caused in the office of her prospective employer, "children did come up in the interview."
Dotty put one hand on her hip, her voice rising and the garden shears waving like the weapon of a primeval warrior. "Well, that's just not right. 'Mother' is the most challenging job in the world. Being a mother should count as a qualification for any demanding career; it shouldn't be held against you." Pausing for effect, the razor point of the shears hovering dangerously close to the delicate kitchen curtains, she switched to a lecturing tone. "You've been the victim of unfair discrimination, Amanda, and there are laws now against that sort of thing. I may just call Hunneycutt's personnel manager and give him a piece of my mind."
"Mo-ther." Amanda drew the word out in a long sigh but repressed the urge to remind her zealous parent that she was old enough to fight her own battles. And choose her own battles. "You should save your energy for Bridge and roses; I wasn't interested in the position Warren Davenport was trying to fill."
She repressed a shudder at the memory of the weasely little man's open appreciation for certain qualifications not listed on her job application. As anxious as she was to find work, she might have been relieved by Lee Stetson's unintentional rescue mission if his tactics hadn't been so preposterous. Timmy, Tommy and Tammy, indeed! She could have dreamed up something more believable than THAT, and she'd never even been to spy school.
Engrossed in her wandering thoughts, Amanda was startled by the arrival of her younger son, who dashed into the kitchen and skidded to a halt at her side.
"Wow, Grandma," said Jamie, staring past his mother toward his grandmother's more diminutive form, "gnarly scissors! Can I use them for my--"
"NO!" the two women said in unison.
Noticing that the young boy's eyes remained focused on the sharp, steel blades, Amanda cupped his chin and turned his head until she was peering sternly into his eyes. "You are NOT to borrow your grandmother's garden shears," she said, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. She paused to allow her admonition to sink in and then added, "and you are NOT to ask your brother to borrow them for you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, mom," was the subdued reply. His gaze flickered back toward his grandmother before he shrugged in resignation. Then he perked up, as though just remembering the purpose for his sojourn to the kitchen. Bouncing slightly on the toes of his battered sneakers, he reminded his mother of the mechanical contraption he'd been tinkering with for the past several days. "Mom, are you gonna get the batteries for my science project today? You promised."
Amanda bit her lip to suppress a sigh of frustration. She had promised, and she'd forgotten. "Of course I am, sweetheart," she said, leaning down to brush a fleeting kiss across his forehead and making a mental note that he needed both new shoes and a haircut. "I'm going into Georgetown to deliver hot soup to Grandma's friend, Muriel. Handy Hardware is just a couple of blocks from Muriel's apartment. How many batteries did you say you need?"
"Four," Jamie said. "Nine volts."
"Those are the little rectangular ones, right?" Her thumb and index finger demonstrated the approximate length of a nine volt battery.
"Yeah," he answered, sniffing the air and turning his head from side to side. "Is lunch almost ready? I'm starving."
Amanda smiled wryly; at the rate he was shooting up, he'd need new jeans soon, too. "You're always starving."
Jamie brushed his hair out of his eyes with one hand and rubbed his thin torso with the other. "I eat lunch at 11:30 on school days. My stomach doesn't know the teachers have a serving day."
"An in service day, sweetheart," Amanda said, tousling his hair and giving him a gentle shove back toward the hallway. "All right. Go upstairs and tell your brother to come down." She listened to him pound his way up the stairs and then put her hands at the sides of her mouth to holler, "and don't forget to wash your hands!"
She turned to see her mother pat down her hat, pick up her basket and open the back door. "I'll eat in a little while, dear. I want to spend a few minutes with those roses before you leave," said Dotty as she slipped outside, leaving Amanda to spoon soup into bowls as she plotted her afternoon route for the third time.