Pentagon 911 *R* 1/?

Deslea R. Judd
Copyright 2001

DISCLAIMER: Characters not mine. Interpretation mine.
ARCHIVE: Absolutely NO, and I MEAN it. You may link to the warning screen ONLY.
SPOILERS/TIMEFRAME: After Existence.
CATEGORY: Romance, angst, Krycek/Marita.
RATING: R for sex and graphic survival situations.
SUMMARY: It's September 11, 2001, and Alex and Marita have a meeting at the Pentagon.
NOTE: This is September 11 tribute fic. It is NOT easy reading. Please exercise personal discretion in your decision to read on. It is dedicated to both victims and survivors of the tragedy, with all my love.
MORE FIC: http://fiction.deslea.com
FEEDBACK: Love the stuff. deslea@deslea.com.
AWARDS/ELIGIBILITY: As this fic has not been posted on atxc, it is not presently eligible for any awards. It may be posted at some later time after some healing has taken place.

It was just an ordinary day.

That was how he would remember it later. It began with sun streaming through the windows, falling across their bodies in a haze. Warmth pressed insistently across his eyes, and he rolled over, burying his face in her hair. His mouth found her shoulder, and he kissed her there with complacent expectancy. She murmured his name, turning to face him, and then there was love, sleepy and slow. Just an ordinary day.

"We have to get up," she said at last, sliding away from him. "We have to be at the Pentagon by nine."

He sat up, rubbing his hand over his face and then the back of his neck. He groaned. "I was getting used to sleep-ins."

"You damn near slept in indefinitely, Alex," she said, disappearing into the bathroom. "Count your blessings."

He got to his feet and followed her. "You're all sympathy." He snorted as she stepped into the shower stall. "You want company in there?"

"You're insatiable," she said with a sound of disgust, but there was a trace of a smile at the corners of her lips. She closed the glass door.

Grinning a little, he turned to the vanity and splashed water over his face. He took in his reflection, blinking his eyes to clear them. Critically, he looked for the scar in the middle of his forehead, and was pleased when he found it. The pink had faded to silver, and the new flesh there was stretched and shiny; there were no telltale ripples except when he frowned. Say what you want for Skinner, at least he was a clean shot. Fortunately for Alex, he'd also been at just the right angle for the bullet to ricochet off his skull and around, passing out harmlessly through the back of his head. Half a degree's difference either way and he'd have been watching Marita soap that slender white body of hers from the great beyond.

He was almost finished shaving when she shut the water off and came out of the stall. She paused to nip his shoulder with delicate white teeth on her way to the door, and he wanted her all over again, but there was no time. "You're a cruel woman, Marita," he said as she pulled away.

"I know," she said with that tilt of the head he loved. Smiling, she slipped out of the room.

When he emerged, still wet, she was making breakfast. She shot him a baleful glare. "You're dripping on my carpet."

"It's not your carpet. It's the NSA's carpet."

"Don't quibble. Dry off or go hungry." He dried off.

"Are you coming home tonight?" Her voice drifted in over the whistle of the kettle.

"I'm not sure," he called. "I've got a meeting in Portland this afternoon. I was thinking I'd stay at the CIA safe house and fly back in the morning - depends on whether I can get a flight on standby."

"Portland Maine or Portland Oregon?"

"Maine. The Lewiston matter," he said, coming back out to the kitchen fully dressed. "Why don't you come along? We could go to that lobster place on the water afterwards."

"I've got a meeting at the Jordanian embassy at noon, but I could catch a later flight." She nudged a cup of coffee and a plate of waffles towards him.

"Thanks," he said, sliding his hand into her robe. He gave her breast a gentle squeeze, raising his eyebrows at her, grinning.

"You bastard," she said, arching against him. "You know we don't have time."

He released her. "Payback's a bitch."

"Eat your breakfast, Alex," she said, putting a piece of toast in her mouth, and walking back to their bedroom.

She emerged just four minutes later, and he felt a flush of affection. Marita wasn't one to primp. Panties, suit, hair - bang, bang, bang. Her efficiency appealed to him, perhaps more than any of her conventional charms. There were women in his life before her, and men too, but she was the first to earn his respect.

She slipped into her shoes by the door, grabbing ID cards and keys. "You coming?"

He gulped down his coffee and followed her, setting the alarm and pulling the door behind him. Waiting for her to unlock the car, his gaze fell on their white picket fence, and it made him grin as it always did. Alex Krycek living the American dream - what a fucking joke. A pleasant one, from his perspective, but a joke nonetheless. Shaking his head, smiling, he got into the passenger side of their armoured Cadillac. It was an arrangement they reached long ago - she liked to drive, and he liked to think. It worked out well.

As they passed out of the military base, he wondered - not for the first time - whether he had made the right decision. Pulling out of the replicant resistance program had not sat well with him, but his bid to protect the Scully child had exposed his double allegiance. That fight was ongoing, but after much arguing, he had conceded that his usefulness had reached its end. Now, he was just freelancing, and once his initial sense of impotence had passed, he had come to relish the comparative lack of responsibility. They did their work, and as always, it was demanding work, but for the first time in nearly a decade, he wasn't steeped in its concomitant idealogy. It was good to be on the inside again after spending so long disavowed as a rogue. Marita had never told him who she threw to the wolves to manage that, and he hadn't asked, but there had been a series of high-level resignations in the United Nations soon afterwards.

"Arlen and Rachel are here," she said, turning in to the Mall Plaza. "There's his goddamn Thunderbird. Wonder whose arm he twisted to score a GMR permit."

"Looks like it's another decoy mission, then," he said. "It's creepy, looking at those two. How do you suppose he lost his arm?"

She looked over her shoulder, her arm stretched across the back of his seat, backing in to a parking space. "He fell into a ventilation fan in an air shaft, planting a listening device in the German embassy in Milan. It's in his file." A smile played around the edges of her mouth. "That doesn't answer the real question, though. Whether she's really-"

"A blonde," he supplied. Then, grinning mischievously, "Want me to find out?"

She pulled the brake and switched off the ignition. "You want to screw my double, Alex? I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted." In fact, she didn't sound particularly concerned one way or the other. She unfastened her seatbelt, and flicked the orange catch on his as well. He doubted she was aware that she'd done it. From anyone else, the concession to his dismemberment would have annoyed him, but it touched him from her.

"She's not your double. There's no-one in the world like you, Marita," he said, getting out of the car. She smiled at him over the Cadillac roof. "No-one at all."

"Come on," she said, still beaming at him. "Our mission awaits."

It was 8.47am.

She was holding his hand.

He wasn't sure just when that had happened. They had become much less restrained with one another over the last year or so, but public gestures were rare, even now. Or were they? Perhaps not, because as they approached the elevator, he suddenly realised they were hand in hand - and that their fellow agents betrayed no surprise at the fact. It would have been churlish to pull away, so he tightened his fingers around hers instead.

"Morning Arlen," she said, squeezing back, "morning, Rachel."

"Hello, Marita, hi, Alex," Rachel said with disquieting enthusiasm.

Arlen nodded in greeting, standing aside for the women to enter the elevator. "We're in 2E236."

Rachel pressed the level 2 button, then leaned back against the elevator wall, blonde hair trailing, antithesis of Marita's restraint. It displeased him. Casual ease was something he relished at home, but on the job, it made him nervous. He would rather have Marita watching his back than a hundred Rachel Thorpes. He didn't dislike her, but he didn't respect her, and from what he gathered, no one much else did, either. That accounted for her playing decoy while he and Marita did the real work.

Arlen James was something different. He was a career agent like them - no family, no ties, committed to the job - but Alex supposed amputees were harder to come by than blondes. Arlen rated a little more respect than Rachel, as evidenced by his white 1466 pass - 24/7 access - but still, he'd never been in the trenches. He was too correct, too ingratiating, strictly white-collar espionage. Alex had little time for people who weren't prepared to get their hands dirty.

The doors slid open on the second floor, and the four of them made their way down corridor 2. He looked at his watch - two minutes to nine. Perfect timing. When they reached the conference room, General Gerard was already there on the telephone, and he waved them in, still speaking into the handset. He slid a pile of four thin folders across to Arlen, who passed one to each of the others.

They sat at the table, flipping through documents. Alex noted a map of the Norwegian embassy, and wondered who could be of interest there. After a moment, the General put the phone down, and looked up to face them. "My apologies, ladies, gentlemen."

"Not at all, Sir," Arlen said with just the right note of deference. Mentally, Alex rolled his eyes.

"All right, let's get started." The sun was bright behind the General, gleaming through the window, outlining his thick-set figure with an eerie glow. Alex squinted a little, and out the corner of his eye he saw that Marita did, too. "What you have in front of you is-" he was interrupted by the phone ringing. "Excuse me."

Alex suppressed a sound of annoyance. The glare was easing a little - he didn't have to squint anymore. "*Two* planes?" he heard the General saying. "All right, upgrade to THREATCON delta. Get the FAA to shut down. Call Florida and prepare Air Force One-" and in the same moment, he realised that the glare was still easing. He glanced down at his watch - 9.02 - and then at Marita. Something was wrong, he didn't know exactly what, but every fibre of his being screamed it. She sensed it too - her eyes were wide, and she was perched forward on the very edge of her seat.

"Something's wrong," she whispered, and they both rose, backing away from the table a little. Their decoys were still sitting there, staring at the General, frowning. They looked like deer in the headlights, clearly still puzzling over the implications of the conversation. He didn't even try - the details didn't matter. Survival mattered. He took her hand in his, and at almost exactly the same moment, he heard a harsh rumbling sound from the west, followed by the shattering of glass.

"Was that it?" Marita wondered. "It came from the heliport-" she broke off. He stared at her, wondering if she was right. That gnawing feeling deep in the pit of his stomach was still there. *Two planes, he said two planes*, his mind jangled, and suddenly he didn't believe that was it at all. The glare was fading even more, and in a shattering instant, it all came together. For one long wasteful second, he froze, heart held tight and painful in his chest. He didn't think Marita had worked it out yet, but she saw the look on his face, and it was she who yelled, "Go!"

Her voice roused him. Gripping her hand, he ran, shaking with fright. Down the corridor, past ring D. He could hear her gasping for breath behind him. "Breathe, dammit," he yelled, and then he heard her puffing in short, sharp bursts. She ran faster then, footsteps thudding on the carpet. Ring C. They collided with a woman emerging from ring B, and she shouted with affront, papers spilling. His terror escalated with every running step, spiralling out from his belly in radiating threads. He could feel the nerves pulsing hard in his cheeks; the veins in his neck pushing out. He felt his mind and his view narrowing in on the path in front of him. With what was left of his peripheral vision, he registered Ring A, and then Marita was breaking away from him and bolting for the fire stairs. "No!" he shouted, "this way!"

She stared at him. "What-"

He grabbed her arm. "Trust me!" he yelled, and then she followed for a couple of steps, then stopped again. She bolted back to the door and pulled the fire alarm handle. It took less than two seconds, but he felt his stomach collapsing in on itself with mounting panic. He grabbed her outstretched hand and ran east as the high-pitched whooping began.

He stopped at a door labelled 'Utility' and forced it open, dragging her inside, ignoring her shouted protest. He ripped aside a flimsy steel utility shelf, exposing a fortified door with an alphanumeric keypad, and keyed in a number with stiff, shaking fingers. Please don't let them have changed the number, pleasepleaseplease-

The red light on the keypad flashed and he pulled the thick steel lever. There was a heavy thudding sound as the chambers turned, and he dragged the door open. Marita ran inside, clattering down the stairwell, and he followed, closing the door behind him. At once, the sound of the pre-recorded evacuation message dimmed. "What is this place?" she breathed out with her puffs, rounding the stairs. Two more levels, two more levels, his mind chanted, and he didn't answer her because his teeth were chattering against one another in mind-numbing terror. They'd been on the run for at least ninety seconds - how much longer did they have? Clatter, clatter, clatter went her heels as they turned down another level, and he was almost on top of her now, ready to throw himself over her when it hit. Just one more level and they'd have a food source, come on, come on, come on, Marita, and fuck it, why the FUCK are you wearing those stupid FUCKING shoes?

They were tripping down over the last couple of steps when it hit. There was no sound - not in here - but there was a deep rumbling sensation, like an earthquake. He forced her down a corridor with a low roof, and she screamed, "Not there, we'll be crushed!" She pulled away from him, retreating to the stairwell with its high ceilings and its thousands of tonnes of concrete, and he dragged her back, holding her close and bending over her, shielding her.

"It's fortified, it's a bomb shelter, it's fortified," he gasped out into her ear. Now there was sound - first the sound of steel girders creaking, then a horrible ripping sound, and he saw the floor of the stairwell twist and drag upwards. The floor beneath their feet buckled a little, and Marita shrieked, clinging to his arm with a vice-like grip. Her nails dug into him, and it hurt like hell, and he could have kissed her for it because somehow it made him less afraid. Pieces of concrete began to rain down in the stairwell, and then whole segments of it fell in, a few stairs at a time with twisted metal railings still impaled on disembowelled chunks of cement. "S'okay, s'okay, s'okay, s'okay," he whispered in laboured, shuddering breaths, over and over until they ran together as a single word, and he didn't know if he was talking to her or both or neither, but he kissed her hair and closed his eyes and willed it all to go away. She was weeping, and she curled over even more, pulling him with her, and, Jesus! his back hurt. The creaking steel noise was louder and harder now, it was around them, and he braced himself for the impact.

"I love you, Alex," she wept, and that scared the shit out of him, because up until then a little corner of his mind had insisted with an implacably quiet voice that this was just one more near-miss, one more scary scrape he'd laugh about later, one more notch on the belt of the killer with nine lives. But now, fucking hell, she was saying GOODBYE, she was giving UP, and Marita never gave up. He held her tighter, but he didn't say he loved her too, he wasn't giving up on either of them. No fucking way.

He heard something give, something deep and wide, and then suddenly there was light and sound and shattered glass raining down the stairwell. He looked, and he saw that the opposite wall of the stairwell had been uprooted, and looking upwards at the gaping hole a storey up - what the FUCK was that?

"It's a wing," Marita breathed, uncomprehending. "It's the wing on a - plane?" They stared at it stupidly as it careered leisurely along their field of vision, then out of range, over their heads and beyond. Then there was more rumbling, deeper and richer and fuller this time, and suddenly flames burst out over the void. Marita shrieked again, and he pulled her back, further into the hall on instinct as more debris hailed down. It landed with thuds and splintering cracks, and she flinched against him every time. Now and then he felt stinging on his body as airborne debris struck his flesh. A chunk of concrete the size of a portable television hit the ground, bounced, and skittered along the corridor floor like a child's toy. It missed Marita's foot by inches. She tried to back away then, pulling him down towards the room at the other end, but he struggled with her, holding her back. "That's not as strong," he hissed, "it's only for comfort. The corridor is built for impact." And sure enough, he could see the roof there twisting upwards as well. It was faring better than the stairs, but not by much.

At last, the rumbling and the raining and the twisting seemed to subside. He stayed there, curled over her for long, long minutes until finally her hands started to let up on his arm. It was numb. Gently, he extricated it from her grasp and released her. His spine made a horrible cracking sound, and he flinched with pain as he straightened. Marita straightened too, looking around her, pushing back her hair off her face, her mouth agape as she breathed. She turned in a full circle, eyes wide and dark and haunted.

She went to the wall and ran her hands up it in wonder: the steel was distorted by ripples here and there, but it was intact. He turned from one end of the corridor to the other. At one end, there was debris all the way to the roof; on the other, the room ended abruptly in a tangle of girders and beams.

When he completed a circle of his own, Marita was watching him. She went to him and slid her arms around him, her body still shuddering and hitching. He held her, hard against him with his one arm, pressing the length of her torso against his. He wasn't sure if the vibrations between them came from her, or him. She whispered, "Oh, my God. Oh, Alex. How are we going to get out?"

"I don't know," he breathed. He kissed her temple. "But we're alive."

She sighed against him, deep and wretched. "I guess that's a good start."

COMING IN PART 2: TAKING STOCK, MAKING PLANS (COMING SOON)