The truck rumbles to a stop, nearly ten minutes later. Mira and Martin hear the sound of boots scuffling on concrete and a ringing phone. The two deuces turn around, and accelerate back in the direction from which they'd come.

"Yes, sir!" a young man's voice barks loudly near Martin's head. "Inspecting it now, sir!" The truck door opens and slams shut again.

"You're authorized to proceed, Colonel Vasquez," the young man says again a few moments later. "Please initial here, and enjoy your stay here, sir."

"Thank you, soldier," a gravelly voice returns, and another door slams shut as well.

The truck starts again, and proceeds slowly forward, passing over several sets of speed bumps, before stopping again. There is a clanking of metal as a gate of some sort is opened, and a hiss of adjusting pressure. The truck rumbles forward, onto a smoother surface.

Mira and Martin can make out distant voices; it sounds as though they are in a large room, for the sound echoes and bounces as though the ceiling were very high. It's impossible to make out more than individual words, even with Mira's hearing, because of the acoustics: "shipment," "destination," "transfer" and "leave" are all words she can make out, but not the context.

Oh man, oh man, oh man, Mira thinks to herself. I must have thrown away a chain letter or something. First I bust a rib and then I pick the one transport driving around in the middle of the Nevada desert that has Colonel Vasquez on it. I couldn't get some Iron Guardsman shuffled off to languishing in the cogs of America's military machine. Nope - I get Vasquez. Think positively Mira, maybe it's another Colonel Vasquez.

"Martin wait," she whispers as quietly as possible. "I think we should get off of this truck. I got a really bad feeling about this and that's not just my busted rib talking. That soldier called this guy Col. Vasquez. I may be wrong but there is a Colonel Vasquez who's a pretty high muckety muck in PRIMUS. I don't know what they have planned for this truck, but sooner or later they're going to unload it and I don't think we should be hiding underneath this tarp when they do."

"They way I see it we've got two options. We see if there's something under this tarp we can hide in. Or we see if we can get the tarp loose enough on the side to drop down under it and crawl under the semi immediately."

Martin leans in very close to Mira, and whispers, "I'm getting ugly flashbacks to the end of "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" here. You stay put for a minute and I'm going to try and get a peek at what's going on."

The last time Mira Stafford stayed put for anything she was eight and that was only because her father threatened to make her eat brussel sprouts for a whole week if she didn't stop interrupting his research. With no signs of brussel sprouts in the vicinity, Mira carefully looks around under the tarp for a box or anything that may be opening.

"Hell," she curses silently. "Why does the military have to pack things so tight?" Moving toward the edge of the canvas, she listens intently, trying to stay toward an area where people are not congregated about. If we could just get out from under this thing and get a better hiding spot. Mira scans for an opening, anything that would let her get out and get undercover.

"Bennington!" someone yells right next to Mira's position. "We're ready to unload." The truck begins to pull forward, then reverse with the characterizing beeping sounds. A few seconds later, it bumps against what is probably a dock, and stops.

In an oddly calm way Martin thinks to himself, "I'm going to die in the back of a truck loaded with illegal government material in the middle of the Nevada desert. I'm sorry Dorothy... I love you."

"Welcome to the Walmart of conspiracy theorists dreams," Mira thinks, trying to remain calm and not panic at the sound of men talking a few feet away from her.

"Nice move," the same voice sneers.

"I'd like to see you drive from Groom Lake here without any friggin' breaks," another man says. "Vasquez is a friggin' hard ass. I have to take a leak."

"No problem," the other guy says. "Didn't know you came in with him. Take ten and get something to eat, too. We don't want you to screw with this cargo anyway." Their voices fade quickly to Martin, but Mira hears the answer.

"Or maybe not," Martin adds to himself as the men move away.

"Yeah, no shit," he says. "Bad enough having to drive with it in the back of the truck. What've they got in the canteen?"

"Not bad today," his friend replies. "Steak and shrimp. You can tell it's getting close to -" at that point the voices fade, and Mira can hear their footsteps at the range of about fifty feet away. The tarp they'd crawled into - by the front of the truck -- is loose.

Moving forward slowly, Martin eases the canvas back to get a look at their surroundings, all the while praying silently, "Let the dock be empty God, please?"

Behind the truck, the dock is empty. About a hundred feet long, it's carved out of granite, and a rubber bumper protects the edge. Two ten-foot, swinging doors with square plexiglass windows are directly behind the truck.

The truck shields Martin from the men in fatigues working across the cavern. As long and wide as a football field, the cavern is lit by hanging florescent lights. The air here is cool, and dank.

As Martin squeezes out from under the tarp, Mira scuttles back toward the coffin-like boxes. This stuff has got to be pretty important if someone like Vasquez rode all the way from the Area to here personally.

"I want to see what's in those boxes," she says, mostly to herself as she crawls back toward the coffins.

The coffin-shaped boxes are nailed firmly shut, as are the rest of the boxes under the tarp, and stamped with a meaningless series of numbers and "US Air Force." A low humming sound comes from these boxes.

"My kingdom for a crowbar," Mira mutters. Quickly she pulls out a pen from her fanny pack and writes down the numbers and "U.S. Air Force." Who knows, maybe someday it'll come in handy, she thinks.

With that done she quickly crawls towards the opening that Martin disappeared through.

"All clear?" she whispers.

"So far," Martin replies softly from the other side of the canvas. "Just keep your voice down, there are a bunch of soldiers working in here on the other side of the truck."

Turning, he moves the canvas aside enough for Mira to slip out, reaching in to help her out. "No arguments," he murmurs, carefully lifting her so as to place the least amount of stress on her broken ribs, and setting her on the ground next to him.

"You still okay?" he asks, waiting for her answer before he releases her to stand on her own.

"I'm fine," she whispers, the pain having resolved itself to one big long ache in her body. "Let's get out of here. Those guys are just gone for a few and I really don't want to be here when they get back."

Narrowing her eyes, Mira takes a close look at they men working across the cavern. "Get ready, I'll let you know when they're not looking this way. Then you can make a break for those doors."

"Give me a second," Martin replies, working with the canvas to secure it back the way it had been before their impromptu hitchhiking, "that's got it." He turns back to her, shaking his head slightly, "You got it right except for one thing Stafford - it should've been 'we' making a break for the doors."

"You, me, we, whatever," Mira says through clenched teeth. "I was thinking that one person at a time would be less noticeable. Let's just get out of here."

Watching for the moment when most of the workers are looking any other way, Mira nudges Martin when everything is OK. "Go for it now." And she rapidly moves toward the doors.

Martin passes Mira quickly, moving to check through the Plexiglas panel for oncoming soldiers and the like before opening the door and stepping through, carefully holding it open for his slower-moving partner to follow.

Once inside the door, Mira and Martin find themselves at the end of a long, white corridor, which stretches over a hundred feet before turning. The first fifty feet appear to be older, of an age with the large cavern they'd come from, while further in, it seems to be much newer - the linoleum has yet to crack and gray, Mira notes, unlike the segment of hallway they're standing on currently. There are only two doors immediately apparent to the duo, both in the older section.

Mira's hearing picks up the squeak of rubber soles on the dock outside, as well as voices. "This cargo should be stowed as soon as possible," she hears Colonel Vasquez saying. "I appreciate your letting us store it here, Major. We just don't have the facilities anymore for this type of project."

What project. WHAT PROJECT! Mira thinks to herself as she moves as fast as her injured body lets her down the hall. Come on Vasquez, just give me a little hint what you got in those boxes. Just a little hint.

"I understand completely, Colonel," a woman's voice responds. "You've been taking a lot of heat recently, and I'm happy to help. How have things been progressing against your Boy Scout?"

Boy Scout, Boy Scout. Gotta be the Golden Avenger, Mira thinks, moving further down the hallway. He actually is a Boy Scout.

Vasquez sighs, and to Mira's hearing they appear to be nearly to the swinging doors. "Not as effectively as we'd hoped. He appears to have…unknown sources of information of his own, and every time we try to nail him, he counters with something else. We're beginning to consider more extreme measures."

Martin moves ahead to the first door as the voices grow louder on the dock, signifying the speakers' approach. Carefully trying the handle, he checks to see if it's locked.

"Damn," he hisses, "it's locked."

Trying to ignore the burning pain in her side Mira picks up speed and makes a mad dash for the bend in the hallway. "Get around the corner," she urgently whispers. "They're coming."

Mira pulls up short at Martin's position, wheezing. "Oh hell, I'm not going to make it down this hallway, move over," she whispers, pulling out her Swiss Army knife and the accruement of tools that come with it. "Let me see if I can get this door open. If I don't, be prepared for some fast talking."

With a few twists and a push from Martin, the door opens with a click.

Inside the room, it's pitch black. The air here is stale and dusty and, stepping forward, Mira slams into the edge of a metal desk.

"Ow, #@#!*," Mira curses quietly. "Why am I the one who keeps getting beat-up on this trip?" she mutters. "Next time you go first."

Martin finds the light switch (it's right next to the door), and with a hum, the fluorescent lights come to life, slowly, and begin to illuminate a very large room. Long rows of shelving and filing cabinets run its length, filled with wooden boxes of every size and shape. Another door, at the opposite end of the room, is the only other exit, though this one is labeled, "Off limits to Non-scientific Personnel," and is partially covered by boxes.

Mira gives an audible sigh of relief. "No men with guns. Good." She smiles.

Martin's trained eye immediately notes a new computer terminal out of sync with the rest of the room. The dust has been disturbed here and footprints trek around the rows of metal shelves. Cardboard boxes full of what look to be a type of card catalog as well as trash are haphazardly stacked near the door. The walls here are of the same bare rock as the large cavern, though this ceiling is not as high.

Cutting his eyes up to the ceiling, Martin instinctively scans the room for any cameras or other monitoring devices. "C'mon," he thinks, eyes trying to cover the entirety of the room before he steps any further in, "be clean - we've gotta catch a break *sometime* in this mess."

Outside, Colonel Vasquez and the Major continue their conversation; despite the fire door, Mira can hear the surprise in her voice: "You're right, that is a strong step to take. What about trying the usual sex scandals? They haven't hurt politicians much in years, but the public dislikes PRIMUS enough - no offense, Colonel - that it might work."

So many leeches so little salt, Mira thinks to herself and press her ear closer to the door to better hear Vasquez's response.

"We've thought about it, but other than one indiscretion at Annapolis that was covered up well, he's squeaky clean. We tried a set-up soon after he was promoted, but it bombed miserably - he may as well be Ralph Nader for the interest he's taken in women in the last five years. Besides, at this point, damaging the Golden Avenger publicly would be damaging PRIMUS itself, and we can't risk that. Keeping our funding is critical at this juncture of the project."

"I'll bet you leech on the American taxpayers," Mira whispers. "Wonder what other black-ops your running your spare time."

"I see your problem, Colonel," the woman says sympathetically. "I think you're right in more drastic measures being needed. But are you sure killing him is the best course of action?"

Mira gasps, as the shock runs through her. The Golden Avenger was never really her favorite person. Hell, she never really cared for any of PRIMUS men and women of spandex. But killing him! That was just plain wrong. "He must know something," Mira whispers to herself. "They would only plan on killing him if he knew something."

"Who must know what?" Martin asks, finishing his check of the room for monitoring devices. 'We're clear - no cameras."

"It worked wonders in Kaufman's case," Vasquez says offhandedly, starting to fade from Mira's hearing - probably going around the corner, she realizes. "Galvanized the public - and Congress - that PRIMUS was a necessary part of our defense. We were damn close to being absorbed by the FBI then. The people get a martyr and we'll either get who we want as Golden Avenger or he won't be replaced, as simple as that. Of course we'll get all the equipment funding approvals, and Glenn won't dare interfere anymore, regardless. Besides, we've wanted to pursue a scorched-earth policy against VIPER for some time. It'll only take a few tips to get them to do the work for us. It's too convenient a solution to ignore."

"Why those slimy, no-good, sleezy boils on the face of humanity," Mira furiously whispers. "That does it. I'm voting for the Independent Party next year."

"Will you please tell me what you're talking about," Martin asks, beginning to step into the room towards the rows of shelving. "This is worse than listening to half of a phone conversation."

"Shhhhh," she whispers, waving at him to pipe down. "I'm trying to hear." Mira hears the Major's low response, but not clearly enough to make out any words. A few seconds later, she hears laughter, then nothing from the outside.

Sighing with relief, Mira takes her ear away from the door. She makes sure the door is locked before hobbling over to the computer. "We've got to get his job done fast," Mira says, sitting down. "From what I could tell of their conversation, Vasquez is planning on assassinating the Golden Avenger. It looks like they'll leak information to VIPER to accomplish this. We've got to warn him. Not that he'll probably believe us, but we gotta do it."

Martin stops in mid-step and turns to look at his partner, an unexpected surge of anger rushing through him, "Vasquez? One of his own people?" Just like they did to me, he thinks, the familiar pain washing over him again as the ghostly echoes of Charlie's screams rose up unbidden in his ears. Not again, not ever again if I can help it, he thinks fiercely, especially not to someone like him.

"Yes," Mira nods. "Apparently Vasquez is what we would scrape off the bottom of our shoes. Sounds like the Golden Avenger is fighting him on something and Vasquez is tired of it. Plus a dead martyr he can use to get more money out of Congress."

"He'll listen," he says softly, "he has to."

"Yeah, well he won't be able to listen to anything, if we don't get the hell out of here and tell him," Mira says. "Now you understand why I said it's important that at least one of us makes it out of here. You've got the family. So don't give me the noblesse oblige. If things go weird, you go as fast as those two legs will carry you."

"Let's find this box, get it and get out of here," Mira says. "Let me see if I can get anything useful out of this machine. Why don't you try the boxes? While you're looking, keep an eye open for anything labeled Project Redwing or Project 2318."

'Right," Martin replies, his thoughts still racing, trying to come to grips with the information Mira has just given him. He methodically begins to work his way through the shelves in search of the box they'd come for. Just like me, he thinks over and over, the sounds of the explosion and Charlie's screams replaying time after time in his mind, just like me....

"Yo, Martin," Mira whispers, looking up from the screen as the computer boots up. "You OK? You've been staring at the same file for a few minutes."

"Wha?" Martin says, starting violently at the sound of Mira's voice, and almost knocking the box of files in front of him over. Catching it awkwardly, he sets it back on the shelf and leans against the wall for a moment, letting the adrenaline rush work out of his system. No," he sighs finally, his voice unsteady, "not really. I..." he pauses to rub at his forehead as if scrubbing away an unwanted memory, then finishes, "Later, ask me later."

Mira's eyes narrow and she looks close at him. "Don't worry Martin. We all have our own demons. When we get out of here we'll discuss it over a bottle of Tequila."

"That would've told me you were a paranormal if nothing else did," he snorts jokingly, his voice still shaky. "No normal human could drink that stuff and live..."

"A few powers has nothing to do with it," Mira says. "It's the journalist in me. We can drink anything. But you should talk. You're gifted too."

"Let's get back to work," Martin says abruptly, the bitterness in his voice audible even through the still-present shakiness as he turns to the shelf next to him.

Turning back to the shelves, he begins to work his way through them again, trying to disturb as little of their haphazard arrangement as possible in his search. After a moment, he asks quietly, his voice closer to normal, "You having any luck?"

After about fifteen minutes of intense work, Mira hasn't been able to get past the "Enter Your User Name and Password" stage of logging into the network. None of the existing names and passwords she's used to get into other government systems have worked, and she's starting to worry if she's going to set off an alarm somewhere with all of these wrong entries.

"This isn't working," she answers, getting up from the desk. "I'm going to shut it down. No sense in attracting attention. Have you found anything interesting?"

Martin, for his part, has done a cursory check of the boxes. After a while, he realizes the set up isn't as haphazard as he'd thought - they are, grouped by year and category (though what the category - designated by three letters before the number) indicates, Martin has no idea. The years represented in this room range from 1941-1957.

"Hmmmm.... let's try looking from 1941 through 1942," Mira suggests. "Rommel's campaign in North Africa took place during that time. Remember Armitage said the alien artifact supposedly crashed in North Africa during Rommel's campaign," Mira shrugs.

"The only other time I can think of checking is 1992 - when the object was stolen from our client," Mira said. "And since 1992 isn't in here...."

Martin steps back, a perplexed look on his face, "I'm missing something..." he muses aloud, turning back towards Mira. "Have you..." his voice trails off as he looks at the card catalog, then the computer, then the trail in the dust on the floor between them. "Auugh!" he cries, thumping himself in the head with the heel of his hand, "I'm an idiot!"

"What?" Mira looks up perplexedly at him.

"The card catalog - look at it," he sighs in disgust. "That's why the computer's in here in the first place - they're updating the hardcopy files to computer...." He moves over to stand next to it, pointing at the faded tiles, "See the trail in the dust? That's where the data-entry person is going back and forth." He begins to run his hand down the front of the small drawers, squinting at the faded lettering on their labels, "If we're lucky, they may not have moved the record over - they might not ever know it was missing..."

"Well, lets look," Mira says, sitting down on the floor. "You take 1941. I'll take 1942 and let's see if we can find anything. We'll still have to locate the box. Since this room is just records, we'll have to venture out into that hallway again unless you think that door might actually get us somewhere," she says jerking her thumb towards the half covered at the other end.

"Hand me 1947 too," she says, rapidly flipping through the records in the 1942 box. "Roswell," she says at Martin's inquiring look. "I can't resist."

"Here's '42," he says, handing the dusty drawer over to her. "And '47.... I think should be," he squints at the drawer labels again, "this one."

Once Mira's started working on the two drawers, Martin turns his attention to the one labeled '1941' and begins to work his way through the faded cards. "Whoever wrote these things must've studied to be a doctor," he sighs after a dozen cards or so. "Either that, or this one's written in Swahili."

Mira's 1947 drawer of cards looks like about half of them are missing, based on where the drawer is set and the number of cards actually in it. Nothing looks particularly alien-oriented, as a matter of fact.

"Hmm... looks like this box has already been partially cataloged," Mira says. "That or they're hiding all the alien catalogs. Nothing on Roswell or little green men here. Shucks and here I was hoping with might find some embalmed aliens stored in here." She winks at Martin.

After five minutes of flipping through cards, Martin realizes that any artifact taken by the Nazis would have taken until after the war to recover, and he begins looking through 1945. This is one of the largest years for the catalog, judging by the number of cards. About to suggest Mira try the computer again, given the utter futility of distinguishing anything from the scribbled cards, one red-marked card catches his eye.

Artifact: #779924 Origin: German Acquisition Purpose: Unknown/Poss. Power Source/Propulsion

**Missing 1949** **Recovered 1963** **Missing 1989**

That's interesting, Martin muses to himself silently. Looks like the thing's been recovered from government hands and then repossessed by the MIB's twice already... and our patron neglected to mention that niggling little detail. That doesn't exactly encourage me to turn this thing over to them....

"Well, at least it doesn't look like it's going to irradiate us," Mira says, peering at the card. "That a plus."

Moving over to the area where it should be, based on Martin's first survey of the shelving, he finds it easily. Though in a plain wooden crate like the rest, when Martin pries the top off, he finds the Nazi eagle stenciled on an olive box inside.

"Okay Stafford," he says, maneuvering the box out of the plain crate and shucking off the pack frame. "I've got the alien thingie - you'd better check for Project Redwing while I get this thing lashed down and my other gear redistributed...." He waves a hand at the catalog, "Try moving up in time a year or two and see if the guy writing these things got promoted and someone with a more legible script wound up with the job."

"Don't you at least want to look inside," Mira asks, pulling over a box from the 1950s. "I know I'd want to know exactly what I was going to lug across the desert."

"Maybe," Martin hazards. "But I'm not real happy about the fact that this thing's been stolen out of the warehouse here twice before... Doesn't do much for the non-existent confidence I have in our patron that they failed to mention that little fact."

"Well, I understand your caution, but don't be too judgmental yet," Mira says. 'We don't know the entire story. And to be honest, I'd be more inclined to trust our client whom David has checked out than the government."

"If this is some sort of alien power source or propulsion unit like this suggests," Martin replies, holding up the card in question, "Then I'd be more inclined to trust it to a troop of curious ten year olds than the government - or someone who's lied to me about their past dealings with the thing. And," he notes, slipping the card into a pocket, 'I wouldn't give it to the kids if my life depended on it."

Martin looks at the box in front of him for a moment before replying, "To be honest, my first impulse is to leave the damn thing here and tell our Patron to steal it themselves if they want it so badly..." he sighs, then continues. "But you're probably right - if nothing else, it'll keep you from pestering me every twenty minutes for a look at the thing...."

"I wouldn't pester you Martin," Mira says, laughing. "I would simply point out the wisdom of being sure we had the right box and knowing exactly what it was we were carrying."

"Is there a practical difference there?" he observes dryly.

"Oh scads," she says. "One's a really annoying trait. The other is the thoughtful and caring sentiments of your partner."

"Stafford," he sighs, shaking his head. "When was the last time someone managed to out-talk you? Assuming, " he adds before she can reply, "That such a feat has ever been successfully accomplished?"

"Let's see, I do remember a time when Billy Johnson won an argument," she chuckles. "However, I think he cheated. He had me tied up hanging upside down in the barn. He only won because I passed out when all the blood rushed to my head."

"I'll have to keep that tactic in mind," he returns, "Although it might be a bit difficult to arrange - barns don't grow on trees like they used to."

"Yes and I fight a lot dirtier in my old age," she says with a wink. "Keep that in mind."

Looking around for something to use as a crowbar, Martin settles on a metal slat from the shelving units and begins to lever off the lid of the Nazi-marked box.

The glow from the box is evident as soon as Martin begins to crack the top of the box. Lifting the lid, he realizes most of the weight is in the box itself - looks to be lined with lead. Inside, something is glowing so brightly that neither Martin nor Mira can stand to look directly at it. Martin immediately begins to feel queasy, holding the lid of the box, and it's probably only his recuperative abilities that prevent him from throwing up. Mira's head begins to throb, and her ears ring, and she starts to feel nauseous as well.

"Martin, please, close the box!" Mira says trying to repress the urge to gag. "This mission is going to be the death of me."

Gritting his teeth against the nausea, Martin averts his eyes and forces the lid back down on the box, hammering the lid back down with repeated blows from his fist on the wood. Once the lid is secure, he slumps back against the shelves, taking a moment to force the contents of his stomach back to their normal domicile. "I," he says after a moment, "think that I want to know where this is going before anybody sees it - million dollars or not."

Mira backs away from the box, trying to put distance between her and it. Slowly the ringing sound clears from her ears. "Whatever that is, it's not user friendly," Mira says, having second, third, fourth and fifth thoughts about dragging the box across the desert.

"Look for now, let's figure out how were going to get out of here, since we are now effectively 15 miles or more from our vehicle," she says. Getting up, she presses and ear against the door to see if she can her any noise coming from the hallway.

There is a thunk-thunk-clank immediately outside the door of the room. Over the din in her ears, Mira can barely make out the sound of voices. "Pile 'em here, and we'll move them in the old storehouse here until they can ready the facility," one of the workers she heard earlier says. "No one uses this room anymore, anyway."

"Oh lord! Martin, they're moving all those boxes into this room," Mira says, jumping away from the door. "We've got company coming in quick. We'd better find a place to hide or get that other door open!"

Jesus, Martin thinks, looking around frantically, we've either got to leave or hide! He eyes the other door, partially concealed behind the boxes, judging its accessibility. When are we going to catch a break with this job?

"The door," Martin decides instantly. "Here," he pulls Mira over to where the box rests on his pack frame, "Lash that down quickly - I'll get the door clear."

Without another word, he leaps to the blocked door and begins to carefully move the blocking boxes aside. Careful, he reminds himself, move too much and they'll see the disturbed dust in the air and know something's wrong as soon as they open the door. Craning his neck, he peers over the box he's preparing to move, C'mon, he thinks at the silent door, open towards the other side. If I have to move all of these boxes we're dead.

Mira rapidly starts pulling and tying the straps on the pack, adrenaline rushing through her at a breakneck speed.