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by Ed McEneely, Mon, 5 Feb 2001
The electronic impulses left the photosensor at high speed, attracting the attention of a lazily orbiting satellite possessed of scanning equipment that was beyond the ken of man.
Unless, of course, the man in question belonged to Majestic.
The satellite relayed the data to a highly-modified AWACS jetliner travelling at an altitude of 45,000 feet. The information bounded about the limited-capacity crystal matrix supercomputer that was linked to the communications aerial, and began a FLASH packet transmission to an ADAMANTIUM-secure phone line in Nevada.
The modem picked up the call, ran the information through the computer, and sent a routine SANITIZE order via secure fax to a NRO DELTA team ensconced safely in their van en route to Doc's home.
Their orders are short and to the point. The modern-day Spartans read them with nary a second glance, calmly cleaning and assembling weapons in the practiced manner of one who feels they have a special relationship with guns.
At 11:10 PM, the van pulls into the back lot of the building, and the team exits it in a calm and efficient manner.
Across the street, someone has seen the van, and mutters into his throat mike.
The team enters the building, which seems almost abandoned this late at night.
Their first clue that it is not is when Doc plugs one with an ancient Colt Army M1911A1 automatic and vanishes back into the unlighted hallways. He does not run far.
The other four soldiers open fire, the soft stuttering of their silenced weapons nearly deafening in the stillness of the building, and eleven neat little holes open up in the Doc's back. He stumbles and falls to the ground, and one of the team puts a pullet in the base of his head, out of professional instinct, more than anything.
Thermite explosives are carefully placed, and the timers are set so that the team will be long gone by the time that Doc, his knick-knacks, and all his patients and their secrets have vanished in a fiery pyre.
There's just one hitch.
As the team steps out of the building, four soft rumbles sound briefly, and their heads erupt like bloody snapdragons blooming.
Had they lived long enough, they would have seen that the van's driver is also dead.
The watcher's radio crackles. "All units, this is General Fairfield. Good work, boys.
"Let's see what secrets they had in that van of theirs."
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