Well, no, I _don't_ know what possessed me to write a Mission: Impossible story.   Maybe because I've never seen one before, and I like the idea of sailing uncharted seas.  Anyway, I've picked up right where the movie left off.  And, yes, I _did_ like the movie-- probably because I was one of the few people I heard from who could actually follow the plot.  In any case, I _really_ liked the idea of the IMF, particularly of the team aspect that was sorely missing from the film.

So, here's my version of Mission: Impossible-- a standard plot, not too earth-shaking, and introducing characters I might use again, if I ever finish this one story.

Disclaimer: The character of Ethan Hunt and associated details regarding the IMF are the property of Paramount Pictures.  They are used solely for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.
 

Chapter 1 - "The Man in Seat 6B"

Tonight, there was a much younger man in seat 6B.  He looked tired, but relieved somehow. The man had short dark hair and wore a leather sportcoat.  He was also much handsomer than most of the other, Terri thought to herself.  About thirty, and with a strong air of confidence around him.

“Would you care for a movie, Mr. Hunt?” she asked lightly.

Mr. Hunt smiled slightly, his eyes heavy.  “No, thank you,” he answered.

“Would you consider,” Terri offered as required, “the cinema of the Caribbean?”

Hunt’s eyes opened, and he stared at her a moment.  The smile returned.

“All right,” Hunt said, taking the offered cassette.  Terri moved on to the next passenger.  Hunt placed his earphones on, and slipped the tape into the armrest’s slot.  He then swung the large LCD monitor into position and, holding the small remote, pressed “Play.”

The screen was filled with the gold insignia of the Impossible Missions Force, the U.S.’s ultra-secret intelligence agency.  Ethan Hunt had boarded this plane in Paris under the assumption that he was no longer within the fold of the IMF, but, it seemed, there was no leaving it.

“Good evening, Mr. Hunt,” said the voice on the tape.  Hunt smiled.  The voice belonged to the IMF’s director, Kittredge, a man who had recently been after Hunt’s hide.

“I know that this tape is the last thing you expected, Ethan,” Kittredge continued, “but let’s face facts: there’s really nothing else on earth you’d be happy doing than this.  Besides-- you know far too much about the IMF to let go.”  Ethan didn’t miss the threatening irony in the man’s words.

“You’re welcome to stop this tape now, but I know you’re not going to.”  Hunt pressed the “Pause” button, thiking.

“Good,” Kttredge’s voice said when the tape was started again.  The screen changed to show a color photograph of a man and woman climbing into a black sedan.  The photo was obviously taken with a long-lensed camera, and the couple were both covered up in dark coats and sunglasses.  On the left, the man, Asian, mid-thirties, had slicked-back hair and a strong-set jaw.  His companion was an attractive Caucasian woman, with mid-length brown hair and was about the same age.

“The people you are looking at are Tommy Tarraka and Janine Price.  In the arms trade, they’re colorfully known as ‘The Lady and The Tiger.’  I’m sure you’ve heard of them, they’ve been involved in a third of all the major deals in the last five years.”

The image changed again, showing a tall, olive-skinned man with wire-rimmed glasses, entering the same kind of sedan.  “This man is Damian Campana, one of their lieutenants.  He is also our informant.”

The screen turned again into the IMF logo.  “Your mission,” Kittredge went on, “should you choose to accept it, is to arrange and successfully execute an extraction of Campana from his employer’s influence.  There is a secondary mission objective: if you are able to, you are authorized to take steps to undermine Tarraka and Price’s operations.  But Campana’s extraction is the _primary_ objective.”

“Remember, Ethan, that should any of your IMF team be caught or killed during this operation, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your activities.  This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.”

Ethan rubbed his chin as the first wisps of smoke lifted from the armrest, only to dissipate into the dark cabin’s air.

**********

Early the next day, Hunt sat in front of one of the many computers at IMF headquarters in Langley, Virginia.  He scrolled through another round of faces and dossiers, trying to assemble a team for the mission.  A small pad beside him had a few names scribbled under the general positions he was looking to fill, but not many, and none he was particularly interested in.

He’d been at it for over an hour now, poring through the list of agents not currently assigned to a team.  Virtually none of them was what Ethan was looking for in the way of the first team under his command.  Sighing, he sat back.

Another grim-faced picture stared back at him from the monitor, another clean-cut, perfect record file.  At the end of the dossier read the line “Disciplinary actions”, and beside it, the word “none”.  Ethan’s eyes widened.  He sat back up and began a search, this time, opening the field to operatives with less-than spotless records.  Another few dozen names were added to the screen.

Only ten minutes later, he had his team.  Ethan Hunt activated their call signals.

**********

Aquino, Jonathan Haller
D.O.B. 1/5/72
P.O.B. New Milford, NJ
Specialty: Pilot, driver, surveillance
Disciplinary actions: Administrative suspension for inappropriate behavior

The Mitsubishi 3000GT tore around the corner, its tires just barely clutching to the Georgia asphalt.  Behind the wheel, and behind his dark sunglasses, Jon Aquino smiled, revelling in the sensation of speed.  The car screeched around another bend, and sped down the quiet highway.  At six in the morning, on this stretch of road on the way to Atlanta, the black sports car was all alone.

After a minute or two, his car radio began beeping insistently.  Muttering under his breath, Jon touched a few controls.

“Agent Aquino.  This is base.  Report immediately for assignment.”

Jon’s ears perked up.  He’d been assigned to nothing but a desk for the last six months, on a kind of disciplinary suspension, at the IMF’s Atlanta offices.  Now, without warning, without notification, he was being sent back out into the field.

He took the next exit and sped back to his place.

**********

Delacorte, Terence James
D.O.B.: 9/20/70
P.O.B.: Dominican Republic
Specialty: Electronics and systems
Disciplinary actions: Clearance reduced for improper use of IMF assets.

T. J.’s eyes opened, but unwillingly.  Through the early-morning haze, he could make out the numbers on his alarm clock: 4:00 AM.  Grudgingly, he reached over and picked up the phone.  The first thing he heard was the high-pitched whine of a secure line being switched on.

“Agent Delacorte,” said the voice, “This is base.  Report immediately for assignment.”

He shook his head.  *Assignment?*  This was about the last thing he expected.  It took only twenty minutes to shower, dress and check his e-mail before heading out the door.

**********

Piretti, Diana Maria
D.O.B.: 6/17/71
P.O.B.: Rome, Italy
Disciplinary actions: Administrative suspension for misappropriation of IMF funds

Jogging along the river, Diana Piretti was totally abosorbed in the opera album playing over her headphones.  So much so, that she had no choice but to notice when the music stopped, mid-aria.  There was a short burst of quiet static, then a terse, no-nonsense voice.

“Agent Piretti. This is base.  Report immediately for assignment.”

*That was it?  No thank you for waiting out the eternal suspension?  No sorry for the extra three weeks?*  Piretti slowed, then stopped, rubbing her temples.  She turned around and headed back to her apartment.

**********

Moran, Alexa Jane
D.O.B.: 4/15/74
P.O.B.: San Diego, CA
Specialty: Infiltration, theatrical background
Disciplinary actions: Administrative suspension for inappropriate behavior

She hated the morning commute, but was glad it was at least short.  Alexa pulled back a few wisps of her curly hair, completely unfazed by the sight of the scenery out her window passing at almost a hundred miles an hour.

Inside her purse, Alexa’s pager began to beep.  Fishing it out, she read its face.

“Agent Moran.  This is base.  Report immediately for assignment.”

She raised an eyebrow.  Six months of desk jockeying, and without so much as a word in acknowledgement, they throw her back into the action.  It surprised her, but what surprised her more was that they were both going in.

“I was wondering when they’d call us in,” she said.

“I was wondering _if_ they’d ever call us in,” Jon replied, as the car slid into the parking space.

Alexa brushed back his hair.  “You think it’s the same assignment?”

“Can’t be,” he answered.  “Last time we worked together, we got suspended.”

TO BE CONTINUED...