I was re-reading (and re-re-reading) Winnie Lim’s "Where Do You Start?" series of stories, and started wondering about what Jon was doing, and just why things that were mentioned happened. So, I wrote a story about it. After some batting of the ideas back and forth between us, my part of the endeavor was given her blessing. If you haven’t read the stories, find them here. It’s not necessary, but it helps.

Disclaimer: Characters and associated details are property of Hanna-Barbera and are used for non-profit entertainment purposes only.

Archiving permission granted.

THE FUTURE (PAST) ADVENTURES OF JONNY QUEST

Synopsis: A "future past" look into what it is that Jon does for a living. So why did those terrorists plant that car bomb, anyway?

"SARAJEVO"

by Eric R. Umali

Cramped. Dark. Hot. Stuffy.

*Jonathan Benton Quest, what _have_ you gotten yourself into this time?*

He was not in his favorite place in the world. Not by a long shot. Jon's favorite place was several thousand miles away. It sat on a tiny island off the coast of Florida-- empty and gathering dust, yes, but it was still his favorite place in the world. And he'd be there in just about a month.

Where he was now was far from the sprawling tropical splendor of Palm Key. He was in Sarajevo, a city that had once upon a time had so much promise... but now lay in ruins, thanks to the human frailties he had spent a lifetime and a fortune battling. Well, he was at what was left of the Sarajevo airport, actually. Well, actually he was in an airplane at the Sarajevo airport. Well, actually, he was in an airplane, squashed into the tiny elevator that connected the cargo bay to the main cabin.

Jon silently exited the elevator after assuring himself that he was alone. He was not happy. Jon reached into the black webbing harness holding the various tools of his trade, which he was plying at the moment. He turned his attention back to the small tangle of exposed wires an inch from his face. The object was to disconnect the mechanism's power supply-- without tripping the especially sensitive detonation sequence. *Piece of cake,* he thought, *next to re-wiring QuestWorld gear.* As he worked, he thought of what had brought him to this most unenviable situation.

**********

The call had come at four-thirty in the morning, Virginia time. Jon's apartment was pitch black. Jon himself was sleeping off yet another twenty-four hour workday. The ring cut through a most distracting red-headed dream. The receiver clattered when he reached for it the first time, but Jon managed to bring the thing to his ear and turn it on.

"Mister Quest?"

"Uhhh..." Jon's tongue felt four inches thick. "Yeah, Quest here."

"It's Admiral Bennett." The voice was as weathered and aged as the man, and just as strong and determined, as well.

Clarity came instantly. In less than a second, he was completely awake and every sense was sharp, every muscle ready for action. "Yes, Admiral."

"I assume you've heard of Crimson Dawn?"

The wheels in his mind spun for a moment, accessing the data with practiced ease. "Class Four terrorist cell, operating from Eastern Europe. Their PR tags them as a Serbian group, but it's most likely a cover for your general, run-of-the-mill capitalist terrorists."

"Six hours ago, Crimson Dawn commandeered a 757 bound for Amsterdam. In three hours, it will be forced to land somewhere in the Balkans."

"The bullet?"

"Eight men. Automatic weapons. They claim to have a bomb. Estimated at twenty to thirty pounds of C-4. Eighty-five percent sure of it."

"I'll be at the Company airstrip in thirty minutes."

He punched a code into the secured device, and he was instantly connected to the other members of the Company. "We have a situation. Airstrip, thirty minutes," he said evenly into the receiver, then rushed to his closet.

The captive 757 was not on the Sarajevo tarmac more than ten minutes before Jonathan Quest spirited himself into its cargo bay. No one aboard questioned how slowly and carefully the crews went about refilling its fuel tanks.

**********

Ten painful minutes later, the last wire had been crossed. Easing his grip on the wire cutters, he positioned the tool at the red wire he had marked as the last to be cut. Hesitating a moment, he thought to himself, *I should've paid more attention to Jess.* He snipped the wire, and the blinking LED's on the bomb's housing went dim. Letting out the breath he'd been holding, he removed the detonator from the explosives. His attention going directly to the task at hand, he went back to the elevator.

Pushing back the sleeve of his black jumpsuit, he exposed the battered piece of electronic wizardry that he'd come to rely on for a very long time. Continually upgrading and tinkering, the small team that had helped him orchestrate this mission all wore new variants of the Quest Team watch, but Jonathan refused to replace the housing he'd been wearing since he was fourteen.

Pressing the control, a three-dimensional hologram, a schematic of the main cabin, appeared in the air before him. Linked to the thermographic imagers of his team a quarter mile away, he could monitor all the activity above him. He smiled at the thought of them. If there was one thing they hated, it was when the boss insisted in personally handling the most dangerous and critical operations-- and he did it all the time.

He usually told them it was because he rarely trusted anyone enough to execute his plans exactly, or else it was to "keep the techies from getting their typing fingers shot off." They knew as well as Jon the real reason. Jonathan Quest was still an adrenaline junkie.

Jon unslung a small duffel from his shoulder, extracting a black package and a silver cylinder. He opened the package, assembling the tiny breathing mask, which he donned. He then screwed a valve onto the cylinder and placed it into the elevator shaft, sealing the door. Taking a few steps back, he pressed another control on his watch. The valve opened, and gray mist quickly filled the shaft, and from his linkup, he knew it was just as quickly filling the cabin. The anesthetic mist was the creation of the Company's biochemist, Fahad Aziz. Jon went over mentally what he'd been told regarding its effectivity and duration.

He watched as one of the terrorists ran for the cabin, only to collapse from the powerful anesthetic. Jon smiled to himself, knowing how even if he'd made it, Jon had already disabled most of the plane's power systems. He counted the seconds until he could be sure everyone had been affected.

He shook his head as the Jonny Quest in him begged to be let out, to confront the terrorists head- on, face to face. Jon would like nothing better, he assured the headstrong teenager, but there were innocent passengers on board. If it had been just him and them, he'd have gladly went in, fists flying. But not with the hostages there.

His life was worth the risk. Theirs weren't.

After two minutes, he took the elevator into the main cabin. Stepping out of the door, he drew his powerful tazer from its holster. Even now, he still hated guns. Especially now that he had so much first- hand knowledge of the destruction they caused. He walked up the aisle, verifying the unconsciousness of everyone present. He was just about to radio his team when the terrorist leapt at him, a bright yellow air mask tied to his face, and a high-caliber machine pistol in his hand.

Jon brought his tazer up, but was unable to fire when the man crashed into him. Jon was glad neither of them could fire. He twisted, wedging his boot between them, and sent the terrorist flying with a mighty kick. The man scrambled to his feet. Jon brought his right leg high into the air, and brought it crashing down on the terrorist's back in a hammer kick that was one of Race Bannon's signatures. He signaled his team.

Six seconds later, the doors of the cabin were torn from their hinges, and black clad, breath-mask wearing soldiers entered. Jon looked at his watch and shook his head.

"Six seconds. You're late."

**********

Jon stood with arms crossed as the cabin was vented. In five minutes, the still-groggy passengers would be evacuated as well. He began preparing his harangue for the soldiers that had been placed under his command. They were good, but they were far from the best. Even Jon held himself up to an ideal and found his abilities wanting.

*But I've still got time, Race,* he thought. *Just you wait.*

Ray Larson, the Company's technological expert and "king techie" as Jon called him, patted his partner on the shoulder.

"Another notch on your gunbelt, Jon."

"All part of the job, Ray."

Larson shook his head-- they had this conversation once a week. "It _isn't_, Jon, that's the point. One of these days, you're not gonna come back to yell at the grunts."

"Ray, I've told you a hundred times--"

"I know, I know-- you do it because no one else can. The fact that you're right is the only reason we let you. But I won't be the one to remind you how close you've come to not coming back--"

Jon turned to him. "Don't, Ray--" he said sharply.

"I won't remind you about Paris... about San Diego... let alone--"

"Ray--"

"--Kazakhstan."

Jon's expression became stone cold. "Ray," he said icily, "go home. Get some sleep."

"Jon--"

"End of discussion."

An hour later, Jon found himself seated at one end of a long conference table. Admiral Bennett, now Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was sitting to his right, along with three aides who probably weren't even alive when Bennett began his career.

The debriefing was short and sweet, as usual. Jon and the Company had orchestrated and executed an ingenious operation with complete success.

Jon was on a plane back to the states a few hours afterwards.

**********

Four days later, Jon was on his way to his car. Wheeling a battered black travel case behind him, he pointed his control at the black sedan. The headlights came on, the windows lowered, and the engine came to life. As he tossed the bag into the trunk, he mused over the nondescript vehicle, wishing he could buy that sports car he'd always wanted. But then he'd have to be in an occupation that relied on not being noticeable.

He noticed the scrap of paper pinned under the wiper and unfolded it. It bore only the red streak that was the symbol of the Crimson Dawn. Jon immediately backed away from the car and raised his watch, activating its sensors. Seconds later, it beeped, indicating that there was nothing wrong with the car.

After a visual inspection, Jon got in and pulled out of the garage, headed for Dulles Airport. Crimson Dawn or no, he wasn't about to let anyone down.

In a few weeks, he had a date in Palm Key.

But first, he had another appointment. In Madagascar.

TO BE CONTINUED...