Icarus by Abby Eddey


Chapter 1

Brigadier General Jack O’Neill stared through the wind-etched double-paned airliner window into unrelieved blackness. Heavy weather to the northeast had offered some distraction earlier in the flight. For a couple of hours, he’d rested his forehead against the thick plastic and stared into stewing storm clouds, while lightening snaked across the swirling front.

Then the airliner passed into the storm. The ceiling closed in; the battle lost form; clouds blocked the stars, and the flight became just another long, dull, bumpy ride.

‘Too bad,’ Jack mused as the jet bucked and shuddered against the turbulence.

On a clear night he’d have enjoyed the 15-hour flight. Even in this dirty, use-worn commercial airliner, even headed where he was heading, even leaving everything behind – everything but duty – he’d have been alright, if he could’ve just seen the stars. Instead there was nothing beyond the etched windowpane, but blackness. The weeping pattern of ever-changing rivulets that formed as sub-zero atmosphere encountered the jet’s friction-heated skin did nothing to occupy Jack’s overactive mind. He rubbed his tired eyes and stared through the web of water trails.

‘Retirement,’ he thought, ‘my ass.’

ΩΩΩ

Five hours into the flight, Jack straightened in his seat and turned away from the window. His gaze skimmed past the close-cropped heads of other passengers in the nearly empty jet. Then he let his head tip back against the seatback and closed his eyes, determined to doze, but the circumstances that brought him to this top secret flight chased sleep away.

Less than two weeks before, Jack had finally, once-and-for-all, pulled the plug. Or so he’d thought at the time. That had been the end of it, but six months earlier had been the beginning. It had started on his first day as a fresh-minted Brigadier General.

It had started with Ba’al.

ΩΩΩ

Twelve hours after Jack took provisional command of the SGC, a hologram of Ba’al had suddenly appeared in the ‘Gate room. Jack had responded at a run to the blare of the klaxons. He’d charged into the control room in time to see his least favorite tormentor materialize out of thin air.

Ba’al’s likeness had hovered eerily over the base of the ‘Gate.

Jack had turned away from the blast windows with a low curse and headed into the ‘Gate room for a closer look. As he strolled through the blast doors, he’d affected a ‘Devil May Care’ attitude. Then he met Ba’al’s evil gaze and their last encounter came back in a rush: Ba’al smirked; His wrist flicked; Jack was defenseless and alone and the thin, sharp blade made interesting patterns on his naked skin.

Jack had shoved the memory away and plastered an irreverent grin on his face. He stopped before the projection, jammed his fists into his fatigue pockets, and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

The Ba’al-o-gram had declared that he’d captured SG-1 and stated demands. SG-1 would be released in return for Camulus, a minor Goa’uld who’d requested sanctuary within the SGC. The sadist had then sneered and smirked, insinuating what could happen in his little fortress of fun, if Jack didn’t deliver Camulus to him forthwith. As if Jack might have forgotten Ba’al’s aptitude for causing pain.

Jack had listened without reply and his poker face held. Behind the façade, Jack’s guts turned. Holding the gaze of Ba’al’s dead black eyes, Jack knew.

He’d screwed up.

In a flash of perfect clarity, Jack had seen it. To save SG-1, he’d have to outmaneuver Ba’al, the darkest son-of-a-bitch he’d ever met. Jack had to be just as cold and callous, and twice as twisted as his ruthless opponent. That meant Carter was a pawn. Daniel and Teal’c were expendable. They always had been in the bigger game. As a professional warrior, Jack had always known it, but as a man …

As a man, Jack had gotten too close to his team and way, way too close to Sam Carter. Letting her under his skin had been a mistake … a deadly mistake. Jack wasn’t cold, callous or tough. Sam wasn’t a pawn and she sure as hell wasn’t expendable, not to him. As for Daniel and Teal’c, Jack would die rather than let Ba’al harm them.

Except, Ba’al already had them and he’d torture them, just as he'd tortured Jack.

... to death.

... repeatedly.

... until the novelty wore off. Then he’d kill them.

Jack saw no way to prevent it.

As the truth penetrated, Jack had known he didn’t deserve the trust George Hammond had placed in him. He didn’t merit the stars on his shoulders. The approaching ceremony to officially name him as SGC’s Commanding Officer was a travesty. He was about as far as a military man could get from the professional caliber necessary to lead the SGC.

Still, worthy or not, Jack had the job. He had to try, but try what?

Jack couldn’t just hand over Camulus. Not that he gave a damn about the greasy, petulant Goa’uld. He’d have personally flung the stinking parasite through the ‘Gate, if he’d believed for one second that there was the slightest chance it might save his people.

Jack knew better. Simply giving Ba’al what he demanded would not save SG-1. That bloodthirsty sadist would never release them … not alive … no way. Maybe Ba'al wanted Camulus, maybe not. He definitely wanted to twist the knife in Jack. Hurting and killing Jack’s premier team was icing on the cake. Unless Jack could rescue them, and soon, his friends were better off dead.

So, Jack had listened to Ba’al’s terms wearing a mask of indifference, while his guilty heart tried to claw through his chest. Then holding no cards, with the SGC falling apart around him, Jack had done the only thing he could do. He told the Ba’al the truth.

Jack had admitted that the SGC was having technical trouble. The ‘Gate was not functional. So, even if he wanted to hand over Camulus, Jack had explained, he couldn’t open the ‘Gate to send anything through, not Camulus, not even a radio signal. Jack had asked Ba’al for time to get his act together and suggested that the Goa’uld call him back to continue negotiations.

Inexplicably, Ba’al had agreed. He’d graciously allowed Jack more time. Then his sardonic smirk had faded away, his mirthless laugh reechoing in the ‘Gate room 'til it too faded to nothing but a memory.

Jack had stood alone before the lifeless ‘Gate, a bitter taste in his mouth. Icy sweat trickled down his spine and he’d really needed to ram his fist through the cold steel plates of the ‘Gate room wall, but he didn’t. He just stood there being ‘The Man.’

Then he’d turned, walked through the blast doors, and climbed the metal stairs past the control room, and beyond to the briefing room on the next level. Within fifteen minutes, he’d assigned team leaders to work the problem. Within thirty, every resource of his new command had been committed to one objective – Save SG-1.

For one hundred hours, waiting as his people worked, Jack went quietly out of his mind. He’d slumped at George’s desk and waited for progress reports, for a reason to hope, for a miracle that didn’t come. When the waiting drove him out of the office, he’d wandered the leafy corridors and watched the geeks (who should have known better) trying to contain an alien plant that they’d allowed to overrun the lab … and then the entire complex. Finally, he’d just stood behind O’Brien in the control room, silent and somber and hoped.

As Jack had waited and watched and worried, Sam screamed. Colonel Sam Carter never screamed, but somewhere out there Ba’al had her screaming, Jack knew, and begging. Begging him, General O’Neill, her CO, to do something, anything to stop the pain.

Jack had known it … he’d known as if he could actually hear her. He’d known because he'd been there, screaming and dying and screaming some more, 'til nothing existed but a bleak hope that the next death would be his last. He’d once begged Daniel to help him die and bitterly cursed him for refusing.

Jack had haunted the control room and remembered. He’d stalked the jungle-choked corridors and labs and relived it. He’d waited and watched and his memories blended with worry and guilt until they burned like the acid Ba’al used with such artistry to burn away flesh and spirit and soul until screaming was all that remained.

Still, Jack had done what he could. This negotiation wasn’t about Camulus, or more precisely not just about Camulus. Jack had recognized it as Ba’al’s deranged prequel to actual flesh-and-blood torture. Knowing exactly how much it captivated Ba’al to push his buttons, Jack had played his game. When Ba’al reinitiated contact, he’d held the Goa’uld’s attention, knowing that every moment he kept the vile son-of-a-bitch sparring was another moment that Ba’al wasn’t taking his dark pleasure with Teal’c, or Daniel, or Sam.

As Jack occupied Ba’al, the entire SGC bent to finding and freeing SG-1. Ba’al lapped it up and came back for more, and Jack dished it up, but eventually, despite everyone’s best efforts, time ran out.

Then, Jack had done the only thing he could. He’d accepted Ba’al’s terms … and made Ba’al believe it. Jack had packed Camulus off to Ba’al, as demanded, but with a booby-trapped ZPM that would blow Ba’al straight to Hell, giving Camulus a fighting chance at saving his greasy skin ... or so Camulus had believed.

It was a two-edged, dual-purpose, double-cross, a thing of beauty and perfect symmetry. Jack had not only duped Camulus into believing that he had been handed a weapon to use against their common foe. He’d also complied with Ba’al’s terms to the letter, but most important, Jack had turned Ba’al’s demands against him. He’d hoped to finally get a lock on SG-1’s location. If he hadn’t been half-crazed with worry, Jack might have taken pride in the elegance of the maneuver.

Instead, with his plans laid, Jack had personally escorted Camulus up the ramp, clapped him on the back and sent him through the newly functional ‘Gate, with a bum ZPM tucked under his arm. He’d watched him leave and he’d smiled grimly, imagining Camulus’ shock when he tried to trigger the ZPM and discovered he’d been double-crossed. He’d be so freakin’ ticked!

Then the ‘Gate had zipped shut and Jack waited for word from SG-3.

He had hoped Ba’al would honor his end of the deal and free SG-1. He’d hoped they would rendezvous with SG-3, as agreed, but he hadn’t expected it. As soon as the geeks got a fix on Ba’al’s location, Jack would initiate Plan B.

Zero hour came and went with no word from SG-3. The soul-killing minutes turned to hours. Jack had known that there’d been no exchange long before SG-3 returned. Finally, SG-3’s signal had come through, the iris was opened, and they’d returned, three hours late and without SG-1.

In the meantime, the geek squad had tracked the bum ZPM through a dozen ‘Gates, before it finally stopped. They’d analyzed the telemetry for any sign of SG-1, while Jack had done his level best not to breathe down their pencil necks. There’d been no signal from SG-1’s GDO, nothing on their emergency channel, no ground chatter on any SG-channel, no trace. Nada.

The only radio transmissions were station-keeping chatter between Goa'uld forces – signals typical of a Goa’uld-occupied planet. Though they’d not necessarily identified where SG-1 was being held, the geeks felt it was the most likely location. Unfortunately, they had definitely identified a strong Jaffa force occupying a heavily armed fortress on the fully weaponized planet.

Jack had put out calls to Thor, to the Tokra, to the Tolans, and to two dozen other possible allies in hopes of gaining intelligence or identifying a friendly force within the region of space. The Asguard were out of contact. The Tokra had no operatives within the region of space. The other worlds were either unable to assist or unwilling, at least not without lengthy negotiations.

So, that was it. Rescue was not an option.

Jack had known it was time to execute Plan B, the only way he could see to help his people … his friends. Plan B was ... unthinkable ... except to Jack, who'd been Ba’al’s guest and had prayed to die just one last time.

With no other option, Jack had done what he could. He’d given a ‘go’ and silently, privately died inside.

O’Brien had dialed the ‘Gate and established the wormhole to Ba’al’s prison planet. Jack had leaned into the mic and personally transmitted a brief warning.

“This is Brigadier General Jack O’Neill of the SGC,” he’d said, “Surrender immediately or face the consequences.”

He’d straightened and stared hard at the closed iris, as all present strained for the reply. There was only the uninterrupted hiss of static.

Ten seconds passed … fifteen … Nothing but static.

Then Jack had given the nod.

The iris had spiraled open and a naquida-enhanced nuke was rammed through the wormhole.

Jack had torn his eyes away. Along with O’Brien and every other person in the control room, he’d turned and watched the illuminated symbol traverse the Gate-system display.

After three or four seconds, the illuminated symbol stopped and blinked.

“General,” O’Brien had said in a hushed voice. “The traveler has completed its journey.”

Jack had closed his eyes for a moment.

“It’s there, Sir,” O’Brien said.

Then Jack had opened his eyes. Avoiding O’Brien’s upturned gaze, he leaned forward to the main consol and pressed the button, sending the signal.

Jack had waited, staring hard at the ‘Gate, leaning with his palms on the control consol, as another moment passed. Every other eye was locked on the display board, until the symbol blinked and then faded out.

“It’s done, General,” O’Brian had reported in a harsh whisper.

At that moment, Jack O’Neill finally, viscerally, grasped the reason for the military’s non-fraternization regulations.

“Close it down,” he’d rasped, still leaning heavily on the consol.

The wormhole had disengaged. Jack had stared into the unblinking gaze of the ‘Gate. Then, his chin dropped to his chest. He stood there, eyes closed, and no one moved.

Finally, with a palpable effort, he’d straightened, turned on his heel, and stalked out the control room, seeking the sanctuary of George’s office. He slid into his chair and began to mechanically shuffle papers that he couldn’t see.

Someone must have put in a call to the Chief Medical Officer. Doctor Grant had appeared in front of his desk a moment after knocking softly on his door. Jack hadn’t replied, but there she stood: prim, somber, quietly concerned, and thoroughly unwelcome. She’d pointed out that the General had been on his feet for more than four days. When Jack did not respond, she’d ordered him off the base for some ‘real downtime,’ as she’d phrased it.

Jack had argued then, pointing to the mountain of top-priority paper that had accumulated during the crisis and the upcoming Presidential visit.

He’d lost.

So, numb and functioning out of habit and simple force of will, he’d showered, dressed in civvies, and stepped into the elevator.

It was time to drive on.

The elevator doors had been sliding shut when the klaxons erupted. Jack exploded out of the elevator and ran down the corridor to the control room, hoping, yet knowing there was no reason to hope.

“It’s SG-1’s code,” O’Brien had declared as Jack burst in. “Sounds like Colonel Carter. She’s asking permission to come through, General.”

“Open the iris,” Jack had snapped, his heart galloping.

“General, it could be Ba’al,” O’Brien had persisted. “Or they might be compromised. They’ve been in enemy hands, Sir. Protocol requires a rendezvous on a neutral planet so we can check them out, first.”

Jack had hesitated, then leaned into the microphone and said, “You’ve been in enemy hands, Carter. Protocol is to meet ….”

“Sir, we’re under fire,” Carter’s tinny voice cut in through the overhead speaker. “The DHD is no longer accessible,” she shouted over the sound of heavy energy weapons fire. “The ‘Gate’s gonna close any second. Bring us home, General, or we’ll be trapped!”

“Jack!” Daniel’s voice cut in, “What’s the hold-up? We haven’t been in enemy hands!”

“Open it,” Jack had barked at O’Brien, “C’mon through SG-1,” he ordered as the iris retracted. Then he leaned into the microphone and barked at the troops in the ‘Gate room, “On your toes.”

The troops below him tensed into defensive positions around the foot of the ramp. The iris twisted revealing an active wormhole and staff weapon charges flashed, bursting against the shatter-proof glass of the control room blast windows.

Then, SG-1 had waltzed through alive, unscathed and completely unaware of Ba’al’s gambit.

It had been a bluff. Somehow Ba’al had learned that SG-1 had been pinned down by Anubis’ forces and took advantage of the opportunity. For his audacious deception, he’d won Camulus and the pleasure of tormenting Jack O’Neill. In return, Jack had given more than Ba’al bargained for … including one helluva naquida-enhanced hotfoot.

Luck had saved SG-1 again.

The team’s renowned good fortune had come through too late, however, to spare their commander.

ΩΩΩ

There’d been hugs all around and a celebratory dinner of beers, shooters, and steaks at McGinty’s. Jack had kept things light, but nursed a single beer. Though Daniel had given him a probing gaze a couple of times and Teal’c had been less chatty than usual, Jack felt sure that he’d pulled it off without a slip.

In the parking lot, he’d hugged Danny and ruffled his hair affectionately, clapped Teal’c’s broad back, and then turned to grasp Sam by both shoulders. Despite his conviction to maintain a pretense of normalcy, Jack had gazed into her eyes, telling her solemnly, “I’m glad you’re back.”

She’d blushed prettily.

Jack had flushed and covered with a brusque, “Good job, Colonel,” as he turned away and crossed the small parking lot before he completely lost his grip.

He’d waved to his subordinates without a backward glance, climbed into his truck and fired the engine. Then he drove straight home and entered his empty house without bothering to switch on the lights.

Jack just locked the door and crossed the moonlit living room to sit on the couch.

Alone in the silent gloom with his elbows on his knees and his fists clasped under his forehead, Jack had faced facts. The three people he loved most in the world would have died by his hand, if Ba’al’s maneuver had not been a bluff. If Ba’al hadn’t been lying, if that sadistic bastard actually had captured SG-1, Teal’c, Daniel, and Sam would be dead now ... or praying to die.

And he’d be alive and responsible.

The regulations he’d chaffed under for nine years were not, Jack finally understood, about favoritism, or decorum, or even about the dangers of unequal power that an unscrupulous commander might use to victimize his subordinates.

All of those were valid reasons. Yet, each could be reasoned away and Jack had done exactly that, so many times through the years. In the dark, when sleep eluded him, he’d stared at the ceiling and wondered if he should distance himself professionally from Samantha Carter.

Jack had wondered …a lot … but he hadn’t done it. Instead, he’d told himself that they’d done nothing wrong, and believed it. They’d ‘kept it in the room.’ They’d followed the regulations to the letter, if not to the spirit. It had been tough, but it had been enough. It had to be. His only other choice was reassignment for himself or for Sam. Jack considered it, sometimes on an hourly basis, but he didn’t do it.

In the end, Jack had convinced himself that Sam was where she had to be. She was a Colonel in the United States Air Force, the world’s foremost expert on ‘Gate technology, the leading scientist on wormhole physics, a national treasure, and the nation needed her right where she was … at SGC on the frontline of the battle for the future of Earth and so many other worlds.

He, too, had to be there, he told himself. He had to watch her back, get her home, and every now and then to serve as a portable hard drive for downloading Ancient data or a punching bag for some Goa’uld with a God-complex. If that meant he also got to work with her, see her for coffee and at briefings, and now and then spend time on weekends or evenings, always as her CO, of course, and always in the company of others … ‘Well, what,’ he’d demanded of his restless conscience, ‘is the harm?’

Looking into Ba’al’s black, soulless eyes, Jack O’Neill had his answer – CFB. In a flash of terrible clarity, he understood the cost to Sam and Daniel and Teal’c … and to him.

Detachment, objectivity, and professional distance were not, in the end, about protecting the troops. Nonfraternization regulations protected those oh-too-fallible people, flawed mortals like Jonathan ‘Jack’ O’Neill, who in times of crisis ordered other, better men and women to die … or worse … and then somehow had to find a way to live with it.

Sitting in the dark, Jack saw their future. Some day it would happen. His friends would need him and he wouldn’t be there to stop it ... or share it ... or die first ... or die in their place …

He’d be the son-of-a-bitch that sent them out there – again and again – until some day they didn’t come back – because now he was ‘The Man.’

Being ‘The Man’ sucked.

Sitting on his own couch, safe in the moonlit living room, Jack didn’t get drunk. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t even find a pretext to handle his 9 mm, just to feel the cold, reassuring weight in his hand. He just sat with his hands gripped between his knees looking for one goddamned reason to go on.

ΩΩΩ

Jack had gone to the base the next day. He’d thrown Jameson out of his office, told the CMO to back off, and finished his letter of resignation to George Hammond – a letter he’d been writing while everything on base went to hell in a hand basket. He’d been tempted to finish it as originally intended. Instead he’d closed with a light hearted ‘Never mind’, and sent it off to George at the Pentagon. He’d meant everything he’d confessed in that letter and George Hammond, long-suffering old gentleman that he was, deserved to read it.

After a night of soul-searching, Jack had known he was stuck. By the time SG-1 was back and everything else at the SGC was operating normally, the White House mole had given him an official okey–dokey. The President was on his way. It was too late to toss in the towel. He’d have to wait a reasonable interval before he actually resigned. That was only right. And so, later that week the President of the United States had finally, officially, put General Jack O’Neill in charge of the SGC. Jack didn’t want it. He dreaded it, but he owed it to George, to the President, and to the people under his command to hang on just a little longer.

That had been six months ago. Jack had done his duty, dreading days he sent SG-1 off-world. He’d handled dozens of emergencies in those 180 days, got fat flying a desk, lost sleep, grew ill-tempered, and his hair had gone nearly white. Most days were bearable, however, because soon he’d ask to be relieved.

Twelve days ago, a bright May morning, had been The Day. There were no crises, at the moment, no ongoing negotiations for survival of Earth or some other planet, none of the Teams were missing, stranded, or under fire. There was nothing on-tap that he couldn’t in good conscience pass off to the next sorry son-of-a-bitch that the President tagged to be The Man.

Jack had walked into his office with an intense case of butterflies. It felt like the first day of school … or the last. He’d ordered Walter to clear his calendar for the rest of the week and firmly closed his office door against inconvenient questions. Then he sat at the desk he’d never accepted as his own, took a deep breath to steady himself, and lifted the handset of the red phone.

There was no need to dial. That phone only connected to one place. The White House operator’s voice greeted him as he lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Yes, General O’Neill?” she said.

“Is President Hayes available?” Jack asked.

“One moment, please,” the operator replied.

The next voice was the President’s twang.

“Jaaack,” came the jovial drawl, “what’s going on? Something at Atlantis I should know about? Or has there been a new development with the Goa’uld?”

“Mr. President,” Jack said softly, “everything is fine here … five by five, Sir. No problems of any sort. That’s why I think it’s time to request …”

Jack’s voice cracked as his throat tightened. He coughed, paused and tried again, “Sir, I’m no longer fit for command of the SGC. I’d appreciate … I need to be relieved, as soon as possible, Mr. President.”

There was a long silence as the man on the other end of the line took in Jack’s unexpected statement and considered the implications.

“I see,” President Hayes finally said. “Does George know?”

“No one else knows, Mr. President,” Jack replied. “I thought you might prefer to ask for my resignation. You could say …”

“Retirement,” the President interrupted, “I’ll say you are retiring. There will be no politics on this, General. You’ve come to the end of your rope. Well, I’m not surprised. It is nothing to be ashamed of General O’Neill, particularly with your extraordinary record of service.”

Jack couldn’t think of a reply, so he studied his clenched left hand and said nothing.

“General O’Neill,” the President finally continued, “you have done more than any commander could ask, for your country and for this Administration. Thank you. And you accomplished much more, my friend. Almost single-handedly you brought humanity face-to-face with a brave new truth –We are not alone! You led us through the first stormy decade as we explored that sobering reality. You represented us with honor and compassion to a Universe of potential friends. You led with courage, strength, and at great personal cost to oppose awesome enemies and to resist seemingly insurmountable evil. You helped us face our deepest fears and you showed us how to be better than we thought we could be. You did all that, Jack!”

Jack stared at his knuckles, embarrassed by the lavish praise of his Commander and Chief, waiting for the President to wind down.

“Now, you tell me it’s time to pass the burden on to a new generation of warriors. I’m sorry to hear that. You will be sorely missed, General O’Neill, but every serviceman knows that no man is irreplaceable. So, we’ll take it from here, Jack. I want to offer you my personal thanks, my friend, as well as the gratitude of a Nation and a world that may never know the full details of your service or the true depths of your sacrifice. I guess maybe you’ll only know that, my friend … you and George Hammond.”

Then after another long silence Hayes sighed and continued in a no-nonsense tone, “Expect orders within a few hours. Now I’ve got to get busy trying to find a man with a chance of filling your very sizeable shoes. God bless and good luck.”

Jack managed to answer, “Thank you, Mr. President,” before the line went dead. He sat for a long moment holding the receiver and listening to the electronic buzz. Then he dropped his chin to his chest, sighed deeply, and smiled.

That moment, as he returned the receiver to its cradle, was pure, undiluted relief. He’d done what he’d done for his country. Good or bad, it was over. It was time to put duty, and honor, and nonfraternization regulations behind him.

Finally.

Jack’s orders came through that afternoon. The next day, he removed a few personal articles from his walls and desk, letting Walter deal with the rest. He called the troops together, made a brief statement, thanked his command, and was officially relieved. The entire process took less than a day. That afternoon Jack left the SGC without further fanfare, leaving General Hank Landry to deal with the emotional fallout of his abrupt departure.


SG-1 had been off-world at the time, on a routine archeological investigation of some Ancient ruins. They hadn’t been scheduled to return for several days. Jack knew SG-1 still had a week of off-world exploration on the schedule – he’d planned their rotation himself in order to have time to get his balance before facing Sam.

But … Someone had placed a long-distance call. Someone must have, because Daniel was at his door less than twelve hours after Jack left the SGC. Teal’c and Sam appeared exactly fifteen minutes later, another sign that this was part of a hastily planned operation.

Jack guessed that Sam sent Daniel in first on recon, in case Jack was naked, roaring-drunk or shagging a hooker … or all three. Having received no wave off from Danny, reinforcements arrived before Jack had time to politely shove Daniel back out the door. Sam’s hair was still damp, curling wildly at the nape of her neck. So, he guesstimated, they’d stepped through the ‘Gate less than a half hour earlier.

All three offered lame congratulations, unable to conceal their alarm and confusion. No one asked him to explain his sudden resignation. Still, Jack told them the truth, at least as much as he felt they needed to know. He was tired, he said. He didn’t like being ‘The Man.’ He didn’t like having a desk. It was time to drive on.

At that, Daniel exploded off his perch on the edge of Jack’s couch cushions. He paced and fumed and demanded to know why Jack had done this behind their backs. He was pissed and he pushed Jack, hard, probably hoping to piss him off too. Probably trying to get him to spill his guts. Jack knew that ploy and he sidestepped it, refusing to rise to Danny’s jibes, playing the role of tolerant big brother to Danny’s distraught outbursts. As Daniel ranted, Jack just kept handing him cold brews, knowing Danny would wind down fast when the alcohol hit. Daniel was so agitated that it took most of a case of Sam Adams. Jack doubted that Daniel even tasted it.

Teal’c, on the other hand, held his peace. The big guy observed from the lazy-boy recliner and shifted ever-so-slightly when Jack wouldn’t rise to Danny’s bait. Jack had a notion that the former First Prime knew exactly why he’d pulled the plug and maybe even approved. Maybe.

Sam, however, clearly did not approve. Unlike Danny, she didn’t push it. Unlike Teal’c, however, she sat on Jack’s couch with her hands clasped on her lap and a fixed smile on her lips – the epitome of the perfect military professional. She was polite and supportive, and very, very proper all evening, expressing her best wishes, repeatedly refusing a second beer, and asking Jack his plans for the future … exactly once. The taut look around her eyes, however, warned Jack that now was not the perfect moment to explain his real plans. Definitely.

So, Jack improvised. He spun some bull-hockey about the cabin needing a new roof, a long-delayed trip to see an old buddy in New Zealand … fishing. That polite, brittle look on Sam’s face grew tighter, until he feared her beer bottle might shatter.

After Jack and Daniel demolished the entire stock of beer and put a large dent in a previously unopened quart of whisky, Sam set aside the warm beer she’d gripped all evening and announced that she had an early morning meeting. She stood to leave. Jack rose, too, thinking to walk her outside and have a private word. Unfortunately, Teal’c stood, as well, and offered to drive Danny home.

Jack turned in time to see Daniel stand and then tip dangerously toward the fireplace. Jack snagged him under his arms and wheeled him through the living room, following Sam through the front door.

Jack loaded him into the Jaffa’s SUV. The younger man’s joints were like silly putty and getting him up into Teal’c’s El Dorado wasn’t easy, particularly since Jack had matched Daniel drink for drink toward the end of the difficult evening.

By the time Danny was safely buckled into his seatbelt and Jack slammed the truck door, Sam was backing out into the street in front of Jack’s house. He turned and watched as she pulled onto the parkway. She beeped her horn once and was gone.


Jack spent the rest of the night star-gazing, waiting for the booze to leave his system and wondering how to make things right in the coming days. He finally turned in at sunrise and woke late in the afternoon with a brutal hang-over.

That tense, uncomfortable, evening, Jack later realized, was the end of the beginning.

ΩΩΩ

President Hayes assigned Jack to serve as senior advisor on off-world technology at Area 52, while his paperwork traveled through channels. It would be interesting work, but far from demanding. There would be no life-and-death decisions, no off world emergencies, just an office with a view, a door, and a phone that rarely rang. The President had taken pains to place Jack where he’d have a minimum of stress, probably figuring his nerves were shot. Jack didn’t argued the point.

Jack couldn’t help but notice that it was also a handy place for Sam to drop by on any number of ongoing research projects, if she chose. President Hayes didn’t miss much. Either that or George had called in a favor.

Within the week, Jack sold his house, dropped by Colorado Springs for an awkward farewell to Sara and her father, Mike, and a visit to Charlie’s grave.

On a whim, he drove across town and cruised by Sam’s for a private chat, but her car was not in front of her bungalow. Jack slowed, but didn’t stop. What was the point?

Instead, he drove on.

ΩΩΩ

Jack took the long way to his next posting. He drove to Minnesota, checked on the cabin and fixed a hole in the porch roof where a spring storm had dropped a large tree limb. It took the better part of a week to clear the debris, tear off the damaged roofing and the section of hand-hewn beam which had buckled slightly and to replace it with a newly fashioned section, scavenged from the pile of seasoned lengths of white oak waiting to be cut and split into cord wood..

Jack worked at it every day from early morning until twilight. He was tired and sore from the sudden physical effort, but it was easier than sitting and drinking too much … or thinking too much.

Finally, late on the sixth day, he pounded the last nail into the last cedar shake, scrambled down the ladder, stowed his tools in the truck, showered and changed. Jack wandered out of his tiny bedroom, barefoot and wearing a pair of threadbare sweats, scratching at a week’s stubble. He crossed the bare, but ever-tidy, living room toying with the idea of calling Sam to invite her up. He needed to talk to her … to clear the air … to explain … to try to explain.

Jack flopped on the couch and reached for his cell phone, where he’d dropped it along with his truck keys, wallet, and military id on the battered table beside the couch.

As he picked the phone up, it vibrated.

“Carter?” Jack said slumping back into the couch cushions with a grin on his face.

“Jack?”

It was Daniel calling to check up on him. Danny always checked in, especially if Jack disappeared suddenly for a trip alone to the cabin, particularly this time of year – the end of the school year – the time of year when Charlie had died.

“Hey,” Jack replied, swinging his bare feet up onto the couch cushions and letting his head flop back. “What’s up?”

There was a long pause and Jack groaned softly.

‘Shiiiit,’ he thought. Daniel had not yet forgiven him for getting him blind drunk … on purpose … or for lying to him … or for obviously trying to sneak away after personally assigning SG-1 to a week of off-world archeological surveys and then resigning as soon as they were off-world. This was not going to be an easy conversation.

“Nothing,” Daniel finally replied. A significantly longer pause followed.

“You called me,” Jack sighed, when Daniel didn’t elaborate.

Another lengthy pause followed.

Jack let his eyes close. He’d been working on the roof for six long days. He’d barely slept in the six months as CO of SGC. Before that … he couldn’t remember. His shoulders ached. He was beat. He was sore. He really did not need this shit.

“You … called … me, Daniel,” he repeated at a lower register. “Why?”

“Just checking in,” Daniel replied.

“Thanks,” Jack said and continued quickly before his pride stopped him, “I owe you an apology, Danny. How’s your head?”

“It’s been over a week,” Daniel replied.

“I don’t mean the hangover,” Jack pressed … gently … “You okay?”

There was another long silence and Jack felt his heart start to race. This part of breaking away had not been something he’d come to grips with … in fact he’d run away rather than talk about it.

When would he see Daniel again?

How would he keep up with him and Teal’c?

Would he even try?

Of course he’d try.

“Shit,” he growled into the phone. “I’m an asshole, Daniel, but give me a break anyway, will you?”

“Why?” Daniel replied.

“Why?” Jack’s eyes snapped open. “Because … we are friends?”

“No,” Daniel countered, “Why’d you dump out on us like you did, Jack? What could be so …”

Jack interrupted, “Come out.”

“Can’t,” Daniel replied.

“Could,” Jack said.

“Can’t.”

“C’mon,” Jack wheedled. “It’s beautiful up here this time of year. I got the roof all fixed. I was gonna head out tomorrow, but I can hang out here a while longer. We’ll fish.”

“Can’t.”

“Could.”

“Really,” Daniel replied, “I can’t, Jack. Not this week … or the next. There’s this whole thing with … Mitchell. Breaking him in … you know.”

“’Kay,” Jack grumped, “be that way.”

At least the tension had gone out of the atmosphere.

Life was going on. They were all busy. Teal’c had headed back to Chulak for a visit and to see his first grandkid, a healthy little girl. Sam was buried at SGC. In fact, Daniel said, she had several complex projects underway. Daniel had finally got around to cataloging his rocks and bits of broken crap from the last year’s missions.

They talked until Jack’s cell battery was blinking rapidly, indicating it was about to die. Daniel signed off, after extracting a solemn promise from Jack to explain himself when next they met.

After hanging up, Jack plugged in the cell phone’s power cord. Then he pulled on a torn sweatshirt, grabbed a longneck beer out of the fridge and flopped back on the couch. His contented glow was shattered, obliterated by Danny’s report on things at the SGC. Life was going on without him.

So, thoroughly out-of-sorts, Jack didn’t bother to call Sam. She’d be at the base, probably sleeping there, too, if he knew Sam Carter. He wouldn’t risk awkward rumors by placing a call through the Mountain switchboard.

Instead, Jack polished off the beer, pushed himself off the couch and took a six-pack of longnecks from the fridge. He slipped his bare feet into an ancient pair of leather moccasins and then wandered down to the dock, settled against one of the posts and steadily worked his way through the six-pack as he watched night fall. He emptied the fourth, fifth and final beer as he gazed into the unadulterated night sky. It was breathtaking and strangely comforting.

Strangely because Jack knew there was still danger out there, maybe there always would be: Danger and death and pain and war. Enemies they hadn’t even met yet. It was Mitchell’s problem now … and Daniel’s and Teal’c’s and Sam’s. He was out of it.

Jack had always loved stargazing, particularly the view from this old dock with the spangled night sky flanked by dense pine forest. Tonight he set aside the battles and just savored the view, remembering the summer when his grandfather had built the dock. Jack’s obsession with the stars had started that summer. He’d been eight years old. He’d spent almost every night of that hot, endless summer stretched on fresh-cut planks, breathing in the scent of pine pitch and watching for Northern lights, falling stars, planets, and Sputnik 4 and 5.

Jack stared into the night sky and, by the final beer, remembered the missions, mistakes, lucky breaks, and the people. Finally he drifted off.

At dawn Jack woke and stretched. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Every muscle was tight and his joints popped painfully. His head was fuzzy from too many beers. He stripped off his dew-dampened sweats and t-shirt and threw himself into the icy water. After surfacing with a gasp, he swam slowly across the fishless pond and back to the dock, and dragged himself out of the water. His head was clearer as he minced barefoot up the path, dripping and naked, to take a long hot shower. Then, without pausing for breakfast, he dressed, stuffed the rest of his gear in the truck, emptied and unplugged the fridge, tossed a bag of kitchen trash into the back of his pickup, turned off the power at the main breaker box, jumped into the truck, fired her up and headed west.

It was spring in the northern Midwest. Water birds were migrating. Their calls filled the air. Jack drove narrow dirt roads at a leisurely pace with his windows down, enjoying the clean, cold wind in his face and the raucous music of thousands of unseen calling geese. Forest flanked him on both sides. Tree branches touched overhead, blocking the sunlight, creating a dappling of light and dark on the road.

Forty miles later, the road turned sharply to the left, climbed up and over a steep and utilitarian railroad crossing. Then it turned sharply again, this time to the right. The forest fell away. Jack was on a worn macadam highway now. He could see file after file of waterfowl in the midmorning sky. Their cries sounded like chiming church bells. Jack left his window down to listen, but finally as his speed picked up on the blacktop road, he grew too chilly. Reluctantly he rolled up his window and the calls were muted.

Jack knew the roads so well that he didn’t refer to a map. He’d traveled from the cabin to western postings many times during his first years in the military: Nellis, Ellsworth, Tulsa, Whitman, and so many others, including Cheyenne Mountain. This was just one more.

He drove steadily for a couple of hours. Then, on an impulse, he pulled over at a crossroad’s gas station, stopped the truck beside a roadside payphone and fished change out of his pocket as he climbed out of the truck. He leaned into the booth, lifted the receiver and dialed Sam’s number without letting himself reflect. She didn’t pick up, of course. It was the middle of a week day. She’d be on base. Besides, she was rarely home anyway.

Jack dropped in the correct change when he heard her voice mail message and, leaning against the bumper of his truck, he left a short message, telling her he was okay, he was headed west and, before he could over-think it, that they needed to talk. Soon.

Then, feeling foolishly pleased, Jack climbed back into the cab, backed the truck up to the gas pumps, topped off his tank, and went inside to pay his respects to his old friend behind the counter.

Jack used the john, bought a bag of homemade donut-holes and a large cup of coffee and, with a wave out the window to the proprietress, got back on the road.

On his way through Fargo that afternoon, on another impulse, he pulled over at a used car lot. In the back, behind a series of dust-covered sedans, Jack had caught sight of a small johnboat on a trailer. He parked the truck, climbed out and begged the use of the men’s room. Then he walked around the trailer, giving the boat a thorough once-over. The oily salesman had hovered within earshot, recognizing a willing, knowledgeable customer and letting Jack take his time.

Jack fired up the Evenrude engine. It turned over after three pulls. He turned it off and examined it’s mud-flecked trailer and, in particular, the trailer tires.

When Jack had satisfied himself on the condition of the battered boat, the man was at his elbow, stating the price, and singing the praises of the former owner, who had been a dyed-in-the-wool obsessive compulsive about engine maintenance. Jack nodded, he knew the drill.

Jack haggled half-heartedly. The salesman could see he was hooked. Still, he dropped the asking price fifty bucks to let Jack save face. So, Jack thumbed out cash, found he was carrying seventy-five bucks less than he needed, and the salesman called him a robber and let the boat go cheaper, since Jack was paying cash.

What Uncle Sam didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them. Jack hooked up the trailer to the pickup’s hitch, connected the wires, kicked the tires and inflated one a bit more, planning to keep an eye on it for the rest of the trip. Then he checked the lights. No need to pay a ticket for a broken trailer light. Everything checked out. He checked the tire pressure again. It was holding. He got back on the road, whistling softly to himself.

Jack was delighted with the boat. He’d got a great price on it. He would use it to chase fish in the massive, sterile reservoirs scattered across the vast arid landscape of the West. He’d packed his favorite rod and reel and was eager for that part of retirement. The purchase lifted his mood and he drove through the night and arrived at his new base late in the following morning.

Before reporting, Jack parked the boat at the nearest lake. He rented a slip and then drove to base, reported in and found his way to in the Bachelor’s Quarters. He unpacked his meager belongings (most of his stuff was in storage, since he didn’t plan to make Area 52 his home), tossed the kitchen trash from the cabin in the nearest trash can, and hit the sack. Late in the day he woke, showered, and went for a slow run along the chain link fence that marked the inner perimeter of the base. It was at least ten miles and Jack was footsore and limping by the time he reached his quarters. He popped a couple of pain pills, showered again, and turned in early. The next morning, he reported for duty.

Jack was at his new post less than two days when Daniel phoned again. They chatted and Jack was relieved that Danny didn’t press for an explanation for his retirement. Even so, before the call ended, Jack agreed to a Team rendezvous before the end of the month.

Daniel would wait to talk in person, he knew, but not a moment longer. Jack hated the prospect of trying to explain, but he owed Daniel the truth. He’d find a way to make him understand … somehow.

That weekend, Jack explored the mountains around Area 52. He was still stiff and tired, but he was eager to get his bearings and even more eager to find a private place where he and Sam could talk.

Jack took it slow, methodically checking all areas close enough for a weekend junket that promised scenery and solitude. Jack had to get this right. Considering Danny’s reaction, he was certain now that he’d hurt Sam with his sudden decision to retire. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d seen that look on her face. He was the cause.

He’d first seen that tight, drawn look in her eyes when he’d returned from his mission to the dark-side to expose Harry Mayborne’s off-world black-ops organization; it had been there when Sam witnessed his farewell to Laira after three months of being cut-off from Earth.

Worse, that afternoon when Sam had suddenly materialized in his backyard, babbling something incomprehensible that made him want to drop his barbeque tongs and silence her with a kiss. That had been the worst. One moment she was flushed pink and earnestly stumbling over her words, the next moment Kerry Johnson had appeared with the tossed salad.

Sam had looked from Kerry to Jack. Then she’d paled and blushed and the look had appeared. As she started to back away, mortified, hurt, her cell rang and she got word that Jacob was ill. She’d fled.

Jack had followed, of course. He was her CO. He had a right to be there with her, a duty. Even on base. He’d let himself hold her as Jacob had faded. He’d told her he would always be there: Always. She’d understood. Hadn’t she? He’d believed she had, at the time, but now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.

That same tense, haunted look had been there all through the last evening he’d spent with her, a night when he should have told Danny and Teal’c and Sam how much they meant to him, how he cared too much to be the man to put them in harm’s way, if he couldn’t be there to share it.

Instead he’d bull-shitted them.

Teal’c had known. He’d probably accepted it for what it was: Another demonstration of Jack’s inability to share his emotions and deal with loss and love like an adult.

Daniel had rebelled. He’d gotten falling-down drunk with a lot of encouragement from Jack.

… Not Sam.

Sam had grown more pale and pained, until finally she set aside her half-finished beer and invented an early morning meeting as an excuse to slip away. She’d done it before he could find a way to set things right. She might have done it, knowing he’d never find a way to set things right.

That look worried Jack. He told himself it meant that Sam still cared. She’d waited for him, just as he had for her. She wanted him. She’d forgiven him for Kerry, and Laira, and Maybourne (well and that was so different), she’d forgive him for this too, he told himself.

She had to.

Still …

Sam hadn’t returned his call.

Then, sixteen hours ago, the CO of Area 52 called Jack to his office and handed him freshly cut orders.

Irritated, Jack scanned the military flimsey, thinking that President Hayes or George Hammond had just scuttled his plans for the weekend. What he read there brought him suddenly, sharply back to Earth.

The Air Force still owned his butt.

The Air Force, it seemed, was not quite done with him.

ΩΩΩ

Jack made a rushed call to Daniel, got his voice mail and told him he’d have to cancel his plans to tour the native petroglyphs. Jack told Daniel to remind Sam to put her research project at Area 52 on the back-burner.

So, life had gone on at SGC without Jack O’Neill.

ΩΩΩ

Jack leaned his head against the airplane window with his eyes closed. Tonight, the Team was probably off world, maybe a million light years away, led by Mitchell, and Jack was on a shabby airliner headed east, unable to even see the stars.

Jack opened his eyes, looked into unrelieved black, and cursed softly, “Crud.” Sleep wouldn’t come.

He stood and clambered into the aisle, leaning low under the overhead compartments. His knees creaked painfully from five hours spent jammed into standard airline seating.

Jack straightened his uniform tie, tightening the knot against his throat. Then he moved toward the lavatory in the back of the plane. Two dozen pairs of eyes followed him. He could feel them judging his age and physical condition. Two dozen strangers wondered about his potential as a warrior.

As blood flow returned to his right leg, causing pins and needles that would have made a lesser man wince, Jack took pains not to limp. It didn’t pay to show weakness before a plane load of mercenaries.

It didn’t pay to show weakness before his new command.


Chapter 2

The aged Northwest airliner screamed as it dropped, rapidly losing altitude in a short, steep glide into Antalia airport. Just as Jack drifted into a light sleep, the wheels touched the tarmac. The plane taxied heavily across the runway and the pilot cut the engines. No one moved to disembark. The plane had stopped beside a waiting fuel truck. The greasy stench of JP-8 seeped into the interior air circulation system. Jack drifted between awareness and sleep as a series of thumps and grinding sounds told him that the refueling was underway. Jack rubbed his nose.

In less than four minutes the jet engines fired again. The plane rolled forward slowly, turned sharply, and then the scream of the engines rose a notch and intensified, filling the cabin. Jack was pressed back into his lumpy seat as the flight rumbled down the runway.

Jack opened his eyes in time to see the lights of Antalia flash past. He felt the plane lift and turn east. The landscape sped past, shrinking swiftly away beneath him. In the thin gray light, Jack recognized Kas crouched in the fading night, the Mediterranean kissing her skirts. The plane gained altitude and dawn came, spilling color across the blue-black waters.

ΩΩΩ

Jack wiped wind-blown grit from his eyes. He coughed, spit into the dust, straightened and observed as his men disembarked from the pair of battered military busses that had transported them the two miles from the dirt landing strip to the assembly area before the rusting metal Quonset huts at his back.

‘These men are just kids, really,’ he saw. The demands of the SGC meant that even new recruits had proven themselves in the military, which placed the average age of his prior command well above that of the military in general.

Even so, the kids were fit. They looked dangerous and eager as hell. Shaved heads or tight crew cuts were the look of the day, and muscles: Lots and lots of lean, hard muscles.

‘A few of these kids would even make Teal’c feel old,’ Jack mused, running his practiced eye over the band of soldiers.

Every man moved with an economy of motion that indicated he knew how to handle himself. Jack had no doubt it was true. On a mission of this import he’d have the best that the CIA and god-knows-who-else could offer. Three of the twenty-six guys were pale, indicating recent recoveries from injuries. He’d watch them closely for problems. The others were a burnished brown, some darker, others redder, depending on race and lineage. Every man sported an advanced growth of facial hair. They wore a grab-bag of tunics, vests, hand-stitched boots, and leggings or loose trousers.

Jack stroked his own short growth of stubble. After a week at the cabin, he’d have been a lot farther along on a real beard, if someone had warned him that this assignment was coming. But, of course, he’d shaved before reporting for duty at Area 52. It felt odd wearing native dress and a nascent beard on a military base, but it wasn’t the first time. Besides, orders are orders.

“Form up,” he said a shade louder than conversation. Silence fell instantly and the men turned into two parallel lines, facing him. The precision of it belied their scruffy gear and makeshift native clothing. These boys were warriors, the product of top-drawer US military training.

“I’ve reviewed your files,” he began. “I’m satisfied we’ve got the talent and fire power required for this mission, and then some. My file’s classified, but I can tell you that I’ve been here before. I was chosen for my contacts in those mountains.”

He turned and glanced over his shoulder to mountain peaks that reared into the morning sky from behind the rusted huts.

“And,” he continued turning back to face the men, “I can say that I’ve got a track record of getting the job done … and getting my people home.”

A less than audible reaction rippled through the assembled men. Jack waited until it passed before he concluded.

“I’ve been where you’ve been, boys. I’ve been where we’re going. I’ve been places you have never dreamed of … not in your worst nightmares.”

He waited a moment for that to sink in and said, “Questions?”

There were none. Jack nodded at a mountain of burnished muscle to his right who had the bearing, if not the insignia, of a Master Sergeant.

“Saddle up!” the man barked.

Jack turned toward the sound of approaching choppers that would take them on the last leg of their insertion. Then he turned away, shielding his eyes as two huge choppers settled amid clouds of roiling yellow dust ten yards away, and missing his nonregulation cap. Somehow a red woolen turban just was not the same.

ΩΩΩ

The mountains were the same. Trees and steep rocky slopes sped by as the massive Jolly Green maneuvered between the snow-topped peaks. It was a harsh terrain, dominated by soaring crags and unfathomable crevasses, impossible to control by military forces, as the Kurds had demonstrated since they were first betrayed in 1920.

Jack had come to these mountains within five months of completing his third tour in Vietnam. Having distinguished himself as a 1st Lieutenant and receiving several promotions, ending with a field commission to Captain, Jack O’Neill had been sent stateside where he spent four grueling months in special ops training somewhere in the wilds of Louisiana.

He’d survived and, as a brand-spanking-new SF, had been attached to a newly formed force. Later they would be dubbed ‘Military Advisors,’ but in the first months of its existence, Jack’s unit was just called SF-3. His commander, Major Frank Cromwell, had been tasked to ‘establish communications’ with tribesmen in the Kurdish homeland, a wild area where the borders of Iran, Iraq, Turkey, Syria, and the USSR, meet in mountains too rugged for outside interests to enforce their national claims to lines on a map.

The clean, cutting cold of the mountains had been a welcome change for the 23-year old Minnesotan, after 120 days of Louisiana mud, leeches, and toe fungus, following hard upon three years of monsoons, hunting Charlie, and jungle rot. The hard bright terrain made his blood rise. The prospect of working with the Kurds, a people who’d fought continuously for more than fifty years, appealed to a young warrior’s heart.

He’d done a tough job in these mountains. Now Jack watched that same hard bright landscape fly by and remembered.

In 1972, the Baath Party of Iraq nationalized Iraq’s oil, a maneuver that angered the United States, as it watched Iraqi oil once again becoming a destabilizing force in an unstable region. The Baath, although arrived to power in Iraq twice with CIA support, had outmaneuvered the State Department and nationalized the very oil that the US was trying to keep open to Free Market forces. The State Department responded in 1973 by sending covert support to the Kurds by way of Iran. This was intended to pressure the Baath government to shift its stance from a pro-Soviet orientation back toward the West.

Jack had been part of that covert force. Cromwell had organized local strategy. He'd overcome historic rivalry and mistrust among the Kurdish factions, assessed the influence of the USSR on Kurdish sympathies and, wherever possible, done some real harm to those groups, foreign and Kurdish, opposed to US interests in the middle-east.

Cromwell had been joined by a group of Bahdeni Kurds. The Bahdeni occupied the mountainous northern reaches of Kurdistan and were distinguished from their lowland cousins by red turbans and dialect. In a week, the grizzled Bahdeni elders had taught Jack more than the Air Force’s top-flight program had in four months. Within a year, the tribesmen had accepted him as a brother.

Cromwell led scores of raids against the Iraqi military and also intercepted dispatches and couriers from the Soviets, providing valuable intelligence to Washington.

Jack was an integral part of all that. Besides following orders, he showed keen initiative. He quickly acquired the language, learned the lay of the land, and became friends with young warriors of his own age and relative station. One man in particular had befriended Jack, Masood, son of Mullah Mustafa of Barzan. The old Mulla, heralded as a champion of Kurdish independence, had been in his glorious prime when Jack had met and become friends with his eldest son.

Soon Cromwell entrusted the hard-charging young flyboy to lead missions, accompanied by three or four Bahdeni fighters. Under Bahdeni tutelage, Jack learned to use the terrain to advantage, to improvise, and to avoid unnecessary contact, unless the enemy was perfectly placed for killing. He built a reputation as a deadly marksman able to take out a target and melt away. Pleased by high enemy losses at minimal costs, Cromwell tossed more missions Jack’s way.

Then negotiations began on what would become the Algiers Accord, an agreement between the Shah of Iran and Saddam Hussein, who was at the time vice-president of Iraq. US policy-makers saw the writing on the wall. State Department pundits shifted national policy accordingly.

On March 6, 1975, during a summit conference of OPEC, the Algiers Accord was signed and the parties agreed to delimit their river boundaries ‘according to the Thawleg line’ and ‘to end all infiltration of a subversive nature.’ The Iran-Iraq Treaty of International Boundaries and Good Neighborliness, incorporating the Algiers Accord, was signed in Baghdad on June 17, 1975 and ratified by both parties on September 17, 1975.

The agreement meant an end to Iranian assistance to the Kurds and cut off US support within the region, as well. SF-3 received orders and pulled out, along with all other US advisors in the region.

Almost immediately, Iraqi forces launched an offensive. Despite heavy resistance, Sadam Hussein’s forces quickly overran the Kurdish army, the Pesh Merga, which crumbled without Iranian and US support. About 70 percent of the Pesh Merga surrendered to the Iraqis, under an amnesty plan. Another 30,000 crossed the border to Iran to join the civilian refugees, estimated at between 100,000 and 200,000 men, women, and children rendered homeless by the change in US and Iranian policy.

A few Pesh Merga and local warlords remained in the Kurdistan hills and kept fighting.

Jack never forgot those comrades he’d left behind. They called themselves the ‘orphans of the centuries’ and ‘the people who have no friends, but the mountains.’ Leaving the Mulla and Masood to carry on alone had been a particularly difficult parting for Jack.

The old man came to the US five years later, leaving his beloved mountains forever. Mustafa Barzan, the warrior had become the religious and political leader of the Bahdeni. The old man died of cancer at Georgetown University, in Washington, DC. His son was with him at the end.

Jack was on assignment in the Far East at the time. He didn’t get word in time to meet with Masood and, though he hated to admit it, he was glad that he hadn’t been obliged to look his old comrade in arms in the eye at some gleaming hotel lobby or posh DC restaurant.

Ten or so years ago, Mullah Mustafa’s body had been moved to the old man’s birth place in the village Barzan. A million people trekked into those impenetrable mountains in a mass memorial. Not a bad show of force for a friendless people.

Just back from Abydos, separated from Sara, and retired from service for the second time, Jack O’Neill had no excuse. He booked a commercial flight to Turkey and then pulled a few strings among shadowy contacts on the border who owed him for past favors. He was one of those million who paid their respects to the tough, savvy old Kurdish nationalist who’d led the ‘orphans of centuries’ to a legitimate place in world politics.

ΩΩΩ

“Five minutes out!” the call came, breaking into Jack’s thoughts of other missions and early times.

He turned away from the window and leaned back into the main compartment, raised his hand, fingers splayed and shouted “Five Minutes!”

The Sergeant Major lifted his hand in response and turned to the men, shouting for them to get ready.

Jack didn’t expect trouble.

The Kurds were enjoying a period of peace and prosperity unlike any they’d known for fifty years. The US invasion to the south had pulled the Iraqi military out of the Kurdish homeland, even as it drove wealthy Iraqis north into Mosul, and other northern cities, to escape the danger and destruction of war.

Jack didn’t expect trouble. He’d learned to be prepared in these mountains for anything.

Besides, his mission was to run down rumors of Trust activity in the area. With the newly overrun oil fields of Mosul under Kurd control and the sudden influx of strangers and wealth into that city, the area seemed ripe for the Trust to gain a foothold. Given the strategic location of the region, the Pentagon wanted boots and eyes on the ground to assess the situation -- his boots, his eyes.

Jack had been thoroughly briefed at Area 52. The Bahdeni Kurds, and the other tribes he’d known, had at last come together into something approximating an official unified government. He already knew that, of course, from his own awareness of recent developments. He also knew a number of things not included in the briefing materials. He knew, for example, that there were plenty of folks living oppressive lives in isolated family groups scattered through these rugged mountains who might not have got the word that Kurdish prospects were looking up on the stage of world politics. For them every day was another day of risk and every stranger an enemy.

Aside from those uninformed recluses, there’d be others who were very well informed. Those Kurds might well recall how the Brits had screwed the Kurds in the 1920s, when "Bomber" Harris, later the commander of the air offensive against Germany, had perfected his art against Kurdish villages. Setting the tone for Baghdad's treatment of the Kurds over the rest of the century, he wrote with approval in 1924: ‘They now know that within 45 minutes, a full-size village can be practically wiped and a third of its inhabitants killed or injured.’

Those Kurds had probably not forgotten US promises to fight with them, either, promises that faded away, along with Jack and the rest of the US military advisors, in early 1975. They might well remember how Saddam Hussein had killed, imprisoned or forced hundreds of thousands of Kurds to flee when their independence movement collapsed. They would not have forgotten being abandoned by the Shah of Iran and the US advisors, including Captain Jack O’Neill. They hadn’t forgiven the repression of four or five million Iraqi Kurds in the late 1980s, when Saddam Hussein's forces slaughtered another 182,000 of them and destroyed 3,800 of their villages as he crushed yet another uprising during the Iran-Iraq war.

Those Kurds might understand the world stage very well and know that, for the time being, Kurdish interests aligned with present US policy. The Kurdish homeland had taken on new strategic importance when Turkey had refused to provide the US forces with entry into Iraq. The Kurds had benefited when the US brought war to the south, toppled Sadam and dragged him before a world court. But, the shared interests and benefits were a mere unintended consequence of greater world politics. Informed Kurds had long memories and knew the US as an unreliable ally. Jack might find those men he once called brother, but he could expect to be their brother no more.

So, Jack ordered a covert by-the-book insertion. He didn't expect trouble. He didn’t expect it, he knew it would come. It was only a question of when and whether it would start with a former enemy or an old friend.

ΩΩΩ

The antique Jolly Green swooped low and hovered. Jack grabbed the back of his seat and squirmed through the narrow waist into the rear compartment. His men were already stepping into space, dropping the twelve to fifteen feet, and rolling to scramble away from the chopper, bending low under its rotor wash. Jack nodded as Sergeant Major Mason glanced at him. Then Mason followed the men through the hatch. Jack gave his pack straps a quick tug, pressed the red cloth turban to his head, and followed.

Jack landed hard, rolled and, as he stood, felt the rotor wash lessen as the chopper canted and then gained altitude, spinning away toward a westward mountain pass.

Jack didn’t watch it out of sight. He was already moving, scanning the field edge and brush-covered slopes for signs of trouble. The pulsing chopper rotors would have alerted every Kurd over the age of five of their arrival.

Mason already had the men dispersed in a ragged but proper interval and he had them moving in the right general direction.

The plan was to continue north on foot through the rest of the day and into the night. Jack knew the approach well, having used it regularly over thirty years ago, when he’d run missions out of deep mountain retreats across the borders of USSR, Iraq, and Syria. Now, traveling northeast away from Erbil, Jack planned to guide his team up the mountainous region, known as the Border Folds, moving cross-country, roughly parallel to permanent mountain streams, until he crossed the timeworn trade routes.

Those trade routes predated modern political boundaries by several centuries and would lead him into the Zargos Mountains of the Dohuk Region.

The small tributaries feeding the main streams would be dry this time of year. The gorges they’d incised in the soft limestone and shale, however, might pose some challenges. Jack figured that he had plenty of youngsters eager to improvise and overcome, so he calculated that it was worth the extra challenge, since those small gorges would lower the odds of stumbling over locals, who knew enough to avoid them.

At some point, tomorrow or the next day, they should reach a former CIA encampment deep in the Border Folds. Jack had no idea if the encampment was still abandoned. He guessed not. In the thirty years since he’d last been there, it might well have been reclaimed by some local tribe. Occupied or not, it was the site where he’d acquire a herd of forty sturdy mountain-bred horses.

Jack was impressed with the strength and toughness of his troops, less so with his own condition. The boys moved quickly, steadily climbing. They'd maintain their pace through the rest of the day and into the gathering night.

After six months flying George Hammond’s desk, and with no warning that he’d be back in the field, Jack felt every day of his 56 years. He was more than three times the age of his youngest trooper – an eighteen year old, fresh-faced southerner called ‘Peach.’ The flight had made Jack stiff. Lack of sleep left him drained and the chopper drop had made him keenly aware that his knees were not replaceable. There was no sarcophagus in these mountains and no Tokra healing device closer than Area 52.

Jack would have to be damned careful. If he blew out a tendon in these rugged mountains, he’d be up a proverbial creek without a paddle. Worst still, from a strategic viewpoint, his incapacity would jeopardize the mission.

Still, Jack made a point of moving fast and sure. In these first hours he had to establish himself as worthy of leading his new Team. It was a kid’s game at one level, not to let the younger boys walk his old butt into the ground. On a deeper, more adult level, it was a serious test. If he failed it, a youngster might doubt him and hesitate to jump when he barked. If anyone failed to follow his orders when it really counted, someone might die.

That was no game.

So, Jack pulled his sheepskin pack straps tight and got his tired ass in gear, swiftly striding past the youngsters, in their worn and dusty native tribesmen’s outfits, to confab with the Mason at the head of the loosely organized group.

“Sir?” the Sergeant asked, as Jack caught up.

“Lose the ‘Sir’, Mason,” Jack growled. “It’s Jack.”

“Yes, Ss ... uhm … Jack,” Mason replied. “Folks call me Mason. I don’t care much for m’ first name.”

“Marion,” Jack replied, “Yeah, tough break there, Mason. So, you’ve been briefed.”

“That I have, Jack,” Mason said, “We’ll run nor-northwest, roughly paralleling the course of the Small Zab wadi for the rest of today and tonight.”

“We’ll cover another fifteen clicks,” Jack replied. “Then make a cold camp.”

“Rough terrain,” Mason suggested. “Cold tonight.”

“Yep. The place hasn’t changed,” Jack replied.

Mason chuckled, “Man, you said it!”

“You were here, too,” Jack confirmed. He’d read Marion Mason’s file on the flight, but wanted to get a feel for his new 2IC and his feelings about this place and what they’d both done a lifetime ago.

“Sure was,” the other man grinned. “’til Washington pulled my skinny young butt out of here and let the damned Iraqis have the place.”

Jack didn’t reply. Instead he slowed, let the kids pass by, and then fell into his customary position, covering everyone’s skinny young backsides.

ΩΩΩ

It was cold. Jack huddled deeper into his sheepskin vest and wrapped his smelly hand-woven woolen blanket tighter around him. A fire would have been welcome, but this area had a recent history of intertribal friction.

Depopulation of this region twenty years ago by the Baathists under Sadam, had opened the area for penetration by other tribes, including perhaps the idiosyncratic Yazidis. The Yazidis Kurds practiced an eccentric religious fusion of paganism, Zoroastrianism, Christianity, and Islam. They lived in small and isolated family groups throughout Kurdistan. Historically the Yazidis had focused in the Sinjar Mountains, beyond of Mosul. But, now, who knew? In addition, the rugged Border Folds mountains offered refuge to every other type of outcast, including bandits, deserters, and god-knew-what-other variety of wingnut.

So, no fire then. It would just publicize their presence. Sure the locals knew perfectly well they were here, but they probably didn’t much like it. There was no reason to rub their noses in the fact.

Jack tapped six guys for the first of four two-hour watches, ordered the kids to pair up and huddle, and turned in. Thanks to the combination of jet lag, stress, and physical exhaustion, he drifted off immediately.

Two hours later, when the sound of the watch changing woke him, Jack’s ass was as cold as the stony ground. He turned a bit and shoved the blanket under his rump as he rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and breathed out a long soft exclamation. He’d forgotten …

The stars! An infinite dusting of diamonds lit the velvety night sky. No moonlight competed with them, so Jack could see light from even the most distant objects. The result was a profusion of celestial bodies. Then, slowly, necklaces of constellations shimmered forth and took shape amid the confusion.

Mountains blocked Jack’s view on all sides, but directly overhead the Pleiades sparkled. In such complete darkness, even his old eyes could see that nine stars, not seven, formed the Seven Sisters. Taurus the Bull charged the cluster of nine stars and Orion raced to the rescue, shield high and sword raised.

Jack drifted off again and didn’t wake until dawn.

ΩΩΩ

Mason kicked and jollied the kids on their feet as Jack returned from his dawn inspection of the perimeter.

All was five by five. There’d been signs of activity: the regular footprints of the night watch, the occasional skittering marks typical of small animals, prints of a dog of some sort, and long faded imprints and dried droppings left by passage of domestic sheep herds.

There was nothing he didn’t expect to find. Still, the hair on the back of Jack’s neck prickled. They were definitely being watched.


Chapter 3

Peach dropped back until he was walking beside Jack.

“I smell hawses, Suh,” he drawled in a low voice.

Jack nodded and replied, “Jack.”

“Yes, Suh,” Peach persisted.

Jack let it slide and focused on listening and scanning the approach to the old encampment.

Jack gave a sharp whistle. When Mason turned, he signaled a stop. Then he strode to the front of the group as the kids dropped to the ground.

“We’re about there,” Mason observed.

“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Better reconnoiter.”

Mason caught the eye of a dark-skinned youngster named Indaoui, but knick-named ‘Indiana’, crouching on his haunches scratching thoughtfully at his thick black beard.

“Scout out the approach,” Mason said.

“Take Peach,” Jack added.

The southerner trotted to join Indiana. The two young warriors veered left into the rugged ground that reared over the narrow mountain path and disappeared.

Jack slumped onto a large rock and watched for indications of their progress. He didn’t hear the two or see any sign of them. Not a twig snapped, not a pebble rolled.

‘Good,’ Jack thought, as he rubbed his stiffening right knee. After eighteen hours in the field, he was battered and footsore. The respectful attitudes of the kids indicated that he’d passed the leadership exam. So, now he could rub whatever hurt without being judged as too old to cut the mustard. He ran his gaze across the tough young men. More than a few, he saw, were also rubbing some part of their anatomy.

Jack grinned at Mason, who was massaging his left shoulder thoughtfully.

“I estimate we’re about two clicks out,” Jack said.

“Smelled horse a bit ago,” Mason observed.

“No signs this morning … nothing on the trail … but they probably brought them down from the north,” Jack replied.

“Felt … something,” Mason said in a lower voice.

“Yeah,” Jack confirmed. “Well, after all, we are in someone’s backyard.”

“Whose?” Mason asked.

“This was Bahdeni turf in the old days,” Jack said. “Now … who knows? Intel’s out of date. Washington’s depending on us to tell them.”

“Who else is there?” Mason asked.

“Other tribes,” Jack replied, “Yazidis, Turkomans, Assyrians, Sunnis, or Shiites. Take your pick.”

“You missed the Trust,” Mason added sourly.

“Well, if you want to take a look at the financial side, it could be the Trust,” Jack added, “then of course there’s the occasional bandit troop, gangs of deserters from the Russian, Syrian, Iranian, Iraqi, and Turkish military, not to mention British spooks, French missionaries, gypsy families, and the occasional nomadic trader wandering though from China or the Far East.”

“Someone should put up a freaking toll booth,” Mason growled.

Jack nodded and then rested his head in his left hand and closed his eyes. Silence fell over the group of tired men.

A mountain jay called in the distance.

Another replied from across the mountain pass.

Jack stiffened and opened his eyes. “Someone did, Mason,” he muttered.

Mason shifted and signaled to the troops. The youngsters moved casually, but each of them found a reason to snuggle against a large rock or tree trunk.

Jack scanned the upper slopes. A flicker near the ridgeline caught his eye. The sun had caught something metal, probably an ammo belt. He glanced at Mason.

The old Sergeant lifted one eyebrow suggestively. He’d seen it, too.

Jack turned slowly, scratched the side of his head casually, and scanned the ridge behind them, where the first bird had called. If Bahdeni practice still held, after thirty years, there’d be a small troop positioned in the narrow notch to prevent any attempt at retreat. In the notch, they’d command a 260 degree field of fire.

The kids all had weapons within easy reach. Jack thumbed the safety off his 9 mm within the folds of his loose woolen tunic, but growled, “Eeeeasy, fellas.”

Mason shuffled back among the young men in a crouch. It was standard practice to separate leaders. It wouldn’t do for both the General and his 2IC to buy it from a single well-placed strike.

A stone clattered down the slope. Jack scanned the slope immediately above. A head bound in deep red woolen wraps appeared.

Dark eyes caught his gaze. Jack stuck his 9 mm into his waistband, stood slowly, and raised his empty right hand.

“Salaam, Jalal,” he called.

“La-neel,” the dark-eyed Bahdeni called back. “You are noisy as a laboring she-goat.”

“Friendly,” Jack murmured to Mason.

“Right,” Mason growled back. “Just look at ‘em.”

Jack had to admit Mason had a point. Clumps of bearded, frowning men emerged from the rocks and glared down at them. All had heavy rifles. Many wore twin bandoliers of ammunition across their crude goat-skin vests.

Shouts behind them made Jack shift to scan the other slope.

More pebbles rolled down the opposite slope and a band of ten turban-clad men showed themselves. Above the mountain Kurds, however, Peach and Indiana appeared, their P-90s trained on the group.

Jack turned to Mason and murmured, “Nice.” Then he called out, “Mamood! Indiana! Peach! These are friends!”

“Call off your dogs, La-neel!” Jalal shouted. “Mamood is long dead. These answer to me!”

ΩΩΩ

Jack sipped tea, the first hot food he’d had in more than 24 hours. It tasted good. He looked over the rim of his cup at Jalal. The last time he’d seen the man he’d been a scrawny kid of seven or eight years, entrusted to watch the horses.

Now, Jalal was a middle-aged man and had all the signs of a respected warrior and leader. One of his front teeth sported a gold cap. His face was scarred. His hands were leathery and gnarled.

Jalal wore a pair of old, high quality, machine-stitched boots. Twin ammo belts crossed his chest. Another encircled his waist. A US-issue K-bar rested in a hand-made scabbard on his belt. He carried a RPK-74N, complete with an IR night vision scope. The Russian-made machine gun sported polymer hand guards and side-folding polymer butt stock, rather than wood. It was a deadly and high-status weapon, a weapon worthy of a respected leader. It was brand spanking new.

“Ah,” Jalal beamed, “you admire my RPK, eh, La-neel?”

“You were a kid last I saw you, Jalal,” Jack replied. “Now you’ve grown up and lead these warriors.”

“Just as you are an elder of your people, I see, and no longer a young warrior in need of tempering, my old friend,” Jalal replied graciously.

Jack waited.

Jalal leaned forward and squinted over the rim of his battered metal teacup, “But, may an old comrade be allowed to know, where you lead them, La-neel, and for what purpose?”

Mason shifted, moving his weapon slightly, preparing for trouble.

Jack ignored him and held eye contact with Jalal.

“Certain multinational business interests are suspected of bringing contraband into the mountains to the north of here. Washington is very concerned. They’ve sent me for a look around up there. I’ve had dealings with these interests in the past and with their contraband. I’m an expert. Once I check out the mountains, I’m heading for Mosul. I’ve got orders to track these guys down and have a word with them.”

Mason tensed visibly as Jack spilled the entire mission. All he’d omitted was that the contraband at issue was likely to be alien technology that had been stolen through the ‘Gate system or maybe smuggled out of Area 51 and sold to the highest bidder.

“Relax, Mason,” Jack said simply, “Jalal and I go back a ways.”

The dark-eyed Kurd grinned. His white teeth shone in his dark beard, setting off the shiny gold cap.

“Sergeant Marion Mason,” he said, “you do not know me? I recall you very well.”

Mason stared for a moment and then his eyes widened and he replied, “You have grown.”

“You may trust me now with your life as you once trusted me with your mares, Mason,” Jalal replied, “La-neel knows this to be true.”

“So, bottom line, Jalal,” Jack interjected, “we’ve got horses and supplies waiting just north of here. I need a grunt level view of things. Then, we’ll swing down to Mosul for a little R&R.”

“If you prefer to ride, La-neel,” Jalal replied, “horses await you. I myself counted forty beasts this morning. If you wish, however, we can join forces and save both time and effort.”

Jalal pulled a cell phone out of his vest and hit speed-dial. He spoke quickly into the phone. Moments later chopper rotors were audible and then four Blackhawk helicopters swung over the lip of the mountains.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jack muttered, “things are looking up for you folks.”

Jalal smiled and said, “Those were a gift from your President Reagan to Sadam Hussein in the 1980s. Almost two years ago, when your military struck Baghdad, we retook the northernmost strongholds from the Iraqi dogs. They pulled back in panic. We pounced. We took fortifications, materiel, including arms, ammunition, and heavy equipment, as you see, La-neel. And, you may be assured, there are proper pilots among us. We also took, as you know, the Mosul oil fields. Unlike those fat fools in Kuwait, the Kurds are a wise and serious people. They purchased baubles with the money from their oil fields. We used our profits for the common good, my friend, to buy freedom. Among the first resources we obtained were pilots for our new air force.”

The choppers had settled on a gently sloping area. Jack noted the pilots didn’t cut power. They’d be airborne in a moment, should that be necessary.

“What d’you say, Mason?” Jack asked the old warrior at his side. “Wanna skip the pony rides and get straight to the main attraction?”

Mason nodded, “Yes, Sir!” Then the Sergeant turned to his troops and yelled, “Ride’s here, boys. Saddle up.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack watched the pilot carefully at first. The scruffy old man at the controls did little to inspire confidence. His long greasy beard and unkempt hair reminded Jack of the beggars he’d had to sidestep on his last visit to the Middle East. His worn flight jacket indicated he’d been a marine pilot. Either that or he’d stolen the leather jacket from a marine pilot.

As the Blackhawk swept into the air, however, Jack’s misgivings vanished. The man was a masterful pilot. The chopper performed like it was preprogrammed. Soon, Jack had stopped watching the pilot and gazed at the landscape that sped beneath them as the chopper hugged the ever-changing mountain slopes.

Within four hours the choppers emerged into a wide valley. A village hugged the broadening channel of the Small Zab wadi. To the northeast of the village, an open area served as a landing pad. The other three choppers moved forward as the chopper carrying Jack and Jalal circled. The greasy old artist at the controls waited until the others had touched down without incident before beginning his approach. Then he set the Blackhawk onto the carpet of green and cut power.

Jack clapped the man on his shoulder and said, “Thanks!”

The old man gave him a ‘thumbs up’ and grinned.

Jack scrambled out of his seat and jumped out of the chopper behind his men and walked toward a group of small huts on the perimeter of the grassy area. Jack glanced at his watch. It was barely mid-afternoon of the second day. On horseback, they’d have been five days making this point in the mission. Tonight they’d have hot food, warmth around a fire, and a fairly secure place to sleep. Jack grinned. So far, things were going better than he could have hoped.

ΩΩΩ

After a hot meal of cooked grain and lentils, Jack ordered Mason to see to the men to make sure everyone was settled for the night. He strolled through the small settlement. Along the way he encountered Jalal and the two men continued together.

The village was peaceful. As he strolled past women working over the cook fires, kids running in zany circuits in the gathering dusk, and the livestock standing undisturbed, Jack felt a knot of anticipation loosen in his gut. Maybe, just maybe this mission would come off without a hitch.

Jack parted from his host at one of the huts and continued his stroll through the gloom alone. Night sounds began, reminding him of an evening thirty-odd years ago, when for all intents and purposes he’d been a member of this village, not just a visitor.
The stars were out by the time Jack saw Mason’s profile, backlit by a cooking fire.

“Jack,” Mason said.

“Mason,” Jack replied. “All tucked in?”

“Snug as can be,” the Sergeant replied, “’cept for Peach and Indiana. I’ve got ‘em on the perimeter to the north. Aspel and Roberts are on the south side. They’ll walk a wide perimeter ‘til relieved around midnight. I figure the kids could use more than four hours sleep before this gets …interesting.”

“Hopefully it won’t,” Jack murmured.

Mason raised an eyebrow and snorted, “Hopin’ ain’t gettin’, as my momma used to say.”

Jack looked up at the stars. Taurus was still charging full tilt at Orion’s sword. Some things never changed.

“Your momma had a point,” Jack sighed. With the Trust in the mix, it would get ugly … probably sooner than later.

“Wake me at the watch change, Mason,” he said, then he crawled into the nearest hut, wrapped himself in a goat hair blanket, and slept.

ΩΩΩ

The hiss and crack of energy weapons brought Jack to his feet, even before he was fully awake. He’d flung off his blanket, grabbed his P-90 and pack, and was out of the hut and running through a firestorm.

Alien weapon’s fire tore into the village. Women and children crouched and screamed, uncertain which way to run for cover. Men fired wildly into the night sky. Jack ran across the free-fire zone, lifting his arms to shield his face and head from flying shrapnel. He didn’t slow until he flung himself down into the dust at the fence that marked the first of several corrals clustered at the far western edge of the village.

Jack slipped his arms into the pack straps and turned to squint back into the glare of burning huts and soaring explosions. Two of the choppers were flaming hulks at the east side of the village. One was lifting off, miraculously unscathed by repeated runs of energy trails that cut staccato swaths of fire on all sides of the machine. The fourth chopper’s rotors were spinning slowly. In a moment it too had lifted and swung heavily into the inky night. Both copters flew without running lights. Jack wished them luck.

He squirmed under the ram-shackled barrier of the corral and assessed the situation. Men were still scrambling in every direction. The wiry forms of the Kurds were distinctive, particularly contrasted to the square, heavily muscled silhouettes of the US mercs even when his men were outfitted in Kurdish attire. Jack scanned the fire-bright night. He saw only Kurds.

“Crud,” Jack snarled. “God-dammit-to-hell.”

Then he rolled onto his back and scanned the night sky. His night vision was well and truly screwed by the brilliance of the explosions, but he looked anyway, hoping for a clue of who was up there raining fire on the helpless villagers.

A body crashed into the other side of the barrier and then pressed up against it. Jack reacted without thinking, unsheathing his K-bar, reaching through the bars, and grabbing the other man by the hair. He jerked hard and bared the man’s throat. His knife was at the other’s windpipe before Jack recognized the terrified newcomer as Peach.

“Shit, Peach,” he growled, letting the kid go and sheathing his knife. “Get in here.”

Peach complied, his eyes wide with fear. “Sorry Sir,” he babbled, crawling under the fence and joining Jack inside the corral. “Who the hell is firing at us?”

“From the look of it,” Jack replied, “I’d say it’s the folks I was sent here to find.”

He caught the younger man’s wild eyes and held them with a calm gaze until Peach breathed, “Yes, Suh.”

Then Jack dug his radio out of the hairy depths of his native vest and depressed the mic button. “Mason,” he said. “Mason, this is Jack. Come in.”

There was heavy static. Jack repeated his call.

Suddenly the static cleared. A young voice cried over the chatter of machine gun fire, “They’ve got Mason, Sir. We’re … we are at the Southern edge of the village, just at the edge of the chopper pad. We were trying to make the choppers but the pilots took off. There’s … Goddamn it …”

The radio went dead for a moment, then the young voice continued to shout over the snap and hiss of energy weapons, “… count forty … fifty … Oh, man! At least a hundred of them just came out of nowhere … flashes … brilliant flashes … They just … appeared. Look like Kurds … black turbans … hundreds … Jesus Christ! …. Heavy arms … Some sort of … weird weapons .... Never saw anything … Shit!”

Then the garbled transmission stopped and there was just the unbroken hiss of static.

“So far, so good,” Jack said sarcastically. Then he slapped Peach on the thigh and growled,” C’mon.”

He scrambled to his feet and, running in a crouch, charged into the melee of stampeding horses with Peach right on his heels.

Jack moved fast. He’d been tempted to grab a couple of horses, but decided they’d make less obvious targets on foot. He kicked down the gate to the corral, however, and as the animals raced through, half-carried and half-shoved Peach through the press of horses. They ran, bumped and jostled by the panicked herd, until they were out of the valley grasslands and in the trees.

The forest blocked the light from the burning village and night closed in around them. Then Jack slowed and let Peach catch his breath. The kid wasn’t winded from the run. He was in better shape than Jack and nearly forty years younger. The kid was gasping for air because he was scared shitless, pure and simple.

“This your first action?” Jack asked as the young man leaned against a tree and tried to slow his ragged breathing.

Peach shook his head. “Naw. Saw some action in … well that’s classified,” Peach gasped out, “Not … nothin’ like this, Suh.”

“It’s Jack, Peach,” Jack replied. “We’re not strictly military on this one, remember?”

“Yes, Suh,” Peach replied.

Jack let it ride. “Mason and anyone who makes it out of the village have orders to continue North into the Sinjar mountains. That’s what we’re going to do. Got it?”

Peach, barely visible in the dim starlight, nodded emphatically and murmured, “Yes, Suh.”

“You got your gear?” Jack asked, more to give Peach something to think about than to inventory their gear. Jack could see the kid’s pack was strapped to his back and he had a P-90 slung over his shoulder.

“Lost my goat-skin hat,” Peach replied. “Got my weapon, though Suh, and my pack’s got grub, first-aid kit, extra socks, and ammo, and I got a compass and radio in my vest.”

“That’s fine,” Jack said. “So move out. Keep it real quiet ‘til we put some distance between us and the village.”

“Yes, Suh,” Peach breathed softly and then he glanced at the night sky. “We’ll just take a read on the Big Dipper.”

“That’s right,” Jack replied. “The folks here think it’s a bear. Did you know that? They picked it up from the Romans who called it Ursa Major.”

“Uh, huh,” Peach said.

Jack realized ruefully that Peach and Daniel wouldn’t have a whole helluva lot to talk about, so he canned the lecture and let Peach lead the way.


They traveled all night at a rapid clip. By the time dawn painted the eastern horizon Jack estimated they’d covered roughly twenty clicks. He pressed on, certain that Peach had another twenty or thirty clicks left in him before he’d actually need to rest. Jack, however, was tired, bone tired and weary to his very soul. That, of course, didn’t mean squat. Tired as he was, he wasn’t quite ready to let the Trust catch him without a fight. He kept moving as fast as his legs would carry him.

The fact was, the men they’d left behind were dead or captives of the Trust, unless they were very, very lucky. Peach had been lucky. Jack had been lucky. The rest of the 28-man team was probably wasted, along with most of the villagers. Those that still lived were scattered through the mountains and, more likely than not, being hunted down by the black-turbaned tribe that had been the business end of the attack.

Jack wondered as he followed Peach who'd been on the policy end-- Simmons was dead. Jack had been there when he'd been spaced. He'd personally hit the button that opened the Prometheus' cargo door. Kinsey didn't work this way. Who else had Jack run across in the past?

Whoever was in charge, he'd done one fucking excellent job of wiping out Jack's command.

Fucking.

Excellent.

Despite his pep talk for Peach's benefit, nobody else would be heading to the North, nobody but Peach and himself. The mission was blown. It was unlikely they’d reach the Sinjar mountains. Even if they did, the odds of Jack and Peach getting back home alive were slim.

Still, there was no option.

Jack pressed on through the morning, finally calling a halt at mid-day.

“Dig in,” he growled. Peach didn’t hesitate, but glanced around, spied a narrow crevice and dug in. Jack followed suit and stayed awake while the youngster slept. After two hours, Jack poked him in the ribs.

“Wake me in two hours,” he said. Then he crawled into the space Peach had just vacated and passed out.

The sun was starting to slip toward the mountains ahead when Peach woke him.

“Two hours, Suh,” he said.

Jack stood, watered the rocks, took a long pull off his canteen and handed it to Peach, who also drank. Then, without another word, the kid moved out, walking North with the sun on their left.

They maintained a rapid pace as the sun slipped lower and finally disappeared behind the western peaks. Cool evening dimmed to night and, as Jack followed Peach across the boulder-studded slopes, the evening deepened into a cold night at high-altitude.

Unlike the night before, a thin sliver of moon rose to the east. Jack shivered in his goatskin vest as it peeked through the trees to his right. He was grateful that a full moon was still six days away. He kept moving, taking care to find sure footing on the rubble-strewn slope. Peach, true to his training, had moved away from trails whenever their path approached them. By hugging the rougher slopes they were less likely to leave signs for anyone who might be tracking them.

Jack was too weary to take the first watch when they dug in the next midday.

“Keep an eye open,” he growled and then slumped onto his pack.

Peach said nothing, but sat scanning the slopes behind them.

The sun had slipped lower than Jack expected when Peach poked him in the shoulder.

“General, Suh,” the young merc said, “time to move.”

“You were supposed to wake me,” Jack said. Peach blushed above his beard.

“Yes, Suh,” the young man mumbled, “Sorry, Suh.”

Jack let it drop and once again Peach took the point.

The next day, Jack called an early halt. Peach was tired and had slipped several times through the morning, sending small avalanches of stones onto the trail below. Neither man acknowledged it, but they both knew they were running out of time and energy.

“Go to sleep,” Jack ordered, pointing to a shelf of rock overhead. Peach didn’t hesitate. He just scrambled up to the shelf and threw himself down. The kid was out in moments. Jack followed him and climbed a few feet higher to a high knob of rock where he could scan the slopes in three directions and still keep sheltering rock behind him, to avoid presenting a silhouette to anyone still tracking them. He sat and took up the watch. There was no sound. No movement. Nothing.

Jack was beat. He felt sleep tugging at his eyelids and he snorted.

“Crud,” he said under his breath as he reached into his vest pockets and pulled out a small pouch of tobacco, a gift from Jalal. Jack reached into the long, deeply scented strands within the tanned leather pouch, gathered them into a tight wad and slipped the wad of bitter, smoky material into his right cheek. The smoky flavor filled his mouth. Jack wanted to spit it out. He hated tobacco with the fervor of a reformed smoker, but the nicotine was necessary. It would provide an artificial jolt of energy. Unwilling to risk the smell that burning tobacco would release into the pristine mountain air, Jack saw no option, but to chew the filthy stuff.

Four hours passed uneventfully. Jack had been watching a pair of eagles hunting the slopes to the east. A sound downslope brought his gaze from the birds to the young merc asleep on the ledge ten feet below him. The kid stretched, groaned softly, and opened his eyes.

Jack said nothing. They both knew the drill. He just eased down the slope, carrying his pack. Peach stood and pulled his pack straps over his shoulders and with a nod, started to climb to Jack’s perch. As they passed, Jack touched the youngster’s arm and reached into his vest. He pulled out the tobacco pouch and handed it to the boy. Peach grinned, took the pouch and climbed silently up to the knob.

Jack stretched out on the narrow ledge. The nicotine still had his nerves twanging, but he closed his eyes and within a few minutes, drifted off.

They remained at the spot for another day, resting, keeping watch for signs of anyone trailing them from the village, and eating the last of their rations. Then they continued on their trek to the North, fairly certain that no one was on their trail.


Chapter 4

The next four days were difficult. Jack and Peach maintained a rapid pace. They had plenty of water, thanks to the springs that erupted from the rocky slopes sporadically. They had little to eat, however, and with the pace Jack was forcing upon them, finding enough calories was becoming a problem.

Jack had been hungrier a few times in his life. When he’d been a captive in Iraq, he’d nearly starved to death. Once, when SG-1 had fallen into the hands of a love-struck princess, he’d been a lot hungrier. He’d also been pretty pissed off at Daniel, who’d managed to get himself addicted to the local sarcophagus and was playing house with the local royalty, in the role of little Lord Fauntleroy.

Hunger, however, was not something one got better at with practice. Jack was feeling the effects and expected that Peach was, as well, although the southerner said little aside from ‘Yes, Sir’ and ‘No, Sir.’ Jack did notice that Peach had adopted the habit of chewing the tobacco. He was welcome to the filthy stuff, although Jack wondered if he’d started the kid on a lifelong habit. He figured not. Most Southerners in the military either smoked or chewed tobacco, or both, and had done since they were kids.
Jack was hungry, but he was unwilling to slow down to find food. He was even less willing to risk leaving signs of their passage. Hunting and killing an animal would almost certainly leave signs. So, he tightened his belt and pressed on. The excess weight he’d gained behind a desk was a rapidly shrinking problem.

Two more days passed before a full moon rose, washing the mountainous terrain with reflected light. At this altitude the moon looked huge.

As the moonlight spilled onto the forest around them, Jack called a halt. It was time for another forced rest. They needed to reach Mosul as soon as possible, but it was too risky to move in full moonlight. In the five days since the attack on the village, Jack guessed they’d covered around 200 clicks. The terrain was changing. That told Jack that they were leaving the Zagros Fold Belt, at last, and nearing the Sinjar Mountain Range, the historic territory of the Yazidis Kurds. Jack did not want to stumble over a family group of these reclusive natives unaware.

Besides, Jack had to admit that he was tired beyond exhaustion and getting hungry enough to risk a kill.

“Hold up,” Jack said softly. Peach heard and stopped. He swayed slightly as Jack closed the short distance.

“Moon’s up,” Jack said. Peach looked up. The moonlight on his young face showed the depth of his weariness. The kid had dark smudges under his eyes and, for the past twelve hours, had moved like an old man.

“Yes, Suh,” Peach said simply.

“Let’s hole up until sunrise,” Jack said. “Then maybe we can rustle up something eatable.”

“Yes, Suh,” Peach repeated, but Jack caught a quiver of anticipation in the kid’s tone.

It had been five days with no sign of another soul. Both men were tired, hungry, and cold. Without conferring, they simply huddled together in a sheltered crevice and settled in to rest. Jack wondered if he was losing his edge, but as warmth from Peach seeped through his back, the thought slipped away and he slept.

ΩΩΩ

Jack woke with Peach snuggled against his chest. He was warm for the first time in five days. He blushed and squirmed out from under the boy’s grasp. Peach didn’t waken, for which Jack was grateful.

The night had faded to dawn. In a few minutes the sun would lift over the horizon, Jack guessed, although the event was hidden by intervening peaks.

Jack stood, drank from the canteen, and relieved himself against the bole of a handy tree. Then he scratched his thick silver beard and, glancing over his shoulder at the sleeping kid, moved into the morning mists that trailed down the mountain slopes like fingers.

Jack moved slowly, hunting. A movement ahead caught his eye.

Jack froze. Something small and brown was rooting through the leaves, probably looking for seeds or edible plant tubers.

Slowly, Jack slipped his K-bar from its sheath. The little rodent was oblivious to anything but its hunt for food.

Jack raised his arm and let the knife fly in one swift movement. There was a pitiful squeal and the sound of tiny feet thrashing against the leaves. The animal was dead before Jack pulled the knife free.

Jack tucked the small body inside his vest. Then he squatted and dug out several handfuls of the tubers that had attracted the hungry wood rat. When he’d dug all he could fit in his pockets, he carefully gathered the bloody leaves and twigs and buried them in the shallow hole he’d formed by digging out the tubers. Then he filled the hole and covered it with more debris from the forest floor.

Jack backtracked as morning mists gave way to birdsong and sunlight. He was looking forward to the possibility of getting his monosyllabic companion to say something other than ‘Yes, Sir’ and ‘No, Sir.’ Food just might do the trick.

The jumble of rocks was in sight when Jack heard them. There was a scrabbling sound up the slope. He froze against a large tree, holding his breath. After a lifetime, he continued to the rocks. There was a splattering of blood soaking into the rocks and no sign of Peach.

Jack scanned the area for signs and found nothing. The blood, now dried on the rocks where they’d slept, was the only indication of what had happened to Peach.

Jack cast his gaze across the slopes. Where had they come from? Why hadn’t he heard them? There was no clue to explain it.

Jack turned and moved off to the west. If someone had Peach, they’d have his plans. The kid would hold out for a day, maybe two. Nobody held out longer than that and by the time Peach broke, Jack wanted to be in another part of the world.

He ate tubers as he jogged along the mountainside. The swollen plant roots were sweet and slippery. Jack’s stomach rumbled eagerly as he chewed and swallowed them. After three hours, Jack slowed and drank some water. Then he reached into his vest pocket and extracted the wood rat. The body had stiffened but it was warm from his body heat. Jack slowed to a walk, unsheathed his K-bar and carefully slit the small animal’s skin. Pink flesh shown wetly under the soft gray-white fur.

There was no blood. Jack peeled back the skin along the slit. The rat was about two inches long and, without the fur, it would be smaller in diameter than a hotdog.

Jack stopped and slit the fur around the middle of the little animal, then snipped it free at the paws and near the head. Then, without hesitating, he popped the entire thing into his mouth and swallowed. He gagged once, but swallowed again, determined to get the food down and keep it down. He had no idea if and when he’d find something better. It was a matter of survival, not taste.

Then Jack swished his mouth out with water, spit, and forged on at a determined trot.

Two more days passed and Jack eked out his meager supply of tubers. Then, he turned north again, planning to double back in a wide arc for Mosul.

ΩΩΩ

It was the tenth day of travel when Jack heard the sound of animals moving en masse. He froze against a rock outcrop and watched as a dozen sheep and goats crested the slope ahead of him. He backed into the rocks quickly, worried. Where there are shepherds there are also dogs. He’d encountered the vicious dogs once before, while trying to make his way back into Turkey after a near-fatal HALO drop. He’d only barely escaped.

A wave of long-haired, long-tailed spotted sheep swarmed over the hillside, splitting around trees and rejoining like a living river of wool and horns. There were dogs, as Jack feared. Two raced back and forth, nipping and barking at the edges of the river of sheep. A third worked the front, staring down sheep that made a dash to escape.

After several minutes of watching their passage, Jack noticed the herd of animals had thinned. The yipping of the herd dogs faded. Then, at the back of the flock, he saw a robed woman and a small boy walking hand-in-hand. The child held a rope to a petite donkey that trotted behind him. In a moment they’d pass on and he’d be safe.

But then, the fourth dog appeared. Jack saw a black and yellow blur advancing on his position at a full run. The mongrel had a fix on him.

Without another option, Jack stepped from behind the rocks and called out to them in the Bahdeni dialect, “Greetings sister, and peace of the Prophet upon your house!”

The woman froze and raised a hand to her mouth in alarm. The boy charged forward whistling shrilly for the dogs. The cur stopped and raced back to the little shepherd.

Jack held his ground. “I am but a poor traveler, my friends,” he persisted, “seeking the warmth of your fire and travel in the company of True Believers.”

The woman moved her hand and called sharply to the boy, “Amet, your manners, my son!”

The boy, who was not yet five, Jack estimated, bowed in an elaborate display of impeccable manners, “Welcome to our house,” he declared with impressive formality, although they were standing in a broad expanse of unbroken forest, “You are welcome to share our fire, Stranger of the Bahdeni.”

“Ah, but you, too, are of the Bahdeni,” Jack replied, “So in truth, Shepherd, how can I be a stranger when we are two of the same blood.” It was the proper response. The boy blinked. Then, his repertoire of manners exhausted, the little boy turned and raced back to hide behind his mother’s robes.

Jack waited. It was polite to allow the host, or in this case hostess, to make the next move. The woman approached. Then Jack moved toward her slowly, not bothering to hide his exhaustion and sore feet.

“Ah, Father,” the woman spoke softly, “your way has been hard!”

Jack didn’t know quite what to say. The dark brown eyes above her veil had no wrinkles and her son was very young.

“My daughter,” he replied politely, “We each travel the path the Lord and prophet ordain. Who is to say whether it is hard or soft, if it is traveled in their name?”

The dark eyes smiled sympathetically. “Come, Father,” she replied simply and turned to follow her herd. Jack fell into an easy gait behind the young Kurdish woman. Her sheep grazed as they traveled, setting a leisurely pace. They were heading to the west and Jack was content and grateful for the cover they provided. To anyone who saw them, they would appear to be a family of Bahdeni tending their flocks.

Traditional Middle Eastern hospitality ensured a visitor three days of unquestioning hospitality. Jack was, therefore, looking forward to three days of food, relative security, and fire. His stomach rumbled painfully in anticipation, but the young woman moved gracefully on and on. The sun was high overhead when she finally murmured to her son, who whistled sharply to the dogs. There was a melee of barking and the sheep turned and scattered, eventually settling into a natural bowl of grass along the edge of a small stream.

Jack’s hostess removed three small cloth bundles from the back of her donkey. She unrolled one and Jack saw it was a lump of dough. The woman quickly patted the dough into three large flat cakes. While she worked, her son started a fire and unpacked a griddle, a teapot, a pot, and a sack of grain. The boy poured water into the teapot and the pot and balanced them on the fire. The woman dropped the flat cakes on the heated griddle and, when the water boiled, stirred grain into pot. Her son trotted to the donkey and returned with a cloth-wrapped leg of roasted lamb. He unwrapped the roast and used a long thin blade, which he pulled from the side of his boot, to hack bits of mutton from the roast.

After fifteen minutes, the boy carried a steaming cake, filled with boiled grain and bits of mutton to Jack. Jack accepted the cake. The woman and boy each took one as well and paused. Jack murmured the traditional blessing and then waited a moment, as was required by manners. Then he took a bite of the freshly made pita sandwich. The woman watched Jack closely, glancing at him as he chewed and swallowed. He tried to eat slowly, but he hadn’t eaten anything but raw tubers in the past four days and was famished. His pita was gone in three bites.

The woman rose, obtained another patty of dough from the sack, and formed another cake. Jack waited politely while they repeated the ritual. Then the boy carried him a second sandwich and Jack thanked him. He ate the food slowly and, when he’d finished, belched loudly and declared himself too full for more. The woman nodded and poured tea. The three sat in silence and sipped the hot, sweet liquid.

When they had finished, Jack rested and watched the woman and boy break camp. It was tradition for the men, particularly guests, to not interfere. He fought to stay awake as the unaccustomed sensation of wellbeing flooded over him.

The woman broke camp with practiced efficiency. The boy whistled up the dogs and after another bout of barking and snapping, the sheep were again moving westward. Jack followed, every step carrying him closer to Mosul and his objective.

ΩΩΩ

Two days passed uneventfully. Jack rested, ate, and constructed a simple sling from a strip of cloth cut from the hem of his tunic. On the second evening, he strolled a short distance from the camp and in the evening twilight, killed a rabbit with the sling. As expected, the boy had been watching and ran to him jabbering excitedly for Jack to kill another and to show him the trick so he too could be a hunter.

Jack complied and the boy proudly carried the two rabbits back to his mother. There were ‘thank-you’s all around and Jack begged permission to teach the boy how to use a sling, as a small gift to repay her kindness and hospitality. The woman nodded her consent and Jack spent a happy hour while the boy slung rocks at targets, real and imagined. When dark had fallen, they slept.

Morning came and Jack knew he had to move on. It would be rude to overstay his welcome. So as noon approached, he explained that his destination was to the north. The woman nodded and said, “Good Father may your way be easy. Go in peace. I pray that your path will end in comfort and joy among your own people, for surely you are a Stranger in this land.” Then she pressed a bundle of food into his hand. Jack frowned and then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the crude sling. He handed it back to the shepherdess and said, “For your son, Daughter, that he may be a great hunter one day.”

Jack turned and hurried away, wondering what he’d done that betrayed him to this simple woman of the Bahdeni who was no man’s fool.

ΩΩΩ

Jack moved rapidly to the north. Thanks to the food from the shepherdess, it was easier travel and he made good time. He slept days and moved at night, both for safety and to keep warm in the cold night air. Though the mountains were far behind him, he’d gained altitude traveling with the shepherdess, and was now crossing a high table of grassland, known as the Sinjar Plateau.

Jack estimated that he was fifty or sixty miles from Mosul, at least two more days of hard travel. Between there was a broad expanse of grass dotted with oil wells and scattered villages. At least that’s what had existed thirty years ago. Now, Jack guessed the Kurds would have reinforced their claims to the oil wells with militia. So, as he jogged through the grass, he watched for signs of trouble.

The waning moon spilled a dim light across the grassy plain. A jumble of dark shadows had grown gradually through the night as he approached a small village or perhaps a large family settlement.

When the buildings were close enough to make out details, Jack slowed. He crouched until the grass heads tickled his earlobes. There was no sound. No dogs barked and no lights gleamed in the night. He waited and watched for fifteen minutes.

Then he turned north to avoid the settlement. He moved in a crouch for about thirty minutes, until there was no chance of someone glimpsing his silhouette against the dimly lit sky.

Jack settled on his heels, scanned the horizon in all directions and, finally satisfied that he hadn’t been detected, straightened and moved out. He’d taken only a few steps when a flash behind him made him turn back toward the village.

Jack hadn’t fully reacted before a powerful shock wave hit, followed by a flare of painfully brilliant light. The force of it threw him to the ground.

Then, just as suddenly, the light was gone.

Jack groaned, rubbed his dazzled eyes, and struggled to his knees. He peered into the night. Halos tangoed on his retinas. He couldn’t see clearly. He held his hand in front of his face and wiggled his fingers. The motion was just visible.

“Goddamit,” Jack growled. Then he flung himself back into the grass, staring into the obscured night sky and blinking furiously to clear his distorted vision.

He waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly, taking control of his panic reaction, telling himself he was not blind and alone in the middle of the wilds of Kurdistan.

He just couldn’t be.


Chapter 5

“What do you mean, ‘Missing’?” Colonel Sam Carter leaned across the briefing room conference table to bark into the teleconference microphone.

“There are indications of a massacre in a village in mountains,” the tinny, upscale British voice of Mr. Wilshire Pringle, the DOD liaison to MI-5 who’d requested the hastily organized conference call, replied, “...mountains that are called, I’m told,”...there was a distinct rustling of papers before the voice continued ...“called the Border Folds. We have no reason to think that any of your people were necessarily there. Intelligence sources in southern Iraq tasked with monitoring the region’s radio chatter did, however, pick up garbled chatter on itinerant channels in American English …”

Pringle’s voice faltered.

“And?” Sam barked impatiently.

“And ...preliminary analysis indicates that there are the sounds of automatic weapons fire evident in background of the recordings, as well as ...another sound.”

“And have you had that sound analyzed?” Sam pressed.

“Energy weapons,” Pringle replied. “The analyst who conducted the preliminary review of the tapes did not, of course, recognize those sounds. He had no basis for suspecting anything unusual. He’d noted the sounds as ...uhm ...Ah, here it is, as ‘transient anomalous electromagnetic pulses.’ I’ve already emailed pdfs of the transcripts, the recording, and the full set of analytical data to your secure email account, Colonel Carter, anticipating that you will want to review the analysis and verify against original source material.”

Sam slumped back into her overstuffed leather conference room chair and dropped her head into her hands. “He just resigned,” she growled, intending the comment for Daniel, who was seated beside her, “left command of the SGC, left all of us behind ... for this?“

“That is ‘need to know’,” Pringle's tinny voice replied primly through the teleconference speaker. “And you don’t ...Need to know, that is, Colonel. What you do need to know, in fact, what you must understand with perfect clarity is this: US and British alliance with the leadership of Kurdistan is crucial to the war effort and is in a very fluid state at this time. The mission that your man O’Neill failed to execute was intended to defuse a precarious situation. Now, your man has vanished without a trace. Not one of his men has been located. No weapons have been recovered. They never even made it to the first rendezvous and, as I’ve already explained, we’ve had no word whatsoever from O’Neill for going on fourteen days.”

“That is Brigadier General O’Neill, to you, Mr. Pringle,” General Hammond’s angry drawl cut in through his connection from the Pentagon.

“Of course, General,” Pringle stammered. “No disrespect was intended, Sir.”

“If it has crossed your mind, Mr. Pringle,” Hammond continued, “that Brigadier General O’Neill might have cut a deal with those business interests, I suggest you put that out of your mind. Jack O’Neill is not that kind of man.”

Hammond paused. The statement hung in the air, until Pringle responded, “I see ...yes, of course.”

“The President asked for my assessment Sam,” General Hammond continued, “and I told him that Jack O’Neill’s the nearest thing we have on this side of the Atlantic to an expert on the Trust and Kurdistan. I imagine that’s why Jack was tapped for this particular mission. Jack’s mission involved certain multinational business interests operating in the No-Man’s-Land of the inter-border region that straddles the point where Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran, and Russia intersect. He's out there somewhere, probably in trouble. The question now, Colonel Carter, is … what do we do about it?”

“He’s too damned old to be running around the mountains of Kurdistan without us,” Daniel interrupted.

“He’s a good twenty years younger than I am, Doctor,” Hammond drawled back, “and I’m considering going out there to bring him back myself.”

“More important,” Pringle piped up, “we need to address the ‘situation.’”

“I’ll take the lead this one, General Hammond,” Sam snapped, ignoring Pringle’s point. “We need you in DC making sure I get the back-up I’ll need and to coordinate the extraction when I find General O’Neill. If, while I’m in the neighborhood, I happen to run across any intel that may prove useful to your contract managers in DOD, Mr. Pringle, I’ll be sure to let you know, after I get General O’Neill and his men back home.”

“Right,” Hammond said with barely restrained relish, “I thought that’d be your take on this, Sam. And, you can bet your boots that I will be standing by to bring you both home. As for planning the insertion, the full resources of Home World Defense are at your disposal, Colonel.”

“I’d like to leave immediately, General Hammond, if there’s nothing else?” Sam said, rising from her chair.

There was a pause before George replied, “As for the Trust ...Well, Sam, why don’t you just see what you can sniff out as long as you’re over there? It could save Jack a trip back to clean this mess up. Hear this clearly, however, Colonel Carter. You are not to get us any deeper into this quagmire. Bring Jack and the rest of our people home, Colonel. That is job one.”

“Yes, Sir,” Sam replied. “I’ll bring him … all of them … back alive … and well.”

ΩΩΩ

“You cannot do this alone,” Daniel shouted, waving his hands in aggravation. “Sam! You are a woman! You are going undercover in a country where respectable women do not run around unaccompanied and where women who are not respectable are not infrequently beaten, imprisoned, or stoned to death!”

“Daniel,” Sam snapped back, “stow it. This is not a jaunt through the ‘Gate into a peaceful, rural world full of interesting artifacts. I’m going to extract General O’Neill from a very unstable area and I’m doing it on Earth. I know the region. I’ve been there before, remember? I flew in the First Gulf War, Daniel. I speak the language well enough to get by and I am going alone. Sorry.”

She crossed her office, pulled a map case out of a cabinet and then crouched and opened a file drawer. She stood holding a thick accordion folder of jumbled maps. One map slipped out and fell onto the floor as she crossed to her work table. Daniel picked it up. The cover said, ‘Saudi Arabia —Gate to the Middle East’ across it. Above the brilliant yellow letters three robed women with kohl around their luminous dark eyes gazed out over brightly colored veils.

Daniel waved the map under Sam’s nose and declared, “These people will not care that you are a Colonel in the US Air Force. They won’t care that you can kill or maim a physically fit opponent of either gender with your bare hands. They won’t even care that you can field strip a nuclear bomb or a naquida reactor! Sam, they will take one look at you and see a woman ...a western woman! They will pack you back here so fast it will make ‘Gate travel look like a tramp steamer. You will be ...” he flung the map onto the worktable, “humiliated, at best. At best! At worst, you’ll in constant mortal danger! Jesus, Sam! Going alone can only slow you down! Explain to me how that helps Jack!”

Sam grabbed the map he’d just flung down, slipped it into the map case with five others and a thick stack of topographic maps. “Thanks,” she said, “I was looking for that one.” Then she strapped the map case shut, stuck it under her arm, and headed for the door of her office.

“Water my plants,” she called back over her shoulder as she turned the corner into the hallway.

Daniel watched her go and called out, “Ask Teal’c because I’m leaving town ...With you or without you!”

“Well, damn-it, c’mon then,” Sam’s voice floated back.

“Yes!” Daniel hissed and he raced after her.


Chapter 6

Sam squinted into the setting sun and wiped tears from her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Daniel murmured in Djerbi.

“It’s these damned contact lenses,” Sam snapped back in English. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Daniel replied. “Of course you are. Why don’t you take them out? With your fair skin nobody’s going to believe you’re native here. You’ll pass as a Berber. Speak Djerbi. No, come to think of it I’ve heard your accent, better not speak at all.”

Sam pulled a contact case out of an inner pocket of her odiferous sheepskin vest and removed the offending brown-tinted lenses. Then she slipped the case inside her vest again and jabbed Daniel in the ribs.

“Go,” she murmured in Djerbi.

Daniel led the way across the wind-swept tarmac. Heat radiated off the black-tarred surface in shimmering waves. The sun hung high overhead. Dust-devils danced in the distance.

Daniel entered the building through a door indicating it was the official port of entry for visitors to Mosul. He presented himself at the counter.

“Edmund Ratner,” Daniel declared, pronouncing the Ds as sharply dentalized Ts and rolling his R for the benefit of an officially uniformed functionary seated behind a clear plastic screen. “I am expected,” he continued in perfect local dialect of the special, so-called ‘feminine’ form of Arabic, influenced by the Syrian dialect, due to the relatively small distance between the city of Mosul and Syria. Daniel pushed both sets of papers across the countertop, with a stack of ten 100-thousand dinar notes peeking from between the pages of his counterfeit Danish passport.

“And this one?” the official spat waving a hand in Sam’s direction.

“My assistant.” Daniel replied with a dismissive tone. “The boy lives in Mosul. He is a mute which makes him the perfect servant. Here are his identity papers.”

The official chuckled knowingly. Sam studied her sandals to avoid glaring at the pair of smirking men.

“Your business in our City,” the official asked in a voice that failed to conceal his all-consuming ennui.

“I am in search of antique military artifacts,” Daniel stated.

“Military?” the official tensed. His black eyes were suddenly alert.

“Antique,” Daniel repeated politely, “as in antiquities. I’m only interested in finds from the 6th Century BC, or earlier. In other words, items far, far too old to be useful or of any concern to anyone aside from collectors like myself ...and my boy here, who only cares about their weight, since he shall carry them home for me, of course.”

The official chuckled again at Sam’s expense and waved Daniel through.

Daniel gathered the papers together at a leisurely pace, returned them to his Danish-made calf-skin wallet, and gave the official a perfunctory nod. Without a glance back at Sam, he led the way from the stifling interior back into the brilliant, sun-drenched haze, and out into the streets beyond the airport complex. Sam trailed in his wake carrying the luggage.

Daniel didn’t acknowledge Sam at the curb. He simply hailed a cab, climbed in, and left her to deal with loading all of their belongings into the trunk. She scrambled into the front seat as Daniel told the driver the address of an upscale hotel that catered to an International clientele.

“Will you be interested, my friend, in companionship?” the taxi driver leered at Daniel. “I have a sister who is still a virgin. The child is ...”

Daniel cut the man off sharply, “I am not interested in your sister, mother, or aunt, for that matter. I have all the companionship I shall require in this unpleasant hole.”

The driver shot an angry glare at Sam and then grinned, hoping to at least retain his tip, and replied, “Ah, this Berber youngster is indeed tender, my friend, with his cheeks like ripe peaches and eyes the color of the sea. Most exotic.”

Daniel said nothing and Sam felt the color rise into her peach-like cheeks, but being a mute ‘boy’ she could do nothing except stare at her hands and wait for the taxi ride to end.

Ten minutes later, they left the cab, after having wound through a sea of snarled traffic and an impossible maze of alleys, which the driver continually assured Daniel would by-pass the traffic jams around the main market area. The driver had leaned out of his window three dozen times and hurled invectives at a universe of pedestrians that ranged from filthy ragamuffins hawking oranges and newspapers, through the owners or occupants of antiquated wagons drawn by emaciated donkeys and battered citrons that had died, blocking traffic, to clusters of middle-eastern elite adorned in Western garb and jay-walking as if they owned the streets.

Finally, the cab stopped veering, braking and accelerating, and the driver hit the brakes once more. Then he popped the trunk at the front of a massive marble-encased hotel. Sam scrambled out and gathered the bags from the trunk, then raced after Daniel who was already striding across the gleaming lobby, the quintessential international dealer in Middle Eastern antiquities.

Daniel arranged for a suite for himself with a small adjoining room for Sam. Apparently it was not unusual for travelers to have their own retainers and to prefer to keep them close at hand. Daniel completed his arrangements and, without speaking to Sam or even acknowledging her existence, gathered his papers and strode to the gold encrusted elevator. Sam trotted behind him, stooped under the bags and doing her best to hide her blue eyes and beardless face. Still more than a few of the other guests — all males — turned to watch her pass.

Daniel closed the door to his room behind Sam and blew out a silent exclamation, “Whew!”

Sam collapsed on the bed, half buried under luggage.

“You okay, Sam?” Daniel asked, pulling the largest bag off of her and placing it on the luggage rack at the end of the massive bed.

“Peachy,” she growled. “I guess the disguise works,” she continued, squirming under the tight bindings across her chest. She’d never thought of her breasts as large, but having them mashed against her ribs by broad cotton wrappings made them feel far too big for convenience and far too conspicuous, even tucked behind the loose leather vest.

“It’s hard to believe any man could look at you and see a young man,” Daniel replied. “When that cab driver gave you the once over, I thought we were busted for sure.”

“He saw what he expected to see, I guess,” Sam replied. “It’s the same with every man in the lobby downstairs. They all saw me as your ‘boy’ and it never occurred to them that I might be female.”

“It might be easier for you to travel as a woman,” Daniel suggested. “I’m pretty sure I can get you the necessary clothing.”

“No,” Sam snapped, “I’m not going to cover myself head to foot, Daniel. At least as your body servant, we can stick together, and I won’t have to worry about you.”

“Back atcha,” Daniel replied.

Sam sat up and pulled off her vest.

“Excuse me for a moment, Daniel,” she said as she scrambled off the bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Once inside its gleaming privacy, she pulled off her shirt and unwound the cotton straps around her torso. Then she leaned over the sink and, with a shaky exhalation, washed her face and neck, letting the water dribble down her sweat-salted back and chest.

Sam looked up into the face in the mirror. It was her own, blue-eyed, pink skin, and white teeth. She frowned and wrinkled her brows, but she couldn’t see herself as those men had seen her —as a male.

“Screw them,” she murmured and then donned her shirt, tossing the cotton wraps into a pile under the sink. She’d rebind herself later, if they went out, but for now she had more important things to worry about than how to hide her breasts.

Daniel was seated on the bed with his own vest and boots off when she returned to the room.

“Your turn,” she said and he eagerly took her place in the bathroom.

Sam heard water running as she pulled her files out of the false bottom in the carry-on bag they’d altered for the trip. The file had been organized by Mr. Pringle and couriered to the SGC. She hadn’t had a chance to review the material closely. Now was her chance.

The file had a stack of about a dozen 8 by 10 black and white photos. Sam tossed them one by one on the bed, examining each individually and then letting her eye roam over them together. They showed a variety of landscapes. Several showed rugged mountain-scapes. Two were of a decimated village. The rest were unbroken grasslands.

Sam heard the tap stop running in the bathroom. She returned her attention to the photos. There was something about them. Despite the variety of images they all seemed ... similar.

Daniel stepped into the room, looking refreshed and just pulling his shirt back over his head.

“Better?” Sam asked.

“Oh, yeah!” Daniel replied. “Making any headway?”

“What do you see?” Sam asked pointing her chin in the general direction of the photos.

“Black and white pictures of ... um ... battle damage.” Daniel replied.

“In the village,” Sam replied, “but what about the others?”

“Oh,” Daniel squinted and stammered, “Oh, I thought that they all showed ...”

Sam stiffened and looked at the photos again. She didn’t see it, but she held up a hand silencing Daniel and moved to stand beside him. From his vantage point at the bathroom door, the images did share a pattern. Each of them showed patterns of light and darkness, like burns across them.

“Whoa!” Sam hissed. “Good job, Daniel.”

“What are we looking at,” Daniel asked.

Sam moved back to the bed and lifted one of the grassland photos. The burns filled almost the entire photo, she realized. One corner showed undamaged landscape. The rest of the image was darker and the grass had a different texture about it.

Sam dropped the picture and lifted another. This one showed mountains. She peered at the image and saw the same combination of dark and light that didn’t fit the normal shadows she’d expect in mountains. There were long light fingers that fell behind the peaks. Before them, the ground seemed darker, almost as if it had been burnt. It was as if the mountains had blocked something.

Sam dropped the photo and turned to the village. There it was again. Behind a hut, she could see a lighter coloration, before it the earth was blackened. She held the image close and examined the areas behind the other huts and saw the pattern was consistent.

“Why battle damage?” she demanded.

“I ... It reminded me of what we saw on Abydos, after Ra attacked,” Daniel replied.

“I wasn’t there,” Sam said.

Daniel settled on the bed, staring at the image as he spoke, “Soon after we were married, Sha’re and I went alone together into the wild lands beyond her village. It’s a nuptial tradition to go into the mountains together. When you return, you’re no longer two people, you’re ... Never mind.”

He set the photo with the others, but continued to stare at it. “We climbed high over the village and the surrounding grasslands and there was this same pattern. Wherever there was the slightest protection, the shadows stopped, but where there was only grassland, we could see a pattern of perfect, uniform circles. The crops, trees, everything was knocked flat, unless it was protected from the energy burst.”

He pointed to dark circles on another image and concluded, “Exactly like that, Sam.”

ΩΩΩ

Daniel left within the hour to meet with their British contact in Mosul. Sam had sent him off with a list of additional tests SGC should run on the available telemetry on the landscape of the region where the strange pattern appeared.

Sam waited a moment after Daniel departed for his dinner meeting. Then she stripped and immersed herself in the tub right up to her eyebrows. When she woke, the water was icy and someone had just entered the room. Sam considered calling out, but didn’t. It might not, after all, be Daniel.

Instead, she slipped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around herself and eased behind the bathroom door. A moment passed and then another. She was just beginning to feel foolish when the bathroom doorknob turned and the door swung slowly open.

A man entered the bathroom. His back was to Sam, but she instantly recognized him as the taxi driver. Before he could turn, Sam kicked the back of his right knee and the man crashed to the tile floor. Her bare foot caught him again in the jaw, slamming his head back against the antique lead pipes to the sink. The overweight body went limp.

Sam stood for a moment, still dripping wet, gripping the towel at her chest.

Then, she dropped the towel, untied the man’s bootlaces and used them to securely bind his ankles. She stepped into the other room, pulled a table lamp cord out of the wall and jerked the cord loose from the base of the lamp. She returned to the bath, straddled the man, and tied his hands behind his back using the lamp cord. She stuffed a washcloth into his mouth and bound it there with a long strap of medical tape from the first aide kit.

Satisfied that the taxi driver wasn’t going anywhere, Sam toweled her hair dry, bound her chest in the obnoxious cotton straps, and dressed in her smelly native garb. Then she slipped out of the room and raced down the hallway to the backstairs, hoping that Daniel was still lingering over his dinner with their contact.

Instead of finding him at the restaurant, Sam intercepted him on the street a short distance from the hotel. Daniel didn’t break character when she raced up to him, but scowled darkly and demanded an explanation of her behavior.

Sam didn’t know what to do. As a mute boy, how was she supposed to explain? So, instead of going for charades, she pulled Daniel close and hissed in his ear, “I think we’ve been made! Now move!”

Daniel jerked her back and raged at her, “Stupid boy!” He thrust her before him as he spun and stormed down the street. Passers by glanced at them, but no one interfered as he berated his servant for his ‘stupidity.’ Sam cowered and cringed and moved, leading Daniel away from the hotel and into the late night streets of Mosul.

After several blocks, Daniel dropped the act. He took Sam’s hand and pulled her close, hissing. “No one’s following us, Sam. Now, tell me what happened?”

“The cab driver broke into our room,” Sam replied. “I left him tied in the bathroom. I don’t think he knew who hit him. I’m concerned he was looking for something more than ... than ...”

“Than you?” Daniel completed the thought. “He might have just wanted to rob me, or he might have wanted you. Pretty boys bring a good price in certain quarters. Or he could have been sent to kill us, I suppose. Or ...”

“Or he could have been working for the Trust,” Sam concluded. “C’mon. We’ve got to go back and interrogate him. This could be our lead to General O'Neill.”

ΩΩΩ

Daniel slowed as they approached the Hotel. Blue and red lights flashed around the entrance. Uniformed men strolled back and forth, patrolling the entry.

“Wait,” Sam hissed in Djerbi.

Daniel stopped and slid back into the shadows between a building and a tree. Sam slipped behind him and together they watched the entrance. After almost twenty minutes, a paramedical team emerged, carrying a heavy man on a stretcher. They were in no rush and the sheet was pulled over the man’s face.

“Jesus, Sam,” Daniel breathed, “he’s dead.”

Sam shook her head, “No. When I left him, he was alive, Daniel. I knocked him cold, but I didn’t kill him. No way.”

“Either way,” Daniel replied, “now there’s no need to go back to the hotel, unless you’d like a word with the local gendarme.”

Sam turned without speaking and led him back into the night.

ΩΩΩ

Daniel sat at the same table of the same hotel where he’d met their contact the night before, except Sam was beside him, elegantly appointed in modest robes of cobalt blue edged in silver. Her azure eyes burned over the veil every time Daniel caught her gaze. She was so not loving this.

Still, Daniel couldn’t help but appreciate the effect of the robes on her persona. Ever since she’d emerged from the alleyway where she’d stripped off her boy’s gear and donned the robes he’d purchased in a local store, she’d been a different person entirely. She moved differently. In the feminine garb, she almost seemed to float. She held her head differently. She even sipped her tea with elegance that he’d never seen when she wore a uniform, or even Western street clothes.

Besides, with Sam looking so ... yummy ...Daniel had to smile. He couldn’t help but imagine the impact of this fascinating side of Sam on Jack, if only he was here to see it.

The arrival of their contact interrupted Daniel’s musings. He stood to shake hands with the man he knew only as Alan. The dark-eyed spy settled beside Daniel and smiled at Sam and murmured, “Colonel.”

Sam remained silent, but her eyes shot daggers at the man.

Daniel leaned forward and, partly to preserve Sam from blowing a gasket, began to brief Alan.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Daniel began.

“First,” Alan interrupted, smiling seductively at Sam, “we dine.”

Daniel leaned back, exasperated.

Sam’s eyes smoldered.

Alan waved for a waiter and ordered for each of them without asking their preferences. The food arrived almost immediately and, despite himself, Daniel tucked into the food. It had been a long night and a stress-filled day waiting for this meet.

Daniel glanced at Sam, who was demurely navigating food under her veil. He committed to apologizing to her later and to getting her a proper meal when they were in private where she could actually drop the act and eat it.

When the last plate had been cleared away and they were lingering over tea, Daniel leaned over to Alan and said, “Now.”

Alan nodded. “Now, my friend; The results of the tests you requested indicate the patterns are real. Your friends checked Abydos and other places and found similar patterns ...elsewhere ...if you understand? Yes? In addition, the scan of the effected areas originally photographed indicates several interesting ...developments.”

Sam leaned in her eyes glowing.

“First,” Alan continued, smiling at her, “the scans revealed a unique energy signature. Just as elements burn at particular spectral wavelengths, so do energy weapons leave a residual spectral signature. These match signatures off world, including the residues on Abydos.”

“Ra,” Daniel murmured, remembering the explosion that Jack had caused and the joy that had swept the planet when the Abydosians believed their false god was dead.

“Go on,” Sam hissed, her veil fluttering over her breath.

“Second,” Alan complied, “early results indicate directionality.”

Sam lost her composure, “Can we track them?”

Alan grinned at that and paused, stretching the tension until Daniel thought Sam might explode.

“Third,” Alan concluded, “we can not only track them, as you say Colonel, we can nail them.“

Alan called for the bill and Sam and Daniel followed him into the night. A van pulled up and the side panel door slid open.

“Get in,” Alan ordered. Daniel complied and Sam followed, helped up by Alan’s chivalrous hand.

Alan followed her in and swung the door shut. Then the van pulled back into traffic.

ΩΩΩ

They drove through the remainder of the night and, as the sun rose, Sam could see they’d been heading south and east. She’d dozed off and on while they’d been on real highways. Before sunrise, however, the van had left smooth roads and had jostled Sam and everyone else rudely awake.

Sam wriggled inside her twisted robes and yawned. “Daniel,” she said in Djerbi, jabbing him in the side, “I need to see the files.”

Daniel jabbed Alan in the side and repeated the request.

“She must wait,” Alan murmured.

“Why?” Sam demanded in feminine Arabic, bypassing Daniel

“Do not speak to me woman,” Alan barked.

Sam felt like she’d been slapped. Hot blood raced into her face and she would have demanded an explanation, but Daniel gripped her forearm through her robes and hissed, “Cool it, Sam. There’s a reason.”

To Sam’s shock, Daniel apologized to Alan on her behalf and as her protector. It was humiliating.

Sam slumped into the protection of her robes and tried to understand. What had she missed? Alan had been collegial, open, and respectful over dinner, what had changed?

She was still working the problem when the van stopped. Alan opened the side door and climbed out. Daniel followed and offered Sam his hand as she stood and moved out of the van in a low crouch. Blood ran back into her legs and butt. She wanted to ignore Daniel’s offered hand, but forced herself to accept it.

‘There’s a reason,’ she told herself repeatedly as Daniel led her away from the van, following Alan into a shabby building constructed mostly of beaten metal drums.

Sam blinked as she entered the ‘shack’ because the interior was well-lit, organized as an electronics lab, and spotlessly clean.

“Forgive me,” Alan said instantly. “The others are not ...enlightened males, Colonel Carter. I depend on them, but I cannot trust them. Neither should you. I should have warned you and Doctor Jackson before we joined them last night. I failed to do so and you were embarrassed as a result of my error. I apologize for that. Will you forgive me?”

“Yes,” Sam replied. The tension remained however, so she continued, “If you can find me a change of clothing and something I can eat.”

Alan grinned spontaneously and, with a little bow, departed to fulfill Sam’s every request. She rubbed her eyes, wishing she could scratch her hair, but it was trapped under the flowing wimple-like veil and robes.

Daniel gave her a rueful smile and said, “Still wanna see that file?”

“Yah, sure, you-betcha,” she replied. Daniel snickered, probably at the vision of a fully robed Middle Eastern woman speaking northern Minnesotan.

Daniel handed over the information and Sam settled on a lab bench, opened the file, and went to work.

Chapter 7

Alan slid the van door slid back and clambered inside, carrying a bundle of odorous clothing and another of smelling warmly of lamb and grain wrapped in hot flatbread. He handed them to Sam.

Sam dropped the filthy bundle of clothing, tore off her veil and began to gobble the food, while continuing to work — with pencil and pad of paper on her knees — on the results of the tests she’d ordered.

"It is definitely directional," she mumbled around a mouthful. "It's trending north-by-northwest to south-southeast. So, the source is likely to be either in one direction ...or the other. Hmmm. If we ..."

She lapsed into silence broken only by the sound of her pencil working furiously across the pages and the occasional sound of her taking another bite of sandwich.

Alan watched her, bemused by her focus as she worked her way through the food in her left hand without pausing the work of her right. Her hair was uncovered and stood in a frenzy of curls and tufts that would have been comical in another woman. On Samantha Carter they were just another indication of her priorities. Hair was definitely far down on her list. Far, far down the list.

Alan closed his eyes to the sound of her pencil scratching. He must have drifted off to sleep because when he awoke Sam Carter had discarded the rest of her feminine garb and was dressed in the rough pants and pullover he'd bartered his cell phone for in a nearby village. Her head was covered again in a dark turban. It was tightly wrapped in a pattern appropriate to the region, with one end of the cloth hanging down her right shoulder. She'd be able to pull it over her face, hiding her beardless face and soft lips, if necessary.

'Jackson,' Alan figured, 'probably tied it for her.'

"I think we have a location," she said without waiting for him to finish his yawn. "Look."

Alan bent forward and scanned the page she'd covered with tight, neat handwriting.

He glanced at her and shrugged, "I'm sorry, Dr. Carter," he said. "I don't understand the math. Perhaps you can explain it to me in simple terms."

She frowned, nodded, and said, “Okay. Think of metal filings and a magnet.

"Yes," Alan encouraged.

"They tend to line up along the magnetic field," she continued.

"Yes," Alan replied.

"The signature of this weapon behaves the same way," she continued, "except of course there is a burst of energy, not a static field. This allows us to identify the locus of the impact. Knowing the locus and the relative intensity, which tends to be stronger toward the point of origin of the energy flow, allows us to determine direction in a very crude manner."

"This gave us the directionality you mentioned," Alan offered.

"Correct, but nothing else. The location can only be determined because it seems clear that the weapon is in a static location. So, by conducting a meta-analysis across the pattern of impacts, we establish a pattern of slight differences. This, of course, demonstrates a slightly more pronounced difference the farther from the source and less so closer to the source. Having completed a rough analysis, I'd need a computer to refine this, but we don't really need to. It seems almost certain that the source is here."

"Why not?" Alan asked.

She thrust a topo map at Alan. He took it and saw her finger pressed over a flat region of Turkey, near the City of Yerevan.

"39 degrees 42.26 seconds North by 44 degrees 17.5 seconds East," she said in a low voice filled with meaning Alan didn't quite grasp.

Alan glanced at Dr. Jackson who was slumped in the far corner with his eyes half closed. Jackson opened his red-rimmed eyes and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "Mount Ararat - according to the Bible the resting place of Noah's Ark after the Great Flood."
“The place of ten thousand martyrs,” Alan murmured, referring to a legend that Roman soldiers had been crucified on the mountain. He instantly regretted it when he saw Samantha Carter’s eyes grow hard and bright.

"So what?” she growled. “It’s also the site of the ultimate battle between the United States, Russia, the raccoon/tanuki leader Dr. Pon, and Rami the freakin' hero in the freakin' Keio_Flying_Squadron on Mega_CD!"

Alan gazed at Jackson for help, who replied.

“You didn’t do anything, Alan,” he said. “Sam just gets a bit ... intense when she hasn’t had coffee and we make her wear girlie clothes, and ... when Jack’s missing.”

A hot flush rushed into Sam’s face and she turned away, embarrassed.

Alan nodded and said, “I see. Sorry Dr. Carter. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She turned back and said in a low voice, "It's Colonel Carter, Alan. Now, what's the fastest way into Turkey and who can we count on in the City of Yerevan?"

"Sam, what about going after Jack?" Daniel blurted, suddenly fully awake and on his feet. "General Hammond made that our top priority. Finding the Trust can wait until ..."

"Until what!" Sam barked, jumping to her feet, "Where do you suggest I look for him Daniel? Tell me and we'll go!"

Alan watched, aghast. Despite his liberal upbringing, women in Israel rarely spoke to their male colleagues so bluntly and certainly never in front of strangers. Even more surprising Dr. Jackson slumped back onto the bench and nodded.

"You're right," he sighed. "I don't know where we'd start."

The Colonel slumped onto the bench beside him, put her hand on his knee and gave it a quick squeeze.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I am worried and ... frustrated. If we'd only reached that cab driver before they did. If I'd only thought ..."

"You tied him up and left him there because you were coming to warn me, Sam," Jackson replied. "You looked after your team."

Alan watched in amazement. These two were already past the outburst and moving forward, supporting each other.

'To have two such friends, this O'Neill must be something special,' Alan mused. ‘A real mensch.’

"So," Colonel Carter confirmed, patting Jackson's knee again, "it's Turkey?"

Jackson nodded and said, "Gobble, gobble."


Chapter 8

Indiana crouched and gazed into the uncertain twilight. The sun had finally slipped below the horizon. He’d just begun his nightly routine of jogging across the flat plateau when, unexpectedly, something moved in the grass ahead. He hadn’t really seen it, but he felt certain it was out there, but what was it?

He tested the wind. It carried no scent, but then again it was blowing from the west, carrying his scent and that of his quarry off without warning either of the other’s presence. Except, Indiana knew the other was out there.

The teenager moved forward quickly. He was famished and the prospect of food drew him on.

In the two weeks since the attack, he’d lived on k-rations scrounged from the dead. He’d hidden for five hours, wedged in a narrow crevice in the rock face behind a dense shrub, while the enemy had scoured the mountains for survivors. Indiana had remained perfectly still, biting his knuckles to keep from crying, and listened to sporadic single shots as men he’d called friends were executed. Then, silence fell. He waited. Eventually, long into the night he slipped back to the edge of the village, found no one alive, and stripped everything of use from the dead. Then he obeyed his orders, skirted the village, and headed northwest for Mosul. The rations ran out four days ago and the young man had chewed grass since then. He was more than ready for some fresh meat.

Indiana slowed. The wind had shifted briefly and he caught a smell. The animal had to be very close for him to smell it.

‘Must be something like a woodchuck,’ he thought, ‘If it was a deer or somethin’ big, I’d see it by now.’

He inched forward, rifle ready. Then, in a blur, something charged him. Indiana pulled up the rifle, but before he had it to his shoulder he was thrown backwards with an iron grip around his midsection. He fell. The rifle discharged. An elbow connected with his jaw, snapping his head back.

Indiana blacked out.

ΩΩΩ

Indiana’s head pounded. He opened one eye ever-so-slightly. He was bewildered. He remembered an attack, but … One minute he’d been hunting a woodchuck. The next he was down and fighting for his life. From the throb in his head and his jaw, he’d lost. He didn’t move a muscle, figuring he’d feign unconsciousness, until he got some idea of what … and who … he was up against.

In the dim light of a waning moon, he could make out the silhouette of his captor.

‘Yep and that would be “captor”,’ he groaned, ‘my hands and feet are definitely tied. Shit!’

The profile looked fierce. The man had a heavy silver-streaked beard and a hawk-nose. He wore a dark turban and a thick, hairy vest. He sat perfectly still, gazing into the night. Then, to Indiana’s amazement, he lifted one hand in front of his face, wiggled his fingers, and muttered, “Crud.”

The boy thought furiously. ‘What the hell is this?’ he wondered.

“Sir?” he hissed.

The profile turned abruptly and demanded, “Who are you?”

“Sir?” Indiana replied. “You know me. I’m Indaoui, Corporal Indaoui, General O’Neill. They call me Indiana.”

The man scrambled over and peered into his face.

“Sir?” Indiana repeated. “General, you’re really freakin’ me out. What’s wrong with you? You know me, Sir!”

“It’s okay, Corporal,” the old General sighed and he settled back on the ground. He leaned on one elbow and asked, “You can see?”

“Well, yeah …” Indiana said, mystified. Then it hit him, “Sir, can’t you?”

There was a long silence before the General answered, “Not so much – No. I can see light and dark. I can see movement … a bit. I’m lucky that you stumbled over me, Corporal. I’ve been wondering whether I was still heading the right way.”

Indiana thought about that for a moment before replying. “You are, but … if you can’t see, Sir … how?”

“Call me Jack, kid,” the old man replied. “There’s the wind. It comes from the west most of the time. There’s heat from the sun. I can feel it. I can see the light. I used that to get a fix at sundown.”

Indiana thought about that and remembered how freaking scared he’d been alone out here crossing the endless expanse of grass. This old man had done it blind.

‘Jesus,’ the boy thought. ‘No wonder you’re in charge.’

“Jack?” Indiana asked, “You had anything to drink or eat?”

“Not for a few days,” Jack replied.

“I’m out of food,” Indiana said, “but here’s my canteen.”

He shoved the hard plastic container into the other man’s hands and watched him take three long thirsty pulls.

“You can have more, Sir,” Indiana said as Jack lowered the canteen. “I can smell water up ahead. I expect we’ll hit it in a day or less.”

Jack tightened the cap and handed back the canteen. “I’ll wait a bit,” he said. Then he stood and said, “C’mon, kid. We’re probably still about thirty clicks out of Mosul. When we get there, the beer’s on me.”

Indiana took point and, to his amazement, Jack followed him as if he could see. They jogged through the night and, at dawn, rested. Indiana offered the canteen again at noon and, again, Jack took three long pulls and handed it back. Indiana forced himself to follow suit, although if he’d been alone he’d have drained it.

ΩΩΩ

The sun had set and they’d set off again at a steady jog. Indiana led the way, but glanced over his shoulder every so often to make sure he hadn’t lost his commanding officer. The old man was back there, steady as a rock despite the fact that he apparently couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

Indiana wondered as he jogged why Jack had asked if he could see. The old man hadn’t explained what had happened. Indiana figured it was a battle injury, but Jack hadn’t asked if he was injured. He’d asked if he could see …

Indiana slowed and let Jack close the distance. He kept slightly ahead, but close enough to talk.

“What happened to you, Jack?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” the old man responded.

“Your eyes,” Indiana persisted, feeling uncomfortable even saying it.

“Classified,” Jack said.

Indiana considered that for a moment, as they jogged on, and then asked, “Why’d you ask if I could see?”

“You don’t give up, do you Indaoui?” Jack grumped.

“No Sir,” Indiana smiled, “I don’t.”

He jogged a bit farther and then, feeling smug, asked, “Do you?”

Indiana heard the other man chuckle and then reply, “I wondered if it hit you, too: A bright light, a shock wave. Did you run into anything like that Indiana?”

“No Sir,” the kid replied. “That’s what happened? A nuke maybe?”

“Not a conventional nuke,” Jack countered, “or I’d be dead by now. I’m hungry and tired, but I’m not sick. So, no sickness, no radiation exposure, I figure, no nuke ... at least not the kind you’re thinking.”

“What about …” Indiana began.

“Classified, Corporal,” Jack interrupted. “If I tell you I’ll have to kill you. And if I kill you, I’ll probably die out here.”

Indiana laughed and his curiosity satisfied, let his thoughts drift to other things, including the promised beer the old man would buy him in Mosul. Indiana was thirsty. In his mind the beer was a tall, cold 16 ounce longneck with beads of sweat trickling down the sides. It was only a few clicks away, he told himself. Indiana picked up the pace.

Sunrise came and Indiana slowed and then settled into the deep green grass on a small knoll. As Jack approached, he reached up and tugged at his sleeve, pulling the old man down beside him.

Indiana watched as fingers of light traced across the plain to touch the city of Mosul on the far horizon. Then he said, “We’re here, Sir. We made it. I can see a good sized city on the horizon, maybe five clicks from here. There’s a road off to the north of us. There’s a truck on it, moving toward the city. Tonight we’ll slip in and you can buy me that beer.”

Jack stretched out in the grass and murmured, “Sleep, kid. We’ll move on later this morning. First, grab some shut-eye. We’re gonna look poor and hungry, but not exhausted; Just a couple more ignorant plainsmen wandering into town to see the sights.”

Indiana obeyed, settling into the soft thick grass. It was still damp and soaked through the back of his vest and tunic, but the cool wetness was welcome. He grabbed a handful and ran his tongue along the stems, licking off the dew. It wasn’t enough to quench his thirst, but it was something to do until sleep came.

Indiana woke when Jack shook him. He opened his eyes and felt a hand clamped over his mouth. He glanced sideways, the direction the old man was gazing intently.

A small family group was making their way slowly toward the city, driving several hundred long tailed sheep ahead of them. Indiana didn’t move a muscle as he saw five dogs working the sheep. One raced back and forth not ten yards from them. Luckily, the dog was intent on the sheep and didn’t smell them. In time the sheep moved on, followed by the dogs and the shepherds.

Jack relaxed as the sounds faded. Finally, he released his grip.

“They’re gone,” Indiana hissed, “Out of sight.”

“Right,” Jack replied as he slumped in the grass.

“That was close,” Indiana said beginning to tremble as the adrenalin still pounded in his system.

“Take a couple of deep breaths,” Jack said. “It helps. Then you gotta check us over for anything that might give us away. We go in with nothing foreign. Nothing. Not our boots, not our knives, not a single thing. You got that, Corporal Indaoui?”

“Yes Sir,” Indiana replied.

He went through their gear twice. Although none of their equipment was regulation US military, they discarded it in favor of local or regional goods. They dumped rifles, hand guns, knives, ammo, compasses, belts, and every other item not of Middle Eastern origin. Indiana double and triple checked their clothing, right down to their regulation skivvies. They stripped, relinquishing boxers, t-shirts, and long johns. Then they dressed in entirely native garb.

Indiana fastened his loose pants with a short length of twine. He handed another piece of worn rope to Jack, who cinched it around his waist, then dropped his filthy woolen tunic over his head and pulled on his vest. Indiana followed suit.

Last to go were their boots and socks. They pulled them off reluctantly. Each man had been issued a pair of crude native sandals and thick woolen socks. Their feet were already sore, but they donned the rough handmade socks and slipped their feet into the loose sandals and hobbled slowly toward the waking city under a warm morning sun with Indiana leading Jack by his sleeve.

As they approached the city and Jack heard the sounds of traffic, he stopped and hissed at Indaoui, “No matter what happens, just keep your eyes down and keep walking into the city. Don’t stop. No matter what.”

Chapter 9

Four hours later Indiana slowed and Jack stopped. He could hear crowds of people and animals moving around them. He’d told the kid to just keep going with the flow of people entering the city. Stopping or looking around might make them stand out if anyone was on the look out for them.

“Move,” Jack growled in the local dialect. He doubted Indiana knew the word, but counted on him catching the gist from his tone. It worked. They started shambling forward again.

Jack felt a cool shadow pass over him and guessed they were close to the city wall. There was a press of bodies and he moved forward, jostled on all sides. A donkey brayed near him. He caught the stench of old urine and then they stepped back into bright sunlight. The crowd thinned. They’d made it through. After sixteen days, they were in Mosul.

Jack followed for another twenty minutes as the Corporal led him along rough city streets. There were horns and the sound of cars braking and accelerating. Jack smelled gusts of diesel and heard the irritating racket of two-stroke scooters.

Ahead, there was the sound of an old man’s voice calling out, begging. Jack pulled Indiana to a stop, then leaned forward and whispered.

“What do you see ahead?”

“We’re in a small square. There’s a mosque ahead of us and beyond that a fountain. I thought we’d stop for water,” Indiana replied.

“We will,” Jack agreed. “We will wash our hands and faces thoroughly, then drink, then you will guide me to the steps of the mosque and leave me there.”

“No,” Indiana argued, “I’m not leaving you.”

“Listen to me, son,” Jack hissed, “You’ll be back for me. I’m going to wait here because you have got to make contact with someone I trust or we are both well and truly screwed. By yourself you will be less conspicuous. Here sitting in the shade, I’ll look like just another beggar. Together, we endanger each other. You understand that?”

“Yes, Sir,” the boy replied. Jack heard fear in his reply.

“Relax, kid,” he said more gently. “It’s a cakewalk from here. You’ll go to the city center. There’s a huge honking fountain there with three leaping fish. Stand in front of that fountain facing east and you’ll see a tall cement-block building. There’s a side alley on the left as you face it. Go down that alley and you’ll see a heavy metal door. It used to be painted red. It’s heavy. It’s always locked. There’s a guard and there used to be dogs inside. So, just bang on the door and shout ‘La-neel’ at the top of your lungs. If a woman comes out, run. If a big, ugly son-of-a-bitch comes out carrying a sawed-off shotgun, that’s Bear. Walk right up to him and tell him he’s a sorry bastard who still owes Jack La-neel a blood oath. Then, if Bear doesn’t shoot you, bring him back here.”

Indiana didn’t speak for so long that Jack finally added, “I’m kidding about him shooting you. Bear’s an old friend and that’s code. Spy-stuff, Corporal. Be back before sundown or they’ll take me away and lock me up god-knows-where. Now go.”

Jack stood straighter and let the kid lead him to the fountain. They both washed and drank. Jack stuck his entire head, turban and all, into the cold fresh water. Then Indiana led him to the steps of the mosque and left. Jack sat in the cool shade at the foot of the mosque, probably the only part of the city where vagrants hadn’t anointed the steps with piss. He leaned back into the shade and closed his eyes. After a while he dozed, praying for the sound of Indiana’s footsteps.

ΩΩΩ

It was cold when Jack woke with a start. He felt the chill night air brushing his face, wedged himself farther back into the corner where the steps met the building, and huddled deeper into his grubby sheepskin vest.

As he waited in the dark, Jack wondered, “Where’s the kid?” He realized that a million things could have happened. Indiana could have gotten lost. Maybe Bear moved on. Maybe he was dead.

‘God, it’s over ten years since I last saw him,’ Jack thought, ‘but there’s nobody else here. He was my contact.’

Footsteps interrupted Jack’s worrying. He wanted to stand so the kid wouldn’t miss him in the dark, but his field training held. It might be anyone.

Jack waited and listened. There were soft steps of leather booted feet on the cobbles. After it came the shuffling steps of a second man, maybe an old man, maybe grossly overweight. Maybe Bear. It sounded like he was wearing thick-soled boots. Jack could imagine Bear in heavy boots. It fit. He shifted.

In the coming weeks, he’d replay that moment over and over, trying to decide what made him pause. A sound? Instinct? Whatever it was kept him alive.

The instant he hesitated, the wall overhead exploded. Jack fell and jammed himself against the corner, covering his head. Flashes of light penetrated his dimmed vision. Rubble rained down. He rolled into a ball as the wall collapsed and buried him blocking all sound and light.

ΩΩΩ

Jack felt hands pulling at him. For some reason that he couldn’t grasp someone else was holding him back, dragging at his back and legs until he felt like he was being pulled apart. Then, suddenly, he was free and being carried across a space full of fresh cold air.

“Sir!” Indaoui’s anxious voice rang through the fog, “General, hang on. We’re with friends. Just hang on.”

Jack opened his eyes but saw only darkness. There was no sensation of motion, but he felt frantic movement all around him.

“What …?” he began, but a hand silenced him. He felt a jolt and realized that he was still moving, being carried on some sort of litter. He didn’t feel any pain, but some part of his brain warned him that in the not too distant future that would change.

Jack let go. He let them take him, trusting that whoever had him knew where to go and how to get there.

The next time he woke, Jack was no longer in motion. Every movement, in fact, sent shocks of fire through his back and left leg, or was it the right? No, the left. He was on his stomach. Experience told him that was not a positive sign.

“What … ?” he croaked again. No one stopped him, but he felt someone grip his forearm and Indaoui spoke.

“You’re safe,” he said, “You’ll be fine. Just wait. Don’t move. I … I got lost, Sir. It was dark. I found the fountain, but I couldn’t find the way back. When we finally got to the right mosque, there were a couple of foreign heavies standing almost on top of you. They had some sort of … weird weapon aimed right at you. Bear didn’t wait. He just pulled up and shot them both with a double load of heavy shot. The one with the weapon fired as he fell and …”

“I’m alive,” Jack said. “Thanks to you, we’ll be fine. Get some rest Sergeant.”

“Corporal,” Indiana said, “Sir, I’m a Corporal.”

“You were,” Jack replied, “a Corporal. Now you’re in charge. You’re a Sergeant. You’ve earned another stripe.”

Indaoui moved, but Jack grabbed his sleeve.

“Before you go,” he said, “tell me.”

“Bear’s got us both tucked away in a safe place, General,” Indaoui said, “In the morning there’ll be pain killers and maybe a doctor. We’ll move out then and try for western Turkey. Maybe Kos or even Antalia.” Then the young voice hesitated.

Jack’s heart sunk. It was bad.

“Your left leg’s crushed. You should stay perfectly still. Your back may be broken.”

Indaoui stood for a moment. Then he walked away.

Jack listened and wanted to say something light-hearted and encouraging, but he couldn’t think of anything except, ‘Fuck.’



Chapter 10

Daniel hunched over his laptop and cursed softly.

“What?” Sam asked leaning in closer to look over his shoulder. The laptop bounced too much for her to see why Daniel was cursing.

“You said the readings all point us toward Mount Ararat,” Daniel replied, glancing up from the screen.

“Yes,” Sam replied.

“Well,” Daniel said, “that just doesn’t make sense.”

Sam frowned and said, “Explain.”

Alan opened his eyes and then shifted in the back of their van that sped over crude back roads that should by morning empty onto the main highway leading into Yerevan, Turkey, at the foot of Mount Ararat. He scrambled forward, bracing himself against the wall of the van to avoid being thrown off his feet as the vehicle swayed and lurched.

Daniel sighed, rubbed his eyes and said, “Mount Ararat is the most sacred place in Turkey. It has been revered since before there were written accounts, Sam. It’s about as unlikely a place for the Trust to establish a modern weapons base as … as the US military building the Mall of America on level 28 of Cheyenne Mountain.”

“Lousy analogy,” Sam replied, “but I follow you … I think.”

“I’ve been at this all night,” Daniel yawned, “give me a break. The point is this: I just don’t see it happening. It doesn’t make sense.”

Alan reached the pair and settled on the bench on the other side of Daniel.

“Perhaps,” Alan interjected, “it is not a modern weapons base.”

Sam and Daniel both fixed him with dubious glares.

“Excuse me,” he continued apologetically, “I do realize that you are the world experts in the subject and I am only … well … only your local contact. I know nothing of the Trust, nothing of these off world weapons of which you are so concerned. I do, however, know my people’s history. In that … I am expert. I also know the Middle East and its history from … How did you phrase it? ‘Before there were written accounts’?”

He fixed Daniel with a sardonic smirk.

“Explain,” Daniel prompted, closing the cover of his laptop.

“My mother’s mother,” Alan began, “lived with us when I was still very young. She would tell me a story every night when she put me to bed. She was old, very, very old, and prone to forgetfulness. Often she’d not remember which stories she’d told me and which she had not. So she would, often as not, retell a story that I’d heard many times before. This was one of her favorites.”

Sam felt a tickle of intuition and nodded encouragement, “Go on.”

“‘Alan,’ she would say,” Alan replied in a soft voice, “‘ours is a brave and an ancient people. There was a time before the Prophets, before the Kings, before we knew our one true God whose name is unspoken, when the people who are today called Jews worshiped Idols. There were a host of lesser beings believed to be divine. Some were of the wind, or of the water, and were unseen except for their effects on our people’s lives. Others, however, walked the Earth and they were powerful, my beloved son. Powerful, but they were Pretenders. The people of our lineage – your mother’s mother’s mother and the generations before her, far, far down into the depths of your family’s ancient womb – knew these Pretenders for what they were – Demons! Devils! Creatures! A line of vile beasts … crawling … evil … Snakes in the Holy Garden of humanity’s cradle. She that gave birth to us all knew them, Alan. She could see their true face. She recognized them. She saw that those beings that people worshiped in their foolishness and ignorance donned Mankind as you and I might put on a cloak or a cap … or a mask!’”

Sam swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘The ancient people who are today called Jews!’ the words rang in her heart. ‘My people, too,’ she thought, but Alan continued and Sam forced her feelings down and focused on his story.

‘Edith was her name, little Alan,’ the story continued. ‘Edith was a good wife and simple in her ways. She worked, gave birth to strong sons and daughters, and lived a life as any woman did in those days. Edith never sought a gift, but it was ordained that one day that she should receive a gift that would lead her children and their children out of the wilderness of the false gods.’

‘It was washing day. Edith had walked with her five young daughters to the washing house in the center of the town. The women talked of things of which women have always spoken – of marriage, of children, of cooking, and of the affairs of the family and the village, of a thousand small things that taken together form the fabric of life and, thus, become vital.’

‘It was told to me that Edith and her daughters had finished the washing and were returning to their home, a fine earthen house in a block of homes on the side of a sunny hill, when without warning screaming split the air and the sky opened in a great black mouth!’

‘Edith fell to her knees in terror and gathered her young to her side. The fresh washing spilled into the dust and not one of them cared! All were struck dumb with fear and could only stare into that gaping mouth that vomited forth something no one had ever before seen! Birds! A flock of eagles! Or perhaps vultures! This is how it was told to me, Alan, and to my mother! Edith had no word for the beasts that flew from the mouth, except those simple words of our people. Soon, however, it was clear that the flying things were not birds, not even the fiercesome Eagle, nor the Vulture! They were gold-clad. The screams grew as they flew over the village. Edith wept and clutched her children, unable to even run, she was so afraid!’

‘The flying things swept over her. Their shadows blocked the sun, casting a shadow over her. Edith knew it was the chill of death. They grew larger and larger and finally, touched the Earth in the center of the village. Wild with terror, Edith scrambled to her feet, grasped her daughters’ like a hen with her frightened chicks. She raced to her house with the little ones clinging to her robes. There she gathered her sons to her breast as well and hid the family inside!’

‘As Edith cowered in the house, she could hear the screams and cries of her neighbors! She heard other sounds ... terrible sounds, sounds with no name. She wept in fear and then, to her consternation, remembered. The washing! She’d left it spilled on the road.’

‘Today Alan, we buy our clothing and throw it away without a thought, but in Edith’s time, it was very, very different. Each article of clothing was precious and essential. Each piece was made by hand from flax or from wool that Edith gathered, washed, spun, and wove with her two simple hands. Each piece was cared for and passed from one child to the next. The loss of a week’s washing would devastate the family. So, filled with fear and torn between protecting her children or letting them go unclothed, Edith faced a terrible choice. Finally, with screams ringing in her ears, she told Duv, the eldest boy, to take charge of the others, and to keep them safe in the house no matter what. Then, Edith went out!’

‘What she saw, Alan, I cannot say. No one knows, because Edith had no words for the wonders! She told the story later many, many times, but there was no word for the wonder of it, except for terror! People ran, she told us, people died in the streets from fire like none she’d ever seen. People fell down in fear and prayed to those that had flown from the skies! Edith saw all this and she retold it to her children and their children. So it came to me to tell you my beloved. There was more, all terrible and unnamed, that Edith could not retell. That does not mean it wasn’t happening, my Son, breaking over her like a great wave, crashing around her, because it was. Brave Edith, courageous mother of us all, went forth into this and found the washing tumbled in the street. She gathered every piece into the bundle and ran as fast as she could run through the streets back to the house.’

‘In time, silence fell. In time, Edith’s husband returned, white and shaking with fear for their welfare. He found all were safe and all was in good order within the home and he praised his good wife Edith. Finally, they slept. In the morning they came forth from the house, sore afraid, with all the people. There, in the center of their village, was a tremendous wonder. A Palace stood unlike any structure these simple villagers had ever imagined. It was bigger than a hundred houses, nay a thousand! It stood taller than the mountains. It shone bright as the sun against the morning sky!’

‘There were many among the villagers who said they’d been blessed. They called the new thing a blessing and those who made it gods. Edith, however, held her tongue. She watched the newly come beings. They were fierce and strong. They took what they wanted from the village without asking or paying. Some people were killed. Others were left without homes when the Palace, that was named Kuyunjik, sprung up in the midst of the village. Edith wondered, how can the great power that gives me children and the bread in my mouth, be as a tyrant over these good, simple people? She had no answer. She was not schooled as women are taught today. She was not clever. She was only a wife and a mother. So, Edith waited and observed and formed her own opinion of what others called a miracle.’

‘It wasn’t long, Alan, before young people of the village were brought into the palace of the “new gods”, as they were named. Edith’s eldest son, Duv, and her eldest daughter, Miran, were taken into the Palace and did not return. It broke her heart, though others celebrated their good fortune – For in those days the family was paid for children thus taken – Edith wept bitter tears. Still, she did not share her thoughts or her sorrow. Instead, determined to see her children and to save them, she took herself to the Palace and asked for work.’

‘Edith was strong and a good cook. She worked hard. She was a fine seamstress. She told this to the mighty guards at the door of the Palace and, to her fear and joy, was admitted. She told her skills many times that fateful day, as she was sent from one place to another within the massive fortress of gold. Finally, one of the slaves handed her a bucket and cloth and said she should work as a charwoman.’

‘Edith’s husband was afraid. He forbid her to return, but Edith was determined. She loved him well and showed how clever her daughters were that they could care for the house without her. She promised to be careful and she went back into the palace as a charwoman the next day. Edith worked within the house of the New Gods for many days and never saw her lost children. She worked hard. She was silent and waited and watched. At last, Alan, Edith discovered their fate. The children of the village, all of them male and female alike, were held in what could only be called a Harem. She found them pampered and dressed in finery, waiting for selection by a New God.’

‘Edith spoke to her children, at grave personal risk. She told her son and daughter to be strong and to be patient. She would bring them out the next day, dressed in their old clothing. So the next day she carried their robes within her own loose clothing and carried three buckets instead of one.’

‘She slipped into the palace unchallenged. She found her young. As they were working their way toward the door, by scrubbing the floor of the Harem, the New Gods appeared!’

‘Edith was terrified, but kept working. Her children were brave and intelligent and did the same. While they worked, two beautiful children were chosen, a boy and a girl, by the New Gods. That was the moment that Edith learned the truth – the creatures within the Palace were low, squirming beasts that wore human beings, like a tapeworm, a parasitic thing, they needed a human body to become anything other than a foul crawling beast.’

‘Edith and her children escaped that day. They left the Palace with others who worked there. Her heart soared! Freedom! She was a mother and she knew other mothers must understand that being chosen by the New Gods was no blessing. It was a death sentence for their children. She would go from this village and bring her children with her. First, she had to speak.’

‘Edith sent her husband and children away that evening. In the gathering gloom they left her alone in an empty house. They carried their belongings – all food, clothing, tools, everything. And she stayed behind, Alan. For the sake of her neighbors who believed these foul beasts to be divine, she stayed. And the next morning, in the market center, in the shadow of the grand palace, Edith spoke. Despite her simplicity and tenderness, despite their fierce potency, she named them! She spoke the truth to which others were blinded by fear and the glittering trappings of power. The people rose up, it is told, and fought the New Gods. Many were killed that day and the New Gods departed for lands around a great mountain to the north. Her duty done, Edith did not join in the battle. She was only a woman. She fled south and rejoined her husband and beloved children to see many generations live and die in freedom!’

Alan concluded his grandmother’s tale and watched Sam for a reaction.

Sam smiled into his questioning eyes and said, “Interesting.” Then she glanced at Daniel for a response.

Daniel caught Sam’s gaze and raised his eyebrows, significantly. Then he turned to Alan.

“You’re saying that your forbearers came out of the region around ancient Nineveh?” he asked.

“As I told you,” Alan replied, “the story of Edith began in a place my grandmother called Kuyunjik. She said it was a great Palace dedicated to a false goddess of fertility. There, she challenged the ruling demigods and named them for the demons they were. The place was Kuyunjik and it was from there that our family fled south into the land that would become Israel.”

“Kuyunjik is a place name associated with ancient Nineveh,” Daniel said, glancing at Sam.

Sam nodded. “Go on,” she said.

“Excavations at Kuyunjik Palace indicate that it was occupied from the 6th millennium BC. Originally it was the site of a Temple of Ishtar, the Goddess of Love. There is not a great deal known about the Temple of Ishtar, the temple that preceded the palace. Kuyunjik was destroyed by the Medes late in the 7th century BC,” Daniel continued. “There have been some early artifacts uncovered amid the Temple ruins beneath the Palace. I think it might have been one of the first places visited by Hathor.”

“General Hammond can email the information to us,” Sam said.

Daniel nodded, still frowning.

“And from there,” Alan interjected, “my family fled south, to a place that would one day become Israel. The demons moved north.”

“Where did the demons stop?” Sam asked, suddenly seeing the connection, “Do you know?”

Daniel and Alan answered as one, “Mount Ararat.”


Chapter 11

Jack gritted his teeth, biting back a yelp as Bear pulled his twisted left leg into a straight position.

“Wrap it!” Bear barked in thickly accented English with a distinct old-school British flavor. “Now, boy!”

Jack gasped and sobbed a wordless protest as Indiana fumbled to strap his crushed leg between a pair of rigid splints. The boy paused, at the sound of Jack’s agony, but Bear barked again.

“Move, boy!” he roared. “Now, quick as you can!”

The wrapping pulled tight and fire devoured Jack’s last shreds of control. He screamed and passed out.

ΩΩΩ

Indiana fought back the urge to cry. The fierce bearded mountain who called himself 'Bear' glowered at him, but continued his painstaking exam of the General.

Indiana wondered why the man bothered. It was clear to anyone with eyes that the old man was dying. The only question, in Indiana’s mind, was how long he’d linger.

‘At least he’s out,’ the kid thought. The screaming had been unbearable. Indiana admired General O’Neill. He’d been impressive in his dress blues, more so in native garb. In the field, it was easy to see why this old man had been tapped for the mission. He was a no-nonsense leader, direct and on top of things. He was also tough as hell. Any other man would have given up when the village was attacked. O’Neill had simply modified his plans as conditions changed, overcoming and adapting to every challenge.

‘Except this,’ Indiana thought bitterly, ‘Except me.’

If only he hadn’t gotten lost, if only he’d taken a better read on the landmarks as he went in search of the fountain.

‘If only …’ the kid thought ‘I was half the professional I thought I was, he’d be fine now. It’s on me if he dies.’

“How bad?” Indiana asked the fierce old spy, as the other man grunted and leaned back, tossing a blanket over O’Neill’s bare and bloody back.

“He’ll live, I think, if we can get a doctor,” Bear replied in his thick, incongruously British accent.

“Do you have painkillers for him, at least?” Indiana asked. O’Neill hadn’t stopped groaning.

“I have them, yes. But, no, they are not for him. Not yet,” Bear replied. “Not until I can check for concussion and that I cannot do. I do not want to move his head. If his back’s broken … Well, he can live with the pain, but a severed spine, I think he wouldn’t thank me for the pills if that was the result.”

Indiana nodded and said, “Right. So, where’ll you find a doctor? How will we get him there?”

“This city is my home. I know several doctors,” Bear said without elaborating. “I have sent word for one to come to us, through my associates.” He lifted a cell phone and grinned. “So, now, we wait.”

The ugly old man closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough stone wall of the cellar. Indiana stared at him for a long moment. In the light of the candle the man had set into a crack in the wall, Bear looked like something from a horror flick – fierce, massive, with a curling black beard shot with streaks of gray and long black hair that tumbled about his thick neck in tendrils. A long wide-bladed knife hung from a shoulder scabbard on his left shoulder, another slender shiv was in the side of his soft calfskin boot. The double barrel, sawed-off shot gun leaned beside him and two bandoliers of ammunition crossed his chest.

Bear’s chin dropped to his chest and the man began to snore.

O’Neill shuddered and groaned.

Indiana wiped a tear from his cheek and closed his eyes, hoping to sleep, but certain he couldn’t. In a few moments, he too drifted off.

ΩΩΩ

Indiana woke to a sound. He reached for his P-90, but then remembered that he was unarmed. He’d abandoned his weapons, along with everything else that might identify them as US military, in the fields far outside of the city.

“Shit,” Indiana growled.

“What?” the General whispered.

Indiana glanced at the old man. He hadn’t realized O’Neill was conscious.

“What!” the General hissed again.

“I heard someone,” Indiana replied softly. “Bear’s gone. You should be real quiet now ... Sir.”

There was no reply, so Indiana got to his feet without making a sound and eased himself down the narrow, low-ceilinged passage that led back into the alleyway. Just as he reached the door, it opened, flooding the passage with light.

Indiana scrambled backwards, blinded by the glare. Then a body blocked the brilliance and Bear growled, “It’s us, boy. I have the doctor.”

Indiana grinned, breathing a sigh of relief, and scrambled back down the passage.

“General,” he said, “You’re going to be okay!” a moment before someone shot him.

Jack heard Indaoui call out just before a shot shattered the confined space. The next shot would be for him, Jack guessed. Instead someone grabbed him and dragged him off the litter.

“Bastards!” Jack shouted, as rage won out over pain and alarm. “Fucking bastards!”

“Shut him up,” Bear stopped. Then he knelt and hissed, “This is payback, La-Neel.”

Jack could smell him and hear his heavy breathing. Then one of the other men stuffed a rag stinking of grease was jammed into Jack’s mouth and tied firmly in place. Jack was dragged and half-carried him down the narrow stone passage.

Jack screamed as his broken leg dragged behind him, but the sound was muffled by the gag. He thrashed and threw one of his handlers off balance, bashing his left hand into the cold rock wall. The man cursed and cuffed Jack in the back of the head.

Hinges creaked and then light flooded over him. He felt the heat of the sun on his neck. A door slammed behind him. A motor revved. A van door slid back. They dumped him into the back of the vehicle and slid the door shut.

Jack heard the murmur of conversation, as two men climbed into the front of the van, but he couldn’t catch the words. Then the van rolled, accelerated, and swerved and braked erratically as it joined the flow of what sounded like city traffic. At every jostle, eruptions of pain shot up his shattered left leg, into his back and groin.

Still, Jack fought to stay awake and calm. The gag was too small. It had moved into the back of his throat. It threatened to block his windpipe. He forced himself to breathe slowly to avoid sucking it into his throat.

Finally the van braked and stopped. The passenger door opened and the van rocked as a heavy man climbed out. They’d arrived.

The side door slid open. Jack felt cool night air and then a pair of hands grabbed him under his arms and dragged him forward. Jack gasped at a jolt of pain as they half-carried him across a gravel space.

Jack tried to focus on gaining information. He heard stones crunch under their feet. Then they crossed grass and he smelled it as they crushed it underfoot. Finally a heavy door swung open on rusty hinges and the warm smell of fresh horse shit wafted over them. They dragged Jack five more steps into what felt like an occupied horse barn and dropped him into a pile of hay.

The pair turned and started away. Jack made a gagging sound and jerked his arms against the bindings at his wrists.

“Look,” one of the men growled, “the gag’s choking him.”

The man squatted at Jack’s side and untied the gag. Jack spit it out and gasped desperately for air.

They didn’t bother to retie it, but left him face down in the hay and latched the barn door behind them. Jack didn’t hear a key turn in a lock.

Jack rested, just breathing and trying to slow his galloping heart. Then he clenched his teeth and twisted his upper body. It moved and he levered his elbow against the hard-packed barn floor and pushed until he was on his side.

Jack waited a few moments, gathering strength, then rocked hard and tipped backwards onto his back. He bent his right leg and pushed. His left leg remained twisted, completely unresponsive to his attempts to move it.

Jack pressed his bound fists against the floor and pushed hard, throwing his chest forward and sat up. But he tipped sideways and fell onto his left side, bending his leg painfully. He cried out and felt the world tip in a crazy angle.

“Damn it,” he hissed as he fought to stay conscious.

When things stopped spinning and returned to a normal slant, Jack tried another approach. He squirmed on the ground, trying to inch forward or sideways, hoping to move until he encountered something vertical and fixed, like a wall or a beam.

Jack continued for an eternity. The unbending of his left leg left him breathless and queasy. In the darkness of the barn, his damaged eyesight was useless. He had no idea whether he was moving toward a wall or away, or even if he was moving any direction at all, or just flailing helplessly in the hay. He considered trying to stand, but decided it wasn’t possible … At least not until he reached a solid vertical surface. Eventually he was too tired to keep trying. He slept.


Jack woke to a soft tickle of hot wet breath on the back of his arm. Velvet lips, sprouting stiff whiskers caressed his skin and a thick tongue licked him. Jack grinned. It was a horse. It was licking the salt from his skin.

Jack laughed and the horse butted his back with a rough show of interest. Jack squirmed around and offered his wrists to the animal. The tongue ran hot and wet along his fists and up to his swollen wrists. The animal nudged him again and Jack fell onto his face.

“Shiiit,” he cursed softly, but as the waves of pain eased, he felt lips exploring the knotted leather bindings. The animal’s tongue licked roughly and, in time, the horse found an end of thong and took it into its mouth, chewing the leather for the salt.

Jack waited while it masticated the leather straps. The horse pulled at the saliva-slick leather. The leather slipped. Jack pressed his arms apart. Finally, he felt it give and break. Jack rolled away and the horse threw its head up in alarm.

Jack fell again and groaned as blood flowed into his cramped arms and hands. Tears formed in his tightly shut eyes and ran down his cheeks. It was like fire. He dreaded the next part, knowing it would be worse. After a moment, he moved his arms forward and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He gritted his teeth against the burning, but moaned softly.

“Crap … this sucks!”

The horse moved. Jack heard it rustling the fodder. Then it came closer. He felt hot breath on his neck as it snuffled his hair and then began to mouth his cowlicks.

As he gathered courage to move again, Jack let the animal please itself. It had freed him and he figured a tuft of hair or two wasn’t too much to ask. Then, when the horse dropped its head and began to feed on the loose pile of hay, Jack tipped onto his side, rolled onto his chest and started to crawl, using his elbows and right leg, dragging his useless left leg behind him. After about ten minutes, he sensed a change.

Jack reached out and touched cool stone. It was a wall. Loose mortar crumbled from between the stones. It felt like dried mud. Jack explored as far as he could reach and felt nothing more edifying than the rough stone-face of the wall, and cracking mortar packed between the stones. He dragged himself as close as he could and then sat up and leaned against the stones.

If he needed to, Jack figured he could dig the mortar away and open a space large enough to crawl through, but that would risk bringing the wall down, particularly since he couldn’t see the effect of removing stones. Once he crawled through and was free, how far could he crawl using his elbows? Not far enough.

So … what about walking?

Jack leaned against the wall and pushed hard with his right leg and hands, working his way of the wall. His head spun and his broken leg bent in an unnatural angle, sending waves of pain and nausea through him. After pausing twice to regain his balance and will to continue, Jack was more or less upright.

He leaned his throbbing head back against the stone. He was trembling and covered with sticky sweat.

“Now what?” he muttered between clenched teeth.

Jack knew that he wasn’t going to be walking anywhere at least not without a strong crutch. He ran his hand down his left leg as far as he could reach. His hand came away sticky. He lifted his fingers to his nose and gagged at the smell. His wound had festered and, from the god-awful smell, was turning gangrenous.

That give me two days,” he muttered, “three at the most.”

He ran his hand down his right leg and found it was solid. He ran his hands up thighs to his belly everything joints seemed functional.

“Crap,” Jack hissed as his right leg began to shake with the strain of standing. He was weak as a kitten. He wouldn’t walk far, even if he found a way out of here. He might crawl, but he didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t see where he needed to go. It was pretty fucking hopeless.

Jack wiped his hand across his useless eyes. It was no time to get emotional, but he felt hot tears and cursed himself for a sorry son-of-a-bitch.

The horse moved closer, intrigued, and reached out its long neck. Jack felt hot breath blow against his neck. It nuzzled his jaw. The horse bumped him, seeking attention, and Jack grabbed its thick neck to steady himself. The horse rubbed its head against his hand. Then its lips explored his temple and the huge tongue licked at his tears.

Jack drew the big head down, stroked the silky muzzle and ran his hand up the animal’s sleek neck to stroke its shoulder.

The horse butted him again, clearly enjoying the attention. Jack leaned into the animal to avoid being tipped over by the over-affectionate animal. It didn’t seem to mind. He reached forward, exploring, and felt a halter and a length of rope dangling from a ring under the horse’s chin. Jack closed his fingers on it, lifted it and ran it through his other hand. It was long enough to use as reins. He looped the other end through the ring and tied it. Jack rubbed the horse’s head again and murmured.

“Where’d you come from?” he said softly.

The horse nickered, blowing into his hair.

“You feel like going home?”

The horse butted him and then stuck its nose down his ragged tunic, as if looking for treats.

“Were you somebody’s pet?” Jack murmured, “I’m thinking it wasn’t the bastards who’ve got you now. Am I right, fella?”

Jack pulled the horse's head down with his right hand and slowly edged his left up the horse's head until he slipped the rope behind its ears and around its neck. Then he worked his way down the animal’s broad side, trying to gauge how high he’d have to jump to mount.

“This may be dumb,” he confided in the horse. “Don’t get pissed. Stay sweet big fella.”

Jack placed his hands on the rump and the neck and then jumped, as hard as he could, up against the belly. He kicked back against the stone wall with his right leg and managed to clamber onto the back. The horse turned away and walked, but Jack held on and swung his right leg over the animal’s back.

“Easy,” Jack wheezed into the horse’s neck as he lay forward, trying to find his balance.

The horse paused. Jack heard him snort and imagined him looking back as if to say, ‘What now?’

“Good question,” Jack replied. Then, experimentally, he lifted the rope reins and clicked his teeth.

There was a puff of moist warm breath on Jack’s leg as the horse turned and snuffled him. Then the big animal turned again and walked calmly forward.

When he stopped again, Jack smelled fresh air. He kicked the horse gently, urging him closer, then reached out and felt the wood move where he pushed against it. It was a set of doors. The air was blowing through the crack where the double barn doors met. The horse stood patiently waiting for the man to open the door to let them out.

Jack explored the door until his fingers encountered a heavy metal latch. He fumbled with it, found a lever, and pulled down. There was a click. The doors shifted. Jack grabbed the rope and clicked his teeth. The horse shoved the doors open and walked out into the night air.

The animal stopped almost immediately and began to graze. Jack sat in the fresh night air and listened to the crunch and rip as the horse tore mouthfuls of grass free. Finally, Jack couldn’t wait any longer, so he pulled the animal’s head up and clicked his teeth again.

“Giddy up,” Jack urged. “C’mon fella, let’s go.”

The horse stepped forward, took another quick bite of grass, and then began walking at a slow, purposeful pace through tall grass.

Jack hung on and let the horse choose its path. Now and then he felt the animal snatch another quick mouthful of grass, but it didn’t stop again. It seemed to have a clear idea of where it was going.

All Jack could do was to hang on and hope it wasn’t someplace worse.

Chapter 12

Dr. Gage Hunter, team principal for the program, leaned against the edge of his desk, skimmed a series of computer printouts, and smiled. Early indications were positive – very positive.

The phone vibrated amid the jumble of papers and reference books on his desk.

He grabbed it, flipped it open, and said, “Speak.”

As the voice from the other end of the connection grated on and on, Hunter’s smile dimmed. He dropped the printouts onto his vast highly polished desktop and turned to stare at the plate glass window of what, in Manhattan or LA, would be a high-priced Penthouse office. Here, on the plains beyond Ararat, it was the top floor of an incongruously tall and foreboding modern building, the headquarters of Hunter’s operation.

The black stone building thrust out of the ancient earth, a windowless rectangle that towered over the landscape, topped by a floor comprised entirely of windows. The glass plate windows were huge. From the ground, however, they were lost in the expanse of darkly gleaming stone. Even so, the extraordinary building was itself reduced to insignificance by the massive sacred mountain, standing in eternal perfection just to the West of Hunter’s bizarre project headquarters.

Hunter ran his right hand back through his sandy brown hair, turned to admire his prematurely graying temples in the expanse of glass, and then straightened his old school tie, appreciating the overall impact of his reflection. Then Hunter’s gaze shifted to the perfectly cone-shaped peak that thrust snow clad slopes into a flawless navy blue twilight.

A suggestion of white smoke still rose from the mountain’s maw and the rim of the quiescent volcano still glowed dull maroon – the only lingering sign of Hunter’s most recent test. At over 5 thousand meters elevation, the rim would cool quickly. By the time the populace stirred in the city huddled at the foot of the mountain even this clue would have vanished. Those few isolated monks and shepherds who occupied the slopes of Ararat had heard the anomalous rumbling deep in its bowels during the night. They would breathe a sigh of relief. Hunter supposed the benighted locals might even send up a prayer of thanks to their god for deliverance from its wrath.

Not that Hunter gave a damn. The test had been positive. Therefore, in a few more hours no force on Earth would be able to stop him. Then, he would fire the opening salvo in an awesome new Era of History.

“Right,” he replied to the caller, who’d finally concluded the detailed report on an outcome Hunter already surmised. Then he flipped the phone closed, slipped it into its holster on his hip, crossed to the other side of his desk, sat and opened a computer file named, ‘Bottomless Well.’

ΩΩΩ

The horse slowed and nickered. Jack tensed. The animal stopped and the rope went slack as it turned. Someone was out there.

“Easy …” Jack heard and cursed his crummy luck. The accent was thick and British. It was Bear.

The horse nickered again.

“Yes, my friend,” Bear murmured. “It is I. I have found you at last.”

Jack was pretty sure that the old spook was talking to the horse.

“La-Neel,” Bear continued, approaching.

Jack heard his heavy legs swish as he passed through the thick grass. Bear grunted as he stopped at Jack’s side and declared, “You look like shit.”

Jack glared in the direction of Bear’s voice. He could make out a dim form in the early morning light, but that was all.

“Ah, but I see it is shit,” Bear continued genially. “You have been rolling around in my gelding's leavings. How disgusting. You are a magnificent fool, my old friend,” he concluded.

Jack was formulating a snappy response when he felt Bear grab the rope. Bear clicked his teeth and the horse moved forward. Jack’s head swam with every step of the big animal.

“Where are you taking me?” he finally gasped out.

Bear didn’t answer, so he rasped again, “Where?”

“Shut up and save your strength, La-Neel,” Bear replied. “You are a great deal of trouble.”

“Then let me go,” Jack growled.

“Where? How?” Bear asked, “You are crippled and blind. What would you do? Fly away? Where would you go? Do you even know? Or will you let my horse decide for you? It will take you back to its barn. How do you suppose we met? It was returning to me, just as I was coming back for you, La-Neel.”

Jack had no answer. Bear was right. He had no clear plan. Even if he’d had one, without eyesight and crippled, there was nothing he could do to save himself, much less complete a mission.

The two men didn’t speak for a long time. The only sound was the regular clop of the horses’ hooves on what had become a hard packed trail and the pulse pounding in Jack’s ears.

“You never learned when to quit,” Bear muttered, “… and so now, regretfully, I must deal with you.”

Chapter 13

Sam grunted and opened her eyes. Alan was peering into her face and jabbing her shoulder with his finger.

“Stop,” she mumbled. “I’m awake.”

Alan nodded and withdrew.

“What I wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee,” Sam grumbled as she sat up and stretched. Her spine popped and a few of the kinks eased. Others remained, the inevitable byproduct of sleeping jammed in the corner of a van that still seemed to be speeding over primitive roads.

Daniel leaned forward from his perch on the bench, halfway to the front compartment and tossed a packet at her. Sam caught it and examined the label, still fighting back sleep.

“Coffee,” she read aloud. “Coffee crystals. Yummy.”

“Or you can give them back,” Daniel said in a petulant tone.

“Sorry,” Sam replied, “I’ll keep ‘em, thanks.”

She tore the packet open with her teeth and sampled the contents. The freeze-dried crystals were incredibly bitter and burned the inside of her gummy mouth.

“Water,” she mumbled, “and sugar?”

Daniel provided and Sam settled back into her corner to improvise her morning java fix. After she discovered the proper ratio of water, coffee crystals, and sugar, it no longer made her want to retch. And the sensation of caffeine was already taking effect.

“Where are we,” she asked after licking the last of the crystals from the inside of the packet.

“About twenty minutes out,” Daniel replied, “I wanted you to get as much sleep as you could, but I knew you’d need your coffee. We want you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for this one, Sam.”

“You standing in for the General?” she sniped.

“Yeah,” Daniel said in an odd tone. “I guess I am …”

Sam regretted her thoughtless comment. He was out there somewhere, she hoped, but where? And why hadn’t he made contact? Daniel was scared. So was she. It was wearing on both of them.

“Yeah,” she echoed.

The somber moment was interrupted when the van slowed. The old brakes screeched and pulled as it decelerated rapidly. Alan signaled for them to be quiet. He crawled forward, slipped behind the curtain separating the front compartment from the rear of the van.

The van stopped and one of the front doors opened.

Sam heard voices. Male voices. They sounded angry. She caught a word here and there, but they spoke too fast for her limited grasp of the language.

She glanced at Daniel.

He raised a finger to his lips. She waited, trying to read his face. All she saw there was uncertainty, tinged suddenly with alarm. She adjusted her turban and wrapped the tail of cloth across her face, just in case.

Then, Daniel’s eyes grew wide and Sam grabbed her weapon and satchel as he bolted to his feet, flung open the van’s side door and shouted “Run!”


ΩΩΩ

Alan heard Daniel’s shout and struck the militiaman closest to him. The man fell. Alan jerked his rifle from his hands, spun and shot the driver of the van. Then he rolled and scrambled around the front of the van, with bullets snicking into the dirt around him. Alan crouched beside the front wheel. The engine block would offer some protection.

All around him the dirt erupted in puffs of dust as fifty-or-so militia opened fire, punching holes in the metal body of the battered vehicle. Alan pressed his body tight against the tire and prayed for strength. Then, without letting himself think, he popped up and fired back, searching as he fired for the one man he must kill.

Several men fell as the rifle bucked against Alan’s shoulder. Then, to the left of the opposing force, he saw a man with the bearing of leadership. Alan shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger. The man flipped backwards. Others turned in alarm, as if to help their leader, but Alan fired again. This time the man’s head was gone. There was no help for that.

Order disintegrated and Alan shifted his aim to the two who’d turned to the aid of their leader. They were next in command, he guessed, and dropped them with two shots. A third bullet killed a third man.

Alan paused again, searching for another sign of threat, but the other men were running now, scrambling back, abandoning their fallen comrades and racing off in the brush and dim morning light.

Alan took a deep breath, released it half way and started picking targets methodically, choosing those farthest off, dispatching them before they could reach safety. Blood ties might, after the panic lifted, require a second assault. Alan couldn’t risk that, so he dropped the fleeing men one by one, just as his father had taught him, just as his grandfather had instructed, killing as his family had always killed in this holiest of lands, a land that had known no real peace for four thousand years.

Alan was still firing when an unseen militiaman, barely more than a child really, lifted his heavy rifle, rested it on a rock to Alan’s far left, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet entered his back, shattering Alan's clavicle, then exploded his heart, and traveled out just to the right of his sternum, to bury itself in the side of the engine block.

The boy stood and watched for a moment, as Alan bounced off the vehicle and into the dust, before he turned and ran away cradling a rifle that was almost too big for a child to carry.

ΩΩΩ

Sam plunged through fading darkness. Brush tore at her legs. She didn’t slow. Daniel crashed behind her. She focused all her energy on moving as fast as she could as far as she could.

“Stop,” she finally heard Daniel gasp. “Stop, Sam.”

Sam dropped to her knees and turned to see Daniel hobble to her side and collapse beside her.

The rifle shots had stopped. Whatever was going to happen back at the van had already happened. There was no going back now.

“God,” Daniel gasped. “We left him behind.”

“That was … understood,” she wheezed, feeling the improvised coffee threaten to come back up. It disgusted her to think she’d run away, leaving Alan to cover their retreat. “This is more important than one man,” she continued.

Daniel’s expression stopped her. He turned and retched, spitting into the rocky soil. When he turned and faced her again, the look was gone. Sam still felt the sourness of it. Daniel knew better than to challenge her military decisions. She hadn’t said it. She didn’t need to say it. They both knew. Finding Jack was more important than honoring the code he lived by … to save a near stranger.

Didn’t they?

Sam was suddenly way, way too tired for a debate over military leadership and ethics. She wasn’t the indomitable General Jack O’Neill. She didn’t have the luxury to worry or second guess her shortcomings. There’d be time enough for blame and condemnation and self-loathing after she got the General home safe and sound. There’d be plenty of long dark nights to remember Edith’s grandson.

“C’mon,” she wheezed. “Slowly,” she continued, as she turned away from the rising sun, heading west to Ararat.


Chapter 14

Hunter spun the wheel on the massive metal door. It was finely tooled and spun easily. Then he pulled a lever that dogged the hatch and pulled. The perfectly balanced door swung back and Hunter stepped through, pulling the two ton door shut behind him.

Cool dry air greeted him and the smell of something Hunter could never name. It came from the extreme depth, it felt like the breath of ghosts trapped within the ancient rock.

Hunter snorted and shoved the fanciful notion away impatiently. This was no time for metaphors and no time for superstition. The local admonition against tunneling on Ararat included predictions of dire consequences for those so foolish as to defile the sacred mount. Hunter had not been impressed. Instead, he catalogued the ancient proscription as yet more evidence that he was about to unearth something of epic importance and untold power.

Ararat had first captured Hunter’s interest when he was a graduate student at the University of Utah. He’d slept with a young woman from one of his classes, an undergraduate majoring in Art History. He’d been intrigued to find an attractive woman with such a light-weight major willing to attempt his class in geologic engineering. Her ethereal face had caught his eye from the first, particularly since it was surrounded by a sea of male faces, most of them sporting crappy beards and longish hair, popular in the mid-70s among undergrads in the field sciences.

Gage Hunter had been intrigued and horny. Engineering attracted few females. Those willing to brave the mathematics were certain to be ‘coyotes’ in the student parlance. As well as being ugly, they typically had a massive chip on their shoulders, the inevitable result of trying to beat their professors and graduate assistance at was, after all, a man’s game. Hunter found them repulsive and, though he never admitted it, intimidating.

But this woman was from an entirely different world. Her pale white flesh, rosy complexion, and shiny tendrils of thick, auburn hair drew his gaze whenever he lectured. He found himself looking for her at the weekly labs, where students would join him for extra tutoring on the more challenging aspects of engineering or geology. She never appeared.

He knew her name. In fact as the graduate assistant, Hunter knew everything in her student records, including her place of residence, home town, telephone number, hobbies, and the fact that she was an only child from a military family, who had spent as much time living abroad as she’d spent in the United States.

He found himself memorizing details of Carlotta Williston’s records. He found himself extrapolating from those details to arrive at probabilistic estimates of her behavior. Given her classes, on his days off, where might she might eat lunch? Where might she walk from Early American History to … say … Expressionist Lab?

Hunter found himself patrolling those paths, in particular the bike path skirting the lake. It was a place where he thought an Art student might be drawn by the beauty of it.

Then, by accident, Hunter opened a door in the Chemistry building and there she was, moving toward him too fast. He froze and they collided, spilling her books and his onto the floor of the corridor.

It had been kismet. Carlotta had blushed, pushed her mass of incredibly touchable hair back over her thin shoulder and crouched, muttering her apologies.

Hunter recalled how suave he’d been. He’d picked up her Engineering text and asked if she was in his class. She’d nodded and then he’d claimed her book on The Impressionist Movement and said something witty about Art students not being bright enough to manage math.

She’d forgiven him, eventually, after he’d insisted on buying her lunch. After he’d apologized. After he’d feigned interest in her interests and learned, to his shock, that she was in fact very interesting.

Carlotta had explained a lifelong fascination with Mount Ararat. She’d lived in Turkey from age 12 to 15, in a small village at the foot of the sacred mount, as she’d called it. She’d painted it, sketched it, photographed it, and studied every image of it that she could find, from the modern to the ancient. In time, she’d learned several ancient languages in order to learn more about the mountain. And now, it seemed, she wanted to understand the geology of the place.

It was Carlotta who had piqued Hunter’s interest. She had planned to complete her undergraduate degree in Art and had already been accepted into the Geology Department at the University of Turkey as a graduate student. Her topic was, of course, Ararat. Unlike every other geologist, her topic was the gestalt of the place. Whereas other scientists took a reductionist approach, she planned a comprehensive description of the sacred mount from the ground up, so to speak, and then she would to draw the disparate threads from the sciences, humanities, and theology to arrive at a rationale for the profound mystical effect Ararat seemed to have had on everyone who experienced the place.

Hunter, who had at first sight wanted only to get into Carlotta’s pants, found himself wanting to know more about this exciting woman. Before lunch had ended, he’d committed to helping her get a jump start on her graduate work.

It had turned out well for Hunter. For the first time in a long time, he was enjoying a regular diet of hot, unencumbered sex. For the first time in his life, he was doing something to help another person. And then, somewhere along the way, he’d made a crucial error. Gage Hunter had fallen in love.

It had ended badly. He’d proposed. He’d asked her to stay. He’d offered to be part of her plans, to move to Turkey, to seek a posting there. To his shock and dismay, Carlotta had turned him down. Flat. She’d claimed that she didn’t love him, that she’d always thought of him as a friend. She’d said she had never meant to hurt him. She’d explained that there wasn’t room in her life for distractions.

Distractions.

Hunter had understood. He’d said goodbye and promised to keep in touch. He had said all the right things. Then, later that evening, trembling with rage he’d waited on the path by the lake. It had been a bright moonlit night. He’d watched her walk toward him, her hips swinging in that freewheeling, unselfconscious manner she had. She’d been so beautiful when he stepped out onto the path. She’d raised her hand in a demure, almost comical display of feminine alarm.

He’d stepped toward her and murmured, “I’ll remember you like this, Carlotta.”

She’d smiled and stepped toward him with a pitying expression in her eyes.

Her pity had given him strength. He’d reached out and hugged her gently. Then he'd moved his hands up her thin back, grasped her luxurious hair in his left hand, and with his right grasped her jaw, lifted and rammed her head into the rock ledge at the side of the path. It had only taken a single hard blow. She’d been limp when he slipped her into the water. Bubbles broke the surface. Her body had tensed, but without a mind to guide it, the thrashing lasted only a moments. Then beautiful Carlotta was at peace.

Hunter dedicated himself to honoring her dream. He moved to the village where she’d lived as a young woman; soaked in the sense of her as he wandered the streets; studied the ancient books she’d told him about in the same tiny library she’d haunted. Hunter learned dark secrets there that her pure, innocent spirit had been unable to acknowledge.

Those dark secrets about an ancient holy place that Carlotta had loved had given Hunter the gift of something even darker – his life’s purpose – Bottomless Well.

ΩΩΩ

The sun shone hot. Jack had lost his turban, probably in the rubble of the Mosque. He felt the skin of his neck crisping to a lovely shade of scarlet.

“Crud,” he mumbled against the horses’ shoulder.

“Shut up,” Bear snapped.

“Where are you taking me?” Jack demanded again.

“To people I work for,” Bear muttered. “You stink of old blood and fresh horseshit, but they will pay.”

“Where are these people?” Jack pressed, hoping for a rough fix on his location.

“I am not a stupid man, La-neel,” Bear stated without rancor. “If I told you that I’d have to tie you onto the horse to keep you from attempting an escape. I have no wish to cut this lovely piece of rope. So, I shall not tell you.”

Jack cursed sourly into the horses’ sweating belly.

Bear laughed evilly and continued, “Save your strength, old friend. When you meet my employer, I expect that you shall need it.”


Chapter 15

Hunter turned away from the expanse of windows. The mid-morning sun played across the flanks of Mount Ararat, forming patterns of ever-shifting colors.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he crossed the spacious office and settled behind the cluttered desk. The test had been positive and Hunter had spent the morning pondering his next step. Not that he didn’t know what to do … he just wondered the wisdom of doing it.

It had all seemed so clear, so obvious … before. During the past six years of research and analysis, during the endless rounds of presentations before potential sponsors – government, private individuals, and corporate interests – Hunter had argued persuasively that the secrets of Ararat were just waiting for someone with his expertise to unlock them. He’d convinced those professional skeptics that the power of Ararat was within his grasp … and theirs if they funded his proposal.

And they had.

In the weeks just prior to the US Invasion of Iraq, funding had suddenly become available – massive amounts of funding, more funds than Doctor Gage Hunter had requested, more than he’d ever imagined. Yet it was provided, along with very detailed and incredibly helpful specifications for building the headquarters of his research center.

Hunter had the good sense to allow those offering assistance, whom he thought of privately as ‘The Dark Angels’, a free hand and within weeks this ominous black building had been erected, complete with a Penthouse office suite for his personal use, security systems more sophisticated than he’d ever imagined, and state of the art chemical, physics, electronics, metallurgical, and geological labs. There was even an infirmary, a movie theater, and a 4-star restaurant (if it hadn’t been in the basement of a secure facility) for intimate dining. The Dark Angels had arranged for fully secure support personnel to meet his every personal need, from dry-cleaning and housekeeping to female companionship and a professional trainer.

Hunter sat at his wide mahogany desk, steepled his fingers, and let his mind thumb through the past thirty months. With unlimited resources, he’d made progress more swiftly than he’d expected. The secrets of Ararat had, indeed, unlocked before his eager eyes. He’d scanned the ancient texts (many of them originals that should have been in museum collections), following the path Carlotta had traced for him during those brief, sweet days of love, so very long ago.

As his sensual young lover had believed, the mountain had been far more than a natural geologic feature. Though it was an actual volcano, or to be precise, it was a feature formed by the up-thrust of massive volumes of molten rock, natural forces had not formed the mountain. To the contrary, it had been born of ancient fire – Fire loosed by technology unheard of on Earth, at least not for more than four thousand years … possibly a hundred thousand times that period.

The exact time scale was immaterial to Hunter. The point was the fact that the great mountain that thrust from the plains of Turkey was not ‘formed’ by the hand of God. It had been created by man.

After verifying Carlotta’s insight into the origin of Ararat, Hunter had tackled the next, even more tantalizing question.

Why?

This morning, as he’d stood and witnessed the early morning sun coloring the slopes purple and mauve and watched it lighten to burnished silver and gold, and then bronze and slate in the mid-morning, Hunter had his answer. It was a truth Carlotta would have rejected. She was, after all, a romantic. Her idealistic view of reality would not have allowed for the simple truth that her holiest of places, the sacred Mount Ararat, was also the oldest weapon on Earth and, as proven by the latest positive test results, it still worked.

That was the problem.

Hunter had claimed he could place untold power into the hands of his sponsors. Now, he sat resting his forehead against his clenched fists and pondered that promise. In his headlong search for the truth, Hunter hadn’t foreseen a key aspect of his work.

Once the weapon was functional and delivered … he would be extraneous.

Worse, once he completed his deal with The Dark Angels, he would be a liability.

He’d completed his life’s work at the age of 32, but was suddenly aware that he very well might have completed his life’s work at the end of his life… his very short and very foolhardy life.

As he sat at his desk with the Mountain framed in the large plate glass windows, Gage Hunter felt Carlotta’s sweet young breath on his neck and he shuddered as he imagined her pitying smile.

ΩΩΩ

“The earliest peoples of this region are named for their artifacts,” Daniel explained.

Sam walked ahead of him, head down and silent in the hot sun.

Daniel kept talking, despite her silence. It kept him on his feet and moving, if he didn’t think about the blisters swelling where the straps of his primitive sandals passed between his first and second toes.

“We refer to them, for example, as the Hays, or the Amorites, or the Hittites, and so on.” Daniel continued. “While they must have had names for their tribes, their people, the region they called home, that information has been lost to us.”

“So,” Sam asked, calling over her shoulder, “did they have weapons?”

“The northern peoples,” Daniel replied, “invented the chariot. It’s believed they adapted it from the Sumerian wagons that were drawn by teams of asses.”

“Not very formidable,” Sam muttered.

“Not by today’s standards,” Daniel replied, “but at the time the Hittite chariots were drawn by horses and represented the most formidable defensive weapon of their day.”

“Not likely to attract the attention of the Trust,” Sam continued.

Despite her neutral tone, and because of his lack of adequate caffeine, coming hard on their flight from Mosul, Daniel’s irritation flared.

“Not every aspect of archeology and ancient history fits perfectly into our mission objectives,” Daniel snapped.

“He’s out there, Daniel,” Sam sighed, gesturing toward the massive, cone-shaped mountain rearing up on the horizon. “I’m just trying to find a connection, a clue, some … thread to follow to locate him.”

Daniel walked on in silence. Sam’s tone wasn’t angry, just worried and tired and frustrated. He agreed. So despite his blistered feet, he kept going and told himself that Jack would be fine and wondered what possible connection there might be between the mountain ahead and the kind of raw power that would draw the interest of the Trust.

ΩΩΩ

“It was 1971,” Jack wheezed, just trying to aggravate Bear.

“No,” Bear replied evenly, “It was not. I was in Afghanistan in 1971 and ’72, La-neel. Perhaps your wounds have addled your brain.”

Jack sighed. The rocking of the horse made him light headed and ill. His ass was numb, but his left leg ached constantly, making the ride nothing short of hell.

“You were strapped down, naked as a Jay bird,” Jack continued in a matter of fact tone, “and I saved your sorry hide. Took a bullet in the chest doing it, too, as I recall. Nearly died. Flat on my back for months. The year doesn’t matter … unless you folks have a time limit on blood oaths.”

That did it.

Bear turned and roared. The horse bolted, jumping sideways, and Jack felt the world tip as he slid onto the dusty road with a ‘thump.’

“Shit,” he moaned. He let his eyes flutter and then slumped into the dust and didn’t move.

Bear had trundled after the horse and it took a few moments before Jack heard his captor return, still bellowing about ‘honor’ and ‘gratitude’ and about Jack’s lack of ‘appreciation’ for the many times Bear had pulled his family jewels from the vice of his foes.

It was all true, but Jack didn’t give a crap. Bear was taking him god-knows-where to turn him over to god-knows-whom. To save himself, Jack would use every means to unbalance his former friend.

Bear paused. Jack sensed his dark eyes appraising his condition. Jack didn’t move, not an eyelash. He let his breath rattle in his chest. Not a hard trick after hanging onto the horse’s neck through the night and on into late morning.

“La-neel,” Bear finally barked, jabbing Jack’s side with the toe of his soft leather boot. “La-neel, I am no fool.”

Jack didn’t stir. He knew this man. The big bear of a man was one helluva fighter and an evil adversary, but he was gullible … or maybe overly curious. Either way, Jack knew that if he waited the black haired giant would eventually investigate further, if only to search his pockets before rolling his body into the ditch.


Bear paused, staring hard at O’Neill. The man was not dead. He was breathing. He appeared unconscious, but he was breathing far too lightly. His old friend was faking.

Bear snorted, took up the reins of his horse, turned and walked away, muttering to himself that O’Neill could rot in the dust for playing such stupid games.

Jack listened to him go.

‘Crud,’ he thought. ‘He’s calling my bluff.’

If Bear left him for dead, Jack was dead meat. A stab of panic shattered his resolve. Words were on Jack’s tongue when the sound of the horse’s hoofs stilled. Jack froze, hoping. Then he heard a scuffling in the dirt of the road and the soft plodding steps as horse and man retraced their path.

The horse stopped and Jack heard the rip-crunch as it began to graze on the roadside vegetation. Bear grunted and wheezed as he crouched. His boot soles squeaked softly as he squatted in the dust.

Jack held his breath, willed his heart to stop beating, to stay still as dirt … still as a stone. In a moment Bear should reach out his hand and then …

“Come out,” Bear commanded loudly in English.

‘Come out?’ Jack puzzled, but before he could react, there was more scrabbling and rustling in nearby bushes.

The next instant, a young voice cried out.

“General!”

Then Indiana was at his side, grasping his hand and forearm hard.

Jack opened his useless eyes and blinked hard, fighting tears of relief. He lifted his head to reassure the kid, only to hear Peach’s happy drawl join Indiana’s exclamations of relief and welcome.

“Suh, I believe that you looked a mite bettah when we was a-starvin.”

Jack heard Peach’s uncharacteristically lengthy outburst and grinned. Indaoui and Peach were both alive, at his side, and awaiting orders.

Jack’s mouth worked, but he just couldn’t find the words. So he coughed.

Strong hands gripped Jack’s upper arms and lifted him out of the dust. One of the kids pressed a canteen against his lips. Jack drank deeply of the warm musty water.

“How?” Jack wheezed after the canteen was pulled away. Before answering, Peach grasped Jack’s underarms, lifted him and tipped him over his shoulder like a sack of spuds.

“Bear,” Peach grunted as he stood under Jack’s weight, “bought me, I think, Suh.”

“Lucky you. He shot me,” Indiana griped. “Then the crazy old son-of-a-bitch comes back for me and fixes me up. That blunderbuss of his was loaded with rock salt. So, next thing I know, he’s got me clear the hell out me out here … wherever here is and tells me sit in the damned bushes to wait.”

“Yeah, I should-a mentioned not to turn your back on Bear,” Jack grunted out in time to Peach’s strides, his shoulder pumping into Jack’s gut with each step.

“I’ll live, General,” Indiana replied, although Jack remembered the sound of the shot had been from a heavy caliber weapon. Wherever it was loaded with, it must have hurt like hell, like getting hit by a bus. Walking couldn’t be easy for Indiana.

Jack felt young eyes raking his back. The kid was sure to be worried about him. Jack wanted to offer a jaunty reply to lift his spirits.

Nothing came to mind.

“Why’d you leave,” he demanded of Peach, instead.

“Had no choice, Suh,” Peach drawled. “Some fellers wearin’ black turbans appeared outta thin air. Swear to my Granny’s garters, them fellas weren’t there one minute and the next, they’s on top of me before I could swing my weapon round to debate the matter. I thought they’d shoot me, but someone clunked me a good one. I woke up with that ugly old bastard smiling down at me and dickerin’ on my price. He traded a couple a nanny goats, five beat up rifles, a couple belts of ammo, and a small sac a somethin’ real heavy for me. Then, he pulls a huge fuckin’ pistol, cocks it and waves it at me. Looked kinda like he wanted me to lead the way. So … I led the way.”

Jack grunted. He knew that pistol. It was huge, black, and intimidating.

“So, we goes a ways and all a sudden he stops,” Peach continued, giving a little snort, “bows to me, and introduces himself in this highfalutin English. Before I can figger out what the hell’s goin’ on, he’s tellin’ me I’m a-gonna help him bail out some old buddy of his called ‘La-Neel’.”

Jack considered that for a long moment and was about to explain that he was ‘La-Neel,’ when Indiana piped up.

“That would General La-Neel to you and me, Peach.”


Chapter 16

George leaned back in his thick leather armchair behind his vast, gleaming desk and cradled the telephone receiver against his shoulder. It had been a long four days, as he’d waited for word from Sam Carter. The call had come through the Pentagon switchboard at last.

“Sir?” Sam’s voice came through slightly clipped by the satellite linkup.

“What’s your status, Colonel?” George asked.

“We’re six or seven clicks east of Yerevan, Turkey. We lost one of our people,” Sam replied. “I’m pretty sure that our local contact from Mosul was killed in a firefight on the far side of the Turkish border, covering our backs. Daniel and I got through, though, and we’re fine.”

“Any sign of Jack?” George asked, hoping for good news.

“No, Sir,” Sam replied, “No sign, but we’ve determined the location of the source of something … very interesting. It’s related to our secondary objective, but I hope it may also lead us to him.”

“Do you want to elaborate on that, Colonel?” George replied, as he fingered a slender silver ring that he’d removed from the chain that held O’Neill’s military identity tags.

“No, Sir,” Sam answered. “That would be … premature.”

George nodded, gazing out the window and sighed, “I see.” Sam was right to avoid revealing sensitive information, even over a secure line.

He fingered the ring and continued, “Send me the details by encoded microburst, Colonel, and watch your step. I’ve had a development on this end, too.”

“What development, General?” Sam asked.

“It doesn’t sit right with me that Jack was tossed into this mission just days before his retirement. That doesn’t sit right at all. He was supposed to have a desk job, something to keep him out of trouble while the papers were cut and authorized. He was as good as out, Sam. Suddenly … this.”

George stopped and ran his hand back over his head, before he continued, speaking resolutely. “So, I ran down the name of the officer who cut Jack’s orders for this mission. Unfortunately, before my people could speak with him, the man was killed in an automobile accident … along with his wife and two adult children. According to the police report, it seems that they were on their way to the airport. Further investigation revealed that they had tickets to South Africa. No one who knew them seems to know of any reason why …”

“I don’t like that coincidence,” Sam interrupted.

“Neither did I,” George agreed. “Then I tried to speak to his second in command,” he continued, “but he’s been suddenly reassigned … to the Antarctic. It strikes me as way too convenient particularly for an officer with fifteen years as an administrative assistant and with absolutely no background in science to suddenly be reassigned as a technical advisor to a …,” George rummaged through a stack of papers until he found the bizarre report and then read from it, “… to a Russian ornithological team conducting a census of Emperor Penguin populations and reproductive dynamics.”

“Russian,” Sam echoed.

“Russian ornithologists, that’s correct,” George sighed, “which puts him outside of my reach, as well, at least for now. Colonel Carter, these are damned strange goings-on, but not at all surprising, given my working theory of what’s happening here.”

“What is your theory, General Hammond?” Sam asked.

“Jack’s operation did not just fail, Colonel. It was blown … blown sky high,” George replied solemnly. “It seems clear that someone on the outside … someone in a position of considerable power … wanted it to fail. Whoever is behind this has connections and influence sufficient to place one or more operatives on the insertion team. I’d say Jack O’Neill was betrayed ...”

“Betrayed …” Sam murmured.

“… more than likely by set up by one of his own. That Kurdish village was razed, Sam, totally wiped out. They killed everyone, every woman and child. It was methodical and thorough. Who might have attacked that village? Another tribe? Perhaps. Mercenaries, traveling through or looking for Jack’s force? If it was tribal friction, as Mr. Pringle first assumed, they might very well kill women and children but, Sam, wouldn’t you expect them to keep at least a handful of Americans alive as a bargaining chip or for ransom? We’ve had no demands of that sort. Nothing.”

George paused but Sam didn’t comment, so he continued.

“On the other hand, a military or paramilitary mission would have spared noncombatants. Certainly a few might have been killed, as collateral damage, but not every woman … not every child. Military professionals, as we both know, gain nothing by pissing off the neighbors.”

George stopped and rubbed his face, suddenly feeling every day of his 79 years.

“No. This was extermination,” he continued grimly, “and it will inflame the locals.”

“That village was sterilized,” George growled again, “and sterilization stinks of privately controlled, supra-national corporate involvement. Corporate interests don’t need the locals because they don’t plan to be in the neighborhood that long. They don’t need hostages or funding. Their profits dwarf most nations’ Gross National Products. What they do need is operational security, Sam, absolute secrecy. They need it first and foremost. This attack left no sign of the involved tribes, none of our men. Field reports just a burned village and a whole lot of dead villagers. We haven’t even found a shell casing, just a couple of burned out helicopters. I suppose they were too big to carry off.”

“I see no flaw in your assessment, Sir,” Sam replied, but Hammond wasn’t done and he continued.

“Besides, Jack O’Neill might have a few screwed up missions in his career. Who doesn’t? But it’s been damned few and never like this. If this was his fault, Jack … the best field commander I’ve ever known … somehow managed to lose every man under his command and got more than three hundred innocent villagers killed, to boot. Knowing Jack as I do, that just doesn’t add up for me.”

“No Sir,” Sam agreed. She’d rarely seen the old gentleman so wound up. “So, you think it’s the Trust?”

George sighed deeply and rubbed his face before he continued, “There is no doubt in my mind. Now I have to find proof. On a hunch, I’ve requested everything on Jack’s Team – identity, prior service, even their personal effects. I’m hoping there might be something … or someone associated with the insertion to explain this.”

“And was there?” Sam asked.

“I’m still working my way through it. Two dozen men means two dozen personnel files and even more personal contacts, old buddies, wives and in-laws, parents, business associates, any one of them could be a potential lead. You know how the work multiplies on this kind of investigation, Sam.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, “Exponentially.”

“I have nothing definitive yet,” George continued, “but everything about this stinks. I’ll get to the bottom of it, Sam, believe me. I’ve got full support of the White House. For the immediate future, you are to check in every twelve hours or more often if something breaks on your end. It’s likely at least one traitor is still operating in the region, maybe in your vicinity. So stay sharp. Now, what can I do to help, Sam?”

“We’re heading for Ararat, Sir,” Sam replied. “It would be faster and more secure, if you could arrange local transportation.”

“Right,” George replied. “You head on through the city. I’ll arrange for a rendezvous on the far side. We’ll link up with you around mid-day tomorrow. Take care Sam and … tell Dr. Jackson I’m expecting him to watch your back.”

George returned the receiver to its cradle and leaned forward with a soft sigh. Even though Sam was working on something that sounded promising, in fact it was nothing yet ... nothing of any real use. He felt he was making strategic progress, but he was still no closer to locating and extracting Jack O’Neill. Operationally, they were exactly where they’d been sixteen days ago: Exactly nowhere.

George turned his chair to stare out into the twilight as it gathered over the Potomac River. Gray mists twined through naked tree limbs. Beyond the river, clouds hung low over the Capitol Mall hiding the Capitol Dome and obscuring all but the upper third of the Washington Monument. The dreary, fog-draped view mirrored George Hammond’s state of mind. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t get a clear idea of what the hell had happened to Jack O’Neill.

Who’d blown his mission? Why?

All George had were vague impressions, whispers and hints. Something powerful, ominous, deadly was out there. George could feel it, but if he looked straight at it, it faded away, lost in a fog of uncertainty.

George tilted his chair back and sighed. He was way too old for this crap, but there was no one else in a position to help O’Neill. Someone had to; too old, or not, George had the job.

Still, he didn’t like it, not one damned bit. Why hadn’t Jack made contact after the attack? Was he dead? Captured?

With his entire force vanished, Jack might be either. But for the radio chatter that Pringle’s people had intercepted, Jack would already have been listed as MIA along with every man under his command. Instead … official acknowledgement of the fiasco was on hold while George tried to puzzle things through.

If Jack had somehow escaped the village alive, he would be on the run. Whoever attacked the village would be hunting him. Maybe they already had him and maybe they were already extracting what they wanted from him.

‘Goddammitalltohell,’ George thought sourly, ‘Wherever he is, Jack is running out of time.’

George hadn’t mentioned any of his worries to Sam, of course. Besides, she knew the score. The military score, at least.

George fingered the ring. He had noticed its gleam among Jack’s personal items. It was standard procedure to remove anything that might identify a person going in for what was essentially an illegal military incursion into another country’s territory. So, Jack O’Neill, and each man under his command, had been required to strip off rings and dog tags, relinquish wallets, photos, address books, and anything else that might reveal their identity or nationality.

Jack had looped his heavy metal dog tag chain through the silver band to make sure it didn’t go astray. George had carefully unlooped the chain just before Sam’s call came through. Now he examined the ring closely. It was simple, elegant and it appeared to be brand spanking new. George had certainly never seen it in Jack’s possession. Then again, why would he?

George turned the ring. It caught the light. The rugged steel chain hadn’t marred the smooth, shiny silver at all. That indicated that Jack probably placed it there quite recently … maybe just after stepping down from the SGC … probably as a strictly temporary measure when he’d handed over his personal effects before undertaking the unforeseen mission.

George hadn’t mentioned the ring to Sam. It wasn’t his place, but to George it was clear as crystal that Jack O’Neill had retired to finally slip this slender band on her finger.

“About time, too,” George muttered hoping Jack hadn’t waited too long. Then he snorted, forcing back the over-sentimental thoughts, and grumbled aloud, “but, god damn-it, Jack, where in Sam Hill are you?”

George placed the ring on the little finger of his left hand for safekeeping. It wouldn’t do to have anyone else run down this particular lead. He examined the other items from Jack’s personal effects, but his mind wandered as he thumbed through the jumble.

George had known for years, of course, about the secret feelings his 2IC harbored for Samantha Carter. George had played dumb, but he wasn’t that dumb. He’d have had to have been a certified idiot to miss the charm Samantha Carter had cast over half the men under his command.

George expected as much. After all, Sam was young, brave, accomplished, beautiful, and smart, an irresistible combination for any military man worth his salt, particularly those newly assigned to the SGC.

Still, it was different with Jack O’Neill. For one thing, it was no schoolboy crush. Despite his boyish looks and his irritating tendency toward juvenile antics, Jack O’Neill was way too worldly for adolescent infatuation. He’d been through far too much in his life to fall for a woman easily or frivolously. No, if Jack O’Neill was in love, it was the real thing. So George had looked the other way while his subordinate struggled to come to grips with it.

When George had first met Jack O’Neill, he’d been almost beyond human reach. Bitter and withdrawn, the insubordinate Colonel had given every indication of being on the fast-track to a second forced retirement … or dishonorable discharge … or a military prison, depending on George’s mood.

George had not appreciated Jack’s flippant attitude on their first meeting. Not one damned bit. Still, because of the weird encounter he’d had with an older, far wiser version of the man in 1969 and also because of this O’Neill’s palpable concern for his men and for the strangers living on Abydos – he’d had the gall to debate George about sending a nuke through to Abydos at the risk of his own neck – George Hammond had squelched his natural inclination to throw the sorry excuse for a Colonel in the brig and let him rot.

George had him locked up. Then he’d pulled the man’s file and read it … cover to cover … twice. When he’d had him brought before him, George Hammond had faced O’Neill with a new understanding and newfound respect. The former SF had been through Hell and back again. It might have broken any man. His smart-ass attitude, George realized, was a shield against caring … and hurting.

George had looked the scruffy younger man up and down and saw a shadow of the professional he’d once been. At that moment, he’d decided to throw O’Neill a rope, whether he wanted it or not, and drag the smart-mouthed son-of-a-bitch back into the only world where he’d be of any earthly use to himself or anyone else, before O’Neill found himself an early grave.

Fortunately for all involved, George’s gamble had worked.

As a result of reading all but the most deeply classified portions of Jack’s military record (portions George Hammond could take a well-educated guess at), he knew Jack O’Neill was not impetuous, neither was he naïve. He was in fact cool under fire, calculating, mature and highly-disciplined. He was also deeply passionate, about his Team and his friends, and he was no fool. So it was unlikely, Hammond knew, that a man of O’Neill’s caliber would risk his career, or Sam Carter’s, on a hormone-driven lark.

So George waited for Jack to come to the obvious conclusion. He waited for him to request a transfer to another Team … or to take himself out of the field … or to do one single thing to free George to authorize him to court Sam.

Time passed and still George waited, and yes he worried a bit too. He was fond of Sam. Her father, Jacob Carter, was one of his oldest friends. Besides all that, George had a strong hunch the attraction Jack felt for Sam Carter was reciprocated.

Sam never flirted. She was far too professional for that sort of behavior on base. Even so, it was clear to George Hammond that she wanted Jack, too. It wasn’t easy to put his finger on, but there was something in the way she looked at her CO, something … special.

So, George tolerated the situation as long as Jack didn’t encourage it. As long as he lived by the regulations, George Hammond would do nothing, except wish him luck and wait for Jack to sort out his priorities and do what seemed perfectly obvious to a man who’d been blessed with a happy marriage of more than forty years and still missed his wife every moment, since her death.

George gazed at the ring. Jack must have finally seen a way to make it happen. George turned his hand slightly, making the ring glimmer in the fading twilight, and he felt sure: the sudden retirement; the abrupt departure and this slender silver ring. Jack had been about to propose marriage to Sam.

Then he’d vanished into the mountains of Kurdistan, one of the most hazardous regions on Earth. So much for the ‘luck of the Irish.’
George lowered his hand, closed his fist, and shook his head slowly. Jack never seemed to get a break. Still, this ring was proof that the man had not cracked. He hadn’t lost his nerve or gone over to the other side. He’d been doing his duty and got caught in the wrong place on the wrong mission with no one talented or committed enough to cover his back. Not that George had ever doubted it.

George leaned back in his chair, making it creak in protest. He rubbed his face, frustrated. Unfortunately for Jack, not everyone knew him as George did. Other people, well intentioned and poorly informed, had begun advancing theories that were far less forgiving, and no less plausible.

Pringle was one of those people. George had put him in his place, sharply.

The President was another and he was harder to deal with. President Hayes liked and respected Jack. He’d committed the full resources of the White House to finding him. Normally a good thing, in this instance it was ill-timed and potentially problematic for Jack and, therefore, for George.

President Hayes had asked George, point blank, ‘Why in Sam Hill’ a man who’d asked to be relieved due to stress-related issues had been suddenly jerked out of a desk job and placed in command of a vital and highly sensitive field mission, only to disappear without a trace. George was sufficiently politic not to point out that the President’s people had been provided with the names of at least forty highly qualified men. George Hammond had offered several individuals from his own staff. In the end, however, Jack O’Neill had been selected. He was, quite simply, the best.

Jack’s abrupt resignation from SGC – and this sudden disappearance on a mission gone so very wrong – had the President believing, however, that Jack O’Neill had cracked up and then screwed up. President Hayes hadn’t mentioned it to another soul. He had promised George as a personal favor, but he did confide in George that Jack had ‘come within a whisker’ of breaking under the pressure of leading the SGC before he ‘threw in the towel.’

George knew better, but he had to admit that circumstances pointed in that direction. Reports from the SGC-CMO, Doctor Grant, did nothing to undermine the theory. Rather, she confirmed that Jack had made an incredibly difficult judgment call during his first hours as CO. He had, in fact, personally detonated a bomb, intending to kill his former team-members, in order to save them from endless torture at the hands of Ba’al.

Knowing him as he did, George knew what that decision must have cost his friend. Everyone at the SGC had known it. Jack had even been ordered off the base by Grant. Still, he’d argued to stay at his desk, doing his job.

In the end, SG-1 had survived. Still, George knew from long personal experience the emotional fallout that Jack must had suffered from his decision. Being Jack O’Neill, he’d suffered in private.

Even so, given the circumstances, George felt that Jack had handled the ‘loss’ of SG-1 about as well as any man could. George had reviewed the documentation and found nothing there to indicate a mistake in judgment. To the contrary, the account made him damned proud of his former subordinate. The incident only confirmed what George had long known. Jack O’Neill had been one helluva fine Commander. The added detail of the ring now gleaming on George’s pinky elevated his friend’s demonstration of duty and dedication to his command to personally heroic levels.

Things had evened out after SG-1’s safe return. Jack had led his people through a number of challenges with no sign of problems and no hint of post-traumatic stress. To the contrary, dedicated military professional that he was, he’d waited for a period of rare calm in the ongoing storm that was daily life at SGC.

Then he’d quietly stepped down. About that time, George guessed, Jack must have bought this simple band of silver.

George felt confident that he knew what Jack O’Neill had been thinking from the time he took command of SGC until he resigned. It undercut the theory of a break-down. It also made the possibility that Jack would cut a deal with the Trust unthinkable.

Unfortunately, George couldn’t discuss Jack’s actions with President Hayes, or anyone else. Jack and Sam deserved their privacy in this matter. Unless it became an issue of life or death, George would keep their secret.

George sat for another moment and his gaze shifted to the jumble of personal effects in the center of his desk: use-worn wallets, dog tags, wedding rings, family photos, loose change, torn ticket stubs, key rings and all the other flotsam of daily life of more than two dozen men lay in an untidy heap. Somewhere in that pile was a clue he’d missed. There was a thread, if he could just see it; he’d find it and follow it to the son-of-a-bitch behind this mess.

George leaned back in his chair, still eyeing the pile. Then a light blinked on his phone and his aide’s voice came through the intercom.

“Microburst transmission received from Colonel Carter, General,” the disembodied voice declared. “I’ve sent it to your desktop, Sir.”

George turned to face the screen of his computer and jiggled the mouse, bringing the desktop to life. A message blinked in his inbox. George clicked on it. Gibberish appeared, but in a moment a cursor raced across his screen, transforming it to English.

George scanned the message, then turned and jabbed a button on his speaker phone.

“Get me Teal’c,” he ordered. “Send word for him to return from Chulak. Get him out here ASAP. Tell him to wear a hat.”

ΩΩΩ

“General Hammond sends his best,” Sam said to Daniel as they walked across the rugged grassland.

“What did you tell him?” Daniel asked.

“Everything,” Sam replied. “Alan’s death, the patterns you saw on the aerial photos, the fact that we have found a directional pattern pointing to Ararat.”

“Good,” Daniel replied.

“And I suggested he contact the research team from Antarctica.”

“The one’s who found the Ancient woman a couple years ago?”

“Yes,” Sam replied. “They’ve been working on a system for detecting Ancient genes in the population. The idea’s to use it to locate any other survivors who were trapped in the ice. They contacted me for some advice on the physics.”

Daniel walked a few more strides and then cocked his head and said, “Wouldn’t finding more Ancients in the ice be a … bad thing?”

“They’ll use an isolation lab this time, protective gear, MOP procedures, the whole thing,” Sam replied. “The point is, Daniel, they have made progress. I think they might have a sensor that could detect General O’Neill’s location. It can penetrate miles of ice … why not rock?”

“You’re expecting him to be inside rock?” Daniel replied.

“If there was an operation on the surface of this grassland, we’d detect it by satellite,” Sam replied. “There’s been nothing suspicious.”

“A sensor,” Daniel mumbled, “… underground facility … Sam! You’re brilliant!”

Sam grinned, but growled, “That’s my job. To be brilliant.” Daniel chuckled and said, “Me, too. Better get started, eh?”


They walked on in silence until, thirty minutes later, Sam slowed. A group of natives herding sheep was angling toward the same road she was approaching. She stopped, caught Daniel’s eye and verified that he, too, recognized that they were no longer alone on the grasslands flanking the road to Yerevan.

Daniel picked up his cue and took the lead. Sam fell into step a seemly distance behind him, keeping her head down to hide her incongruous blue eyes.

The shepherds seemed to have caught sight of the duo because they altered their course, as well, to avoid intersecting the two strangers. The dogs barked and nipped. The humans strode majestically in their dusty robes, just as their ancestors had for thousands of years, and the sheep ran in waves of billowing dust and odor.

The flock reached the road about a quarter of a mile ahead of Sam and Daniel and soon a choking dust cloud inundated the pair, dust churned up by the passage of eight hundred cloven hooves on the primitive earthen highway.

Daniel coughed, sneezed, and would have slowed to allow the air to clear ahead, but Sam prodded him, keeping to the edge of the stinking cloud. By the time they reached the city outskirts, both wore a uniform layer of fine dun-colored filth over their skin and clothes, rendering them indistinguishable from the rest of humanity in the thirsty land.

Their rough attire and extreme degree of filth made them unacceptable at the better hotels in Yerevan. Besides, only American and British tourists could afford such palatial accommodations. So, Daniel passed by the Hilton and the Sheraton and stopped instead at the door of a ram-shackled Mom-and-Pop establishment huddled in the Sheraton’s shadow. He bowed himself in through the bead-bedangled entranceway, murmuring what sounded to Sam like blessings on the house. There followed a lengthy negotiation, she guessed. Sam couldn’t actually see Daniel, but felt sure he had been offered tea. In the role of servant or younger brother, it was Sam’s fate to sit in the shimmering heat and dust at the roadside and wait.

An hour passed before, finally, Daniel emerged. His face and hands had been washed. He had the look of a man who’d enjoyed cool refreshments in the shade. Sam growled, but didn’t speak. Daniel ignored her and led the way to their room.

Sam stepped inside, dropped the dust-coated satchel on the floor and kicked off her sandals as the door to their room closed.

“Let there be a bath,” she whispered, locking the door, aware of the thin walls and her wretched accent.

“A basin,” Daniel replied softly, pointing to reinforce his meaning in case Sam’s limited vocabulary left any doubt as to his meaning, “and a pitcher for water.”

“Rats,” she hissed in English. Then she tore off her dust-encrusted turban, vest and outer shirt and poured the pitcher of water over her head and neck and into the bowl.

Daniel obligingly turned away while she completed her make-shift shower. Then they settled cross-legged on the mat and Sam pulled the topographic map out of her pocket and spread it on the floor before them.

“We are about here,” she indicated, pointing to the eastern-most edge of the city of Yerevan.

“Here,” Daniel corrected, pointing to a cross-road slightly farther to the north and west. “I asked the Proprietor. We are pilgrims to Ararat, by the way. He told me that it should require another day to reach the edge of the city and two more to its base.”

“General Hammond will get us a ride sometime tomorrow,” Sam whispered as she slumped back on the mat, rubbing her feet and groaned, “This is why I didn’t choose the army.”

Daniel chuckled, stood and went to the washstand. He took the basin in one hand and the pitcher of water in the other hand and carried them back to the mat, and said, “Lie back.”

Sam obeyed, letting Daniel pull off her dust-caked boots and socks. She winced as the rough wool pulled away from her blisters. The boots had been provided by Alan and were a poor fit.

“Sorry,” Daniel murmured. Then he set to work cleaning and binding her battered feet.

Sam was asleep before he finished. So he stood quietly, rewrapped his turban around his head, and slipped out for fresh water. He returned moments later, pulled off his sandals and washed and bound his own blisters before he stretched out beside Sam and slept.

Sam woke first. It wasn’t yet dawn. She moved silently around the tiny room, washed her sweat-encrusted face and neck, as well as her arms, hands, and sun-burned face. She rinsed the remaining clean water through her hair and then bound her turban tightly over her still-damp head. Then she woke Daniel and slipped out to fetch him a fresh pitcher of water.

Within a few minutes, he had washed and dressed and they stepped into the fading night. The peak of Mount Ararat was just visible between the agglomeration of modern and ancient buildings that appeared to run to the western horizon. Daniel led the way down the gray street, and then ducked into a warren of side streets that ran roughly parallel to the main road to Ararat. Sam fell into step a respectful distance behind him.

As Yerevan awoke, Daniel paused to dicker with neighborhood vendors along their way. He stopped outside an aromatic shack that radiated with heat and the perfume of warm bread. He acquired four large, freshly backed flatbreads there, still hot and oozing fragrant olive oil. As they walked on, they inhaled two of the flatbreads, oil dripping from their fingers. Daniel stopped again at a table overflowing with vegetables and fruits. He selected a modest bunch of brilliant red carrots, two large green tomatoes and a handful of fresh coriander. Then, in the course of haggling over the price, he agreed to accept two clusters of small, yellow-green grapes, in exchange for meeting the proprietor’s ‘very fair’ price for the rest of the food.

Finally, three blocks later, he sighted an elaborately painted street cart. Sam salivated at the intense aroma of coffee brewing. Daniel stopped at the cart and purchased two Turkish coffees, which were served with multiple spoonfuls of sugar in diminutive cups. They drank the coffee standing at the cart, sucking the hot sweet nectar through their teeth to sieve out the grounds. Then, Daniel handed Sam the remainder of their provisions, she tucked the food into her grimy satchel, and they walked.

As the flow of humanity surged around them in the narrow side streets, Sam’s confidence grew. She kept her eyes lowered, but caught glimpses of pale skin, among the bronzed, green eyes, gray, and even a flash of light blue among the dark-eyed natives. Yerevan was, it seemed, a cosmopolitan city. With their burned skin and dirty clothes, they blended into the exotic crowd.

Every now and then Sam glimpsed Ararat as the back streets twisted and turned. The peak had grown taller. By noon, they’d crossed the city. They would encounter their ride very soon, Sam knew, and should be at the foot of the Sacred Mount well before nightfall.

ΩΩΩ

“Put me down,” Jack ordered.

Peach stopped and lowered him to the ground. Jack leaned in the dust. His head was spinning and his stomach churned from being manhandled for miles in the baking heat. He gathered his shreds of dignity, then glared in the general direction of his old comrade in arms. Bear glared back amiably.

“Give us a minute,” Jack commanded. The two young men did a quick fade.

Bear continued to glower, as he picked his teeth with an oversized pig-sticker.

“What’s the point?” Jack demanded as soon as the kids were out of earshot.

“I owe you my life,” Bear stated, “You asked for my help, remember?”

“Where, exactly, does kidnapping Peach and shooting Indiana fit into this, you ugly old bastard?” Jack asked in a friendly tone that belied his harsh words.

“I shot Indaoui with a load of rock salt. No real harm was done. He regained consciousness soon enough,” Bear chortled. “Next time, perhaps he will take greater care.”

Bear paused. Jack didn’t break the silence. The old spy’s the tone had told him far more than the words conveyed.

Finally, Bear dropped his voice and hissed significantly, “You asked for my help.”

“And …” Jack prompted.

“You are in no condition to carry out this mission,” Bear continued, “So … it falls to me. As my people’s traditions and my personal honor command, I shall be your eyes and legs, my Brother. As for your youngsters, you should know that I have done nothing but watch out for your welfare, my old comrade, and those who serve you. Honor demands it.”

Suddenly sick of riddles, Jack sighed, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and flung himself back into the sparse grass along the roadside.

“My head feels like your horse stomped it,” he groaned. “I’m tired. I smell like horse shit. So, if you are going to kill me, Bear, be my guest. Please … put me out of my misery.”

“Kill you?” Bear repeated, incredulously.

“If you aren’t going to kill me, then tell me what you are planning to do … Ransom us? Help us? Spell it out real slow and real simple for me, Bear, f’godsake, before my brain explodes.”

“Ah,” Bear sighed, leaning forward and staring hard into Jack’s weary face. “There was a time when you would not have acknowledged such weakness, even to me, your blood brother. Time and trouble it seems, have forced some wisdom upon you, La-neel.”

“Whatever,” Jack growled. “Spill it.”

“This land is treacherous,” Bear began, “More so since the Kurds, your former allies overran the regions once held by Sadam, by the Soviets and by the Turks, running dogs that they are for the western corporate power elite.”

Bear hacked and spat vehemently into the dust.

“No kidding,” Jack murmured, but Bear continued.

“There is suddenly wealth to be made here,” he said, “a great deal of money and very powerful interests, my old friend. There are strangers who have come to discover ancient myths, La-Neel. They seek out old women, priests and lunatics in the marketplaces. They listen to their stories and they pay! They search for the Yazidini tablets, scrolls, maps, any scrap that might point the way to the mysteries they seek in this lawless border region where nations meet, but cannot rule.”

Jack had stopped scowling and he didn’t speak as Bear paused to sigh deeply.

Bear had his full attention and knew it. So, he continued in a loud hiss, “At the core of this bizarre quest for the tales of women and bedtime stories for children, my friend, is the Sacred Mountain beyond Yerevan.”

“Ararat?” Jack murmured, “There’s actually something there?”

Ah yes, La-Neel, Bear confirmed, “Something older than time, something more powerful than the weapons of humanity, something that existed before the many Gods of man took human form and stepped down from that mountain to curse our forefathers. Something … Ancient.”

“Ancient?” Jack repeated, aware of the dual meaning of the word, but uncertain whether Bear grasped its special significance.

“Ancient,” Bear replied, “Not old, not antique, my friend, but … Ancient. In the way that you are … Ancient.”

“How old do you take me for, you old bandit?” Jack stalled.

“Ah, La-Neel,” Bear spat, “Do not con a con-man. It embarrasses me and does not improve your painfully diminished dignity.”

“So why are we screwing around out here in the boon-docks?” Jack hissed, fighting back a shudder. “You’ve heard of cell phones, Bear, haven’t you? Call DC and get this powerful, Ancient … whoz-zit … secured, before the big-money-guys get their paws on it and your simple life gets a helluva lot more complicated.”

“First,” Bear growled in a deep, threatening rumble, “there is a small point of honor to address, my friend. Before we call your friends in Washington DC, there is a matter of your blood … and my vengeance.”

“What?” Jack asked, but Bear had straightened and was moving away.

“Bear!” Jack called. “What are you talking about?”

The big man ignored him.

“Bear!” Jack roared, but his shout was cut short by the roar of the old spy’s pistol.

“Bear, god-damn-it!” Jack roared again, but a second shot – from a 9 mm – rang out and then a third. Jack threw himself down, hugging the ground, and waited.

Finally, footsteps approached. They were too fast for Bear’s ponderous weight.

“What happened,” Jack demanded as the footsteps paused.

“Your friend, Bear, took a shot at me, Suh,” Peach replied, “So I had to kill him … and as for Indiana. Well, I guess you’d say he just got in the way.

“And what about me?” Jack asked, expecting to die.

“You,” Peach replied, “Well, you, suh, are what this here is all about.”


Chapter 17

Teal’c stepped into the ‘Gate room deep beneath Cheyenne Mountain.

General Hank Landry was there with hand outstretched to greet him.

“Teal’c,” Landry said, “there has been some trouble with General O’Neill. George Hammond has asked me to loan you to him to help with the investigation. General Hammond thinks you are particularly qualified to lend a hand.”

“I do not understand, General Landry,” Teal’c replied.

“Frankly, neither do I, Teal’c,” Landry admitted, “but you are to take this along. It just arrived by military transport from Antarctica.”

Landry handed him a heavy black suitcase.

“You’ve got a plane to catch,” Landry continued. “You’re going to DC.”

Four hours later Teal’c stepped off a metro train at the Pentagon. He’d caught a military flight into Reagan National airport and from the airport terminal had taken a train that was referred to on maps as the ‘blue line.’

Teal’c stepped off the train at the appropriate station, wearing a civilian suit coat and slacks, and a tweed hat pulled low to hide his golden brand. He was under orders to blend in. The obvious glances of his fellow metro passengers gave the impression that perhaps he had not succeeded.

“Don’t let that bother you, Man,” a large, gregarious civilian said as Teal’c stepped through the train doors onto the platform. “These folks know the score. They’ve seen enough mercs to know another one when they see one. This is DC, Man. No sense in getting all in a sweat about it.”

Teal’c stared at the man for a moment and then attempted a knowing smile.

The other man smiled back, punched him in the shoulder, and turned and walked away. Teal’c noticed that his coat and slacks pulled around well-developed muscles.

‘A brother warrior,’ he decided.

Teal’c turned the other direction and ascended the proper escalator, until he reached turnstiles at the upper platform. There, a very young airman greeted him as ‘Mr. Teal’c’ and escorted him the rest of the way to General Hammond’s office.

“What has happened?” Teal’c asked as soon as they were alone.

“Jack O’Neill’s missing, Teal’c,” Hammond replied, “along with every soul under his command. The village they were in at the time of the attack was wiped out. We only know they were there from itinerate chatter the British picked up by chance.”

Teal’c leaned forward in his chair as General Hammond leaned toward him.

“The White House thinks Jack cracked,” the General said frowning. “The British think he’s turned coat. I think he was set up. I need you to do something for me, before these other theories get traction. Did you bring the suitcase?”

“I did,” Teal’c replied, turning his eyes to a black case and a duffle bag sitting along the wall in the General’s lobby.

“Airman,” Hammond barked, “Get that gear aboard the ship.”

Hammond briefed Teal’c and explained what he was to do and why he was supremely qualified to do it. By the end of the briefing the former First Prime was nodding his agreement. It was a good plan, a plan that O’Neill would willingly embrace, if he were able. With luck, Teal’c would reach him in time and together they would wreak vengeance on those who had betrayed his brother.

At the conclusion of the briefing, General Hammond invited Teal’c to step into the corner of his office. Teal’c stood behind a leafy office plant. Then, with a slice-swish, Hammond’s ring device activated, sending Teal’c to the Prometheus. The ship had just achieved geosynchronous orbit far overhead.

Teal’c took command. He ordered the crew to initiate a search of the planet below for a sign of something hidden, something of great power, something he might have encountered in the past, something that had belonged to Ra, the brother and enemy of his former Lord and God, Apophis. He was to find something capable of forming the patterns Daniel Jackson had seen on Abydos, after O’Neill’s triumph over Ra, the same patterns now in evidence on the face of the planet Earth. Teal’c focused his search in eastern Turkey. He focused on the mountain now known as Mount Ararat, but known to the Jaffa of Apophis, and of his brother Ra, as ‘Bottomless Well,’ for reasons long forgotten.

ΩΩΩ

“Report,” the voice demanded.

Dr. Gage Hunter sat behind his gleaming desk and paused.

“Are you deaf?” the cold female voice demanded, “What do you have to say for yourself, Doctor?”

“Preliminary …” Hunter began, only to have the voice cut him off sharply.

“I did not ask for a book report,” the caller barked. “I have reviewed your findings, every scrap of data up to and including this morning’s test, Hunter. What I need to hear from you is your expert assessment!”

Gage swallowed and looked out of the windows at the darkening slopes of the mountain, as if the answer might be there on its slopes.

“My assessment,” he repeated the words softly. He was very afraid. When the weapon was finished, his usefulness ended. It was ready. It worked and that meant he was a dead man. “My … assessment.”

“You are the expert on the Mount,” the voice snapped, “as well as the resident Ph.D. and director of this massive research project. I expect that you have an assessment, after thirty months of work and billions of dollars of investment. Or did you hit your head on something hard and forget all that you’ve learned?”

“No,” Gage replied in a quivering voice, not even angered by his critic’s disrespectful tone or her sharp words, “No, I’m fine. My assessment is that … it works. It is fully functional.”

There. Gage had given up his last hope for survival. He felt almost relieved and Carlotta’s sad, pitying smile was there for him.

“Ah!” the voice grew warm. “That is good, very good. When will you be prepared to demonstrate it?”

“Soon,” Gage replied. “Anytime really that suits your needs, Ma’am.”

“Today,” the voice snapped, “Now: Immediately. Report to the ground floor in … thirty minutes Doctor Hunter and congratulations on an accomplishment of a lifetime.”

“And accomplishment of a lifetime,” Gage repeated, breaking into a sweat, “I … I understand.”

The caller was already gone. Gage Hunter rose from his seat and stood swaying behind his desk, uncertain what to do. He had an appointment to keep. He felt sure that it would be his last, but he was in their building. His driver, his aide, everyone in the place answered to the Dark Angels. He was miles from civilization. Even the city was too far to reach on foot, particularly when they missed him in … twenty-two minutes. He had to keep the meeting. He had no alternative. He had to go.

ΩΩΩ

Far below Hunter’s office, she stood before a full-length mirror, smoothing thin, wrinkled hands across her silver hair. She stood for a moment, looking deep into the dark eyes that stared back from her reflection. They were tired eyes; tired and old and sad; sad but not evil, not bitter or angry. Not today, not anymore because finally the debt would be paid.

She smiled slightly and abruptly turned away from the mirror, took up a silver-blue scarf from the back of a chair, and draped it over her long, thickly, curling hair, capturing the silver and white tresses within the folds of shimmering silk, and tying them firmly in place. Then she pulled a deep blue wrap around her narrow shoulders and walked toward the door.

As she reached for the door handle, however, Astore paused and then hurried back into the room. She crossed it quickly. She didn’t intend to be late for her appointment with Dr. Hunter. First, however, she must attend to one last thing.

She stepped into a short hallway and turned again entering a small room, an alcove really. It was dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp and furnished with a narrow bed and a single small table.

A book lay on the table. She walked to it and opened a book. It contained photographs, pictures of her life. She flipped the pages, past photos of her husband, so handsome and proper in his American uniform; Past dozens of baby pictures, and those of a daughter’s childhood.

She thumbed past them, noting each from memory more than from the sight of them. She’d committed every shade, every emotion of every image to memory long, long ago. She stopped at the penultimate picture, a photo that she’d received from her only child, her Carlotta. She didn’t turn the page to the photo of the crime scene that the police had sent at her insistence.

Astore gazed down at a graceful, smiling girl, on the verge of being a woman, with shining coiling hair like her own had once been. A girl with a passion to unlock the secrets of her mother’s world …. Such a passion, cut short before it was realized.

“Carlotta,” she murmured, “If only you’d been patient,” Astore Williston murmured, tracing a fingertip across the faded photo. “On your twenty-first year, my beloved daughter, all would have been revealed. You were too eager. You were impetuous. You never fully grasped my world, our truths, the depths of this most ancient of worlds. So, you were denied the wondrous heritage of your people …of your mother’s mother … of the Sacred Mount. Oh my poor daughter, you were of your father’s world. That world destroyed you, my love. Soon you will rest, soon; when justice is served.”

Then Astore hesitated. Her finger slipped behind the page, as if to turn it, as if to gaze once more on the abomination committed against her beautiful child. But she knew every line, every shadow of the last image. She closed the book, placed it carefully on the table beside her bed, and left. She would not be late for her appointment.

There was no need to turn the page.

ΩΩΩ

Sam lifted her hand and waived at the Hummer. It had bisected the long, gradually rising expanse of scrubland between the city of Yerevan and the mountain. It closed the distance and slowed and then careened to a halt, throwing up clouds of cloying yellow dust.

“Colonel,” the driver said, as she climbed into the vehicle. “Doctor,” as Daniel followed her into the back seat.

“Is Teal’c in place?” Sam asked.

“Yes Ma’am,” the driver replied.

“Good. Then take us to the foot of the mountain, Airman,” Sam replied without a pause. “Fast as you can without being noticed.”

“Too late,” Daniel murmured, staring at a small group of native children staring and gesturing at their vehicle.

Sam looked at him and shrugged. Roaring around in a military vehicle was far from clandestine, but it was too late to turn down the lift. Something told her the clue she was looking for, the reason Jack had vanished, was up there, somewhere on the mountain. It had been almost three weeks. The General was out of time. She had to get inside that thing to see what, if anything made it tick.

ΩΩΩ

Jack cursed as Peach dragged him through the desert scrub, with a pistol pressed against his gut.

“How far you plan to manhandle me through this damned country, Peach?” he demanded. “There’s still a horse around here somewhere, you know!”

“Not too far, Suh,” the kid replied, “In fact, this otta to ‘bout do ‘er.”

“Do ‘er? Do what?” Jack demanded, but then a well-known snap-swish sounded, indicating activation of a Goa’uld ring device.

Jack didn’t have time to wonder about the implications of that before he was sprawled on cool, hard rock. It seemed darker. His sun burnt skin no longer prickled under the glare of the desert sun. He smelled water or wet rock like the inside of a deep, deep well.

“Welcome,” a man’s voice echoed from the gloom. “General O’Neill.”

Footsteps sounded as the speaker approached. He didn’t sound overly bright and he walked like he wore heavy boots.

“Where are my men?” Jack demanded of the voice. “I demand you take me to them.”

“Demand?” the voice laughed as it spoke the word. “Demand! Well, I will take that under advisement, General O’Neill … Sir!”

Jack blinked and turned in the direction of the voice. He saw nothing in the gloom and he felt damned silly. He was in no position to make demands, but what else could he do? Give up?

Not quite.

“Who the hell are you!” he barked at the unknown male voice. “What the hell is this about? Peach tells me …”

The toe of a fast-moving, heavy boot cracked against Jack’s teeth, slamming him back against the stone floor.

“Shit,” he spat, as he sat up. His lip was split and a front tooth wobbled as he lisped, “Was that entirely necessary?” He wiped the back of his hand across his bloody mouth and chin, then spat again.

“Not necessary, General,” the voice replied, “but it was possible and it was pleasurable.”

“For you, maybe,” Jack growled. “Me, I can think of …”

The boot connected again, flinging Jack onto his back. He skidded slightly from the force. Then he groaned, rolled onto his side and heaved. He hadn’t eaten in so long that nothing came up. Still his body did its best. After the dry heaves passed, he spit out a tooth.

“Fuck,” he moaned, doubling up. The boot swung again, catching him in the gut, but this time Jack was ready. He absorbed the blow, gripped the boot and twisted, hard and sharp. The man fell. Something snapped and there was a satisfyingly shrill howl.

“Is thith fun?” Jack snarled, twisting the broken limb viscously in the other direction. “We having … fucking … fun now?”

The body attached to the boot yelped and squirmed away, attempting to drag the boot free. Jack pulled himself up the leg, hand over hand, grasped where he guessed the shirtfront should be and pulled hard, slamming his forehead into some part of the other man. Another bone cracked with a sharp snap.

This time there was no yelp.

Jack’s head was spinning from the impact, but he dragged the limp body close again, closed his hands over the chin and head, and gave it a sharp, sudden twist, trying to break the bastard’s neck. The semi-conscious man struggled against his grip.

Jack’s bloody right hand slipped. As the man squirmed away, Jack closed his blood-slick hands around his opponent’s throat and squeezed, hard, pressing in with his thumbs. There was a rattling sound. Hot breath was on his face. The man’s neck was massive and all muscle. Jack’s grip wasn’t quite strong enough to snap the hyoid arch. Without the full use of his legs, the angle was wrong.

He pressed his full weight against the man’s ribcage, instead, and closed off the windpipe, while forcing air from the lungs. The rattle grew deeper. The struggles more violent. It was slow agony trying to kill a strong opponent this way, but it was working. The force of the thrashing was weakening as Jack hung on, pressing down with all his strength.

A sharp click beside Jack’s left ear reminded him of Peach. In the heat of hand-to-hand combat, Jack had forgotten him.

“I’m a-thinkin’ my percent is a mite low,” Peach drawled in an offhanded tone, “What’d ya say we make it sixty, forty … with you taking the forty, boss-man?”

The body shuddered and convulsed. Jack bore down with all his strength. Then Peach must have swung the pistol. Something cracked against Jack’s temple. Everything went a darker shade of black.

ΩΩΩ

Jack woke up on his back. His hands were bound and tied to something overhead. He rolled, using his arms to lift himself off the stone floor. Chains rattled.

Footsteps nearby warned him that someone was there, probably waiting for him to regain consciousness. The possibility was confirmed a moment later.

“General Jack O’Neill,” a voice said, “Welcome to my facility. I am so pleased to have you with us, Sir. How are you feeling? I do apologize for the rough handling you endured from my security staff. The man will be punished for his behavior, if he survives. If it brings you any comfort, you broke his leg in two places and his nose in three. You nearly drove one piece of bone into his brain cavity. Fortunately, his brain is rather … smaller than most.”

“Great,” Jack murmured through blood-crusted lips. “Where are my men … let me see them.”

“Certainly,” the man replied, “but, first things first, General. You are required for a certain project.”

ΩΩΩ

“There,” Sam said, pointing at an outcrop that would hide them from three sides. “Pull over and kick us out of the vehicle. Be a real jerk. That’s a direct order, Airman.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the young man replied, his face darkening. It was clear he didn’t relish abusing an officer, particularly a female Colonel.

He pulled over, threw open his door, jumped out, flung open the back door of the Hum Vee and grabbed Daniel by the back of his filthy robe. Daniel played along and scrambled out, letting the Airman drag him into the dust. The Airman kicked him once and Daniel rolled with it, jabbering apologetically in some dialect that Sam didn’t recognize. Then the Airman turned to her, grabbed her by the back of her vest and flung her alongside Daniel in the dirt. He didn’t kick her. Not until Sam clung to his ankle mimicking Daniel’s speech earnestly. Then, with no other choice, the Airman gave her a half-hearted shove with the toe of his boot, spun and walked back to the vehicle.

A moment later he was gone in a cloud of dust and Sam was resting on her haunches, wondering how to approach Ararat. The mountain sloped in a steep rocky sweep above them. Sam ran her gaze up its side. Then she peered absently at the outcropping. Suddenly, her focus shifted and she saw it on the rock face, not three feet away –

Writing!

“Look,” she hissed in Daniel’s ear. “Daniel, look!”

Sam pointed at the rock face and then scrambled toward it on her hands and knees. There was writing: Faded, almost unintelligible, but there.

Daniel joined her at the outcrop, leaned over the dim inscription, tracing his fingertips along the marks, and muttered to himself softly.

“Is it … ?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Daniel whispered softly. “It’s writing and … it’s Goa’uld.”

“What does it say?”

“Well … roughly … ‘Turn Back.’”



Chapter 18

Jack listened as they moved him. Everything sounded hard and wet. There was running water, dripping, splashing under the wheels of the small motorized cart they were driving swiftly downslope. There were echoes, compounding the difficulty of tracing their route by the sounds. Every few minutes the echoes multiplied, as they passed what Jack guessed might be intersecting corridors. From the sound of it, the mountain was honeycombed with them and they were huge.

“What do you want from me?” Jack demanded again. He’d asked repeatedly, but his captor hadn’t bothered to answer.

The cart slowed and turned a sharp corner, then the grade plunged steeply and the air grew slightly warmer.

“Patience,” the man replied. “You’ll know soon, General.”

ΩΩΩ

The ship slowed.

As it decelerated, Teal’c glanced at the navigator’s display. They were over Mount Ararat.

“Initiate scan,” he commanded.

O’Neill’s unusual genetic make-up was the key to the rescue mission. The characteristics that gave him the ability to access Ancient technology had been mapped by the Antarctica team of geneticists who had unearthed the first Ancient several years ago. Among other things they had noted, , a peculiar electromagnetic signature associated with Ancient biochemistry. The scanner had been installed on the Prometheus. Teal’c would use it to search for the Ancient electromagnetic signature to locate Jack O’Neill. Once detected, O’Neill could be brought aboard using ring devices. Colonel Carter and Daniel Jackson were in the vicinity in case, for some reason, an alternate extraction method became necessary.

As the speed of the ship matched the rotation of the planet, the Earth appeared to slow and then stop rotating below them. Teal’c could not see the entire planet. They were in near-orbit and the monitor was filled with the dusty orange of lands that included portions of Turkey, Syria, Iran and Iraq, and the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean. He observed and was reminded of a thousand other missions, wicked, bloody missions in service of False Gods. He’d been a slave from a slave’s world. He’d helped to enslave other men, other worlds, until his fateful meeting with O’Neill.

O’Neill had demanded his help. Teal’c had responded and suddenly everything in Teal’c’s world had changed. He was free. He served honor and justice, rather than False Gods. In time, he helped lead his people to freedom. Somewhere below his brother warrior was still battling evil. Teal’c would do all in his power to find him and, if the Gods allowed, he bring his friend safely home.

“Status?” Teal’c asked.

The bridge crew scanned their monitors. No one spoke for a moment. Then, from behind him, a female Airman barked out, “Got him!”

ΩΩΩ

The cart stopped. They were on a sharp incline. Strong hands grabbed Jack’s upper arms and dragged him out of the motorized cart.

His head was throbbing. His battered ribs protested against with every breath and his leg was a dead weight. Also, he was getting damned tired of guessing what was going on around him. It was really starting to piss him off.

“Tell me what this is about,” he growled.

The man in charge said, “Over there.”

Jack was dragged across a smooth stone incline like a sack of rocks. Grunting, the two men marched him up a set of five steps and dropped on cool, wet stone. He pressed his aching face against the coolness and damp, as their footsteps retreated down the stairs.

A moment passed. Jack felt the presence of another.

“To answer your question, General,” his captor said, as he sat beside Jack. “I don’t know what this is about. I am just the messenger.”

Then the man crouched, paused a moment, and then jabbed a Goa’uld jab stick into Jack’s side. Jack’s muscles spasmed and he screamed as the current surged through him. He was in too much pain to resist when the man latched heavy manacles over his wrists. And that, Jack guessed, had been the point.

Then his footfalls receded and there was the sound of the cart starting and driving away.

Jack opened his right eye and then blinked. Muted light filtered in from somewhere overhead. He couldn’t see it as much as sense a change in the dark.

‘Somewhere high overhead,’ he decided.

He let his check press back against the stone. He was tired, tired and thirsty. There was trickle of water. He turned his swollen mouth to the rock and sucked. The taste was bitter and foul, like something old … and long dead. But Jack knew it wasn’t dead … not yet. He recognized the odor of gangrene and knew it was his ruined left leg. His throat tightened reflexively and his stomach heaved again, but he fought the reaction to spare his ribs, and lay still as the stone around him.

He waited.

Jack’s eyes widened and his heart pounded. Far off to his left, there were voices, soft but intense. Jack listened, straining to hear the faint words over the pounding of his heart. Suddenly, there was another, far louder sound, the metallic slicing of a ring device. Jack held his breath, listening for zat fire or the reassuring sounds of P-90s.

There was only silence.

Jack finally let himself breathe, and sagged down against the foul-smelling rock. There was no sound now but his ragged breathing and the hammering of his heart.

ΩΩΩ

“Colonel Carter,” Teal’c’s voice came softly through Carter’s radio. “Please respond.”

Carter turned up the gain slightly, depressed the mic button and replied, “I’m here Teal’c. Do you have him?”

“I do not,” Teal’c replied. Sam could almost see him frown.

“What happened,” she replied.

“We detected the Ancient genetic signature,” Teal’c replied, “but when we activated the ring device …”

There was a pause.

“What?” Sam prompted.

“When we activated the ring device,” Teal’c repeated, “instead of O’Neill, we brought aboard an elderly woman.”

Sam glanced at Daniel, who had paused in his translation long enough to lift his eyebrows.

“An elderly woman?” Sam repeated.

“She calls herself Astore Williston. She is a native of Yerevan,” Teal’c continued, “She is also an Ancient.”

Teal’c paused and then continued, “One moment please Colonel Carter.”

In the background, Sam heard Teal’c’s rumbling and a faint reply, “Sir, we are detecting multiple Ancient signatures.”

“How many signatures, Airman?” Teal’c asked.

“Dozens … Hundreds … maybe more ...”

“Oh, crap,” Sam murmured.

ΩΩΩ

Teal’c brought Sam and Daniel aboard the Prometheus. The three met in the ship’s cramped briefing room.

“I need to talk to Astore Williston,” Daniel began before they were seated.

Teal’c inclined his head in agreement as Sam and Daniel settled across the small conference table. A film of dust settled with them.

“I don’t understand how there can be dozens of Ancients,” Sam stated.

“Hundreds,” Teal’c noted.

“We can ask Astore Williston that question,” Daniel replied, “Plus a few dozen more.”

“Like whether she’s involved with General O’Neill’s disappearance,” Sam agreed.

Teal’c sat in silence watching them. Under other circumstances he might have smiled to see their synergy working. He did not smile, however. He was too worried about how they might locate O’Neill, with hundreds, maybe thousands, of Ancient signatures flooding the array, rendering it useless.

“… and she might be able to tell us the significance of the writing we stumbled onto …” Daniel was saying as Teal’c shifted, bringing the freewheeling chatter to an abrupt halt.

“All of this we will ask,” Teal’c stated, “before we meet the woman it is necessary, however, to have a strategy. This meeting is required to devise that strategy, my friends.”

“He’s right,” Sam said. “We don’t know this woman, Daniel. She could be part of it … or just happen to have the Ancient gene.”

Daniel nodded slowly; clearly he was loath to shift from master archeologist to military issues. Teal’c waited, trusting his friend’s judgment.

“Yeah,” Daniel said at last. “So what’s the strategy?”

“We should learn what we can,” Teal’c stated thoughtfully, “while revealing nothing.”

“She might be willing to help us,” Daniel offered.

“We won’t know that until we talk to her,” Sam replied.

“Perhaps not even then,” Teal’c concluded.

“So, we talk to her,” Daniel said eagerly, the master archeologist reasserting itself.

“Reveal nothing,” Teal’c restated.

Sam turned to fix Daniel with a hard look.

“Nothing … I got it,” Daniel agreed.

Teal’c rose and walked to the hatch. He opened it and spoke to an Airman stationed there.

“Bring our … guest.”

ΩΩΩ

Gage Hunter rapped his fingers in a show of impatience. He’d waited thirty minutes and Mrs. Williston, his greatest threat, had simply failed to appear. Hunter stood and paced the length of the conference room, staring at the lush Oriental rug without actually seeing it.

‘What happened?’ he wondered, thinking furiously.

He’d managed a reprieve … somehow … But how? There’d been no doubt in his mind that this meeting would be his last.

Hunter shuddered, turned and retraced his steps across the length of the spacious room. He paused as he reached the other end of the table and then collapsed into the leather-appointed chair, fidgeting with his old-school tie.

“Maybe she’s waiting for me to leave,” he murmured. “Maybe they are …”

Hunter lapsed into thought, weighing the possibilities. Another hour passed before he became aware of the passage of time. No one had come for him. No one had summoned him. He had been alone and unharmed for almost two hours longer than he expected to live. Would they wait so long? Had he miscalculated?

After another half hour, Hunter’s professional demeanor reasserted itself. Angry and too embarrassed to continue crouching in the conference room waiting for an old woman who clearly would not come, he stood, tightened the silk tie against his throat and strode from the room. His breath caught as he stepped into the corridor. A guard stood there.

“Yes?” Hunter snapped a shade too loudly, expecting the worst.

“Dr. Hunter,” the man rumbled, “I didn’t want to interrupt, but … what about the guy …”

The man was no brain trust, Hunter noted with well-worn distain. At that thought, Gage Hunter relaxed, suddenly convinced that he had managed a reprieve from the fate he’d expected at the hands of the Dark Angels. Instantly assured that somehow he’d saved himself, though he had no idea how he’d managed it, he reasserted his arrogant professional persona.

“Come,” he snapped. “I have plans for our friend that you so eloquently term ‘the guy.’ I can’t wait for Astore Williston.”

Then, Dr. Gage Hunter turned and strode down the corridor with the guard at his heels, already relishing the culmination of his life’s work. Confident, for the first time in two days, that this crowning achievement of so many years would not be his final achievement.

ΩΩΩ

Jack had found the sweet relief of semi-consciousness, sprawled on the cold wet stones. At the clink of the manacles being unlocked, Jack fought back the fog of exhaustion. His leg no longer hurt. Somewhere in the back of his mind alarm registered, but he was preoccupied, trying to gather his tattered wits. This might be a chance. He was dragged upright and hauled across the emptiness to the five steps he’d counted a lifetime ago.


Hunter observed from the passenger seat of a motorized cart. The carts were used for transporting workers and equipment throughout the vast underground complex. Hunter noted no outward sign of consciousness, as the two muscled security men carried the unresisting prisoner down the stone steps to the landing and dumped him into the back of the cart. A nauseating odor wafted over Hunter. He clapped his hand over his mouth and fought down the urge to retch.

“Gawd! He stinks!” the driver stated.

Hunter ignored the comment and nodded for the man to proceed. They started with a lurch and sped down the twisting corridor, which continued on an even incline for nearly five miles. By the time the cart halted, they were ten miles underground, deeper than any other man-made structure on the planet. That is, Hunter mused as he always did, if men had actually made this vast, mysterious structure.

The driver stepped out of the cart and walked to a massive door that closed off the core of the facility. Hunter shifted over into the driver’s side of the cart. The door swung open. He drove through. He didn’t bother to stop. The driver closed the door behind him. No one else ever traveled beyond the door.

From here, Gage Hunter was on his own.

ΩΩΩ

Astore Williston sat in silence with her hands crossed on her lap. She did not move toward the conference table, but sat with her chair shoved against the wall. It gave the interview the feel of an interrogation. Daniel wondered if she’d done that on purpose, or perhaps as an unconscious symptom of how she expected to be treated.

“Please, join us at the table,” he said in her language. “I am Doctor Daniel Jackson and this is Colonel Sam Carter. You already met Teal’c?”

She didn’t move, so he continued, “You are not a prisoner.”

“My husband was American military. I speak fluent English,” she replied. “Am I a guest then? If so, I prefer to leave.”

“You are free to go,” Sam jumped in, “but … before you do. We could use your … help.”

Astore turned her eyes toward Sam and lowered her head ever so slightly. Sam chose to take it as a signal to continue, so she did, before the elderly woman changed her mind.

“We are looking for a friend, a very dear friend …” Sam said.

Teal’c raised his eyebrows slightly and Daniel shifted his gaze to Sam’s face. Still, despite their reaction, she pressed ahead, seeking common ground with this woman.

“We think he’s in serious trouble,” Sam continued. “We had hoped to rescue him, but … brought you aboard instead … it was a mistake. I am sorry if we … alarmed you.”

Astore waited a long moment without speaking and then said, “I am not alarmed, Colonel Carter. I am curious. I am an old woman from a small village. What is it you imagine I can do for your lost friend?”

“Well …” Sam replied, but Daniel interrupted.

“We were hoping you might know his whereabouts.”

“I do not know your friend,” the old woman stated, “so I could hardly know his whereabouts, could I?”

“He is a General in the United States Air Force,” Sam stated.

“He’s in his mid-50s, tall, and sort of …” Daniel paused as he tried to think of a polite way to describe Jack’s irreverent style.

“Rude,” Teal’c interposed.

At that Astore smiled and a light chuckle slipped out from behind her carefully composed mask.

“I may know of your missing friend,” she acknowledged. “Before I agree to help you, however, there is something you must understand.”

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“There is a madman in the Mount,” Astore replied, “with the most powerful weapon this world has known for over 4 thousand years. I require your assistance to stop him. Then, afterwards, I will do all that is within my ability to assist your missing friend.”

Sam’s jaw dropped and Daniel cried out, “What?”

Teal’c leaned forward, nodded and rumbled, “It is agreed. Tell us all you know of this madman … and of his weapon.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack heard a massive door swing slide shut behind them. He didn’t move. He didn’t know whether they were alone or not. The cart hadn’t stopped to recollect the person who opened the door. After a few minutes, Jack felt a sharp increase in the air temperature and a drop in humidity. The cart slowed, made two more turns and then stopped.

A heavy thrumming vibrated the air, the cart, and Jack’s bones.

There was a shift in the cart as the driver climbed out. A moment later, Jack felt the hard point of a muzzle pressed against his temple.

“I assume you are awake,” the voice said. It was the same educated diction.

Jack opened his eyes and tried to focus on the shapeless form hovering over him.

“Good guess,” he replied.

“Out,” the other man said.

“Can’t oblige,” Jack sighed. “You must know that.”

“I do. I just wondered if you’d been faking.”

“Not so much,” Jack replied with a faint touch of mockery.

“It doesn’t matter,” the other man replied. “I have made all the necessary arrangements.”

“For what!” Jack demanded. “What is it that you expect from me?”

“I am Gage Hunter,” the voice replied, disregarding Jack’s outburst, “Doctor Gage Hunter, General O’Neill.”

“So fucking fine to meet you,” Jack sniped. “Now about my question …”

“I know who you are,” Hunter continued, “It is only fair that you should know my … credentials.”

“Not to be rude,” Jack interrupted, “but, I’m not that interested. I’d rather get the hell out of here. Now Carter, she’d be real interested; Daniel, too. Me? Not so much.”

“SILENCE!” Hunter roared, pressing the muzzle hard against Jack’s throbbing temple.

“As a military man, let me explain something to you. That pistol works when you depress the trigger, Doctor Hunter,” Jack growled, “It’s not really necessary to push it through my skull.”

“I am the world’s authority on ‘Bottomless Well!’” Hunter shouted, only slightly moderating his tone. “The leading authority. Do you understand?”

“No,” Jack said.

Hunter pounded his hand against the side of the cart and shouted, “I run this facility. I am the director of research. I built this entire complex from nothing!”

“Except for the real interesting parts,” Jack said in a flat tone. “Wow … Impressive.”

“Shut up!” Hunter snapped. “I don’t need your approval. I was being courteous. Clearly this means nothing to you. I don’t care either way. You are a tool, General O’Neill. I do not require you to be impressed; I only need you to be here.”

“Why?” Jack asked softly, interrupting Hunter’s crazed rant.

“Why?” Hunter purred suddenly soft and sounding pleased, “Why? Well, because General, your life force will be the engine behind this equipment.”

“Life force, huh?” Jack said, suppressing a smirk. “You might have made sure I had a bit more of it to offer, assuming you get this thing to actually run. What’s it do, exactly?”

“So you are interested!” Hunter crowed.

“Mildly,” Jack drawled.

Hunter spun, leaned forward and snapped, “This equipment is a weapon, more ancient than you can imagine. This weapon that will enable me to accomplish all that I desire. With it I will conquer the Earth!”

Jack smiled and said softly, “Conquer the Earth?”

Hunter leaned closer and screamed, spewing a shower of spittle as he ranted. “Yes Damn You! I will rule everything and use you to do it, General Jack O’Neill!”

Jack struck, grabbing Hunter’s shirt, dragging him forward and viciously head-butting him. Jack’s forehead connected with Hunter’s jaw. Hunter staggered and slumped forward. His body pinned Jack to the cart.

Jack moaned and shoved the body back, pulling his legs free and nearly fainting as he tried to wrench his left leg from under the dead-weight of Hunter’s limp body. The unconscious man tipped and slid. Jack reached out to grab his shirt, but missed his grip.

Jack heard Hunter hit the ground beside the cart ... Then nothing but the hammering of his heart and the thrum of the machinery.

Jack scrubbed his hand across his face. The thrumming of the weapon was loud and insistent. It made it hard to think clearly. He felt like he might pass out.

Jack’s mind raced. He was deep underground … Probably locked inside a secret facility. He couldn’t escape. Even if he could retrace the path to the door, he didn’t know if he could open it. Besides, he wasn’t strong enough to walk and, even if he could manage, Hunter might regain consciousness at any moment. There was the cart, but Jack couldn’t drive if he couldn’t see.

Hunter had claimed this was Ancient technology.

Jack thought hard. There had to be another way ... But no. There was one option.

Jack gave himself another moment to build up the strength for what had to happen next. Then he rolled off the cart and fell on top of Hunter. Ignoring the impact on his broken ribs, as best he could, he fumbled with the Doctor’s belt, pulled it free and used it to hog-tie the man.

Then, gasping with every move, Jack resolutely dragged himself toward the ominous sound. It was slow and it hurt. He was trembling violently when he finally felt the lip of a raised platform, or perhaps stairs. He pulled himself up he felt the pattern of Ancient etchings, like those on the head-grabbing contraptions that had nearly killed him … twice. And, just like the ones on the chair device he’d activated in Antarctica, which had nearly killed him … once.

Jack didn’t waste time on the symbols. That was Daniel’s thing, not his. He crawled forward on his elbows, pushing with his good leg and praying that the device would be like the one in Antarctica. Finally, with the vibrations rattling his broken ribs, Jack gained the base of something that felt like a chair. He grabbed the arms, with a supreme effort dragged himself up, twisted, dizzy from the strain, and fell back into the seat.

ΩΩΩ

“The weapon is older than time,” Astore stated. “My people, back to the beginning of time, and before, were guardians of it and of all the treasures of the Sacred Mount.”

“Your people?” Daniel prompted.

“The Yazidini,” she replied.

“Wait. Tell us what the weapon does, exactly,” Sam interjected.

“I do not know. That is why I agreed to work with the others to fund Dr. Hunter’s research.” Astore replied.

“What does the weapon look like,” Teal’c asked.

“I have never seen it,” Astore replied.

“Then, how do you know it exists?” Sam asked.

“Stories of my mother, and her mother and back through the long march of time,” Astore said.

“What do the stories tell you,” Daniel said forcefully, glancing darkly at Sam.

“Untold power, destruction of the world,” Astore said. “The usual.”

Daniel chuckled at the unexpected levity and said, “The usual?”

“These stories were remembered by my fore-mothers, Dr. Jackson,” Astore replied. “Before we could receive the knowledge, it was necessary to pass the age of knowledge and to receive training in order to understand the stories in their proper context.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam hissed to Daniel.

“I think,” Daniel said, glancing at Astore, “that the part about destruction of the world might be a smoke-screen.”

“Very good,” Astore replied, inclining her head. “You might have made a priestess, Dr. Jackson, except for your obvious disability.”

“Males aren’t allowed?” Daniel replied.

“No,” Astore agreed, “Only one is allowed. There is a story of a man who would come from the seed of the stars. He would bring the missing piece of our heritage and, with it, a golden age of knowledge and power.”

“So, you don’t really know what the ‘weapon’ does?” Sam repeated.

“I do not, Colonel Carter,” Astore admitted. “I do know, however, that it will unleash untold power, releasing a ‘Bottomless Well’ to the benefit of our children and the children of men.”

Teal’c shifted slightly and then stated, “If O’Neill has been brought to the Mount to provide the missing piece to this Ancient weapon, we should prepare to enter the mountain in order to find him and free him.”

“I agree,” Sam said, “If we can study the weapon, Astore, we will be glad to work with you and your people.”

Astore turned her gaze from Sam to Daniel and to Teal’c. Finally she spoke.

“I agree … if we are allowed to oversee, as the Yazidini have always watched over it.”

Sam smiled, but the smile faded as Astore continued.

“There is, however, one problem,” she said. “The others will not agree to work with the United States.”

“The others?” Teal’c asked, frowning.

“You mean the other Yazidini?” Daniel interjected.

“No,” Astore shook her head, “The others – members of the Board – There is no official name. They refer to themselves as the Dark Angels. It’s a joke … but not far from the truth. The men represent powerful nations, corporations, family interests. I am certain that at least two of them will insist on controlling the weapon. They have the will and the resources to resist your attempts at interference.”

“Who?” Sam prompted.

“The Saudi Royal Family,” Astore replied.

“Oh … crap,” Sam snarled, but Astore hadn’t finished.

“… and the Chinese government.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack leaned back. The chair back tilted. Soft, jellied controls were at his fingertips. An abrupt charge of energy surged through the chair. Jack felt an instant of concern as something intense and irresistible pulled at his consciousness. Fear passed … and pain … as he was swept along, unresisting now. It drained him, carrying him along like a leaf down a storm drain, surging, twisting, churning, and he was falling … falling faster and faster into the depths of a bottomless well.

ΩΩΩ

Elsewhere in the facility, the Dark Angels were in conference. The Chinese representative, Chen Lu, hid his alarm at the first trembling shudder through the living rock. He merely steepled his fingers and paused in his comments.

The others were less composed. The junior associate from Royal Dutch Shell jumped to her feet. Three members of the Saudi Royal pulled out their Blackberries to check for alerts. Several representatives from the dark side of international special ops organizations muttered and hit speed dial on their cell phones.

The Chinese representative watched the pandemonium with hooded eyes, noting who retained a degree of dignified tranquility. There was only the Black Ops man from Australia. Otherwise, Chen was unimpressed with his fellow Board members.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” he spoke softly, “if we may resume …”

The cell phones were flicked shut. The Blackberries disappeared. No one in the room was so flustered as to forget that the Mosul oil fields, their untold wealth and Chen’s plan to claim them. Nor did they forget that China had funded and organized this project, but could share the wealth with the Board to the tune of several billion yen.

ΩΩΩ

Jack observed what was happening from the perspective of someone hovering overhead. He saw his bruised and bloody face, the filth and dried blood trails in his thick gray beard and down the front of the tattered tunic. His body trembled violently in the chair as energy thrummed louder and louder, screaming for release.

Jack understood there was a weapon, a powerful weapon, but it was not the source of the true power of Ararat. Something far more profound was … behind the weapon. Just as Wildfire was merely a means to protect the SGC and the Star Gate, the weapon here was merely a safeguard for something far more important … and far, far more potent.

Jack gazed down with a sense of disconnection from the pitiful creature in the chair: His filthy, ragged robes; His grotesquely damaged leg, hanging like a dead thing from the Ancient chair. The man looked half-dead as well. He seemed asleep, except the fingers pressed and flexed. Untold power responded. The mountain rumbled and throbbed, deep and threatening.

Jack knew then that the weapon had been activated. More than that, the key component, the heart of Bottomless Well had completed its function. Now all that was required was to destroy those who would pervert this Ancient, holy place.

Suddenly, Jack was no longer separate from the weapon. He didn’t watch from afar. He was part of the machine, trembling in the chair, battered by the throb and pulse of the Ancient machine.

Jack shuddered. It was no longer pain, fever or even fear, but the deadly tension an arrow feels an instant before it is loosed from a bowstring. Tight, ready, willing to fly into the unknown ether … to strike.

“Adios Mother Fuckers,” he murmured.

Then the weapon discharged in a roar and a brilliant flash.

ΩΩΩ

Chen had sufficient time and poise to turn away, straighten his tie and call the meeting to order before a deep rumble shook the conference room so violently that water sloshed over the edge of the crystal pitcher. A moment later the rumble ceased, to be replaced by a terrifying sound of rock shearing against raw rock.

Chen was on his feet as the walls began to deform and he’d reached the door moments before they buckled. He grabbed the door knob and dragged the door open as fire burst down the corridor. It flashed through the open door, filling the conference room, and sending Chen Lu and the rest of the Dark Angels back into the depths of the Earth.

ΩΩΩ

“What’s happening?” Sam demanded, spinning from the bridge monitor to grasp Astore’s upper arm. Astore didn’t answer, but shrank back, and pointed to the monitor as an enormous tongue of flame erupted from Mount Ararat.

Sam stared, dumbstruck, but then turned to a bank of monitors. Subsurface readings indicated the mountain heaving violently from some unknown force deep in its core. Regional geologic readings showed no hint of faults shifting anywhere else. The activity was tightly focused on the Sacred Mount.

“I do not know,” Astore replied vacantly. “What about my people?” she whispered urgently to Daniel.

“Where are the Ancient signals,” Daniel asked, ignoring Astore, and leaning over and squinting at a monitor.

“Only one remains within the mountain,” the Airman replied. She pointed to the screen and continued, “All others are in the village or scattered across the surrounding plains.”

“Teal’c! We’ll use the rings to …” Sam barked, but before she finished, a massive explosion erupted from the mountain. A column of flame and debris arced far into the stratosphere, then formed a plume of red-hued smoke that began to slowly curve with the flow of the planet’s high atmosphere.

“Oh my god,” Daniel gasped, taking a step forward and cried out, “Jack!”

“Shields up,” Teal’c ordered as chunks of debris broke away from the planet and spun out into space, trailing tails of fire.

“What about his signal?” Sam bawled.

Daniel and Teal’c turned to stared at the Airman. She shook her head and said in a shaky voice, “The signal’s gone, Colonel … Everything’s just … gone.”



Chapter 19

George Hammond rubbed a hand across his face and then back over his bare scalp. He was bone tired. While there was one chance, no matter how slim, that they could pull Jack out, he’d been able to work without a break. Now … With Jack gone, there was only the misery of cleanup and the bleak search for those responsible.

While the demand for justice would keep George Hammond digging, it was grim work, grim and wearing. He was doing his duty, to his command and to his friend, but he was also feeling his years.

George leaned back in his chair and gazed out the dark windows into the night pocked by the splash of street lights, automobile head lights and the office lights of late-night workers. He lifted his gaze to the Capitol building where the flag flew, backlit dramatically by spotlights. He rubbed his eyes, then dropped his hand and examined the slender silver ring on his little finger.

‘Duty … Honor … Crap …’ he mused bitterly. ‘Christ, Jack … was it worth it?’

The old man lifted his eyes to the gently flapping flag again. He’d lost too many people he’d loved. In his heart, he knew it was worth it. It had to be. Any other conclusion dishonored the dead. Still, tonight, sitting alone in his office, weary and grieving Jack O’Neill, George felt it was too heavy price. Far, far too heavy a price.

The phone on his desk buzzed and a young Airman’s voice said, “They’ve arrived General Hammond.”

“Send them right in,” George replied, “bring in a pot of coffee and anything we’ve got around this place that’s fit to eat.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The Airman opened the door a moment later and admitted Colonel Carter. She gave George a brave smile. Daniel Jackson was behind her and Teal’c brought up the rear. All three looked exhausted.

Sam paused, lifted her red-rimmed eyes and said softly, “I am so … sorry I failed you, General.”

George shook his head and murmured, “Sam … Don’t …”

She saluted then and George returned her salute without quite managing a smile. He reached over and gripped her shoulder tight, until she nodded and said. “Yes, Sir.”

“Take a seat,” he said, indicating a cluster of cushioned chairs flanking a wide leather couch. “I can offer you coffee in a moment and … something to eat, I think. I’m not sure what it will be …”

“Thank you, General,” Sam replied and took a chair. Her filthy clothes raised a small cloud of dust. Daniel flopped into another chair, raising a far bigger cloud from his native robes. Teal’c sat gracefully on the couch and leaned back with his eyes half closed. Even the Jaffa looked tired.

The Airman returned with coffee, plates and cups, and a mixed assortment of donuts and Danish rolls. George took the tray from the youngster and dismissed him for the evening, reminding him to lock the outer doors on his way out.

Then George set the plate of stale pastries and the coffee urn on the gleaming coffee table, beside plates and cups. Then he settled into his own chair without a word. He watched as Sam and Daniel tucked into the food, clearly relishing the mediocre Pentagon coffee and inhaling the stale donuts without appearing to taste them.

The moment stretched on uninterrupted while Sam and Daniel ate. Teal’c and George waited patiently. Finally, Colonel Carter swallowed the last of her coffee and blushed beneath the layer of grime.

“Perhaps we should begin, General Hammond,” she said.

Daniel nodded, jamming the end of his second donut into his mouth and washing it down with another big gulp of coffee.

“Well, if you’re ready,” George said, “Let’s skip the review of what happened. Just focus on information that might help us find those behind this and, god willing, bring the bastards to justice.

“Before we get to that, General Hammond,” Sam said with a strained look on her face, “are we … sure?”

George gazed at his twined fingers and nodded. “I’m afraid so, Colonel Carter. There was, of course, nothing left at the coordinates of his last reading, as you reported from the Prometheus. The area had been obliterated. The mountain is still standing. Volcanic activity has been triggered, I’m told. The western side of Ararat has collapsed. Colonel, we checked out the other locations of the nine hundred electromagnetic signals recorded by the Prometheus array. At one of them we found … a faint indication … that General O’Neill was, indeed, inside the facility.”

“Indication?” Daniel whispered. “Then it wasn’t a Yazidini inside?”

“No. There was a fragment of his … tooth,” George stated, “It was … well … the DNA checks out.”

George waited, letting them come to grip with the painful facts.

Finally Colonel Carter broke the silence.

“What about his men? Anything?” Her voice trembled and she sounded beyond exhausted.

“No, Colonel Carter. We’ve searched. There are blood trails throughout the village. Not all of them end in a villager’s body. But … We haven’t found a single survivor … dammit.”

“He shouldn’t have gone out like this,” Daniel murmured.

Sam lowered her face into her grimy hand, covering her eyes.

Teal’c glanced from Daniel to Sam. After a moment, he spoke.

“Many hundreds of people appear to carry the Ancient gene within the area. The array was useless to locate O’Neill. I did not discern the presence of these people,” Teal’c continued, “until after I had attempted the rescue. Instead of O’Neill, however, we brought an elderly woman, named Astore Williston, aboard.”

“She has agreed to help us, General,” Daniel offered, “She claims to have helped create the facility that Jack …”

Daniel stopped suddenly and stared into his coffee cup without speaking.

After a moment Sam continued, “She’s a native of the region. From what she told us, it is a tradition among the women of her people to serve as guardians of Ararat. Coupled with the Ancient gene, and the nature of the explosion that we believe General O’Neill triggered within the mountain, it seems to indicate a second site of Ancient technology here on Earth.”

“I see,” George said, “Does any of this provide a clue as to what might have been behind this?”

“Only what Mrs. Williston told us,” Daniel replied, “Members of the Board of Directors of the facility included representatives of the Chinese government and the Saudi Royal family, as well as several well-known multinational corporations and some not-so-public … organizations.”

“Black ops?” Sam asked.

George nodded. A deep frown wrinkled his brow, but he said nothing for a moment. Then he rubbed his eyes and murmured, “Smacks of the Trust doesn’t it? Do you think Mrs. Williston will cooperate in our efforts to track down those responsible?”

“I do, General,” Sam replied. “Her main concern is for her people. I doubt she’d have become involved except she knew that powerful outside forces were about to uncover secrets that the Yazidini had protected for generations. She infiltrated to learn their progress and … when the time was right … to be in a position to derail their work.”

“I concur,” Teal’c stated. “She is most dedicated and formidable.”

“Well,” George continued, “I’ve been looking into this from my end. I’ve back-tracked Jack’s orders to a dead-end. Everyone involved is either dead or out of reach … at least for the near future. I’ve got my staff digging through the personal effects of his men, looking into their background and former assignments. I’m hoping something will surface. We’ve got nothing yet.”

Silence settled over the group, until Teal’c said, “Do you believe we can find those responsible, General Hammond?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, Teal’c,” George admitted, “But we’ll damn-well try.”

George stood and said, “Go home people, get some sleep. We’ll have a long day tomorrow with the debriefing in the morning, the funeral at Arlington, and the meeting and dinner with President Hayes in the evening.”

Sam saluted and George returned her salute. He watched them file out and then returned to his desk and sat staring through the dark windows as the moon rose over the DC skyline. Finally, with a sigh and a glance at the ring on his little finger, he opened a file on Sergeant Marion Mason and began skimming it. Tomorrow there’d be little chance for progress. Somehow George couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out.

ΩΩΩ

Sam showered and crawled into bed, too tired to bother to dry her hair. She’d have to wash it again in the morning anyway. She turned out the bedside light and closed her eyes in an exhausted daze.

‘Jack … Sir …,’ she thought, “I’m sorry … so sorry, Sir.”

Sam pulled the stiff hotel comforter tight around her. She was trembling with fatigue and shock. She hadn’t wept. Not yet. The pain was too fresh, too raw, for tears. She didn’t feel sorrow. She felt shame … and beneath the shame a rage so fierce that any tears she might have wept burned away before they could fall.

Sam turned onto her back and pressed the heel of her hand against her burning eyes. The vision of Mount Ararat exploding seemed imprinted on her eyelids. Every time she closed them, it replayed in slow motion. Every detail played in sharp relief, colored with red and yellow flames soaring against the black of space.

“They found your tooth,” she spoke aloud. “You must have been right on top of it. God, Sir! Why did you leave us?”

Sam bunched the comforter around her as waves of despair shook her. She gritted her teeth and rode out the trembling and the cold. She didn’t close her eyes. She knew sleep wouldn’t come.

Finally, the tremors passed. Sam rolled to the side of the bed and waited, listening to the pounding of her heart. She sat up, stood and, pushing her sweat damp hair out of her eyes, crossed the room to the computer that the hotel provided as part of her ‘Executive Suite.’

She was exhausted and sank into the chair with a soft groan. She reached out her trembling hand and clicked into her account at the Pentagon and from there, into the highly secure files within the SGC. She scanned the file names and then opened one labeled ‘Ararat Data’ and then clicked open the document titled ‘O’Neill.’

ΩΩΩ

The next day broke clear and hot. DC humidity was low, for once, and Sam stepped into the sunlight wearing her immaculate dress blues, stockings, and low-heeled pumps. The intensity of the heat reminded her of the fruitless days spent with Daniel searching for Jack in the heat and scorching sun of the Middle East. She hadn’t slept, but she was still numb and didn’t feel the lack. Besides, reading the results of the genetic analysis of the remnant of tooth had her thinking and, until she worked through the problem, she wouldn’t be sidetracked by fatigue.


A cab pulled up and she said, “Pentagon,” as she climbed in.

Across town, Teal’c and Daniel had already completed their customary morning run and were showering at a gym on Connecticut Avenue. Unlike Sam, both men had slept. They left the gym and walked a few blocks in the hot morning light, then turned down a set of escalators into the metro to catch the Blue Line to the Pentagon.

George was waiting in a large conference room when the three arrived. They were shown in without delay.

Sam saluted the General and took her seat. Daniel and Teal’c headed for coffee. George sat and met her gaze.

“I would appreciate it, Colonel, if we could talk later today in private,” George said softly. “Perhaps this evening, after we finish at the White House?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Sam replied.

Then Daniel joined them and the subject was set aside.

ΩΩΩ

Daniel smiled politely and nodded at the comments of his dinner companions, a bloodless older woman to his right and a beefy Englishman on his left. The woman had been oozing sympathetic sounds and repeatedly noting how ‘rugged’ Jack had looked in uniform. She meant well, Daniel decided. Everyone at the table was being very considerate and admiring of Jack’s professional accomplishments. Not that they had any real idea of the man’s service record. Most of it was too highly classified, even for this rarified company.

After the first twenty minutes of it, their condolences and half-baked opinions of Jack’s valor had made Daniel want to break something. That was two hours ago. Still, he smiled and made small talk with the President’s other guests.

The briefing at the start of the day had been unremarkable. They were continuing to run down leads, but getting nowhere. Sam had started reviewing the genetic analysis of the tooth that placed Jack in the facility. Aside from that, there were no new developments.

It was clear that the power behind the operation had been thorough, very professional, and had left no trace … at least no trace they’d found yet. Everyone felt certain this was a Trust operation, or a Trust subsidiary. With the involvement of China and the Saudi Arabian Royal family, however, it would require hard proof. So far, as General Hammond had put it, hard proof was in damned short supply.

The funeral at Arlington Cemetery, later the same day, had been rough. Daniel hated military spectacles. He felt uncomfortable with the highly stylized traditions and he was raw with pent-up grief as he watched the honor guard perform for the mourners with the precision and lack of emotion of toy soldiers.

‘What would Jack think about this,” Daniel kept wondering as the other mourners, mostly professional military, observed the ritual with their faces carefully composed.

‘He’d hate it,” Daniel decided, ‘All the formal fuss … no cake…”

‘No Cake!’

At the memory of Jack’s juvenile delight in all things cake, Daniel had snorted, caught up in a jolt of sudden, totally inappropriate, Jack O’Neill hilarity, brought on by stress and grief, but still totally, totally out of line. Daniel had squeezed his eyes shut and bit his knuckle until the pain brought him back under some kind of control.

Through the rest of the funeral, people looked at him with such sympathy that he eventually realized that they’d taken his efforts to stifle a guffaw as some sort of expression of anguish. While he was glad that no one had realized he was trying not to laugh, it also heightened his discomfort.

As the 21-gun salute faded away, marking the end of the service, Daniel strode away from the graveside, leaving the others behind.


Daniel took a distracted bite of something from his plate, chewed slowly, still pretending to listen to the English man as he rattled on about his days at Oxford, and glanced down the table at Sam. She was seated beside General Hammond and was not speaking or smiling. Her face was pale, despite the tan she’d acquired on their mission to the Middle East. Dark blue shadows under her eyes made her irises look incredibly blue … and sad. Daniel saw her hand tremble as she lifted her water glass.

General Hammond was handling the polite conversation, apparently aware that Sam had reached the end of her rope. Daniel was glad the General had stepped in and asked that Sam be seated beside him, rather than between a diplomat from France and the businessman from South Dakota.

Teal’c was not present. It had been decided that there was no plausible way for the Jaffa to don a hat that would not seem odd with formal dinner attire. Since Teal’c had raised the point, Daniel was pretty sure that the Jaffa was pleased to be elsewhere. Daniel would have been too, to the extent that he was wondering how painful it would be to have molten gold poured onto his forehead. To escape this charade, it might just be worth it.

There had been one brief moment of true human empathy through the entire unbearable day. Before the other guests arrived, the President had spent some private time with George, Sam and Daniel.

Daniel hadn’t known what to expect when President Hayes’ assistant had invited him to join the President in the Oval Office. He had been impressed and touched when Hayes had greeted him with a warm handshake that had become an embrace and a manly clap on the back. Then Hayes had waved Daniel to the couch, sat beside him and handed him a stiff whiskey, without asking if he needed it.

“I have no words,” the President had said, “No words, Dr. Jackson. He gave everything to the service of our Country, as you know better than anyone, and then … his last full measure. God forgive me, I authorized the mission.”

Daniel had needed the whiskey. He’d gulped a fiery mouthful and had blurted something that he couldn’t later recall. Then the President had given him another warm, firm handshake and, Daniel would never forget, had ushered him out of the Oval Office, with tears brimming in his ice blue eyes.

Sam and George had received a private audience with President Hayes, as well. Daniel couldn’t imagine what might have transpired during those moments.

Daniel picked at his dinner and drank the dinner wine far too quickly. Since it was the White House, there was a steady supply of wine with every course of the multi-course dinner. By the time dessert arrived, Daniel was not sure he could stand, much less navigate from the room.

When the time came, the President was at his elbow, however, easing him forward. Teal’c also appeared at his other side, wearing a somber black dress hat, pulled low over his brow. Daniel was ushered out with all the proper pomp and ceremony to the waiting limousine and arrived at his hotel fast asleep. Teal’c accompanied Daniel and delivered him to his room.


After seeing Daniel safely off under Teal’c care, George turned to Colonel Carter and asked, “Are you tired?”

“No General,” she lied. George accepted her lie and appreciated it. He had something to tell her. He didn’t look forward to it, but he felt it was his duty and wanted to get through it.

“Let’s walk, Colonel Carter,” George said, taking her elbow and ushering her out a side door that opened onto the White House lawn. Soft sounds of traffic carried from Pennsylvania Avenue, but they were muted by the trees and expanse of lawn.

“What about security …” Sam began, but George hushed her.

“We are fine, Sam,” he said, “The Special Service knows. I asked the President for clearance for this little walk. I wanted to speak to you someplace private.”

Sam said nothing, so he forged ahead.

“You know that I have been working through all possible leads on the men under Jack O’Neill’s command, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sam replied. “You told me that at our first meeting at the Pentagon.”.

“Well, that gave me access to their personal effects … including Jack’s,” George paused, but Sam said nothing, so he continued. “This is not easy for me to explain, but … Hell, I may be an old man, Samantha, but I am not a fool …”

Sam stopped and looked at him in an odd way then. A breeze touched her hair and lifted the thin wrap encircling her bare shoulders.

“I’ve never thought of you as a fool, General Hammond …” she said, frowning and slightly flustered.

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” George allowed. “I’ll be direct. I’ve known for a long time that … Well, I’ve known that Jack O’Neill cared about you way more than he should have, at least within the strict confines of military regulations, Sam.”

She didn’t move, but her eyes grew wide.

“I chose to let Jack work it out with you in private and in his own time. I felt that I owed you both that much … He was one helluva fine commander …”

“The best,” she whispered.

“He never let his high regard for you interfere with his duty to the SGC,” George plowed on, searching for the right words.

“No, Sir,” Sam breathed, “He didn’t.”

“And you, of course, have maintained the highest level of professional decorum,” George rushed on.

“I hope so, General,” Sam murmured.

“But …dammit …,” George barked, then stopped, took a breath, and continued gently, “I … so … hoped that you and Jack would find a way, Sam. You know how I felt about him and I hope you know how I feel about you, too.

“Yes, Sir,” Sam said so low that it was barely audible. “I think I do.”

George continued, “I don’t suppose that I need to tell you how much Jacob liked Jack and grew to respect him.”

Sam said nothing.

George pulled a slim silver ring off his little finger and thrust it toward her.

“Sam, I found this on Jack’s dog tags. I took it to avoid … complications,” he continued gruffly. “Now, I’m giving it to you. I feel that Jack would want you to have it … despite …”

The old man coughed and then continued in a trembling whisper, “despite everything that prevented him from giving it to you sooner. He loved you, Sam. I … I think you probably knew that, but you should know how much … Maybe this will help you to know. I hope so. I owe him that much … at least.”

The silver ring gleamed in the White House spot lights.

Sam reached out and took the ring.

Then the old general spun on his heel and walked quickly away.

As Sam watched him go, she heard George say, “Take your time out here, Colonel. There’s no rush.”

George was out of sight before Sam looked down at the ring and murmured softly, “Oh … Sir.”

ΩΩΩ

“What did they do to you, La-Neel,” Bear growled as he held the canteen against Jack’s cracked lips.

Jack barely noticed the water Bear forced into his mouth, although the desert sun beat down on them like a hammer against white-hot iron.

“Drink,” Bear urged, tipping the canteen higher. Precious fluid trickled down O’Neill’s bearded chin and wet his blood-encrusted tunic.

Bear pulled the canteen away and handed it to Indaoui.

“Drink, boy,” he said gruffly.

Indaoui tipped the canteen high and took three long, thirsty pulls.

“That’s enough!” Bear barked, but the young man had already capped the canteen and was handing it back to the foul-natured old spy.

“How much farther?” Indaoui asked, pushing the makeshift bandage back on his forehead. Fresh blood began to seep from under the saturated rag.

“Leave it,” Bear snapped, slapping the younger man’s hand away.

Indaoui stopped fussing with the wrapping.

“Another two days,” Bear muttered, “maybe three.”

“The water won’t last,” Indaoui noted.

“No,” Bear replied, slipping his fingers inside his tunic to adjust wadding he’d pressed into the hole in his collar bone. Then he adjusted the sling that supported his left arm, clicked his teeth, and the horse moved, following him across the flat, rock studded plain that shimmered like a dreamscape under the baking sun.

Then he turned and gazed at the General who was sprawled on the bare ground, unmoving and barely breathing.

“Help me lift him,” Bear ordered as he grasped O’Neill under his arms.

Indiana grasped his legs, wincing as he saw the left leg sag unnaturally. The General groaned as the young man lifted.

Bear smiled and roared, “Ah! So, you feel that do you La-Neel? That is good my friend, very good. You may yet survive this ill-fated mission.”

Then he heaved him onto the horse and pulled the undamaged right leg over the animal’s back. The General flopped forward across the neck of the horse, like a rag doll, but Indaoui noted, he wrapped his fingers in the mane.

Then Bear took the horse’s head and began to walk again. Indaoui stationed himself alongside the gelding, leaving one hand on the animal’s neck to steady himself, and the other on O’Neill’s right leg to help keep him on the horse’s back.


Bear and Indiana had already been walking two days when O’Neill had suddenly appeared with a sudden ‘snap-hiss’. Indaoui couldn’t remember much of the first day. He woke to Bear’s ministrations some hours after Peach had shot him in the head. The wound was painful. It had bled heavily and Indaoui still felt lightheaded from the loss of blood and dehydration. Bear had wrapped a tight band of clean rags around his head. These had slowed the bleeding and, eventually, stopped the flow. But the binding ached and Indaoui had to constantly resist the urge to loosen it.

After Bear had fixed him up, Indaoui had helped the old spy bind his shattered shoulder. The collar bone had stopped the bullet, probably saving the old man’s life. A second shot had entered his back, but apparently had missed anything vital. It seemed to have been deflected by the old man’s ammo belt and left a puncture wound that didn’t penetrate beyond the thick layer of fat and muscle.

Bear and Indaoui had walked west, toward Yerevan the closest civilization. It was hard going. The sun was hot and the landscape strewn with rocks and rubble. Indaoui kept stumbling and Bear could do little to support him. Fortunately, Peach hadn’t stripped them of their rations and water. He’d even left their weapons and ammunition belts.

It was toward the end of the first day that the gelding had appeared, trotting out of the scrub, nickering a greeting to his master. Bear had replied with a sharp whistle that brought the animal at a canter. Then he’d helped Indaoui mount and had led the animal slowly onward into the setting sun.

Indaoui had slipped in and out of awareness as he clung to the horse. Bear continued walking long into the night. It was cooler, he’d said, at night, just before he told Indaoui to shut up and go back to sleep.

Bear hadn’t mentioned that they were running out of time and had to find water and medical attention. He didn’t need to say it. Indaoui knew. His wounds were already inflamed and he was noticing a lack of mental acuity that should have concerned him … but didn’t.

In another day or two, they would be out of water and too sick to travel. How Bear was managing to stay on his feet, Indaoui had no clue. As long as the horse kept moving, he didn’t really care.

It was midday of the second day, when a sharp slicing sound cut through the arid air.

The horse shied and Indaoui had been dumped onto the ground.

Bear cursed and dove for cover, waving madly at the horse, and sending it galloping off, tail high.

Indaoui was yelling to stop the horse, when Bear cuffed him and then threw him behind a clump of scrub.

The rings appeared in a flash and then, just as quickly, vanished.

Bear didn’t move. His massive hand stayed pressed against Indaoui’s mouth. They remained that way for what seemed like hours, but might have been five or ten minutes. Finally, Indaoui felt the pressure against his mouth ease and Bear rose into a lumbering crouch.

“Stay put,” he snarled in a soft hiss. Then he scrambled toward the location where the rings had briefly appeared.

Five more minutes passed. Indaoui was slumbering when Bear called out.

“Find the horse,” he called. “Boy! I say! Find the horse!”

Indaoui staggered to his feet and gazed about him, unsure how to obey.

“It is La-Neel, Boy!” Bear cried in an exuberant tone, “and he may live!”

Indaoui eventually found the gelding, grazing on the tips of the scrub about a quarter of a mile to the southeast. The horse didn’t object when he approached and took hold of the rope halter. It followed him meekly back toward Bear and O’Neill.

Since then Indaoui’s existence had narrowed down to three simple things: walking upright; holding O’Neill on the back of the gelding; and counting the steps until the next drink of musty water from the rapidly dwindling supply.

With luck they might reach a hut or find a shepherd. They might even manage to walk all the way to Yerevan, even without water. Indaoui decided he wasn’t going to over-think the odds of that.

ΩΩΩ

Jack clung to the horse. He had no idea how he’d been whisked from the Ancient facility or why he’d found himself back in the company of Bear and Indiana. He did know he was in serious trouble. Fever and chills wracked his body and his broken ribs were making breathing a challenge.

Worse, the stench from Jack’s wrecked left leg was ripe as road kill. He knew from the smell, the odd throbbing sensation and the lessening pain that he was suffering from blood poisoning. He was out of time. He’d be dead before the water ran out. Still, he did his best to hang onto the horse’s mane and to hope.

ΩΩΩ

It wasn’t a shepherd or a hut that saved them. It was the Red Crescent.

Bear had not traveled the roads to Yerevan in many years, not since O’Neill had disappeared from the region. In the time between Jack’s abrupt departure and this sudden reappearance, little had changed.

One of the little changes, however, was the establishment of a refugee camp about forty clicks outside of Yerevan. It was this camp that the horse had smelled and, driven by thirst, had angled toward throughout the second night of walking.

At dawn, the horse nickered eagerly and pranced a bit. Bear slowed the animal. Then he straightened and gazed, squinting, at the dark horizon.

“Boy,” he growled, “Do you see a city ahead?”

“I do,” Indiana replied. “Thank God.”

Bear picked up the pace. Soon an expansive city of tents, bordered by guard towers and barbed wire fence, stretched across their path.

“Greetings,” Bear called to the guards as they approached the gate.

Neither of the skinny young guards smiled nor did they speak. Both held their rifles ready.

“Ah,” Bear continued garrulously, “I see you know your business! Good. These are dangerous times. We have been attacked by bandits ourselves, not two days ago. I have been shot as has this boy here. And our friend on the horse is very ill. He was … bit by a snake … his leg is poisoned.”

The guards looked suspicious, but after fifteen minutes of Bear’s friendly banter, one of them stepped into the guard shack and placed a call.

The other ordered them to surrender their weapons. As Bear and Indiana dropped rifles, pistols, knives, and ammo onto the dirt at the guard’s boots, the other guard returned and pulled O’Neill off the horse. The man then led the horse away, while the other gathered the weapons and ammunition.

Bear and Indiana did what they could to move the General out of the sun and make him comfortable in the scant shade of the shack. Another ten minutes passed. Finally a battered ambulance arrived and two men climbed out with a litter. They lifted O’Neill onto the canvas and carried him into the back of the ambulance. Then they motioned for Bear and Indiana to follow.

Bear chatted up the medics on the short drive to the Camp hospital. He explained that they’d been attacked and beaten. The medics listened, but showed little interest. No one questioned the story. It was common enough.


The ambulance stopped before a block of tents with red crescents painted on the canvas doors. Bear and Indiana were greeted by another young man who led them into the hospital, provided them with glasses of water, mixed with salt and sugar, and assigned them cots. The medics followed and deposited the General to a third cot. The young man brought the General a glass of water, held it to his lips and, when the man did not try to drink, set the water on a folding table beside the cot and left.

Indiana crept over and sat on the edge of the General’s cot. The old man looked like hell. His skin seemed pale and waxy even under his deep tan.

Indiana pulled his tunic free of its rope belt and tore a piece of cloth free, wetted it in the water glass and began wiping blood from the General’s battered face.

He groaned and turned away, but Bear had settled on the other side and crooned, “You are a magnificent fool, La-Neel … proud … brave … strong … and far too old for such childishness. What brought you out to our god-forsaken home, eh? Is it a wish to relive your misspent youth?”

Strangely, the General quieted as Bear murmured to him. Indiana was able to cleanse the worst of his facial wounds. The blows had come from the right, it seemed. There was a deep slice across the point of the right cheekbone, just above the hairline of his beard. His lower lip was split and a tooth was missing there. The right eye was swollen and purple.

Indiana wet the rag again and wiped the General’s forehead. It was hot under the cloth. Bear continued speaking low and gentle. The General began muttering under his breath. Indiana didn’t catch most of the words, but heard the name Sam and someone called Danny and … it seemed … how the General had blown them straight to hell.


A short, fat doctor appeared toward sundown.

“What’s this?” he asked in a thick Brooklyn accent.

“We are humble villagers, fleeing before the enemy,” Bear improvised.

Indiana held his tongue, but tried to look pitiful while Bear repeated his tale a second time about bandits and being shot. Bear then asked that the doctor examine La-Neel’s leg. He explained that his brother had been snake-bit several days ago and that he feared that the leg had become septic.

The doctor pulled away the bandages and splints and then turned suddenly green and twisted away, covering his nose and mouth and gagging violently from the stench. He looked darkly at Bear, apparently not appreciating the stench or perhaps the obvious lie.

He ordered a nurse to cleanse the wound and cut away any gangrenous flesh and call him when the patient had been prepared for surgery. Then he grasped Bear by the elbow and walked him away into an unoccupied corner of the ward.

Indiana heard the outraged doctor hiss, “Who the hell is that man … and what brutes did this to him?”

The Doctor was calm when he and Bear returned. He examined Bear and Indaoui in silence, set Bear’s collar bone and replaced the filthy wrappings with sterile bandages. Then he examined Indaoui’s head, told the nurse to cleanse the shallow bullet wound, take an x-ray and rewrap the wound. Indiana didn’t bother to mention the bruising from Bear’s shotgun. It didn’t hurt much anyway now that they’d stopped walking. Besides, the Doctor didn’t seem to want anymore to do with them, probably suspecting that them of beating the General nearly to death.

The Doctor told the nurse to call him as soon as the General was ‘prepped’ and then left them to the stifling heat under the steadily rising sun.

Bear drank another large glass of water, wiped his mouth and beard on the back of his sleeve and flopped back on his cot and rested briefly.

Indaoui was dozing when he heard Bear rise and slip away. He sat up and said, “Where are you going?”

“I will be back before I am missed,” Bear promised.

Sergeant Indiana watched him depart, then he drank another glass of water and then, too worried to sleep, he walked over to gaze at the General. The nurse had cut away most of his ragged clothing. She’d also cleaned and wrapped his leg. Wide bandages wrapped his chest. His jaw and eyes were bound in thick bandages.

Indiana wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He still felt painfully responsible for the General’s injuries. Now, at least, the old man was getting medical care. He seemed to be resting easy. So, the Sergeant went back to his cot, threw himself down on his belly with his forehead on his crossed arms and, eventually, slept.


Bear returned with good news.

“I know several leaders in this camp, Boy!” he declared as he sat on his cot next to Indiana and shook the Sergeant by his elbow.

Indaoui blinked and muttered, “Huh?”

“Even better,” he continued enthusiastically, “I have won you an audience with the camp administrator. Tomorrow afternoon! You can tell them that you and La-Nell are US military. They will most certainly arrange for transport to the nearest US military base. They can at least get you to Antalia, Boy! As a member of NATO, Turkey will provide all the support, security and care necessary to get La-Neel safely home.”

Indaoui hesitated and stared at the General.

“What is it?” Bear demanded.

“Well … I have no identity papers,” Indiana said, “How can I convince anyone I’m for real?”

Bear laughed and pointed at O’Neill, lying battered and bloody on the cot at Indaoui’s side.

“You have saved the life of a General in the Air Force of the United States of America, the last standing Empire on Earth, My Boy,” he declared, “and there he is! What better credentials could you possibly desire?!”

ΩΩΩ

“He hasn’t spoken, Sir,” Indaoui replied crisply, more than a little nervous to be shouting down a poor landline connection directly to the General in charge of Home World Security. Ten minutes earlier, Indaoui had not known there was such a branch of the Service.

A Red Crescent functionary had run into the tent, found him, and rushed him off to the main office of the camp, to take a call from General George Hammond of HWS. Indaoui wasn’t going to argue. A General is a General and the young man was glad to have a contact in powerful places, even if it was half way round the world in the Pentagon.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Son?” George Hammond asked, “Anything that you or Jack need immediately … today?”

“I’m tired and still wearing the damned … pardon General … rags that I put on for the insertion, Sir,” Indaoui replied. “I stink and I could sure use a uniform, a bath, and a shave. General O’Neill’s still pretty much out of it, General Hammond. I don’t think he knows what’s happening. His leg has been tended but he’s still got a helluva …beg pardon … high fever. They might have drugged him. He mumbles a bit, but nothing I can make out.”

Indiana bit his lip while he waited for a reply. There was no word for so long he wondered if the line had gone dead or if he’d overstepped the bounds of military propriety. Then the General’s voice came through in a friendly, reassuring tone.

“Son, I’ll tell you what,” Hammond said, “How about I arrange a ride home for you and General O’Neill and then we can take care of that fresh uniform and bath here in DC. How does that sound?”

Indiana didn’t want to say how it sounded. Stranded half-way around the world, having this screwy old son-of-a-bitch playing games was more than he could bear.

“Well General Hammond,” the Sergeant replied, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ll be there in … under an hour, Son,” Hammond replied, taking Indiana’s reply for confirmation. “You hang on and do not let General O’Neill out of your sight. If he’s in treatment, you go with him. They do nothing without clearing it with you first. Do you have a weapon, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Sir,” Indiana replied, “I hung onto my K-bar. I’ve still got it.”

“Good enough. If you have to, don’t hesitate, Sergeant. Use it. That’s a direct order. There’s more to this than you know, Son. Hammond out.”


George jabbed the button to call his Airman. There was no response, so the old man strode to the door, flung it open and roared, “Get me General Landry on the horn, ASAP! And I want clearance over Turkey for the Prometheus RIGHT now!”

The Airman was on his feet and dialing the phone, yelling “Yes, Sir!”

George returned to his desk, toying with the idea of telling Colonel Carter and Daniel Jackson of the sudden reappearance of Jack O’Neill. Daniel was off-world, however, and Sam was taking some well-deserve personal time. Also, the Sergeant had said O’Neill was not speaking, at least nothing that made sense. It sounded to George like the man was in bad shape ... or had run into another of those damned Ancient devices. Either way, George wanted Jack home and under SGC guard ASAP.

“Time enough to notify Sam when I know what I’m dealing with,” George decided.

At the last moment, however, George told his airman to ask Hank Landry for the loan of Teal’c as well, just in case George required an interpreter.

ΩΩΩ

Jack felt Bear’s moist breath against his ear before he smelled the ugly old goat.

“La-Neel!” Bear hissed, slapping the side of Jack’s face. “Say nothing, you magnificent fool! Listen, for once in your ill-spent life! I was taking you to my ‘employers’ as you know. What you do not know, what you must now understand, is that I was about to penetrate their deepest cell. You were to be the entry fee, my old friend.”

“Fuckin’ son-of-a …” Jack snarled, but a beefy hand clamped over his mouth silenced him.

“Think!” Bear insisted. “For once, try to THINK! Why would I tell you my plans, if not to gain your trust? Why would I reveal my objective, if not to save your life!?”

The hand moved and Jack listened.

“I do not know who … or what … lies at the heart of the cell, La-Neel, but know this … you can find out. You wish to avenge your lost command, and complete your mission, do you not? You can do so … If …”

“If what, you old bastard?” Jack growled.

“If you are willing to play the goat!”

“The goat?”

“The goat in my tiger-trap!”

Bear’s breath came moist and heavy as he leaned in closer and growled, “… and the goat, as you recall my old friend, must be helpless … exposed … and alone.”



Chapter 20

Jack opened his eyes and groaned. The bandages had been removed from his eyes. A dark blur loomed over him.

“Jack?” the blur asked. “Can you see me, General O’Neill?”

Jack nodded and tried to speak. It felt like his jaw was busted.

Someone pressed a straw against his mouth and he sucked, ignoring the painful tug of stitches as he drank. His thirst wasn’t satisfied, but the blur pulled the straw away and left.

Then a second blur, dressed in Air Force blue, leaned close. Jack smelled a telltale mixture of a particular brand of hair tonic and regulation shoe polish and knew it was George Hammond.

“General,” Jack croaked. “Where …?”

“Rest easy, Jack,” George interrupted. “You had us pretty scared there for a bit, but the Doctors think you’re going to pull through.”

“Wh …” Jack tried again.

“Naval base in the Med,” George added. “Relax. We’ll get you stateside as soon as you can travel. ‘Til then, I’ve got your back. They’re not getting anywhere near you, you can count on that. So, just rest easy, Son.”

“They?” Jack whispered.

“Someone set you up, Jack,” George replied, “They hunted you down and … did … this to you. Near as I can figure, they’d planned to use you to activate an Ancient device. You must have turned it on them. Do you remember?”

Jack grunted and shook his head slightly, regretting it instantly. It felt like someone had kicked the shit out of him.

“That’s okay, don’t push it,” George continued. “Whatever you did blew the hell out their operation and their plans, Jack. For what it’s worth, I’m convinced it was the Trust. Anyway, we’ve got you, Son.”

Jack blinked hard, fighting back a wave of raw emotion that George’s tone raised. They were friends … close friends … but George Hammond rarely used the grandfatherly tone with Jack O’Neill. Hearing it now revealed just how scared the old man had been for Jack. It touched a lonesome part of Jack’s heart, the part that once had family and people who loved him as a son … as a husband … as a father.

Even so, Jack was coolly evaluating how the situation might be turned to serve Bear’s ‘Tiger-trap’ and what role he might need George Hammond to play in the charade.

“My men?” Jack managed to ask.

“Sergeant Indaoui brought you out,” George said softly. “With a former federal contractor whose last association involved several off the books operations in the 70s … code name Bear.”

“Alive?”

“Wounded, but both alive,” George reassured Jack. “Indaoui’s stateside, being debriefed at the SGC. I’m told he will be fine,” George said. “I’m recommending him for the Star Gate program … or Home World, if I can steal him from Hank Landry.”

“Good,” Jack sighed, then asked, “Peach?”

“I’m sorry, Jack, there’s no sign of the rest of your men.”

Jack shook his head and snarled, “...in on it.”

After a moment, George said, “Right. I’m on it.”

ΩΩΩ

Reluctantly leaving Jack O’Neill on a battleship docked off Antalia, in the care of Navy doctors who’d refused to allow George to transport him to the SGC, General Hammond and Teal’c teleconferenced with Sam and Daniel at the SGC. Hammond began by assuring everyone that, though Jack’s condition was ‘guarded’ he was safe and being cared for. He then briefed them on the sketchy information O’Neill had provided on a possible lead involving a young merc with the nickname ‘Peach.’

Then the discussion turned back, once more to the motive for Jack O’Neill’s abduction and Astore Williston was invited to join them in the discussion.

“The plan was simple,” Astore said as she settled into her chair at the far end of the conference table at the SGC. “The Board intended to activate a weapon capable of bringing Earth’s nations to their knees. Gage Hunter was a megalomaniac, bent on world domination. He’d researched our mythology and studied the geology of Mount Ararat. He put two and two together and came up with … five.”

“He got it wrong?” Sam said.

The old woman’s angry gaze flickered about the Pentagon conference room and she continued speaking in an acidic tone, “He did. The others believed him, of course. He wore expensive suits, silk ties, had advanced degrees. Arrogant apes! They thought they were so wise, so educated, so adept. Hah! They did not grasp one iota of the vast capacity they were playing with … Hubris was their undoing … Hubris and blasphemy.”

“Turn back,” Daniel murmured.

Sam caught Daniel’s eye and nodded slightly, but then leaned forward, enthusiastically.

“Go on,” she prompted.

“Besides the sheer power they were flaunting,” Astore continued, “They had no clue of the real possibilities of the technology.”

“How did General O’Neill save himself?” George Hammond asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“There was a fail-safe, naturally,” Astore replied. “Otherwise, anyone activating the technology’s self-destruction option would have been sacrificed.”

“But … you said you didn’t know what the machine could do,” Sam said.

“I didn’t, but I am right. Consider: Any beings capable of creating such sophisticated technology would never overlook the need to preserve life. The facility was equipped with ring devices like the one on your ship. I used them myself. I believe that is what returned him to the site from which he was originally transported. Has he remembered anything?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. I did speak to the men who brought him out. One said that Jack appeared suddenly. The sound he described fits a ring device. You may be correct, Ma’am, near as we can tell,” George confirmed.

“I believe that was how my foremothers … the Ancients, as you call them … designed their fail-safe,” Astore concluded. “The one chosen to activate the device could be expected to access the Mount using rings. That would pre-set them to transport the occupant of the chair to safety as the fail-safe activated.”

Daniel had been fidgeting throughout the meeting and suddenly blurted, “But … why was it called ‘Bottomless Well’?”

“‘Deep Well’, ‘Bottomless Well’, ‘Infinite Reservoir’ … there are many interpretations of the name. Whichever you choose, it so named because it is a repository of all Ancient knowledge,” Astore replied.

“But …” George interrupted, “General O’Neill is showing none of the signs of having received any Ancient knowledge from his experience.”

“Our tales say it is a repository, Sir,” Astore repeated, “I do not believe that General O’Neill was exposed to the Ancient knowledge held within Bottomless Well. Rather, his knowledge and life experiences have become part of the sum of the Ancient knowledge. They will be preserved there in safe-keeping for all future generations.”

“His … knowledge and … life experience?” Daniel choked, “You mean what Jack O’Neill knows has been downloaded into the Ancient repository of knowledge and will be … preserved for posterity?”

“Preserved for all time,” Astore confirmed, “That is correct.”

“But the facility was destroyed,” George said.

“The facility,” Astore said, “but not the repository. That remains far beneath the Sacred Mount … from there it links to all other worlds that the Ancients have seeded.”

“His … knowledge,” Daniel repeated, envisioning endless ice hockey games and every detail of every episode of ‘The Simpsons’, Daniel’s dismay was palpable. He looked at Sam and she smirked. On the Prometheus, George grinned broadly and even Teal’c smiled.

“Oh,” Daniel murmured, “that’s just not right …”

ΩΩΩ

After taking care of business, Hammond informed the team that Jack was out of surgery, the doctors had advised a cautious prognosis, and he was expected to arrive stateside in under a week. George suggested that Sam sort out a plan for her former CO’s recuperation.

Anticipating this, Sam had already cleared her calendar. She’d delegated projects that couldn’t wait for her return and turned down opportunities she’d otherwise have eagerly accepted. These included a chance to visit Atlantis and another to fly to Antarctica to collaborate with the researchers who’d developed the AD … Ancient Detector … as Teal’c had dubbed it.

So, when Sam left the conference room, she went directly to General Landry’s office.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Sam said as she rapped and entered.

Landry looked up from the thick stack of papers on his desk. Sam couldn’t help but notice the pile in the ‘out’ box was far smaller.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sam said.

“It’s a relief,” Landry drawled in a voice that sounded like gravel. “Take a seat, Colonel Carter. What can I do for you?”

Sam had blushed then, uncertain how to phrase her request.

The General looked at her for a moment, cocked his head, and said with a lopsided smile, “Let me guess … Jack O’Neill?”

Sam’s blush deepened and she nodded.

“General Hammond mentioned that … General O’Neill will … ah …” Sam stumbled over her words.

“You’ve kind of gotten in the habit of looking after him,” Landry offered. Then as he saw Sam blush scarlet, continued, “I bet Dr. Jackson would get in here first … guess I lose the pool.”

Sam looked up with relief lighting her face, followed by mild distress.

“Pool?”

She was turning deep burgundy, so Landry changed the topic.

“How long will you be gone, Colonel?” he asked.

“Umm,” Sam replied, “I’m not … sure, Sir.”

“Well, I can hardly deny leave to an officer with more than three thousand hours of unused vacation time,” Landry replied with a rueful smile. “Take whatever time you need. If the three thousand hours aren’t enough, talk to me and I’ll advance you more time. O’Neill is one helluva guy. From the look on your face, I can see that he needs his friends around right now.”

“Thank you, General Landry,” Sam murmured as she stood, still wondering who else had bet in the ‘pool.’

“Any idea where you’ll be staying?” Landry asked as she straightened to leave.

“I will check-in at Area 52,” Sam replied. “I think I am going to rent someplace. The General was staying in the BQ.”

“Well, get going,” Landry replied, turning back to the paperwork, “and tell Daniel and Teal’c to get out of here too.”


Sam stopped at her office, emailed Teal’c and Daniel her plans, and raced home to pack. Then she did some quick shopping online and had her purchases airmailed to Area 52. Later that evening she left town alone. She’d bunk at Area 52 and house-hunt the next morning. Since it would be difficult for Daniel and Teal’c to access the highly secure base, they’d decided to follow in two days.

In the morning, Sam toured the area beyond the base with an elderly ranch-wife who’d turned realtor after her husband’s death. After an afternoon driving dusty roads and admiring the xeric beauty of the landscape, Sam settled on a single-level adobe style house in the foothills with a panoramic view of the desert.

Sam rented it for six months and set about setting up house. The rest of the day had been busy. Sam updated the house with a few pieces of new furniture. She organized the basics – a shower curtain, bath towels, kitchen towels, a set of dishes and pots and pans, plus cereal, milk, two kinds of crackers, several kinds of beer, Bombay Sapphire gin and a couple of bottles of Jack’s brand of whisky, mixers, ground beef, chicken, eggs, bread, butter, cooking oil, and on and on.

After a day of unpacking, accepting deliveries, cleaning and hanging curtains and blinds, Sam had collapsed on the couch with a beer, intending to watch TV before bed. Instead she woke to the second day after a night on the couch.

By evening, Daniel and Teal’c had arrived to help with the heavy lifting. The house was minimally furnished and they helped Sam dismantle and re-assemble a four-poster bed of massive hand-hewn timbers. It had been in a tiny back room. Sam decided Jack might be forced to spend an extended time in bed. After eye surgery, a view would be important.

So they moved the huge antique bed into the breakfast room, a glass-sided three-season porch that jutted off the west side of the house like the afterthought it probably had been. Sam also took care to have Teal’c and Daniel position the bed where the stars would be visible through the skylights.

General O’Neill was supposed to arrive the next day, but there was no phone call from General Hammond until almost 8:00 the third night.

“I am sorry, Sam,” George said, “I’d been told it would be today. Now, I learn he hasn’t even been released from the Navy hospital, some kind of set back with Jack’s vision and possible complications from pressure changes in flight. I am trying to find out all I can, but I’m not getting many answers. Those doctors can be real sticklers about keep a patient’s medical condition private.”

“Thanks General Hammond,” Sam replied, her spirit falling. “I’ll be here as long as it takes, I guess. General Landry gave me an open ended leave.”

“That’s fine, Sam,” George replied warmly, “I think having his old teammates, and in particular you there when he gets back … Well, it’ll do more good than all the medicine and fancy gadgets those Navy medics can muster.”

George hung up and Sam leaned back against the kitchen counter and bit her lip.

‘What’s the hold up?’ she wondered, but then shook her head and pulled a cold beer out of the fridge and called out, “Who wants popcorn?”

Daniel and Teal’c shared the popcorn and they all watched an old war movie called, ‘The Hasty Heart,’ discussing the possibilities for Jack’s delay during commercial breaks. It was a sappy British war movie about a mortally wounded Scotsman.

Sam watched the movie dry-eyed, eating her popcorn in the darkened room, but as the final scene ended and the credits rolled, she suddenly found herself sobbing hysterically against Daniel’s chest.

“Shh,” Daniel murmured in her hair, as he stroked the back of her head and hugged her close. “It’s going to be okay …”

Teal’c crossed the room and sat beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

“I’m okay,” Sam hiccupped between sobs, “I just … I … I …”

Another wave of grief surged over her and she shook with the effort of suppressing it.

“It’s … j-just …,” Sam stammered wiping her eyes on her sleeve and sitting up, “Daniel … what if he’s …” She couldn’t finish.

Teal’c rose and crossed the room. Sam didn’t bother to watch. She was too afraid for the man she’d followed, fought beside, cared for and relied on – and, yes, secretly cherished – for more than ten years.

‘What if Jack doesn’t come through this?’ She shuddered remembering the hard-bitten son-of-a-bitch who’d made her first moments on his team so rough she’d challenged him to arm-wrestle.

Sam pulled away from Daniel’s embrace as she heard Teal’c return from the kitchen. She wiped her tear-stained face on her sleeve and looked up at the former Jaffa. He carried a water glass half filled with whisky. He handed it to her and said, “Drink.”

Sam obeyed, tipping the glass back as if it contained diet cola, her usual poison. Smoky heat burned her throat as she tossed the whisky down.

Daniel patted her back and she wiped her eyes again and rasped, “Thanks Teal’c. I guess I needed that.”

Teal’c gave a slight bow of his head in reply and then said, “I believe it is time to retire.” Then he headed to a small room in the back of the house where he’d arranged his candles and mat for kel-norim.

Daniel yawned and stretched. He stood and looked down at Sam for a moment.

“You okay?” he asked, stroking her hair gently.

Sam nodded, “Just over-tired and … worried.”

“Jack’s tough,” Daniel said softly. Sam thought maybe he didn’t really believe it either. “He’s going to be fine.”

“And if he … isn’t fine?” Sam whispered, “Then what?”

“Then,” Daniel said, “We are his friends. Come what may, Sam, we don’t leave our friends behind.”

“Even if he wants us to?” Sam finally voiced her deepest fear. “What if he …”

“He won’t,” Daniel said with conviction. “You’ve got to trust that, Sam. Remember I knew him … before. Sam, not even Jack O’Neill is such a hard-ass that he’d choose to go there again.”

Sam nodded and Daniel stood and said, “’Night, Sam.”

She watched him cross the living room, gathering empty beer bottles, glasses and popcorn bowls scattered around the room. As he disappeared into the kitchen, she murmured, “I hope you’re right.”
ΩΩΩ

In the end, it was three weeks before the Navy doctors released Jack for air travel. By then Sam’s nerves were rubbed raw with anticipation.

Teal’c and Daniel had been recalled to the SGC. They’d complied reluctantly and with a promise to return as soon as they were needed to help with Jack’s convalescence.

The days after their departure had dragged by. Sam used the time to paint the living room, bathroom and kitchen walls. She also stripped the aged linoleum and re-waxed it. She hadn’t worked so hard at housekeeping since her first days as an Academy cadet.

Sam had finished her morning coffee in what was to be Jack’s bed, watching fingers of hot morning light slide dreamily across the desert floor, creating a panorama that stretched along three sides of the glass-encased room. Finally, she crawled out of the luxurious old bed and tackled the last details of the kitchen. As Sam unpacked the last of the dishes and placed them in the newly painted cabinets, she began to second guess a plan that had seemed like a good idea when General Hammond had suggested it.

As she dried a pie plate, she weighed the risks. ‘On one hand,’ she calculated, ‘General O’Neill sold his house and he’s still stationed here until he’s officially retired. So he has to come out here, where he has no friends to help him.’

She placed the plate in the back of the upper shelf of the cupboard.

‘On the other hand,’ she admitted, ‘Daniel did offer to have Jack stay with him in Colorado Springs and General Hammond could have pulled some strings.’

‘But …’ she countered, ‘Daniel’s place is up three flights of stairs and there’s no elevator.’

“Then again,” she thought aloud, “Coming back and finding me settled and waiting for him in a house he’s never even seen … That could be weird ...”

Sam leaned against the counter and sighed, “and wonderful ...”

“… or not.”

The more she thought about it, the more Sam wondered whether finding her here, playing house, would be a welcome sight for General Jack O’Neill, a notoriously private man and a man who was particularly stoic in her presence.

Sam put a cake plate on the shelf and started to dry a pizza stone, remembering a time, years ago, when Colonel O’Neill had turned on her like a crazed stranger.

‘I haven’t been myself since I met you!’ he’d roared, freezing her in her tracks.

Sam shuddered at the memory. She’d been devastated. In the end, she’d learned it had been an act, part of Colonel O’Neill’s cover as a disgruntled, loose-cannon who’d been bypassed for promotion and was ripe for recruitment by the Trust.

Sam hadn’t guessed. At the time, it had all been horribly real.

As he’d raged at her, Sam had acknowledged something she’d always known. A dark, dangerous streak was intrinsic to Jack O’Neill’s temperament. In battle such cold fury asserted itself as courage. It had saved her, SG-1, and Earth more than once. Sam wondered, though, if the truth was that Jack’s daring-do arose from a disregard for his own welfare that, while undoubtedly courageous, was born from a need to atone or a hope for the final peace that only death brings.

Later, General Hammond had formally announced to Sam and the rest of the SGC that Colonel O’Neill’s going over to the dark side had been an assignment. It had all been ruse. He’d been doing his duty, acting under orders. Still, the cohesion of the team had been strained almost to the breaking point.

In time they’d forgiven him and the old esprit de corps returned to SG-1. Still, Sam Carter did not forget. Having once faced his wrath, Sam wouldn’t risk it again – phony or otherwise – if she could avoid it.

Then another problem came to mind.

“And what about that time in the infirmary,” Sam murmured, “when his shoulder was dislocated by an Unas …”

Sam picked a dainty blue and white porcelain coffee cup with a chipped handle out of the sink suds. She’d bought it at a yard sale the day before. She rinsed off the suds and ran the towel over it, muttering to herself in the empty house.

“So, I walked into the Infirmary and there’s the Colonel, yowling in pain. Then, he sees me and he puts on this incredible act, smiling, joking and acting like he was fine.”

Sam set down the cup with a clatter, ‘God. If he’s going to play tough-guy because I’m here …”

Sam knew this was a mistake. She couldn’t be here alone with General O’Neill. It wouldn’t work for either of them. She’d be walking on eggshells the whole time and he’d probably be putting on a macho act, when he needed to be resting. She had to go.

“Crap.”

Determined to at least get the place livable before she gave serious thought to running and tagging Daniel to come out in her place, Sam worked nonstop for the next four hours. By the time she’d finished the dishes, set up a spice cupboard with the kinds of things she’s seen General O’Neill use and arranged the condiments in the fridge door – Tabasco sauce, three kinds of mustard, Worchester sauce, two kinds of hot peppers, Ketchup in a fat squeeze tube, sweet relish, pickled mushroom caps, pickled red peppers, and minced garlic – and put beer, soda, and milk on the fridge shelves, and frozen orange juice, double chocolate and French vanilla ice cream in the freezer, she was beat.

Sam grabbed a cold beer, threw herself onto the lumpy overstuffed couch, and called the airlines about flights back to Colorado Springs.

ΩΩΩ

Jack winced as the medics hoisted him over the side in a wire basket the size and shape of a man. Except, Jack was taller than average and, as a result, his left leg poked out of the basket at a non-regulation angle.

He bit his lip and winced again. The stitches in his lower lip itched like crazy. As soon as he was alone and able, he planned to pull them out. What difference did it make if it left a scar? It was just another for the set and the stitches were driving him nuts.

The litter whirled and then lurched as someone caught it and lowered it, and Jack, to the ground. He smelled rotting fish and diesel exhaust.

Wearing impossibly thick, black rimmed glasses prescribed by the Navy optician, Jack couldn’t focus on his hand in front of his face, much less appreciate the scenery. Jack had cheated outrageously on his eye exams following successful eye surgery. A recovery didn’t fit the role of ‘goat’ for Bear’s ‘tiger-trap.’

So, Jack flunked his eye exams until the medical staff finally threw up their hands, declared him legally blind, and fitted him with a set of coke-bottle nerd-glasses. The glasses made it impossible for him to see, near or far. Wearing them he couldn’t see squat. A second set of dark tinted prescription shades completed the set.

“I got you, Sir,” an adolescent voice declared. Jack heard the litter scrape the tarmac and chain links rattle as the man unhooked it from the ship’s hoist. “Just another minute and we’ll have you on your way, General.”

Jack didn’t reply. He just kept his mouth shut and let the swabbies do their jobs.

Jack would go ahead with the retirement and then put on a convincing act for friends and medical staff alike. He’d check into the Area 52 hospital where he’d eventually heal, at least as much as he could expect to, and be released either to live on his own, or maybe take a place in one of the Air Force retirement hospitals to wait out his remaining years along with all the other aging and disable veterans. Then, after he was no longer the center of attention and old friends and well wishers drifted away, the Trust might make a move.

Jack tried not to care that it could take months. He didn’t let himself dwell on what this would do to his friends. He had a mission to complete and a lost command to avenge.


‘Chances are they’re off world with Mitchell, anyway,’ he thought as the Navy boys shoved him into the ambulance for the ride to the airport.

Jack had hoped he’d be allowed out of the damned litter before the flight started, and the catheter burned. ‘God help them if they expect me to fly with a catheter shoved up my cock and a Depends under my butt,’ he thought. ‘Blind and crippled, or not, I’m still a god-damned General. I’ll ruin somebody’s day!’

To Jack’s relief, the kid in charge of the ambulance slammed the door shut and said, “Um, General, Sir. I’ve got orders, Sir, to remove the catheter. Now seems like as good a time as any, Sir.”

“Do it,” Jack replied.

In a minute the damnedable thing was out. Jack began to un-strap the restraints across his chest to sit up.

“Wait a minute, Sir!” the kid protested, “You’ve gotta stay on the litter, General O’Neill. That’s regulations!”

“It’s your responsibility?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Sir, it is!” the medic replied earnestly.

“Okay, Son. I’ll tell you what,” Jack replied, “You get my uniform and I’ll be a good little General for the ride to the airport. Deal?”

The kid paused, but when Jack began working the straps free, he rapidly agreed. By the time the ambulance stopped, Jack was dressed and able to hobble onto his ride home under his own power.

ΩΩΩ

The flight back was long, tedious, and painful. The medics had doped him up on ship and had given him Percocet to knock him out for the flight. Jack had palmed the pills. He had to stay sharp to pull this off. Beside, real pain added a degree of authenticity that he just couldn’t fake.

By the time the DC-10 touched down at Area 52, Jack was beyond tired. A couple of the guys he’d met on the plane helped him hobble down the tail ramp of the massive cargo plane. Then he made his way slowly across the tarmac with someone leading him by the arm.

It was hard to trust a stranger to lead him. Jack had no idea who it was or why someone would help him. Worse, he had no idea how he’d have kept up the act if someone hadn’t.

Jack had just stepped inside the terminal building and was about to ask his Good Samaritan to take him to the taxi stand when he heard her voice.

“Here, General O’Neill,” Sam called. “Over here!”

ΩΩΩ

Sam hurried toward the General. Her heart was pounding. As she closed the distance, she slowed and then stopped. She put her hand to her mouth, fighting back a surge of rage and grief. Then, she took a deep breath, steeled herself, and reached Jack in a few more steps.

“How was your flight, Sir?” she asked, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

“Long,” the General answered and then hissed with a touch of urgency. “Get me out of here, Carter.”

Sam hesitated, but seeing no alternative, she gently took his left arm.

“This way, Sir,” she murmured as she led him through the crush of military personnel that bustled through the lobby of the military terminal. More than a few of the men and women turned and stared – appalled. Sam couldn’t blame them really.

Jack always wore dress blues with easy elegance, seemingly unaware of the impact he caused whenever he appeared in public in formal uniform. As usual, his cover was settled low over his eyes, hiding his upper face. Dark sunglasses shaded his eyes and a collection of service medals covered the upper left quadrant of his chest.

This time it wasn’t the uniform, though, or the way Jack O’Neill wore it that made people stop and stare. Stark aluminum braces, clamped to his forearms spoiled the elegant effect. People stared because it was painfully clear that every deliberate, difficult step that this man took was a stubborn act of courage.

A hush fell. The sight of Jack O’Neill slowly traversing the silent terminal told every service man and woman that this was a fighting General, a warrior who’d been in the thick of it and nearly paid the ultimate price.

Someone barked, “’Ten-shun!” Every person in uniform snapped to attention. The civilians lowered their eyes solemnly.

Sam blinked hard to hold back threatened tears.

“It’s for you, Sir,” she whispered.

Jack’s jaw was clamped down hard as he continued across the lobby. With everyone’s eyes on him, Jack wanted to die. He picked up the pace, but using the damned crutches, it was agonizingly slow. If he could have summoned a meteor to streak from space and hit him point blank in the back of his devious brain, he’d have done it – Gladly. It would have been a welcome relief in the face of this solemn tribute that he didn’t deserve.

Jack set his face in a hard mask of concentration, thinking, ‘Serves you right, you warped bastard,’ as sweat trickled down from his hatband and into his eyes, making them tear. He chewed his lower lip until he tasted blood.

“It’s not far, now, Sir,” Sam murmured, gripping his upper arm. “Then I’ll take you … home.”

“No, Colonel,” Jack replied, “To the base … please. I’m staying there, ‘til I’m mustered out.”

ΩΩΩ

Sam raced to the parking lot, hopped into her rental car, and pulled it over at the 5 minute parking lane beside the terminal. The sight of General Jack O’Neill in tears had her rattled.

“Sir,” she said as she jumped out and opened the passenger’s door, “Let’s go.”

Sam took his arm again and eased Jack into the seat, helping him push the seat as far back as it would go. When he was seated, with his cover on his lap, she lifted his left leg into the car. Then, she closed the door, ran to the other side, and breathlessly slid in and shut her door, glad she’d rented a full-sized American brand, rather than the sporty imports she preferred to drive.

“All set?” she chirped rhetorically.

Jack dropped his head against the seat back with a deep sigh.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “Let’s blow this pop stand.”


Sam bit her lip and pulled onto the main highway that would take them through town and into the hills beyond.

‘Drop the cheerful act,’ she thought, furious that she’d made General O’Neill even more uncomfortable. ‘The last thing he needs right now is sunshine and lollipops.’

Sam drove without thinking about it, weaving in and out of traffic. For the first five miles she drove in the direction of the base, which happened to be the same direction as the house she’d rented.

The silence in the car was deafening, Sam turned the radio on low. After a minute, Jack reached out and turned it off.

“Headache,” he murmured raising his hand to his pinch the bridge of his nose, “Sorry.”

Sam glanced at him. He looked all in – the bruising, swelling and stitches on his normally boyish face had aged him. The stark white of his hair was a surprise. When had the General lost his debonair gray?

‘God … why can’t I remember!?’ Sam thought, realizing the reason: In her single-minded obsession with her work, she’d relegated Jack O’Neill, and his adjustment to the role of SGC’s CO, to background noise. She’d assumed he’d always be there … Always.

Sam blinked back tears at the memory of the moment when Jack … her CO ... had actually held her, comforted her, and made that promise. Why had he broken it?

Sam glanced over at him again. He seemed asleep, but she guessed he was awake and choosing not to speak. So, for now, all the difficult questions would remain tabled.

Sam was more than content to leave it that way. She’d considered fleeing before the General arrived, in large part not to have to thrash out why he’d left so suddenly. In the end, she just couldn’t do it. He needed her here. She’d stayed.

Sam held her peace for a little over five miles, but as the turn approached into the foothills, and the house she’d prepared for his homecoming, she felt the need to explain the General’s options.

“I flew out a few weeks ago…,” she blurted. “… and took a house here.”

“A house here?” Jack snapped, “Carter, why? You haven’t left the SGC for this backwater!”

“No, Sir. I’m still at SGC,” Sam answered, passing up the opening to remind General O’Neill that he had done exactly that 60 days ago. Instead she continued in a carefully polite tone, “I could have stayed on base,” she replied, “but Daniel and Teal’c will be here, too. As non-military, they’d have to go through all the security clearance stuff if they stayed at Area 52. I’m not certain Teal’c could get the necessary approvals. A house off base was just easier.”

Jack didn’t reply. Sam continued to drive until the turn to the house was in sight.

As they approached the turn-off she said, “Sir, you don’t really want to check in to another military hospital, do you?”

Jack didn’t react, but he was trapped and he knew it. His abhorrence of hospitals was, of course, legendary. He’d whined and wheedled, shamelessly enlisted the help of his team, badgered the CMO and General Hammond, thrown himself on the mercy of the Asguard, and generally made himself into a first-rate pain-in-the-ass to avoid internment in the SGC Infirmary. An impersonal military hospital on a base where he was a complete unknown would be a nightmare. Changing that particular pattern of conduct would rouse either disbelief, suspicion or both. It might even earn him a psych evaluation or a scan for brain tumors.

“Suit yourself, Carter,” Jack growled. “I don’t give a damn.”

Sam glanced over at the grim man at her side and turned north. This was the first time she’d encountered the burned-out military degenerate that Daniel had tried to describe from his first mission with Colonel Jack O’Neill – a shell of a man bent on self-destruction.

Sam had never quiet believed Daniel. To Sam Carter, that Jack O’Neill had been the unrefined material. He had ceased to exist when he’d transformed in a flash of smoke and brilliance into the Jack O’Neill she admired and trusted: the man who’d led the first mission through the Star Gate, who’d defeated Ra and liberated Abydos almost single-handedly twelve years ago, and who’d survived battle after battle (and saved her ass more times than she could count) in an impossibly lopsided war against the Goa’uld.

But the man sitting beside her was a shadow of the Jack O’Neill she’d followed – aside from the dimples that still drove her crazy, particularly when he sported a day’s growth of salt and pepper stubble.

Sam turned into the driveway, braked, and stopped the car outside the garage and she said, “We’re here, Sir.”

Sam unbuckled her seat belt.

The General reached over to unbuckle his and Sam watched him fumble for a latch that he obviously couldn’t see.

“Shall I …?” she began. The offer died on her lips as the General went pale with barely contained rage.

“NO!” he snarled.

Sam swallowed hard and blinked back her tears, fighting to maintain professional composure in the face of this dark Jack O’Neill. Still, a tear trickled down the side of her cheek.

‘Getting all weepy in front of General O’Neill won’t help,’ she told herself as she chewed her lower lip.

“As you prefer, General,” she said, relying on her professional demeanor as a shield.

“No,” he repeated, but softly. Then he let his head thump back against the headrest and he continued in a gentle tone, “I’ve got to learn to do this stuff sometime, Carter … might as well start now.”

Sam nodded, but couldn’t trust herself to speak. She got out of the car feeling shaky. By the time she was opening the passenger door, the General had managed to release his seat belt. She reached out and touched his arm. He took her hand and she helped him out and up, then handed him his crutches.

Once he was upright, Sam took his upper arm and said, “This way, Sir,” and led him to a path.

“There are four steps,” Sam murmured, keeping her tone steady and matter-of-fact.

He felt for the first step and then, leaning heavily on his crutches, he hopped onto the first step and dragged his left leg behind him.

Sam wiped another tear from the corner of her eye. The General was managing, but it was hard for her to watch. Jack O’Neill had always been a very physical man. Skiing, biking, hiking, swimming, boxing, running: he excelled at them all, despite the chronic knee problems that plagued him.

Sam forced down feelings of pity and sadness, wondering if that might have triggered his outburst. She wasn’t here for her health. She was here to help General O’Neill, the best CO she’d ever served. Getting sappy would only offend him.

Sam recalled too well the terrible mood-swings between embarrassment and anger she’d endured after she’d lost Jolinar, a Tokra on the run had taken her without permission, and then her grief at that same symbiot’s self-sacrifice to save her.

As she watched her former CO climb the four wide steps, Sam remembered the mortifying looks of concern, the endless flowers and fruit baskets, and all the goofy, sappy, silly cards wishing her a speedy recovery. It had felt like people just couldn’t understand or accept what she had endured.

Sam had responded politely, though she ached to throw the gestures back at the well-meaning throngs of friends and colleagues. With Jack O’Neill, it had been different. He’d just been there, no chit-chat, no demands, no suggestions or trying to cheer her or rushing her to get back out there and be normal. He’d just been there – quiet and solid – and having him near had saved her.

Sam shoved down the feelings of pity and morbid grief. She shook off the feeling that this man was too changed to reach. She followed the General up the steps. When he reached the landing, she took his arm and guided him to the right, saying, “Not far now, Sir.”

They were at the door. She unlocked it and helped him inside. Sam closed the door and led the General into the living room. She got him settled on the couch.

Sam straightened and realized that she was bone tired. She hadn’t really rested for weeks.

“God, I am so glad this is over …” she began, intending to conclude with “and you are safe.”

The General had turned with a jerk. His face was tense and pale beneath his tan.

“Over for you …” he growled.

Sam froze. What had she said?

‘Shit!’ she thought as she realized what had happened. She’d have given anything to un-say those careless words. She couldn’t. From the set of the General’s jaw, any attempt to explain would make things worse.

Instead, Sam went into the kitchen, pulled out two beers and said, “You up for a cold one, General?”

ΩΩΩ

Jack sat on the edge of the couch, still wearing his dark glasses, but tossing his uniform jacket onto the back of the couch and setting his cover on the table at the side. He listened to Sam’s movements. He heard her pop the caps off two beers; Then her quick, light footsteps. Her weight made the couch sag a bit more as she dropped down beside him.

Jack reached out a hand and grasped a cold bottle. The glass was already sweating in the un-air conditioned adobe house.

“Thanks, Colonel,” Jack said, and he upended the beer and drained the bottle dry.

“Another?” Sam asked.

Jack nodded and a second beer was handed to him instantly.

“You aren’t drinking, Colonel Carter?” Jack asked as he took a long pull.

“I think I’ll start some dinner, Sir,” she replied, “unless you’d like to take a shower?”

Jack shook his head, “No. I’m bushed. The beer tastes great. I’ll just stay put.”

Sam rose and walked out of the living room. She was almost out of earshot when he concluded.

“I’m sorry, Carter.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack sat and nursed the second beer. He really shouldn’t be drinking. The medics would not approve. Still, he drained the second beer, too.

Jack took off his shades, rubbed his aching eyes, and listened to the sound of Carter working in the next room. He wished she’d fetch him a whisky … a bottle of it should about do it. Carter wasn’t much into fetching, however. Besides, she was humming something under her breath as she rattled bottles and opened and closed drawers and Jack wouldn’t have interrupted that sound for the world.

So he sat there, tearing the label off an empty bottle and pasting the shreds back onto the wet glass, as his nerves twanged like banjo strings. He’d had a killer headache ever since he awoke on the Navy ship. The pain had grown more intense during the flight, probably thanks to the coke-bottle glasses he wore.

Then, he’d heard Carter call out to him at the air terminal. The implications of Bear’s plan hit him and Jack’s headache had escalated into a full-blown migraine.

‘Crap,’ Jack had thought as she took over and guided him and helped him into the car, ‘I’m doing it to her all over again.’


His plan had been to hire a cab to take him to the Area 52 hospital. He’d planned to hole up there for a while and sort out his options. Was he going to retire as planned? Well, that was a given. His leg might have been amputated and a new, better leg provided. It was happening more often these days with innovations like the C-leg.

If it had only been the leg, he might have reconsidered retirement for a while, at least long enough to officially seek out and destroy the bastards who’d wiped out his command. But, Jack was a realist. Official channels had their limits, whereas unofficial tactics were flexible and left acres of room for the creative approach Jack preferred.

If he was going to take Bear up on his offer – and there was no way he’d pass it up – Jack had to be out, friendless, without official cover, and unable to protect himself. The best way was to fail to recover. Since the Air Force had little use for a Brigadier General who couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, Jack chose that as the most certain route. They’d muster him out on disability for sure.

Then, after he knew the official score, Jack had planned to call Sam and Danny and Teal’c and George to let them know he was getting along just fine. He’d counted on some time to adjust to his new reality before confronting his friends. He’d needed that time to prepare if he was going to bull-shit them again.

The bullshit was of two grades, as Jack saw it. There was the cover story, Grade B bullshit which he could justify and at least hope to explain. The Grade A bullshit was the reality. He wasn’t fine. He was angry and humiliated. Someone had slaughtered his command almost to the man. He’d failed on his last mission. He’d been used. He’d been abused. He’d got his ass kicked.

Jack O’Neill was no Daniel Jackson. He rarely turned the other cheek. He didn’t aspire to ascend to a higher plane of do-nothing existence.

From the moment the ships struck over the village, Jack O’Neill had wanted payback. By the time he awoke after surgery in a Red Crescent camp somewhere in Turkey, he saw no way he’d get it.

Then, Bear had offered a way. Jack, being Jack, just couldn’t turn it down.

So he’d bullshit the few people who really gave a damn about him. Before he did it, though, he’d planned on a little time before he faced them. The last time he felt this depth of anger and shame, he’d lost Sara and alienated a lifetime of friends.

Jack wasn’t sure he could avoid doing that again. If he destroyed these friendships, too … Well, then what was the point?

Then … despite all of Jack’s plans to take it slow and prepare, Sam Carter had appeared without warning and whisked him off to this house.

A house she’d rented.

‘When?’ Jack wondered. ‘Has Carter actually been waiting for me?’

Jack peeled off the last of the label as he wondered how long the world’s leading expert on all things Goa’uld … and Ancient for that matter … had been twiddling her thumbs in this hole-in-the-wall waiting for the Navy pukes to cut him loose?

‘And … why?’

Whatever the answer … however it happened … Sam was here now … with him … alone.

Jack closed his eyes and groaned.

He couldn’t screw this up.

ΩΩΩ

Daniel raced to the airport with Teal’c in tow. Their bags were small enough to fit in the overhead compartment and Daniel had checked and double-checked the contents so they wouldn’t be detained at the security counter.

The plane was due to depart in 20 minutes. It should have been time to clear security and reach the gate … if they ran.

Unfortunately, there was a line of about twenty people … and each of them seemed intent on smuggling illicit nail clippers, knitting needles, shampoo, and baby formula onto the flight.

In the end, Daniel and Teal’c did run to the gate and reached it just moments after the door had been closed and latched.

“Crap,” Daniel barked, “We would have made it if you had been ready when we agreed. Now, Sam’s going to be stuck looking after Jack alone at least until we can get tickets for the next flight!”

“I am aware of that fact, Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c rumbled, bowing his head to hide the smile that threatened to appear on his normally stoic face.

ΩΩΩ

Jack fumbled for his third beer to wash down the last of the hamburger and tater-tots Carter had cooked. He found it and tipped the last of the brew down his throat.

“That was good,” he said. “I haven’t had a regular meal in …” He paused and frowned.

“Six weeks,” Sam supplied the missing information. “You were missing for 45 days, Sir.”

Jack frowned and did the math. His head was a fuzzy from jet lag and downing too many beers far too quickly.

“I was a week at the cabin … almost a week on base,” he said.

“You’re retired, Sir,” Sam concluded, “… as of today.”

“I am. Seems like it was longer,” Jack replied.

“I know,” Sam said, “… I’m sorry about what I said … earlier. I didn’t mean to …”

“Forget it, Carter,” Jack replied quickly. “I owe you an apology. You deserved more … information … before …”

Jack tossed his napkin onto the table and shook his head, frowning.

“I’m doing it again,” he growled. He reached out his hand and Sam grasped it.

“I left because I couldn’t … I could not bear to …” Jack’s voice dropped to a husky whisper, but the words were clear. “… to lose you, Sam … and be responsible if I did.”

Jack’s fingers tightened around her hand and Sam smiled and squeezed back.

“Thank you for that, Sir,” she murmured.

Jack grinned. It was a sad grin, made more so by the stitches that crisscrossed his lower lip and right cheek.

“Lose the ‘Sir,’ Carter,” he said, “If I’m retired, it’s just Jack.”

“Then, only my CO calls me ‘Carter,’ Jack,” she replied.

“Yeah,” Jack scrubbed his hand over his face grinning. Then he continued solemnly. “Sam. I triggered that nuke …” Jack’s voice was low and intense, “I … I’d …”

Sam stood and moved to crouch at his side.

“Shh,” she said, touching her finger tips to his lips and then running them gently side of his battered face and into his hair. “You don’t have to explain … I understand … I think see everything now … Jack.”

Sam took Jack’s hand and said, “Are you tired?”

“Beat,” he admitted.

“C’mon,” she said, pulling him to his feet.

Jack grabbed his crutches and let her guide him. He was beat, dead-tired, but he hobbled where Sam led with his heart in his throat.

She stopped and said, “There’s a bed on your right side, Jack.”

He handed her his right crutch and turned slightly, then sat. The mattress was firm, the way he liked it.

Sam took his other crutch and then, to Jack’s shock, began unbuttoning his shirt buttons.

Jack closed his eyes and grabbed her hands, despite a surge in his groin.

“Stop, Sam,” he said softly. “This … I … can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Sam stepped back and said, “How do you expect to do this yourself, Jack. Or are you just going to sleep in your dress uniform?”

Jack released her hands, blushing, and she finished stripping off his tie, uniform shirt and t-shirt.

‘Jesus,’ he thought, feeling her breath on his skin, ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

Her fingers were on his belt and his erection grew more urgent as her fingers trailed across his lap.

“Back,” she whispered, pushing him down against the bed. Jack complied, his heart hammering as she unzipped his fly.

Sam knelt beside the bed and pulled off Jack’s right shoe and sock. Then she examined the left. The walking cast had Velcro closures. His pant leg had been carefully split along the seam.

“Up,” she murmured and Jack lifted his hips as she slid his pants down and worked them over the cast.

Then Sam stood, lifted his left leg onto the bed, and said, “Is there any medication you should take?”

“No,” Jack replied, “Nothing.”

“Then … good night, Jack.”

Jack swore softly as Sam closed the door. His leg ached. He’d lied. He was supposed to take another Percocet and some antibiotics. The ache in his groin made it impossible to leave the room without his pants to get the meds.

Basically, Sam had blown his cool. He’d lost his head at the thought … hope … that this might be the night, but why should it?

He’d never let Sam Carter know how he felt about her. Sure he’d hinted, flirted, implied, fantasized and hoped. He’d never said the words, even when he had the chance he’d shied away from them.

Now, it seemed clear, Sam Carter cared enough about him to rent a house, look after him, and treat him with consideration and patience while he was behaving like a nutcase, but nothing more.

“Well, dammit,” Jack thought as his head pounded and his balls ached, “that makes what I’ve got to do a whole helluva lot simpler.”

ΩΩΩ

Daniel and Teal’c arrived the next day as Jack and Sam were finishing breakfast. Sam had cut Jack’s steak into bite-size bits before serving it to him with scrambled eggs, tater-tots and toast.

“Toast at 3 o’clock,” she’d stated as she set down his plate. “Coffee at 12 o’clock.”

Jack chased the food around the plate, occasionally cornering a piece and getting it to his mouth. Through the thick lenses he couldn’t focus on the plate, much less its contents. He put on an effective show.

They were eating in silence when a car pulled in and Sam went to the door. She left it open as she turned to Jack and said, “Teal’c and Daniel are here.”

Jack nodded, fought down a case of butterflies at the thought of facing Daniel’s questions, and continued chasing pieces of steak, toast and eggs around the plate. After a month and a half of living off the land, he was constantly hungry. The Navy medics had urged him to eat, at least until he gained back half of the fifty pounds he’d dropped. He intended to eat, if he could just get the food on his plate to his mouth.

Daniel burst through the front door and called out, “Jack!”

Jack stood, bracing himself against the kitchen table and grinned in Daniel’s direction.

“Danny!” he replied and held out a hand in the general direction of Daniel’s voice.

Daniel froze at the sight of his friend – Jack was thin to the point of seeming feeble – but then Daniel charged forward, ignored the offered handshake, and grasped Jack in a bear hug that nearly tipped them over.

“Easy,” Jack protested, but he was laughing as Daniel disengaged and helped him back into his chair.

“Sorry,” Daniel said, “It’s just …”

“I know,” Jack cut in.

Daniel sat and Sam brought him a cup of coffee and a tall glass of juice for Teal’c. Then she settled beside Jack and toyed with the remains of her breakfast.

After the welcomes died away, Daniel noticed that Jack seemed tense. His eyes were fixed on the depths of his coffee cup, a habit Daniel took as a sign that his best friend was plunging into a difficult subject.

“I owe you all an explanation,” Jack said, slow and low. “I’ll get it out of the way, so we don’t have to pussyfoot around it.”

Daniel shook his head, embarrassed that this had ever been an issue in light of Jack’s recent ordeal. “No Jack …” he started to say, but Jack didn’t stop.

“I should have told you I was thinking seriously of retiring,” Jack said. “I didn’t and I was wrong. Sending you into the field so I could retire without telling you, well that was worse.”

Jack lifted his coffee cup, emptied it and slammed it back onto the table.

Sam flinched, surprised.

“I don’t know why it’s so damned hard to be honest with people who I … c-care about,” Jack stammered slightly, seeming to stare hard into the now empty cup. “It just is … for me. I knew I couldn’t cut it as CO from the day I took over the SGC. I couldn’t back out. It was too late. So I didn’t tell you. I just hung on until the time was right. Then I sent you off on a dig and got the hell out.

Jack had pulled off his black-rimmed glasses and was rubbing his eyes again as he continued, “I’ve thought about that last time we got together at my house. I was a horse’s ass. I can’t really explain it … No, dammit, that’s a lie.”

Jack put on the glasses again and peered through them, as he concluded.

“I felt cornered. Teal’c you’re a wise man, my friend, far wiser than I’ll ever be. Sam and Daniel … well let’s face it you’re both so much smarter than me that it goes without saying. If I’d told you what I planned before it was done, you would have talked me into staying. I felt like you’d want me to keep trying to do something that I … c-can’t anymore … So I didn’t give you the chance.”

“Jack! You were a great …” Daniel interrupted.

“Silence, Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c interrupted, to everyone’s surprise, placing his hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

The pause stretched until Sam placed her hand over Jack’s and squeezed. He flushed then and spoke in a low, swift tumble of words, as if he needed to get them out before he lost his nerve.

“Ba’al had you and … I swear to god I tried everything I could think of to find you … rescue you ... but … I failed. In the end … I …”

Jack set the cup down, lifted the thick glasses, and rubbed his eyes hard. Then he said in a husky rush of words.

“Afterwards … it turned out fine, but .... if I had lost you … If it hadn’t been a bluff, I would have been responsible … So, I had to get out. That’s what I couldn’t tell you. I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. I just … couldn’t.”

Then Jack lurched to his feet, grabbed his crutches and hobbled out of the room.


Silence hung heavy in the kitchen.

Finally, Daniel murmured, “Jack felt that way since the very first …? For six months! I never noticed.”

“Did you not?” Teal’c replied. “As First Prime I often ordered men I respected to their deaths. O’Neill was less fortunate, however. I was feared by those I led. I never ordered the death of my dearest friends.”

“When did Jack’s hair go so white?” Sam asked, “I only saw it yesterday. How could I not see it?”

“He said he was ‘responsible’?” Daniel added, “But there was nothing for Jack to be responsible for, Sam. It’s as if …”

“It’s Charlie,” Sam confirmed.

“Sam, Ba’al didn’t have us. It was a crazy bluff, a long shot,” Daniel argued, not wanting to accept the truth, “We’re alive. We’re all fine …”

“Three of us are fine, Daniel,” Sam murmured, “So far.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack lay on his bed and listened to the murmur of their conversation. He caught a word now and then, but Jack knew what they were saying without hearing the words. He’d dropped a bomb into the lives of people he loved and they were trying to reason it away because they still cared about him.

Jack had done it before. He’d done it with Sara … after Charlie. He’d lost his son. He’d alienated friends. Then he’d lost his wife. The reason was simple and painful.

Jack had seen clearly at last, when he returned from his battle with Ra to find Sara had gone. He’d found her letter on the mantle, telling him to seek professional help.

Jack had returned to an empty house and saw at last that he’d never been meant to have a family. He’d never been meant for lasting friendships or for lifelong love. These were denied him because he was somehow flawed. As a man, Jack realized, he was as flawed as he was gifted as a warrior. Warriors killed to live, died young, made friends fast and lost them even faster. None of these traits qualified him to be a good husband and father.

And as for love … Jack could buy it cheap by the hour.


After losing Sara, Jack had faced those hard facts. As he listened to his friends’ voices floating in from the kitchen table, Jack knew. Like it or not, it was time to face facts again.

ΩΩΩ

After clearing away the debris from breakfast, Sam left Daniel and Teal’c doing dishes and knocked on Jack’s bedroom door.

“Jack?” she called softly, “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, but she opened the door and looked in on him.

Jack had flung himself across the bed and was lying with his arm across his eyes. He was sound asleep. Sam stepped into the room and gazed down at him for a moment, relishing his presence - out of harm's way and asleep - in the room she’d prepared for him. Then she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.


Jack didn’t waken, but heard her voice as he dreamed.

“You okay?” San asked again.

“No,” he said. “I’m a damned fool, Sam. I keep wondering how George did that job for years.”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and reached out her hand. She traced her fingers along the underside of his forearm and then closed her fingers around his wrist, pulling Jack’s arm down, turning his hand, lifting it to her lips and kissing his palm softly.

“General Hammond had you, Jack,” she murmured against his skin. “He depended on you to get us back. You did that time and again. George told my father that when Dad asked him if there was something between us. Dad told me so, after he met Pete.”

Jack quivered at her first feather-light touch. His heart jumped at the trace of her lips against his palm.

‘God-help-me,’ he wondered, ‘how am I going to leave this woman?’

Jack knew what he had to do. The question now, as Sam’s lips explored his wrist, was where he’d find the willpower to follow through.

Without warning, Sam stretched out beside him. Her hips met the hollow of Jack’s thigh, her shoulder fit under his arm. She sighed deeply and then rose on one elbow and leaned into him.

Jack smelled her delicious warmth a moment before her lips caressed his mouth. He wrapped her in his arms, burying his fingers in her hair at the nape of her neck, pulled her hard against him, and kissed her deeply.

Sam gave a throaty moan. It vibrated against his chest. Her mouth opened slightly, inviting more. She was hot and so willing. He’d missed her and, god-knew, he’d wanted her since he’d first laid eyes on her.

Jack kissed her lips, opening her mouth wider, exploring her lips, neck, ear ...

Reality came back in a rush.

“I can’t …” Jack gasped, pushing her back. “Sam, I don’t want to hurt you …”

“Hurt me, Jack,” she murmured in a husky whisper as she ran her hand down his chest to his groin and grasped his erection through his pants, “Hurt me. Just don’t make me wait another moment, please.” Then she bit his neck, massaging his hard-on expertly.

After a moment, Jack growled, “No, dammit … I can’t do this, Sam.”

Sam sat up as he pushed her away. She looked down at Jack. ‘That look’ was on her lovely face.

“What can’t you do, Jack? I don’t understand,” Sam said softly. “You’re retired. We’re here. We can finally …”

Her voice quavered.

“Sam,” he interrupted, reaching out to her. After a moment she took his hand. “This isn’t right. Not yet.”

She stared at him in silence.

“As long as the Trust can find me, I’m in danger, Sam.” Jack squeezed her hand and said, “True?”

“I’ll be here with you, Jack,” she whispered. “Daniel and Teal’c will be here …”

“And …” Jack continued gently, holding up a finger, “… as long as you are here with me, you and Danny and Teal’c will be in danger. I’m no longer military. They won’t be able to bail me out, like before. I screwed up some very big plans involving the Mosul oil fields, Sam. I’ve got to do a fade for a while.”

“No,” Sam said, pressing her cheek against the back of his hand. “No, Jack! We’ve just got you back!”

“Trust me,” Jack urged her quietly.

Sam didn’t answer.

“Trust me?” Jack repeated.

“You can’t take on the Trust alone,” she countered.

“I’m going to disappear, Sam, not take on the Trust single-handed. So, trust me,” Jack repeated with a self-assured tone that he didn’t feel.

“I do,” Sam said, as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “You know I do, Jack.”

“C’mere,” Jack murmured, pulling her down against his chest. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her forehead, and then her cheek and her eyelid, and murmured softly, “I love you, Sam.”


Jack opened his eyes and groaned. He was alone. He’d been dreaming and it would never be more than sweet, sweet dream if he did what he had to do to … if he went after the Trust and avenged his lost command.

ΩΩΩ

When Sam knocked on his door late in the afternoon, telling him they were sitting down to lunch, Jack ignored her. When she knocked at dinner time, he growled that he’d eat in his room.

After picking at his dinner, Jack took a double-dose of the Percocet the Navy medics had given him and washed the pills down with a couple of large slugs from the whisky bottle he’d hidden under the mattress. When Sam came back for his dishes, he took no pains to hide the fact that he was wasted.

It was, after all, the crux of his plan.


Chapter 21

President Hayes scowled across his desk at the British delegation.

“Mr. Pringle,” Hayes drawled, “I reject your contention that General O’Neill is in any way, shape, or form responsible for the disaster that resulted in the death of those innocent villagers.”

Silence lengthened as the President’s guests waited in perfect calm.

Hayes stood and stalked across the Oval Office, barking out as he moved, “O’Neill was the best we had, dammit! I know the man. His service record is highly classified, but I can tell you that Earth owes him more than we can ever, ever repay!”

The two British representatives listened politely, but appeared unmoved by the President’s words.

“You are out of your minds if you expect me to prosecute Brigadier General Jack O’Neill as a war criminal!” Hayes finally exploded at the unflappable professional diplomats. “Get the hell out of my sight!”

The two men rose and turned to go. The shorter, older of the two turned back to the President, straightened his old-school tie and smoothed his picture-perfect lapels. Then he spoke in a reserved, upper-class accent.

“Mr. President,” he purred, “to be perfectly unambiguous. Her Majesty’s government is not asking you to prosecute O’Neill. My message for you, Sir, is simply that the matter will be brought before the World Court post haste. The Prime Minister wished me to inform you in good order to provide sufficient time for your Administration to position yourself relative to what will most certainly become the O’Neill scandal.”

Hayes fixed the impeccably dressed man with a cool glare until the diplomat broke eye contact, turned and walked away. The younger of the two men followed after bowing graciously and murmuring, “Good Day, Mr. President.”

Hayes watched them go and then cursed sourly, “Goddammit!” and punched the intercom on his desk.

“Get General George Hammond and the Secretary of State in here ASAP.”

ΩΩΩ

Daniel knocked on the bedroom door and called softly, “Jack?”

There was no answer, but Daniel could hear movement behind the door.

“Jack!” he called more sharply. “You haven’t been out of that room for … two days. You haven’t showered. You haven’t eaten. Jack, you can’t just …”

The door swung open, surprising Daniel. He took an involuntary step back, faced as he was with an enraged Jack O’Neill.

“Can’t WHAT, Daniel?” Jack barked, leaning drunkenly against the door sill. “Can’t see! Can’t walk without fucking crutches! Can’t drink myself into a stupor! Can’t ignore the fact that you three have been sitting out here trying to figure out what the fuck to do about me?”

Jack took a wobbly step forward, forgetting his crutch, and collapsed. Daniel moved to catch him, but Jack twisted angrily away and crashed heavily against a small table.

“Jack!” Daniel cried out, moving toward his friend. The cry was cut off, however, as Jack’s fist connected with Daniel’s face, sending him sprawling.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Jack roared, “and take the rest of ‘em with you! Do you hear me?! I don’t need your DAMNED help and I sure as fuck don’t want your goddamned PITY!”

Daniel scrambled back, blinking, and pressing his palm against his bloody nose.

“You’re drunk, Jack,” Daniel said softly.

“Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c said as he strode into the hallway and saw the two men sprawled on the floor and Daniel’s bloody face. “What has happened? Are you injured?”

“No,” Daniel spat the word, “but … you might help Jack crawl back into his bottle.” Then Daniel got up and stalked out without another word.

Teal’c watched him go, then turned and gazed down at Jack.

“You are drunk O’Neill,” he said.

“Very,” Jack slurred.

“Did you further damage your leg?” Teal’c asked.

“Pulled some stitches, that’s all,” Jack grumbled, trying unsuccessfully to stand, “How ‘bout a hand?”

Jack reached his right hand up in the general direction of Teal’c’s voice. The Jaffa gazed down at him and replied.

“I do not believe that you actually require my assistance O’Neill. I do not fully grasp the strategy you are pursuing. It is clear to me, however, that you wish to be alone. I believe you have convinced Daniel Jackson. There is no need to attack me, I too am leaving.”

Jack sat on the floor and tried not to grin as his old friend walked away. Daniel might be an innocent and easily fooled. Teal’c, a warrior to the bone, was not.

‘Now,’ Jack mused, the urge to smile dying on his battered face, ‘what am I going to do about Sam?’

ΩΩΩ

The Secretary of State, Ralph Olivier arrived at the Oval Office within minutes.

“Welcome,” Hayes said, motioning to a chair, “take a seat, Ralph.”

“Thank you Mr. President,” Olivier said, as he sat. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

“Tell me what’s going on these days with the six-nation negotiations that China’s undertaken with North Korea,” Hayes asked.

“Well, Mr. President,” Olivier replied, “As you know, North Korea is the bad-boy of the Far East. India and Pakistan are at each others’ throats and North Korea keeps setting off ‘tests’ of their weaponry. It’s like playing with matches sitting on a keg of gunpowder. China, as the big kid on the block, has been leading the six-nation negotiations to bring Kim Jong Il into the fold of civilized nations in the region. The key negotiating point is to persuade North Korea to abandon its illegal and highly provocative nuclear weapons program.”

“In exchange for what,” Hayes asked.

“In exchange for international recognition and in exchange for relief from trade sanctions that have kept North Korea in the 1950s technologically and in a state of siege domestically since the Korean War,” Olivier concluded.

A moment of silence passed before Olivier continued.

“But, of course, you know all that, Sir.”

“I do,” Hayes admitted. “I wanted to provide a … context for my real problem.”

“Sir?” Olivier prompted.

“Have you had any recent communication from China concerning the Mosul oil fields, Ralph?” Hayes asked.

“Why, yes, Sir,” Olivier replied, blinking and sitting back in surprise, “We have. Just this morning a communiqué came through.”

Hayes steepled his fingers, turned his gaze up toward the ceiling and wiggled his fingers, as if conjuring. “Let’s see,” he muttered, “China is requiring … concessions related to the Mosul oil, in consideration for its leadership role in talking down North Korea from its nuclear aspirations.”

“Correct, Mr. President,” Olivier replied. “How did you know, Sir? We are only now completing the analysis and drafting a white paper for your …”

“An educated guess,” Hayes stated softly. “There’s a good friend of mine. He’s in some trouble. I was concerned it was … connected to oil and to China.”

Olivier nodded and said, “I see,” but, in fact he hadn’t a clue. Jack O’Neill’s actions outside of Mosul and the potential diplomatic fallout were too highly classified for the President to clarify, until absolutely necessary. So, Secretary of State Olivier left the Oval Office with more questions than answers and a promise to himself to proceed very cautiously in the State Department’s response on the Mosul oil issue.


It was early evening two days later before George Hammond was escorted into the Oval Office.

“I expected you sooner, George,” Hayes gently reprimanded his old friend.

“Beg pardon, Mr. President,” George drawled, “but I’ve been up to my ass in alligators!”

“Atlantis?” Hayes asked.

“Ararat,” George replied. “There’s some important technology deep beneath that mountain, Sir. We’re doing our utmost to evaluate it and secure it … before …”

“Before Turkey catches wind and decides to kick up a fuss,” Hayes concluded Hammond’s thought. “Is it worth the international trouble?”

“Our experts say ‘yes’, Mr. President,” George replied. “Potentially, there is a repository of all of the Ancient knowledge down there.”

“Doctor Jackson must be delighted,” Hayes said, “or is he still out at Area 52 with Jack O’Neill?”

“No, Doctor Jackson’s back at the SGC,” George replied. “He got back a couple of days ago and has been going a hundred percent at this project ever since.”

“So, Jack’s on the mend?” Hayes asked.

“As much as can be expected,” Hammond replied.

“What aren’t you telling me, George?” Hayes asked, his ice-blue eyes narrowing.

George Hammond looked down at his hat as he turned it round in his hands and then scowled and said in an exasperated tone, “Jack O’Neill was an insubordinate burn-out when I first met him, Mr. President. Fortunately, he pulled himself together and … well you know the man’s incredible service record, as well as I do. From the look of things, he’s back to his old ways … It’s a damned shame, Sir. His friends have tried, but his retirement was final almost three weeks ago, making him a free agent. Officially, I can’t take steps and unofficially none of us can seem to reach him.”

Hayes pursed his lips and frowned. Then George’s old friend leaned forward, clapped George on the knee, and said, “Jack reached the end of his rope before this mission. Said as much himself, George.”

Then the Commander in Chief fixed his subordinate with a cool blue gaze and said, “You get that maverick O’Neill back on the right trail, General Hammond, or you get his tail off this planet. I either want him ready for the rodeo that’s coming our way, or out of the way. You understand me, General?”

George straightened and met his Commander in Chief’s gaze, nodded once and said, “Yes, Sir, Mr. President, I do.”

ΩΩΩ

George left the Oval Office, walked out of the White House and climbed into the government sedan that awaited him.

“Pentagon, please,” George said as he climbed into the back seat.

George remained silent, lost in thought throughout the drive.

‘What rodeo is coming Jack’s way,’ he wondered. Hayes had not elaborated and George was enough of a professional not to press for details that the Commander in Chief chose not to provide.

George was back in his office and seated at his desk within thirty minutes. It was evening in DC. The street lights flickered beyond his window blinds. George pressed speed-dial, bypassing his assistant, and was instantly connected to the SGC operator.

“Colonel Carter, please,” George said.

A moment later Sam’s voice came through the earpiece, “Carter,” she said.

“Sam,” George replied, “How’s Jack doing? I need the straight scoop, Colonel.”

“He’s …” Sam’s voice broke, but then she continued, “Jack O’Neill’s recovering physically, General Hammond. He will probably always use a cane and his vision hasn’t improved.”

“That’s it?” George asked knowing there was more.

“No, Sir,” Sam replied. “I don’t know why … maybe it was the abuse or losing his command or … maybe it was inevitable, General.”

“Straight, Colonel,” George said.

“General O’Neill is … lost, Sir. He’s lost. After what he’s been through, I expected General O’Neill to be bitter and angry. I knew it would take time, maybe a long time. But … it’s getting worse, not better. It’s getting much worse. Frankly, Sir, General O’Neill is completely out of control. He’s exhibiting extreme emotional instability. He’s got substance abuse issues. He’s verbally and physically combative and he is resisting all efforts to reach him. I’m … I was going to call you sooner, General Hammond, but Ararat’s been top priority all day.”

“I understand, Sam,” George replied. “So you think Jack’s in trouble?”

“Yes, I do, Sir. Jack O’Neill is a danger to himself and to anyone who ever gave a damn about him.”

“I see,” George said.

“Is that all, Sir,” Sam asked, her voice shaking.

“Would you be willing to try once more, Sam?” George said.

There was a long pause before Sam answered.

ΩΩΩ

Jack rolled off the lumpy couch and staggered upright. His head pounded and his left leg felt like a dead weight. He could feel his pulse throbbing down its entire length. He’d forgotten his antibiotics again and he was paying the price.

“Shit,” Jack growled as he stuck a thermometer into his mouth, guessing he was running a low-grade fever.

Jack groaned as the thermometer beeped, showing 103 degrees. He hobbled toward the kitchen for water and aspirin, leaning heavily on the wooden cane that had replaced the odious aluminum crutches.

Jack was alone at last in the little adobe house. He could drop the act, discard the damned coke-bottle glasses, and stop wasting perfectly good whisky by pouring it on his clothing and tipping it down the drain.

Sam had fled three days earlier, or was it four? He wasn’t sure. He’d had a lot of pills at the time and way, way too much whisky to wash them down. Since then, he’d slept almost constantly, eaten little and missed more than a few of the pills he was supposed to be taking. Not that the antibiotics had been much good while he was subsisting on crackers, cheese and whisky.

Jack preferred not to mix narcotics with his alcohol. He preferred not to take drugs at all, given a choice. In the end, the pills and booze had been the perfect recipe to force Sam Carter to leave him in peace.

It had been a difficult scene to play. Jack had been careful over the past month to maintain the illusion of a nonstop drinking binge. He’d drained thirty whisky bottles in thirty days. Sam had refused to supply the alcohol after Jack drained the supply she’d bought. Jack had a credit card, however, and a telephone. The local delivery boys appreciated his generous tips and didn’t really give a damn that the sick old man who provided them stunk of booze when he stumbled to the door.

Jack had avoided food, started smoking again, and flew into rages that had escalated into shattered furniture, shouting matches and, once, Jack’s fist through a solid wood door. Jack knew Sam was weakening. Although she could have taken him down sober in his poor physical condition, it was the stress she was feeling, rather than a physical threat from his constant irrational wrath.

Jack was wearing out, too, and he was beginning to wonder how much longer he could survive on a diet of crackers, cheese whiz and whisky.

Finally, Sam’s patience had worn out.

“Are you trying to die!?” she’d demanded one afternoon when she found Jack passed out on the bathroom floor in a noxious puddle of his own making. “Why did I chase all over the middle east looking for you, Jack?” she’d demanded. “Why! If you just want to give up and die!”

Jack hadn’t answered. He’d let her drag him upright, strip and scrub the filth off him, and get him to bed. Although the puddle had been manufactured from a blend of cheese whiz, plus a couple of condiments from the fridge, combined with a liberal amount of whisky, it made a convincing and revolting mess.

Jack knew, as Sam dumped him into the bed, that she’d taken all she could stand of his destructive behavior. She didn’t leave that afternoon, probably because she thought he might be sick again and need her, but the next morning, as he took his first drink to greet the day, she’d walked out.

Now, Jack was alone, apparently helpless, and beyond vulnerable. The goat was positioned, the tiger trap was ready.

All that remained was for the Trust to make a move.

ΩΩΩ

Jack felt his world tilt.

“Easy,” he growled and he grasped Sam’s wrists. Jack was not healthy; he was no longer a young man. He knew his limitations and Sam was pushing past his limits fast. He was not going to lose the chance to make love to Sam Carter properly.

So Jack sat up, deciding he’d better set the pace. Holding her wrists, he pushed her onto her back. He pinned her down, leaning across her torso, and reached down to the waistband of her tight blue jeans. The top snap popped, he unzipped them, then slid his fingers past her panties and down into her hot, creamy crotch.

“You sure you want this?” he asked.

Sam reared against his hand, her lips parted and panting. That was answer enough.

Jack lowered his face to her belly and kissed her, tickling the edge of her pubic hair with his tongue as he stripped off her jeans and panties. He sat up slightly, still pinning her arms under his weight, and moved his hands up to her cotton shirttails. With a quick jerk, Jack ripped her shirt asunder, sending buttons flying. Sam tried to struggle out of the tattered shirt, but Jack didn’t pause. With two more sharp jerks, he'd stripped her. Sam's skin was under Jack’s lips: her breasts, the valley of her cleavage, her firm silken belly. Jack threatened to move lower, but then turned and kissed her deeply on the mouth.

Sam moaned as he slid his tongue between her lips. He kissed her chin, her neck, under her left ear and her shoulder. She shivered and he felt a hungry surge in his groin. He moved down to the edge of her bra, slipped his fingers and tongue under, brushing her right nipple. Jack ran his fingers along the black lacy edge of the bra, and then unsnapped the front-closure, freeing her firm white breasts.

Jack lifted Sam’s full, heavy breasts against his face. Her skin was pale silk under his hands. He pulled back and looked at her beautiful face, flushed pink now with desire. He stroked the red rose of flesh and her nipples puckered like rose buds. He lifted her right breast to his mouth and suckled. She arched her back. She pressed against his mouth, panting, softly groaning as his own lust spiked. Jack bit her. Her flesh puckered to a hard, tight nub. Her heart pounded fast and strong under his ear as he suckled and nibbled, until she moaned and trembled.

Sam growled deep and low. It was so goddamned sexy, Jack wanted to fuck her hard and fast. Instead, he moved down to her bare belly. He slipped his hand under her butt and moved his fingers into the valley between her firm mounds, offering something unexpected.

Sam shuddered with delight.

Jack kissed the point of one hip. Then he nipped her sending delicious goose-bumps across her skin. Jack smelled her hot sexy scent. He pressed Sam’s knees apart wanting to devour her. She was open, spread wide, and eager. He could fuck her now. His cock was stiff and painfully ready.

Still, he teased ... moving down to lightly lick, barely touching the pale golden fur of her mound. Sam lifted to increase contact, but Jack maintained feather-light contact, driving them both to the point of delicious agony.

“Please,” she moaned, “Oh, please! FUCK me, Jack!”

Her command tipped Jack past the point of control. He buried his mouth in her hot, wet cunt, kissing her, probing, rubbing against her engorged nub with such abandon that he drove her down against the mattress and his fingertip poised at her rim.

Sam whimpered as his finger slipped into her. She thrust against his mouth, lifting her hips, opening to his hungry mouth and her ass to his hands. Jack slipped a finger deeper. She gasped and reared against his face again. He licked her then from clit to ass. Her last vestige of control vanished, replaced by raw need. Sam cried out, heedless of anything, but his touch in her secret places.

She surged against him as she came, soft moans turning more urgent, until she was crying out longer and stronger as he pleasured her.

Jack was losing control. He wanted to take her in every way. Now! He buried his mouth into her frantic body and finger fucked her ass.

Sam tensed and suddenly cried out, rearing against his mouth and chin.

Jack pinned her, heightening the intensity of her orgasm, prolonging it. Then, before she came down, he threw her onto her belly, grasped her hips and lifted them, spreading her thighs, and drove his aching cock between her pale mounds.

Jack arced his back, rammed into her sweat-damp fur and beyond, finding her hot, cream-filled cunt.

Sam reacted like an alley cat in heat, arching to offer her gorgeous ass up to him. Jack pulled back and pounded into her again. She cried out and thrust back in time to his next thrust. His vision narrowed to black haze with the power of it.

Suddenly he was coming in hot shooting spasms, spilling into her, filling her, and feeling his cum spill against his balls with every thrust.

Jack lifted her as he came, pulled her upright and pressed her tight against his belly. He wrapped one arm around her waist and slid his fingers down to stroke her clit as he lifted her with his thrusts. He slide her up and down on his cum-slick skin, her sweat wet back and ass moving against his belly and chest.

Sam cried out and threw her head back against his shoulder, reaching back to grab him behind his neck. She clung to him, gasping as he held her up and drove up into her harder and deeper.

He closed his other hand around her breast, pinched her nipple hard, and she cried and twisted against him. He pumped up, lifting her, trying to prolong the exquisite moment.

Then Jack lost it and he was no longer making love. He was fucking her. He dropped her onto the bed and he rammed into her, she had stopped moving and moaned softly as he buried himself in her up to his balls. Jack couldn't get enough. He growled and bit the back of her neck, like a lion on a kill. He crushed her breasts with his fierce need. He was fucking and falling into her pulsing core as her body, of its own will, milked him dry, emptied him, wrung every drop ...

The dream vanished in a red mist of heat and desire.

“Fuck,” Jack gasped as he blinked and groaned. He had a painfully hard erection … again. This was becoming a nightly ritual, dreaming of Sam and waking alone and needing her.

Jack rolled on his back and closed his eyes, grabbed his cock and stroked it hard and fast, reliving the touch, the smell of her and wishing the damned Trust would make a move … soon … before he died of loneliness.

Later that day, a knock on the kitchen door interrupted Jack’s reading. He hobbled to the kitchen door, scratching his two-day stubble, and expecting a delivery boy with the whisky he no longer drank but purchased to keep up appearances.

“Hello,” a youngish woman cooed when Jack opened the door.

“What do you want?” Jack growled.

The young woman smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and said, “Some of the boys in town said you might be getting a little … lonely.”

Jack turned away, disgusted and said, “Move on, darling. I’m not interested.”

“C’mon,” the hooker said, sidling into the kitchen, “A big guy like you? Why I bet you’re interested. Maybe you just don’t have the … confidence.”

Jack turned and sized the woman up. At second glance, she wasn’t so young after all. She was thin, but … wiry. In his younger days, Jack O’Neill had availed himself of hookers in most parts of the world. He’d seen them young and old, skinny and fat. Aside from the high-priced call girls he’d observed in high-class establishments in DC, LA and New York, Jack had yet to see a whore who was physically fit.

“So,” he snarled as he hobbled toward the cupboard where he kept his 9 mm. “Are you some new brand of personality consultant? Fuck for success?”

The hooker smiled and sidled toward him, “Sure,” she murmured, “That’s what I am: Your own private consultant.”

Jack wanted to push her out the door and lock it, but he couldn’t pass up the chance that she was the first link that would lead him to the Trust. He grinned back at her and said, “Take a shower first, beautiful, and brush your teeth.”

ΩΩΩ

Sam drove the rented sports car without thinking about it. She’d driven from the terminal to the rental house so many times during that hellacious month with Jack that she could do it in her sleep.

She didn’t want to be here. She hadn’t wanted to come. She’d turned General Hammond down, pleading the importance of her work, the pressing timeline for Ararat research, the need to oversee everything and to be available to keep the projects on track.

George had listened and then pulled out the big guns.

“So,” he said, “I guess you gave Jack his ring back?”

Sam hadn’t anticipated that question. It caught her off-guard. Her resistance crumbled.

So, now, tired and hot, sticky from the long flight and ill at ease, she was driving to check on Jack O’Neill. The beautiful silver ring was in her pocket. She’d ask him to come with her. If he refused, she’d hand it to him and go back to the SGC and the mountain of work waiting for her there. Some part of her hoped she’d find Jack gone – so she could get back to things she could do something about – another part was scared stiff that the house would be empty … or worse.

Sam gunned the engine and accelerated through the turn onto the road to the little adobe house in the foot hills. The road twisted and turned and she slowed as it grew rougher. Finally she pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

Only then did she notice the other car.

ΩΩΩ


Jack heard the throaty sound of a second car. He disentangled himself from the middle-aged whore who’d emerged damp and eager from his shower only moments before and had pinned him to the hallway wall with her wet, wiry body.

“Stay here,” he said as he pulled up his boxers and limped toward the kitchen door, figuring it was the delivery boy with the whisky.

Jack pulled the 9mm out of the kitchen drawer, just in case the hooker had a partner. Then, holding the pistol behind his back, he opened the door a crack.

“Carter!” he exclaimed.


Sam’s eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped as she stared up at her former CO. Jack O’Neill was naked except for a pair of Daniel’s boxer shorts and a two-day growth of stubble. He stunk of alcohol and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Sir,” Sam said. “General Hammond sent me to ask you to … come …”


Jack didn’t look directly at her, but knew without a doubt the moment Sam saw the hooker. Her face went pale and taut and her babbling stopped. He felt her rage burning like radiation and Jack felt suddenly ill.

‘Will I never get a fucking break,’ Jack thought, willing his fledgling erection to fade.

Sam’s eyes dropped and, he knew, she had not missed that detail.

“You left,” Jack stated, keeping his voice neutral, and dragging her eyes back up to his face.

“I did,” Sam snapped, “Now I’m back: Orders. General Hammond wants you escorted to the Pentagon.”

“Yeah. Well, Carter, tell George, ‘thanks’,” he drawled, figuring he was already so totally screwed he might as well maintain his cover, “but I’m retired and … kinda booked right now.”

Sam’s mouth turned down with an angry twist. She started to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she reached in her pocket, pulled out something and flung it at him, then spun around and raced down the steps without a backward glance.


Jack watched her go and his gut knotted. He watched her out of sight, fighting the feeling that he’d never see her again. Finally, when the trajectory of her sports car was just a small dust swirl far down the road, he leaned his forehead against the door frame and groaned.

Only then did Jack remember the naked hooker dripping all over Carter’s shiny linoleum.

“Get your stuff, beautiful,” he said. “I’ll need to take a rein-check on that personal growth session.”

Jack turned away from the door after one more glance at the road. Sam’s car was gone. Even the dust devils of her passing had dissipated. He limped back into the kitchen. A glint on the linoleum made him stop and stare. It was the ring he’d bought.

‘Carter had ‘The Ring’?’ Jack realized. ‘Well … not anymore.’

Jack bent down and scooped it off the floor.

“So, not only ‘No’,” he muttered, “but ‘Hell No’.”



Chapter 22

The kid with the whisky never did show up that day, the one day Jack felt the need for a couple good shots of something stronger than beer. He made do with a chilled six-pack.

Jack hobbled outside with the six-pack. The sun was still hot, but it was slipping low in the sky. Long shadows stretched across the desert below.

Jack hadn’t been outside in over two months. It was intoxicating to be in the open air, even though the late afternoon light made him squint painfully.

Jack walked until he found a flat rock jutting out of the hillside about three hundred yards from the house. He settled on it, set the six-pack beside him, and twisted the cap off a beer. He raised the bottle and took a long, thirsty pull, gazing across the desert floor below.

As the sun slipped lower, Jack brooded over his condition. If the hooker had been sent by the Trust, things would move fast. He had to be ready.

Jack stretched out his left leg and examined the series of eighteen Velcro closures in the fading light. The cast was a pain in the ass. If he had to get physical, it would get in the way. It itched. It had been seven weeks. Experience told him he could do without it now … probably.

The fact was he was out of time. Ready or not, recuperation was over. If the hooker had been a feeler, the Trust was coming. His physical and emotional condition was most likely an element of the decision to approach him. At least he hoped so. Jack had worked hard, misled both his friends and professionals who wanted to help him, just to sustain the illusion of being vulnerable.

As he watched the twilight fall, Jack worried about how much of his act was illusion and how much reality. He didn’t know whether his leg would hold his weight. Still, he was fed up with hobbling everywhere, taking sponge baths instead of real showers, and generally acting like an invalid.

Jack reached down and pulled open the first closure. The skin of his upper thigh was deathly pale and wrinkled from weeks of being squashed within the stiff plastic and Velcro cast. He pulled the closures apart down the entire length of the cast, peeled back a second Velcro strip that ran the entire length of the cast, sealing him in like a zip-lock baggie.

Gingerly Jack pulled the stiff plastic away from his damaged flesh. He eased his leg out of the cast and then tossed the cast aside, stretched his long, malformed leg and wiggled his black and blue toes. Everything worked.

Jack turned his leg, bent his knee and winced. It hurt. He stretched and poked at his thigh and calf. They were still marvelous colors of purple and green. Even more interesting, three large chunks of muscle were missing. Puckered pink scar tissue had partly filled in the missing flesh, but not entirely. Two deep gashes showed where he’d lost fist-sized chunks of muscle in his calf and upper thigh. Another piece had been cut away from the back of his thigh, just below his butt.

All three holes seeped malodorous fluid. Jack hadn’t realized how much muscle damage he’d suffered. It was depressing to look at and gruesome.

Jack wasn’t quite ready to try to stand on his cruelly damaged limb. So, he opened another beer. It was warm and foamed when he popped off the top. Jack took a long pull of the tepid brew and belched softly.

“Crap,” he muttered. Then he pulled the ring out of his pocket.

Hammond must have discovered the ring. No one else would have connected it to Sam Carter. George had probably come across it during the investigation while Jack was MIA, Jack figured. What might have possessed George to give it to Sam, Jack couldn’t imagine.

“Damn it. What was George thinking?”

ΩΩΩ

Sam pulled into the rental car parking lot at the air terminal, parked the car and dialed her cell phone. She was dreading this call, but she had to inform General Hammond of her failure to convince Jack O’Neill to accompany her to the Pentagon.

George answered after the first ring.

“Hammond,” he said.

“Sir,” Sam replied, “I saw Gen … ah, I mean Jack O’Neill. He’s not coming back with me, General Hammond. I … I just couldn’t convince him.”

“I see,” George replied. “That’s a pity. Has there been any important change in his status, Colonel?”

“Worse,” Sam replied, reluctant to offer details.

“Colonel Carter, I appreciate your willingness to attempt this intervention,” George replied. “I am sorry to have to put you in this position, but I am under orders.”

Sam tensed and wished her cell service would drop the call, but General Hammond’s next words came through loud and clear.

“Colonel, you are under orders to take Jack O’Neill into protective custody. The Commander in Chief wants Jack O’Neill to either straighten up and fly right or … Well, let’s deal with the ‘or’ after you have him. Put him in restraints if you have to, Colonel Carter, but get him here!”

“Sir?” Sam stammered.

“Sam,” George continued gently, “It’s for Jack’s good. Trouble is coming. I don’t have the details, but he is in no condition to look out for himself. Like it or not, you have got his back, Sam. Just bring him in. I’ll do the rest.”

Sam closed her eyes and whispered, “Crap.”

“What was that Colonel?” George asked.

“I said, ‘Yes, Sir,’” Sam replied. “I may need to avail myself of Area 52 MPs.”

George hesitated and then said, “I very much doubt you’ll need them. From what you tell me, the man’s crippled, half blind and usually falling down drunk. Besides, you were part of his team. Those bonds run pretty deep for Jack, Colonel.”

“He’s former Special Forces and …” Sam paused. “… He may not be fully aware of his actions.”

George didn’t reply for a moment but remembered Daniel Jackson’s broken nose and conceded softly, “If you must, Colonel, you may call on the MPs, but … try to keep this low profile, Sam. It will make my job and the President’s much easier.”

ΩΩΩ

As dusk thickened to night, Jack drained the last warm beer. He stretched out on the rock and watched the stars come out. It felt good to breathe fresh air, scented with the tang of sagebrush. It felt great to be free of the cast, to scratch what itched, to stretch out on the sun-warmed rock and gaze up at the softly winking stars as they appeared in the dimming twilight.

He must have dozed.

He never heard a car pull into the driveway.

He didn’t hear it stop a hundred yards away, out of sight from the house.

Jack never heard a thing until the house behind him exploded in a fireball, filling the night with light and blasting a wave of fast-moving glass, wood shards and chunks of adobe stucco across the hillside.

ΩΩΩ

Sam hit the brakes, startled by a detonation and a plume of fire that reared up into the twilight.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, accelerating with a squeal of rubber. The car fishtailed through the last turn. Sam saw the little adobe house was gone. All that was left was one wall and the chimney. The standing wall was in flames.

A car was parked between her and the burning remnants of the house.

Sam hit the gas and drove the sports car off the dirt road. It crashed through low brush. The vehicle lurched on the rough terrain, but momentum carried it as far as a thicket of dense scrub before it stalled.

Trembling with adrenalin, Sam pulled the keys out of the ignition, pushed the door open and slipped out of the car. She closed the door gently. Whoever destroyed the house was probably still nearby.

Sam scrambled toward the house in a low crouch. She moved parallel to the driveway. She closed the distance quickly. The diminishing flames still illuminated the area and their light grew stronger as she approached the burning rubble.

“Dammit Jack,” she murmured, taking in the devastation of the home she’d made for him, “don’t you dare leave me like this.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack rolled off the rock as the night blew apart. He flattened against the rock face and gaped at the fire. The blast had his ears ringing. He heard none of the roar of the fire or the clatter of falling debris.

Jack scanned the area and caught a glint of reflected firelight on glass. Between the brush and rock outcrops, the shape of a car was barely visible. Motion to the side of the vehicle caught his eye. Jack made out the silhouette of a small, wiry man …

‘No … not a man,’ Jack decided.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he murmured. The wiry build was the same. It was the hooker. She had been the first contact after all. She’d probably been casing the house to be certain Jack was alone. She might have even set a charge while she was in the bathroom. He hadn’t checked. He’d just wandered off and drained a six-pack.

‘Nice fucking job, you burn-out,’ Jack thought indignantly.

If Sam hadn’t arrived when she had …

“I’d either be inside the Trust and wondering if Bear would pull my ass out in time,” Jack realized, “… or I’d be dead.”

Jack observed for a moment, as the woman leaned against the car and dialed a cell phone. She looked calm, relaxed. She’d meant to kill him, Jack decided, and had come to make sure the job was done.

Jack took a deep breath, grabbed his cane and was about to struggle upright when the woman spun and pulled a pistol. She fired three times into the dark beyond. Jack dropped down, lost his balance and fell into the brush.

“Crap,” he hissed.

Two return shots were fired.

Jack pulled himself out of the scrub and crawled forward, trying to get a fix on the other shooter.

ΩΩΩ

Sam grabbed a handful of pebbles, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and then tossed one of the stones far to the left of the woman by the car. Three more shots rang out as the woman spun and fired.

Sam waited. The woman’s profile was barely visible in the dying house fire. The moment stretched on and the woman straightened, lifting her head and shoulders from behind the cover of the car. She took a step and the tension seemed to go out of the woman’s posture. She straightened and walked slowly into the brush.

Sam watched, holding her breath, waiting for a clear shot. The fire was nearly gone, but still gave flickering light. Sam saw her opponent appear and disappear as the flames jumped or died. When she passed beyond the scrubby trees that had partially hidden her from view, Sam took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.

ΩΩΩ

Jack heard a shot and an abbreviated yelp. He jumped up and raced toward the sound, moving as swiftly and quietly as he could manage with a bum leg.

In fifteen yards, he nearly stumbled over the body of the hooker. He crouched, flipped her onto her back. A massive gunshot wound had removed most of the left side of her head. Still, he knew from what remained that it was the same woman.

Jack cursed. This was the link he’d waited for. After all the work and bull-shitting, the chain was broken. Footsteps made Jack glance over his shoulder. Someone was in the brush behind him.

Jack wrenched the pistol out of the dead woman’s hand. He ran his hands across the body, searching her pockets, inside the seams of her jacket, inside her bra and between her legs. He ran his hands down both legs and felt inside her boots. He discovered a wallet, a box of ammunition, a second clip, and her cell phone in her pockets. She’d carried a throwing knife in her boot and a wad of fifty dollar bills the size of his fist inside her bra.

The footsteps were close. Jack was out of time. He scrambled back into the darkness.

ΩΩΩ

Sam crept through the brush, then up ahead saw the body. It was a woman, sprawled on her back. Most of her face was gone. Sam hadn’t planned to kill. She had wanted to question her, not kill her, but she’d missed her shot in the uncertain light.

Sam crouched and searched the dead woman thoroughly. She found nothing. Sam stood and pulled out her cell phone to contact General Hammond and Area 52. The site would have to be sealed off and investigated. After all, two people were dead …

As she dialed, Sam turned toward the smoldering rubble. The antique bed, the view, the cupboards she’d scrubbed and painted and the kitchen she’d stocked were gone. The cherished friend - the fantasy lover - she did it all for was ... gone.

Sam started to tremble visualizing it. Jack would have been in the house. He would have been asleep or passed out. That was certain. When she had spoken to him in the early afternoon, he’d been barely able to stand. She’d been Jack’s last chance. She should have tried harder.

‘I left him,’ she thought, ‘I left him behind.’

Sam bit her lower lip and suddenly felt sick.

“God dammit Jack,” she barked into the night. “Why did you leave, you selfish son-of-a-bitch! Why’d you leave me?”

Her voice broke on the penultimate word. Then she slumped down beside the dead hooker, buried her face in her hands, and cried so hard that her shoulders shook.

ΩΩΩ

From the cover of the dark scrub brush, Jack had watched Sam examine the body. He tensed when she turned toward him and cursed him. For an instant he’d thought she’d seen him. Then her face contorted with pain and sorrow. She sagged to the ground and wept.

Jack swallowed hard and then closed his eyes, forcing himself to think, rather than react to the pathetic sight of Colonel Samantha Carter, one of the bravest, toughest officers he’d served with, in tears … over him.

Jack’s heart was thumping hard. He chewed his lower lip, trying to think. Then he turned away. He couldn’t let Sam know he was alive. She’d been sent with orders to fetch him back. The fact that she’d returned meant she wouldn’t take no for an answer this time.

Jack wasn’t going. Telling her he had survived would put her in a professional bind. He couldn't do that - not after ten years of denying his feelings for this woman to protect her career.

Jack rose to a low crouch, biting back a groan as his left knee took his full weight. Then, before he could over-think it, he jammed his hand into his pocket, pulled out the silver ring, and tossed it toward Sam. It fell behind her. It was near enough to the body that someone would find it during the investigation. Those forensics guys didn’t miss much. Once it was discovered, Sam would know he wasn’t in the house. So would everyone else, but by then he’d be long gone.

Moving as silently as he could, Jack circled back toward the smoking pile of debris that had been his house. Jack reached the dead hooker’s car. It was a battered four-door Cadillac sedan. He eased the driver’s side door open, reached inside and found keys in the ignition.

“Yes!” Jack hissed and he slid behind the wheel, moved the seat all the way back to ease the impact on his left leg, fired up the engine, slammed the door, and threw the car into reverse. He floored it. The big sedan lurched backwards. Then he shoved the stick on the column to first, and gunned it. The heavy American made car leapt forward and bounced down the driveway.

Jack caught a glance of someone in the brush. He turned and saw Carter’s astonished face for a brief moment. Then he was past and at the turn. He jammed the wheel to the right. The car bounded onto the road with a shower of sparks as the frame hit the blacktop.

Jack floored it. The massive V8 engine responded and the car sped into the dark wasteland.

ΩΩΩ

George rubbed his hand over his forehead and continued across the top of his bald head. Then he settled his field cap back onto his head and glared at the investigation team.

“What do you mean, ‘Nothing’?” the General growled. “I can see forty kinds of evidence from where I stand!” He was tired and it was already damned hot. A Texan by birth, George Hammond had learned early the wisdom of staying out of the desert sun whenever possible. Unfortunately, until some sort of explanation surfaced, it would not be possible today.

“General Hammond,” the geek in charge of forensics replied, with a hint too much patience in his otherwise well-mannered tone, “What I was saying, Sir, was no evidence of a body. We have determined that a plastic explosive was used. The focal point appears to be the bathroom. It generated a high-temperature energy source that consumed the building and almost everything within the structure.”

“Find me a body,” Hammond barked. Then he wiped his face with his handkerchief and continued in a gentler tone, “…or tell me Jack O’Neill was not in that house.”.

“Yes, Sir,” the geek replied, snapped a salute and headed back toward the smoldering pile of rubble. George watched him for a moment and then turned and walked back to the air conditioned sedan parked down the driveway. Being a General had certain advantages, including the right to wait in comfort while he made others sweat.

George slipped into the cool dark interior of the military sedan.

“Anything?” Sam asked.

“You should be asleep, Colonel Carter,” George replied.

She just waited and he continued, “No sign of a body.”

“I told you,” she replied, “I saw a car speed off. It was General O’Neill.”

“Jack,” George replied. “He’s retired.”

“It’s honorary,” Sam replied.

“True,” George agreed, “but he’d be the first to tell you to dispense with the honor.”

ΩΩΩ

“We’ve got something!” the chief geek called out – excited by the prospect of getting back into his air-conditioned lab with the Men’s Room just down the hall and a drinking fountain beside it. “Over here!” he called.

George saw the geeks clustering like ants on a sugar cake and, with a weary sigh, climbed out into the late afternoon heat. The area was sun-drenched and hot as Texas tequila. Privately he decided that, if Jack O’Neill was not dead, he might have to kill him … with a blunt instrument. At the moment, George was pretty sure everyone on the site would turn a blind eye, given the aggravating circumstances. If not, George could plead insanity brought on by frustration … and the damned sun.

“Sir!” the chief geek called, motioning wildly. “We’ve found a plastic cast …” the geek continued as George closed the distance. “It’s not burned. No sign of melting or any kind of damage …” the enthused geek concluded.

“So, what’s your assessment,” George asked, suppressing a smile.

“Obviously, the person wearing this was outside of the structure when the case was removed.”

“True,” George replied, “but I do not see how that proves O’Neill didn’t go back inside.”

The geek deflated visibly and shook his head in agreement.

“True,” he admitted.

George felt sorry for the man, but a lack of evidence of a body in the rubble house did not mean there hadn’t been a body. The material used burned damned hot. Conceivably, Jack might have discovered the device, attempted to disconnect it and, instead, set it off. If he’d died almost on top of the source of the fire, his belt buckle might exist. The rest, including bone and teeth, would be just smoke and ash, indistinguishable from the rest of the rubble.

George held the man’s gaze until the scientist sighed and went back to work. George sympathized with the very human need to get in out of the sun, but he’d be damned if he’d allow Jack O’Neill’s murder go un-avenged because of sloppy forensics work. He didn’t give a good-god-damn how hot it was, how red the white-faced technicians were getting, or how tired he was getting of all this – There would be justice. Anything less was unacceptable.

George stood another moment and waited until the rest of the forensics team went back to work. Only then did he turn and start back to the government sedan.

“Sir?” a timid voice called. “General? I think I’ve got … something …”

George wandered toward the young Corporal, figuring it was probably just another dead-end: Possibly more pre-historic human remains or maybe animal bones. But when the young man turned, George saw that he was holding a pair of laboratory tweezers with
‘The Evidence’ clamped between them. George watched him label a glassine envelop and then thrust the item into the clear plastic wrapper.

George watched, with his heart thumping. The Corporal grinned up at him and General George Hammond held out his hand. The grin faded and the kid hesitated to hand over the precious evidence. George waited and the youngster gave up the envelop with an air of reluctance that George pitied.

Then George walked back to the car, pulled open the back door and leaned inside, thrusting the glassine envelop and it’s contents toward Colonel Samantha Carter, and saying, “Where did you last see this, Colonel?”

Sam took the envelop and gasped.

George grinned as she looked up, her blue eyes round with surprise.

“General Hammond, the last time I saw this ring was when I … I threw it at Gen … Jack O’Neill.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack twisted his neck, making it snap. He was tired and stiff. He’d driven into the empty desert after giving Sam the slip. Expecting she would follow protocol and call for backup, he decided to find a hole to crawl into for the rest of the night and the next day. He’d made his move when night fell again, providing a double shield of darkness and empty space.

Now, Jack was bone-tired, hungry and dehydrated from 24-hours spent in a car in the desert. Still he enjoyed the drive. Driving, particularly back roads at night and especially at high-speeds, was a great time to reflect on life’s big questions: Life, love, and whether to get a dog. There was a lot to consider. A long drive alone was the perfect way to work it all out.

The moon had set an hour earlier, but stars shone so bright he was driving without his headlights. On the lonesome roads that crisscrossed the great North American desert, there was little chance of coming across another car in broad daylight. At night the odds were vanishingly small.

Jack hummed under his breath …

“… nobody gonna break my stride, nobody going to slow me down, oh know, I've got to keep in moving …”

He’d fiddled with the radio for the last two hundred miles, but got nothing but AM skip from Radio Free Europe, some bible-thumping broadcast – that sounded like it was based in deepest-darkest Mississippi – and high-pitched wail that shifted octaves whenever Jack passed a set of high-tension wires. So he was singing loud and flat to stay alert on the straight, wide road across the wide open spaces.

“… Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on moving, Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride I'm running and I won't touch ground, oh no, I got to keep on moving …”

As he sped through the night, he pounded on the steering wheel, in time to the song.

“… You look at me and then you see your past, Is that the reason why you're running so fast? ….”

“… And she said …”

Jack thumped on the wheel.

“… Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on moving, Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, I'm running and I won't touch ground, oh no, I got to keep on moving …”

After another hour and a half, Jack slowed to ninety miles per hour and started watching for signs to the interstate. He knew this area of Colorado, but it had been a while since he’d been out this far. If he was lucky and he didn’t miss any turn, he’d reach Sam’s house before anyone realized where he was heading.

“… Never let another girl like you work me over, Never let another girl like you drag me under, If I meet another girl like you I will tell her …’

Jack stopped singing and stared into the dark beyond the windshield.

“I’ll tell her,” he said.

Then Jack rubbed his tired eyes, switched on the radio, turned up the volume and tuned in a Colorado station. Suddenly he didn’t feel like singing, but he muttered under his breath, "Goddammit, I'll tell her."

ΩΩΩ

Colorado Springs was still asleep when Jack reached the city’s outskirts. He drove unhurriedly, following suburban side streets, choosing a path least likely to present a police presence. After 40 minutes, with no hint of any law enforcement activity, he wound his way into Carter’s neighborhood.

“Now,” he asked aloud, “what about the car?”

Jack normally would have abandoned it with the keys in the ignition in a rough neighborhood or left it in a used car lot. In a less populated area, he might have dumped it over an embankment. Each of these would have required that he got to Carter’s house on foot. He wasn’t keen on walking. His left leg throbbed. He’d noticed a sharp increase in the odor and he was feeling hot and groggy.

‘Probably another fever,’ he figured.

So walking was not a sensible choice. In the end, Jack drove to Sam’s house and parked across the street. He killed the engine, reached under the dash and pulled a starter wire loose.

Jack was suddenly exhausted. He hurt. He was hungry, thirsty, and he needed to pee. He eased his throbbing leg out of the battered Caddy, stood, and limped across the street to the back door. His keys to Carter’s place, and Teal’c’s and Danny’s had been lost in the fire. It didn’t matter.

Jack looked around, spied a plastic clothes pin and pulled it apart. He bent the metal spring until it was more or less straight. Then he used it to pick the lock, thinking, ‘How many times did I ‘suggest’ you upgrade your security system, Carter?’

Jack was inside kitchen foyer in less than a minute. Dim early morning light spilled across the kitchen. Jack sagged against the hallway wall and closed his eyes. He was shaking and he knew that he must still be pretty damned sick. He was so tired he couldn’t take another step. He didn’t have that option.

Jack reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims. He’d lifted them from the dead hooker. He shook one out and pulled it out of the pack with his lips. With a heavy sigh, he lit the coffin nail with her disposable butane lighter and inhaled deeply. He sucked the smoke down deep into his lungs and held it for a long moment before exhaling.

Jack wanted to gag and brush his teeth. His body, however, responded eagerly to the nicotine-enhanced smoke. It was going to be tough to quit again.

‘Tough,’ he decided, ‘but only if I live that long.’

A surge of chemically-induced energy hit him. Jack straightened and limped into Sam’s immaculate kitchen, taking another drag off the cigarette. He limped to the phone, grabbed a phone book, thumbed through it and dialed.

“Yeah,” he said when someone picked up, “there’s a beaten up, gray Caddy in front of my house. It’s dead. I’ve got to go to work, but can you tow it and take a look at it? It’s open and I left the keys in the ignition. I’ll give you a call from the office. Okay. Yeah. The address is …”

Jack leaned and looked through Sam’s front window at the house number across the street. He read off the number.

“Right. Thanks.”

Jack dropped the phone into its cradle and scanned the room. Sam’s potted plants were dead. He’d noticed newspapers piled up on her front stoop. She had left in a hurry … unexpectedly.

‘Crud,’ he thought, ‘I failed to report in and she dropped everything … and probably hasn’t been back.’ He walked to the answering machine and punched the button. His message played somewhere in the midst of several dozen others. Sam had never even heard it.

Jack went to the sink, stubbed the cigarette out in the drain and turned on the water. He was parched. As the water ran, he walked into Sam’s first floor powder room and rummaged through her medicine cabinet. Carter had a habit of keeping every medication ever prescribed. Among the birth control pills (?), sunscreen, and band-aids, he found four antibiotic bottles, each with two or three pills inside. He also found aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprophen, and a smattering of different higher-strength pain-killers.

‘When did Sam need all this stuff?’ Jack wondered, “And what’s with the birth control pills?” he muttered aloud.

Jack returned to the running water, popped a handful of the highest-strength pain pills and drained four glasses of ice cold water, one after another. Then he hobbled upstairs to the bathroom, stripped off his filthy clothing and stepped into Sam’s shower. Jack was still feeling like crap. He sat in the shower, leaned against the back corner and let the steaming hot water wash over him. He didn’t move until it began to cool.

Jack’s head was throbbing and his leg had stiffened. He struggled to his feet, turned off the water, soaped from head to toe, scrubbed vigorously, and then soaped up his hair and his heavy growth of beard with ‘Pert’ shampoo. The shampoo smelled like Carter and, despite everything, Jack’s cock was getting pert at the reminder.

“Get a fucking grip,” he grumbled as he rinsed off in the lukewarm water. Then he stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel off the bar, and limped painfully to the mirror, intending to shave.

Jack looked into the mirror and frowned. The man looking back at him was familiar and unwelcome. It was the face of his father.

Jack’s stomach knotted at the uncanny similarity. A burned-out veteran of World War II and the Korean conflict, Jack’s father had been a bitter, angry, violent man. He’d had post-traumatic stress in a time when it was called ‘battle fatigue’ and no one knew what to do about it. Jonathan O’Neill, Sr. had been a dangerous and unrepentant alcoholic, who’d made Jack’s early years a hell. Jack had faced that ugly truth when he sought professional help after returning from Abydos to a life in ruins. Since then, he’d tried to keep his liquor to beer and his capacity to a couple … barring extenuating circumstances.

Jack opened Sam’s medicine cabinet, looking for a razor. If she had birth control pills, maybe her partner…

‘Pete?’ Jack wondered, but rejected the painful images that evoked.

… had left a razor behind.

Finally, Jack gave up and made do with the used Daisy disposable razor he’d found in the shower. It was dull. The soap didn’t really provide the lubrication his tough beard required, but it was better than glimpsing his father’s ghost every time he passed a mirror.
ΩΩΩ

The painkillers had hit by the time he’d removed his facial hair. His face was bleeding in a half dozen places. Jack stuck toilet paper to the flesh wounds and wrapped a towel around his waist. He’d wash his sweatpants and t-shirt and try to mend the split seam in the left leg, but that could wait. Right now, his top priority was to get onto the Internet, substantiate SGC activity to locate him – he didn’t need any surprises resulting from changes in the man-hunt protocols – and follow up on his loosely developed plan to get inside the Trust … or whatever organization was behind the set up and attack that had slaughtered his men.

Jack limped down the long hallway from the bathroom to the stairs. As he walked, he passed a series of framed certificates on the wall.

… ‘Massachusetts Institute of Technology – Bachelor of Science – Electronics and Computer Science …1978’

… ‘University of Chicago – Masters of Science – Astrophysics … 1980’

… ‘University of California – Berkley: Doctorate in Philosophy – Physics …1981’

… ‘Air Force Academy – Top of Class …1983’

Jack stopped when he came to the next frame. It was a photo of Jacob and Sam’s mother. He leaned closer, smiling and feeling suddenly happy. The future Sam was there, smiling out at him in her mother’s joyful face. It made Jack catch his breath. If the resemblance held, Sam would be a lovely middle-aged woman. Of course, Jack couldn’t imagine Sam Carter, young or old, as anything but beautiful.

Jack moved to the next frame, expecting another family photo. He froze. It was him: in full dress uniform, sporting shiny new stars, and saluting General Hammond. Jack rubbed his hand across his toilet-paper flecked jaw, pushing back a rush of hope. He leaned closer. There, behind him, Sam’s somber face was set in perfect military composure. She was straight-backed and very proper. Although her face was carefully composed, her eyes were fixed on him and … Jack leaned in closer to be absolutely sure.... they were shining with pride and … what?

Jack slumped against the other wall. He pressed his fingers tight against his burning eyes. He was losing it. A picture on a wall didn’t mean a thing. It was a memento. It showed George. It was a great picture of her.

After a moment to shove down the tempting possibilities, Jack moved on down the hall. He tried not to look, but he glanced at the next frame. It wasn’t a picture. It was a framed clipping of the newspaper story vindicating him in the assassination attempt against Kinsey. He paused and stared. This was no memento. It was a lousy photo. He looked grim in it and downright pissed, it was a grainy AP photo, and the newspaper had yellowed in the five years since that gut-wrenching incident.

Jack shook his head and then moved on, flabbergasted. The next frame held a snapshot he’d sent Sam from the cabin two or three Christmases ago. It was a shot Danny had taken, capturing Jack in the process of building a gargantuan snowman. With the ice-covered pond behind him and the snow-trimmed cabin on his left, Jack was red-cheeked and grinning like a complete goof at Daniel and Teal’c, who were behind the camera.

A moment later, a killer snowball fight had erupted. After a valiant battle, Jack had lost and Daniel had scrubbed his face with snow and shoved handfuls down his back while Teal’c sat on him. On a whim, partly to share the moment with Sam and partly to show her what fun she’d missed, he’d had the snapshot enlarged and left it on her desk in a large brown envelop with a tiny red bow.

Jack moved on and the last picture stopped him dead in his tracks. Sam had to have copied it from imagery of one of the mission files. Jack didn’t remember the mission or the Gate address, but he remembered the moment like it was yesterday, instead of nine or ten years ago. He was in full field gear. His face was clear, but the rest was a blur as he jumped up and shouted. A tongue of fire spit from his P-90. He looked grim. He had been more than a little angry. At that precise moment, he’d been firing madly into wave after wave of about a zillion oncoming Jaffa and shouting for a flanking maneuver from a team that didn’t answer.

Jack shook his head. It had been early in his tenure with the SGC. His hair had hardly a trace of gray. In the coming months and years, moments like this (and worse) had changed that … fast.

It was the last frame on the hallway wall.

“F’ crying out loud, Carter,” Jack growled, exasperated. “Since leaving the Academy, you’ve been promoted to Captain, decorated by the President three times that I personally witnessed. You’ve been advanced to Major and then to Colonel. I did that myself. Where are those frames, Carter? Where are those pictures?”

Jack was baffled and unsure what to do with this new intel. He wanted to believe that Carter might feel something deeper than friendship or professional respect for him. Still, he didn’t dare hope. Whatever she might have felt before, Sam Carter would wash her hands of him after the crap he’d pulled over the last couple of months. Any self-respecting female would drop him.

Jack limped down the stairs. Before going to the computer, he went to the fridge. He was tired and it hurt to walk, but he was famished. Of course, Carter being Carter, there was no ‘real’ food in the fridge: just sliced meat in little plastic envelops, carrots, celery sticks, tomatoes, fruit, yogurt, skim milk, cheddar cheese and a block of dark chocolate as big as his head. Jack reached past the chocolate and grabbed a pound of fresh carrots, a couple of green apples, the block of cheese, a tomato and three packets of cold cuts. He searched farther before he found bread in the freezer. He made eight slices of toast and slapped together four sandwiches, slathered the bread with a heavy layer of butter and another layer of light mayonnaise.

Jack ate a carrot as he put away the food. He pulled a jug of skim milk out of the fridge door, opened it and sniffed. It smelled fine, so he tucked it under his arm, bit into an apple, picked up the plate of sandwiches and carrots, and hobbled to Carter’s office.

Jack sat at her desk, took a massive bite of his sandwich and, as he chewed, bent down and powered up Sam’s computer. He took another bite of sandwich and then pulled the top off the milk and tossed it in the waste basket. He took a long swig straight out of the bottle. He was thirsty. He hadn’t had a glass of milk in three months.

The computer booted up as Jack munched on another carrot. He stared at the prompt for username and password. Leave it to Carter to not put proper locks on her house, but to password-protect her computer.

Jack typed in the user name she used at the SGC. Then he entered the password. As her superior officer, he’d had access to that information. He doubted it had occurred to anyone to change it.

The computer rejected the password.

Jack ate the last of the first sandwich, chewed a third carrot down to a nub, and took another deep pull off the milk jug. He stared at the screen for a long moment and then muttered,

“What the hell …” and typed JACK. The desktop appeared.

“Eeeeasy there, Carter,” Jack drawled, grinning and shaking his head. He clicked on Sam’s DSL connection. The SGC symbol appeared and he clicked ENTER and was prompted for user name and password again. This time he entered Sam’s name and her SGC password.

… ‘Minnie Mouse.’

He was in.

Jack devoured his third sandwich as he worked. He clicked down the SGC file hierarchy, drilling into files concerning him and/or the mission. Once he’d located them, he developed a search strategy to identify who had accessed his files prior to his reassignment to Area 52 and the ill-fated mission. Jack was no computer genius. Far from it, he found computers dull and somewhat silly. Secretly he was of the opinion that, if a healthy human male in the US military chose to type for a living, he should get a job as a secretary. These days a guy didn’t voice such prejudice against computers, however, and Jack had allowed the geeks to patiently drill him in the basics so he could two-finger type his mission reports and save them where they belonged.

Though he was no expert and less than engrossed in the computer stuff, Jack had watched Sam work for hundreds of hours. She’d probably thought he was keeping tabs on her progress. In fact, he’d hung around just to be around her. After enough repetition, some of her computer voodoo had stuck.

Jack had fumbled around a bit when he first opened the files. Finally he’d found an index of user identification codes. With his clearance, he’d had authorized access to everything in the mainframe. Apparently no one had thought to cancel his clearance, yet. He figured it was a matter of hours before someone did so. So he ate as he worked and he worked as fast as he could with Carter’s weird mouse and his two-finger typing.

Jack bit into the tomato as he pulled up the screen with his files and selected a view that showed who’d accessed the files, the date and time, for how long, and the location of the computer. He scrolled down the screen, wiped his chin on the back of his hand as the tomato juice dribbled and stung in his razor cuts, and realized that certain numbers were repeating.

Jack’s eyes glazed over as he moved down the screen. He was tired and his head was pounding harder and harder. He couldn’t concentrate. It wasn’t working.

He shoved the rest of the tomato into his mouth, wiped his chin on his bare arm and grabbed another carrot and gnawed on it as he tried changing the views. When he sorted by user identification code, things fell into place. He grinned. He could move quickly through those he’d identified as Hammond, Carter, and himself.

That left half a dozen others. Jack looked them up in the index screen. One was Alf Armadas, the Greek geek in charge of the system. Another code was assigned to some unidentified user located within the White House, probably a communal user id that the big dogs used to check in on the SGC. Another id was authorized for a geek at Area 52, one for a personnel officer.

That left two possibilities.

Jack scanned down the user index for the first of the remaining numbers. He didn’t see it. He kept scrolling and scrolling and, finally, as his head felt like it would detonate, he hit Ctrl-F and typed in the number. It was a long number and he double checked it before hitting ENTER. It took a minute, but the screen jumped and there it was:

…‘General Horace B. West, SGC (retired)’

“West?” Jack exclaimed. “General West? That predatory son-of-a-bitch! Hell, I was told he was dead! Retired?! Crap! Probably thought I’d come after him for …” Jack’s murmur was lost as he bit into another carrot and then took a swig of milk, draining the jug.

He tossed the jug into Carter’s trash can. It was a metal mesh style and some of the milk leaked on the floor. Jack didn’t notice, he was looking at the screen and muttering.

“West … Well, that would be about right: Ruthless; Total disregard for the welfare of his troops; Ambitious.”

Jack ate the last bite of carrot and looked around for more food. It was gone. He leaned back in the office chair and belched softly, shaking his aching head and muttering.

“It had to have been a major bite in the ass for West when he was dumped as a result of my report. He’s been gone for … what … twelve years …”

Major General West had yanked Colonel Jack O’Neill out of disability retirement, while O’Neill was caught in the depths of despair and guilt over the death of his nine-year old son, Charlie. West had not only disregarded Jack’s brittle mental state, he’d specifically chosen Jack O’Neill precisely because of his acute sense of guilt and his overwhelming desire to die. One thing that had kept Jack going during those dark months after Charlie’s death: his lapsed Catholic upbringing, that, and a slender hope that he might see his son again … if there was a god and a heaven and if he could find a way to atone.

West had offered a remorse-filled father of a dead child a fitting penance. Step through a ominous freak of nature into a vast unknown, be flung across the Universe to another world … if the geeks had a clue. Jack figured they didn’t – when had a scientist ever gotten something one hundred percent right? Never … Certainly not on the first try.

And if, by a whim of fate, the ‘Star Gate’ didn’t kill him outright, West had prepared Jack with ‘Plan B.’ The troops would return home through the ‘Gate and then Colonel Jack O’Neill would personally detonate a nuclear bomb on the far side of the Universe, closing the dangerous pathway from Abydos to Earth.

Either way Jack knew he’d be dead. Better, he wouldn’t die from the constant, crushing anguish that he knew would break him sooner or later. He’d die on a mission to the stars, a mission where someone had to die, a mission to protect Earth from a terrifying threat from a strong, fiercesome enemy.

Such a sacrifice might earn him absolution, Jack guessed. If it didn’t, at least he’d be past caring.

Jack hadn’t had a choice. He hadn’t been asked and he hadn’t accepted, although at the time he almost certainly had not been competent to accept a contract on an order of Girl Scout cookies, much less the responsibility for protecting one planet and the culpability for killing every person living on another.

No, General West had offered Jack one last spur. Colonel O’Neill had not been asked to volunteer. He’d been ordered.


Only luck and the intervention of Dr. Daniel Jackson – a super-dweeb with two doctoral degrees, the physical prowess of a librarian, allergies, and an iron will when he believed he was right – had kept Colonel Jack O’Neill from carrying out West’s despicable orders. Daniel Jackson had saved Abydos, saved Jack, and then stayed behind and sealed the ‘Gate from the Abydos side.

Jack had returned, lied about the mission, and spent a year in almost total solitude, watching the stars and slowly coming to grips with his life alone. Then, fate and General George Hammond had thrown him back into proximity with Danny and …The rest was history … a history few people would ever know.

Jack had survived and, in time, he had regained his equilibrium. He’d not forgiven West, although he had spent more than a few nights, particularly during the first years of battling the Goa’uld, watching the night sky and wondering if destruction of the ‘Gate on Abydos would have, in fact, been better than war with the Goa’uld.

Years passed and Jack hadn’t given West a thought. He’d been gone when Jack had been pulled back into harness a second time. Jack had privately regretted West’s easy death in a motor vehicle accident. He’d have liked to know West had suffered.

Now, evidence indicated that the man was alive and, it seemed, he had once again been involved … somehow … with Jack’s having had been ordered on a mission with the odds stacked impossibly against him. It certainly was West’s style to waste thirty men.

‘Hell,’ Jack thought sourly, ‘West wouldn’t give their deaths a second thought.’

Jack plucked sandwich crumbs off the plate and ate the apple cores and carrot tops, while he tried to find a way to track West’s computer location. The code 787 appeared in the column, but he could find no way to translate the code into a real, physical location.

After another two hours of futile searching, Jack was groggy and hot. He rose from the office chair and limped to the first floor powder room, rummaged in the medicine cabinet, found some pain pills and added a couple of antibiotics to the mix. He popped them and drank directly from the faucet. Then he wet his face and the back of his neck.

Jack’s head was pounding like a diesel engine. He should lie down … forever. Instead, he used the toilet and wobbled unsteadily back into the office, using the walls for support. He was still wearing the bath towel around his waist. He groaned, remembering he’d have to put the t-shirt and sweats in the wash, if he was going to be ready to bug out tomorrow wearing actual clothing instead of stinking rags.

With a deep sigh, clutching the towel, Jack trudged up the stairs to the upstairs bathroom. He’d reached the landing and turned down the hall when he staggered, reached for the wall, and collapsed.

ΩΩΩ

It was mid-day before General Hammond ordered his people off the investigation site. They’d worked a full day and a night and come up with little evidence of what happened, aside from the nearly decapitated body that Colonel Carter claimed was her doing. The circumstantial evidence certainly pointed toward Jack O’Neill being alive and on the run from the military authorities. Why? George had no idea, but it really had his shorts in a knot. No, George didn't like it. Not one little bit. He took it personally. Jack should trust him to cover his back. In larger part, however, it bothered George because his sixth sense told him Jack O’Neill was headed for trouble that would make his present dilemma look like a touch-football game at a grade school.

George slumped in the back seat and tried to sleep, as his car drove them to Area 52. He was a large man, however, and had been on his feet for over 24 hours. What he needed was a shower, a whisky and a bed. What he had was a leather covered back seat with a rumpled blonde Colonel asleep in the corner.

The sun crept up the ceiling of a sky colored cobalt blue by the tinted windows. George looked at Jacob’s little girl and fought a wave of grief. He was an old man. He’d had pretty much everything life could offer: adventure, a career to be proud of, and the love of a good woman, kids and grandkids.

George scrubbed his hand across his whiskered face and wiped away a mist of sentimental tears. It was hard to remain objective about the people under his command. O’Neill had wormed his way into George’s heart like an unrepentant mutt who hung around when it suited him and disappeared to who-knew-where when it didn’t.

‘Of course,’ George thought, ‘that’s a gross exaggeration. Jack O’Neill is military to the bone. He just isn’t a by-the-book officer. To Jack, ‘improvise, adapt and overcome’ far outweighs regulations, particularly when it comes to his people. I guess that’s first attracted me to that fresh-mouthed, burn-out. He cares more for the people he protects than for his own sorry hide.’

George felt the mist rise again and wiped his tired eyes then looked long and hard at one of ‘Jack’s people’ asleep in the far corner of the back seat. She was older now, dog-tired, and far from lovely, at least in the classic sense of the word. She was undeniably a catch, however, with her spirit, brains, and strength. Sam Carter could have been a plain woman, an ugly woman, which she definitely was not, and still drawn men of character to her like bees to a fragrant flower. George noticed that the young Captain had, in fact, caught Jack’s eye at the first moment and, George figured, she had captured her CO’s heart soon after.

Yet, for ten long years, they’d danced around each other like pigs on skates. It was frustrating as hell to watch. George thought of Sam as a daughter, especially since Jacob had passed away. He’d taken on the role that his old friend had asked of him. He’d looked out for Jacob Carter’s ‘little girl.’ He’d have done it even if Jacob hadn’t asked him to after Sam’s father collapsed in the SGC on that last terrible day.

“Well,” George murmured, “at least you didn’t marry that joker ‘Pete.’ Jacob would have viewed that as a good start. I always wondered what the hell he was grinning about … Now,” George asked the sleeping woman quietly, ‘… what do we do about Jack?”

ΩΩΩ

After the flight into Colorado Springs, George dropped Sam at her house. She pulled her overnight bag out of the back of the sedan, leaned down and smiled at the General, then turned and walked up her walkway to the front door.

Sam kicked the pile of newspapers aside, noticed a headline with ‘O’Neill’ in it and scooped it off the pile. She unlocked the door and stepped into her front foyer with a weary groan, dumped her luggage just inside the door and snapped opened the paper.

The headline made Sam stop and stare. It blared: ‘Hero Accused War Crimes: Manhunt for SF Officer.’ Sam dropped onto the couch and sped through the article, turned to the inside section and read to the end.

Sam leaned back on the couch, closed her eyes, and murmured, “What next?”

The article was a loose weave of coincidence and innuendo. It emphasized the violent death of more than two hundred Kurdish villagers, mentioned the unexplained disappearance of the 29 men under O’Neill’s command, and then went into excruciating detail about Jack O’Neill’s ‘history of depression and violence,’ the death of his young son, and loss of his marriage. It concluded with a lurid adaptation of the basic facts involving his month of nonstop drinking and, finally, his escape and flight two days ago from his bombed out ‘home’ in an undisclosed part of the southwest. The story made it seem as if Jack had been building bombs in his basement and detonated one in a drunken haze.

Sprinkled throughout the story were details on the process by which the World Court would try Jack as a war criminal – whether he was in custody or not – and the penalties faced by ‘the renegade General and his band of mercenaries.’

“Crap,” Sam growled. “Can’t you stay out of trouble for even a day?” She was tired. She’d slept in the car and on the flight back from Area 52. It was a poor substitute for a real night’s sleep. There’d been way too much lost sleep over the last three months: Too much worry and too much whisky, way, way too much.

Sam was ready for a shower and a long, long night’s sleep. Now, she wondered if she’d get the chance … or even if she did make it to bed, could she sleep?

Sam shuffled into the kitchen and sniffed. The place smelled funny. Was that cigarette smoke … or was it the smell of the house fire on her uniform? Sam sniffed her arm. There was a wood smoke smell and something reminiscent of burning tires, but the odor in the kitchen was definitely tobacco.

Sam slipped off her shoes, glanced around, and pulled her hand gun from its shoulder holster. She checked out the first floor and discovered a discarded carrot bag and an empty milk jug in her office. Milk had dripped onto the floor and dried there. She never would have done that. Someone had been in her house. They’d been there at least a few hours, long enough for a trickle of milk to evaporate.

Sam crept up the steps, every sense on edge, alert for a sound, on guard for movement. She reached the landing, turned toward the bathroom and stopped, staring open mouthed.

“Sir!” she cried as she stepped forward.

Jack O’Neill was lying spread-eagle across her bathroom threshold, wrapped in a bath towel.

“Sir?” Sam said again softly, bending over him. “… General O’Neill?”

He didn’t move. Jack O’Neill was a light and restless sleeper. Sam knew he rarely slept a full night, always knew what was happening around him, awake or asleep, but, not now …

Jack wasn’t asleep, he was unconscious. Sam holstered her weapon and crouched beside the inert man.

“Jack?” she said again. When he didn’t rouse, she touched his shoulder. His skin was hot under her hand. She gripped his shoulder and shook him and said loudly, “Jack! Can you hear me?”

Sam’s gut turned. He wasn’t responding and he was way, way too hot. She slipped her hand under his arm. He was on fire. She turned his face toward her. Hectic red spots on his thin cheeks seemed to glow in his otherwise deathly white face.

Sam ran her fingers across his brow. It was hot and dry. She slipped her hand to the back of his neck. Jack wasn’t sweating anywhere. He was dehydrated. God knew how long since he’d passed out.

Sam stood and stepped over him into the bathroom, found her thermometer and settled beside Jack again. She lifted his head into her lap and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. She sat, staring down into his blood-streaked, battered face, until the thermometer beeped.

It read 105.7 degrees.

“Oh, God, Jack,” Sam murmured. She had to drop his temperature immediately.

Sam jumped up and dashed into her bedroom, jerked pillows and blankets off the bed, threw them aside, and stripped off her top sheet. She ran back to the hall and spread it beside him. If she could roll him onto the sheet, she might be able to move him to the shower. If she could, she could turn the shower on full cold and, with ice from the refrigerator as cold packs, she might approximate the ice bath she’d seen Janet use.

… If she could move him.

Sam had carried Jack O’Neill once. The day Janet Frazier was killed Jack had been hit, too. Sam was sure he was dead or dying. Somehow, in the heat of the moment, she’d dragged him upright, tipped him over her back in a fireman’s carry and got her wounded CO to cover. Jack O’Neill weighed almost 200 pounds. With field gear and the new armor plates they’d just fitted into their vests that figure rose to 260.

Adrenalin made it possible. Even so, Sam had damaged a vertebrate and had been on pain-killers for a damaged disk ever since. She might have done it again, if she hadn’t injured her back. She might have done it in the heat of battle, but crouching in the hallway of her home, Sam knew she couldn’t lift Jack. She might, however, move him, if she could roll him onto the bed sheet.

Sam crouched, spread the sheet and spoke, over-enunciating slowly and touching his bare shoulder.

“I need to get you to the shower. Jack! Can you hear me? Can you help me?” He didn’t stir, so she’d have to do it herself. She continued, “I’m rolling you over.”

Sam braced herself and pulled him over onto his back, then flipped the bath towel back over his lap as a nod to his notorious male modesty. Sam stood, grasped the corners of the sheet and leaned back, throwing her full weight against the sheet, grunting and pushing with her legs to shift him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the sheet shifted, Sam pulled with all her might, and slid Jack directly into her handicapped accessible shower.

Sam pulled off the towel and turned the shower on full cold. She gasped under the icy blast as cold water soaked her uniform and matted her hair against her face and neck. Jack groaned. She was sopping wet, but stepped out of the shower and pushed his legs into the shower. He reacted with a moan when his left leg bent.

“Sorry, Jack,” Sam murmured as she stripped off her sopping uniform. She dropped her holster and hand gun and her uniform jacket onto the floor, unzipped her skirt and dropped it into the heap. Her shirt, stockings and tie followed. Then, wearing only a bra and panties, she stepped over Jack and crouched in the shower at his side. After a few minutes, Sam stuck the thermometer back into his mouth. When it beeped, it read 106 degrees.

“Crap,” Sam hissed between chattering teeth. She stood and left the shower, grabbed the towel from the floor, wrapped it over her shoulders, and ran down the steps to the kitchen.

“I should call for an ambulance,” Sam said as she pulled ice trays out of the freezer and cracked them into a Ziploc baggie. “I should,” she repeated, “ … you could die, Jack.” She grabbed a big sack of frozen peas and another of corn, tossed them with the ice into a paper shopping bag and ran back up to the shower.

Jack was moving, trying to lift his hand against the icy water. Sam walked into the spray, gasped and bent down to kneel beside him.

“Sir?” she said, slapping the left side of his face softly, “General O’Neill are you with me?”

“Carter?” he whispered in a weak, shaky voice. “C-cold …”

“You’re sick, Sir,” she replied leaning close and peering into his face. He opened his eyes and seemed to look through her. “Cold,” he repeated and made a move as if to rise.

“Stay down, Sir,” Sam snapped, pressing him back against the tile, “Please don’t move. We have to get your temperature down. It’s too high, General O’Neill.”

“Cold,” he whispered, making brief eye contact.

“I know,” Sam whispered back, leaning close and looking into his eyes, “I know, but you need to do it … for me, Jack.”

His eyes fluttered, but he fought to stay with her, “For …f’… Sam?”

“I’m here, Jack,” she moved close and slid under him, lifting his head on her lap. “I’m with you.” His eyes rolled back in his head and she felt him go limp. “Stay,” she cried out, “stay with me, Jack!”

But he was out again. Sam held him close and shivered with him in the icy spray. She lifted the thermometer off the floor and took his temperature for a third time. It read 106.1 degrees.

‘Still rising,’ Sam thought through a wall of fear.

Desperate to reverse the rising fever, she grabbed one of the Ziploc baggies of ice. She opened it, using her teeth and one hand. The other she kept wrapped around Jack’s neck and shoulders as she held him against her. She let water fill the baggie slightly, resealed it, and then whispered, “I’ve got to do this,” and placed it against his unprotected groin.

Jack pulled back and shuddered.

“Shh,” Sam whispered in his ear, “Shh, Jack. Just trust me.”

He quieted then and Sam pulled out the bag of frozen peas. She opened them, added water as before and resealed the bag. Then she wedged them under Jack’s arm. He gasped and thrashed weakly against the cold. Sam hugged him tight and, after a moment, he was still again. She placed the other ice bag under his other arm and there was no response. Then she waited.

Sam’s teeth were chattering violently when the turn came. Jack’s temperature had reached 106.9, far past the level where brain damage and death could occur. He’d shuddered under her and Sam had almost called for paramedics, fearing he was going into convulsions. Then, just three or four minutes later, the readings dropped to 106.5, then to 106.1 and down, until three hours later, it was hovering around 104.

Sam was blue with cold. Jack was pale as death. She gently slipped out from under him, lowered him to the wet, icy tile, and struggled to her feet, numb and wobbly.

Sam gripped the wall to balance. She turned off the water and just stood for a long moment, trembling with cold and anxiety. She’d almost lost him. He’d come for help … to her … even though she’d left him. She had a chance to help, to atone.

Sam stepped over half-thawed bags of frozen vegetables and Ziplocs of ice and water, and out of the shower. She went directly to the hall closet, pulled out a double armful of towels and wrapped her hair and body in dry, warm terrycloth. She went to the bedroom, found her bathrobe and put it on, cinching the belt tight around her waist.

Sam turned when she heard a groan from the bathroom.

“Jack?” she called as she ran into the bathroom.

“C…Carter?” he rasped, trying to rise. “Wh… What …?”

“Easy,” she interrupted, tossing a couple of large bath sheets over his bare, ice-cold body. She crouched at Jack’s side.

“I found you here,” she said softly. “You are very sick. You are in serious trouble, Sir. You need to be in bed. Jack, I can’t do it alone. Can you try to help me?”

Jack looked up at her and frowned. Sam could see that he was only partly aware of what was happening, but she’d asked for his help. He nodded and said, “I’ll try, Sam. I’ll …t-try.”

“Start by sitting up,” she suggested, wrapping another towel around his shoulders.

“’Kay,” he replied in a feeble mumble. Jack pulled his right leg up and pushed against the wall until he was sitting upright. Sam squatted beside him, steadying him.

“Now, wrap your arm over my shoulder,” she said, leaning close and taking his hand.

“We’ll stand on three,” she said. “One … Two …”

Jack tensed and, as she said ‘Three’, he leaned on her and stood.

Sam grunted and straightened. Jack was a dead-weight, but at least he was on his feet.

“Can you move,” she grunted.

“I can try,” he replied.

Sam backed through the shower door first, half dragging Jack along. He managed to stay on his feet, although he was draped over her shoulder and unable to navigate. Sam doubted he even knew where he was, much less where they were trying to go. She’d asked him to try and he’d try. It was that simple.

It was a terrifying, but short trip to the bed. They careened into the bedroom. Sam felt her knees bend under Jack’s weight. She charged headlong for the bed. They reached it just as Jack was going down.

His head and shoulders made the bed. Sam shoved a shoulder under his waist and stood, forcing his hips and legs onto the bed. Sam fell beside him, her heart leaping from the effort and the near-disaster. If Jack had fallen, what could she have done?

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sam told herself. ‘He made it. We did it … So far, so good.’

Sam sat up and turned to look at Jack. He was soaking wet and the towels had been shed in their pell-mell struggle from the shower floor to the bed. Sam pulled the coverlet over him, letting her fingers trace across his chest and down to his hip bone. Her heart pounded as she touched him.

Sam leaned down and let her lips brush his forehead. It was still too hot, but no longer a killing fever. She’d been this close to Jack O’Neill before, a few times, but never wet and certainly not wearing next to nothing. Not in her bed and never, ever alone. Sam felt stirrings that she’d fought since she’d met her CO. For the first time her desire wasn’t against regulations.

Sam lifted her hand to Jack’s eyebrow and traced her fingertips across the scar there, then up into his wet, unruly hair. She ran her hand back down, along the left side of his face to his jaw. He moved slightly, pressing his cheek into her palm. She stroked his cheek. He moved and his lips found her palm. Sam moved her hand up and buried her fingers in his hair.

“Shh,” she murmured, “Sleep Jack.”

Before she weakened, Sam stood, straightened the covers and put a pillow under his head. She fetched a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a washcloth, and the thermometer from the bathroom and took his temperature again. The thermometer read 104.6. It had crept up since she’d taken him out of the icy shower. It was survivable. If she could keep it below 105 degrees, Sam was confident he’d live.

Sam placed the thermometer on the nightstand, opened the isopropyl alcohol and drenched the washcloth. She slipped under the covers and stretched out at his side. His body burned against her. She turned on her side and spread the cooling fluid across his hot, dry skin.

Jack groaned and mumbled and she stroked his hair, wet his neck, chest, arms, and back. Eventually, after the alcohol was gone and his body had cooled to a steady 102 degrees, Sam just lay beside him, watching over him as Jack slept.

ΩΩΩ

Sam woke to puzzled brown eyes gazing into hers.

“Y-you’re awake!” she exclaimed as she yawned. It came out gibberish.

“Coffee,” Jack whispered. “Now.”

“Can you eat something?” Sam asked, rubbing her aching eyes.

“For you,” Jack replied. Then his eyes closed.

Sam slipped out of bed, blushing. She’d intended to wake first. She’d never expected Jack to wake up before she did, not after the grueling night.

Sam dug a pair of not-too-dirty sweatpants out of the laundry bucket, and slipped a slightly rumpled tank top over her head. She glanced at the bed. Jack hadn’t moved since his brief period of lucidity.

He was right. She needed coffee … badly. First she sat on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers though Jack’s sleep-matted hair and when his eyes opened, said, “Let me check your temperature.”

She slipped the thermometer into his mouth and after about a minute it beeped. Sam checked the reading. It read 98.6 degrees.

“Thank you,” Sam murmured, raising her eyes. She was about to head for the kitchen when Jack murmured, “My leg hurts.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack winced and grunted as Sam pulled back the covers from his left leg. Some of the discharge had dried, sticking his wound to the blanket.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

Jack felt her eyes on him. There was no sound for a long time. Finally, Sam said, “You’ve got blood poisoning, I think. I see streaks up your calf. We’ve got to get you to a hospital, Jack.”

“No,” he said weakly. “You do that and I will be dead. It will just take a lot longer. They’re looking for me out there and you know why.”

“What do you expect of me?” Sam snapped, exasperated. “I’m a physicist, not a medical doctor, ‘f crying out loud!”

Sam spun away from the bed and Jack called out to her.

“What are you gonna do?”

She didn’t look back, but snapped, “Call Cassie.”


Cassandra Frasier had grown up at her adopted mother’s side. Doctor Janet Frasier had been a close friend of both Sam and Jack and she’d been one helluva a fine military doctor.

After Janet Frasier was killed in action, Cassie had taken some time off to find herself. Jack had worried about the young woman, as older men tend to fret about their daughters. Sam had known he was worrying needlessly. Cassie had a surplus of common sense. She also had Janet’s cool ability to assess any situation and, it turned out, her mother’s gift for healing.

Cassie was in town during the summer break from her third year in medical school. She’d been studying hard for three long years in Boston, but the end was in sight.

At the sight of Jack’s inflamed and discolored leg, Sam saw only two options: Call for an ambulance or call Cassandra.

Sam ran downstairs, swept into the kitchen, turned on the kettle for coffee and hit speed dial on her phone. She glanced up at the clock and winced. Five in the morning was early to call. It was an emergency and it was about Jack, her favorite uncle. Cassie wouldn’t mind.

“Hullo?” a sleepy young voice made Sam smile.

“Cass?” Sam said, “Sorry to wake you but its Jack. He’s here. We need your help. Come as soon as you possibly can, Cassie. Bring whatever medical gear you’ve got from Janet or school. I don’t know where else to turn.”

“Take him to the nearest ER,” Cassie said, instantly alert and taking charge.

“I would,” Sam said, “but he’s in some … trouble.”

Sam heard a click and knew Cassie was up and moving. She hung up the phone, ground coffee beans, poured the boiling water over them and added a dollop of cream to her cup. She made another cup for Jack, black, and one for Cass with cream and sugar.

By the time she’d stirred in the sugar, Cassie was striding through the door. Sam handed her a cup and said, “Upstairs.”

Cassie mounted the steps by two and was leaning over her Uncle Jack when Sam followed her through the door. Sam set down Jack’s coffee and sipped her own. It was stronger than usual, but Sam wanted the caffeine. She knew this was going to be another long day and she had no idea what else might happen. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to face it without a strong cup of coffee under her belt.

Cassie finished her examination. Jack had opened his eyes once, but seemed to have drifted off again.

“What do you think?” Sam asked as Cassie pulled the cover over his legs.

“He belongs in intensive care,” Cassie said in a low voice. “Sam how could you let him talk you …”

Sam lifted a finger and left the room. She returned a minute later with a newspaper and handed it to Cassie without a word.

“Oh,” Cassie said. “I see. Sorry, Sam.”

There was a long pause as Cassie thought things through.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ve got to debraid the region and clean out the dead tissue and infection that has formed. That’s the source of the problem.”

Cassie turned to Sam and said, “I’ll need a large, shallow basin and a couple of jugs of rubbing alcohol, cloths, not terry cloth, something that won’t shed fibers. Old, clean kitchen towels or pillowcases should work. I brought my needles, but I need the sharpest knife you’ve got, a leather belt or wide strap of some kind for a tourniquet, and … let’s see … five others for restraints, your butane lighter from the grill, medical tape, cotton wadding, and as many pain pills as you’ve got.”

Sam was nodding, as the young woman continued, “Bring a small folding table. Set it up there,” she pointed to the side of the bed, “Cover it with a clean kitchen towel. Put the pan on it and pour rubbing alcohol over everything. When everything’s in the basin, scrub up. You’re going to assist.”

“Assist,” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Cassie nodded, “If he doesn’t get medical care, he’ll die, Sam. You say he can’t go to a hospital. I believe you. So, we operate. Right now.”

Cassie stared hard at Sam and continued, “Uncle Jack’s not sleeping Sam. He’s lost consciousness. Move.”

ΩΩΩ

Sam had worked with Janet often on medical research. She’d even assisted on a few highly dangerous projects where her knowledge of physics had been key to the research, such as the nannites that had infected Colonel O’Neill’s bloodstream and nearly killed him.

Sam had never assisted with anything like the operation Cassie performed. Without seeming to think about it, Cassie had strapped Jack to the bed, pulled the belts tight so he couldn’t move, and then loaded him with pain pills.

“Anesthesia’s better,” she murmured, “but this will do, as long as he doesn’t throw up. If he does, Sam, you’ll have to make sure his airway’s clear, okay?”

Sam nodded and went to scrub. When she returned, Cassie had improvised a surgical outfit by tying her hair back under a do-rag and draping her street clothes with a freshly washed white work shirt from Sam’s closet. Sam waited until Cassie said, “Ready?”

Sam nodded, before realizing that Cassie had asked Jack. He was conscious again. She smiled and he gave her a weary half-grin, half-grimace.

Then Cass ordered, “Don’t move, Uncle Jack,” and she poured a jug of rubbing alcohol directly into Jack’s weeping wounds. He tensed and grunted, screwing his eyes tightly shut. He didn’t move, though. After a moment, Cassie scrubbed her hands with the alcohol and reached into the basin for the knife.

“There’s a lot of dead tissue,” she murmured almost to herself. “It’s gangrenous and it’s poisoning the area.”

Cassie kept up the running monologue as she worked. Sam stood at Jack’s head and gripped his right hand, as she watched, in part fascinated and in larger part revolted and alarmed as Cass cut away bits of flesh and scab. She felt his grip relax as he passed out.

Soon Jack’s leg wounds were bleeding freely. The blood pooled and ran onto the floor, but Cassie didn’t seem to notice. She was working with the edge of the knife, drawing it across the tattered skin, removing minute pieces of dead and dying flesh like she was making steak tartar.

Sam was trembling and soaked in sweat by the time the fresh-faced youngster looked up and smiled. “Release the pressure on the tourniquet,” she ordered.

Sam did and fresh red blood flowed from dozens of lesions. “The blood flow will cleanse the area, Sam,” Cassie explained. “It’s a natural sterilent. So is milk. Did you know that?”

“No,” Sam managed, guessing Cassie was trying to keep her engaged so she wouldn’t pass out on her feet. “I didn’t know. Will this work?”

“I think so,” Cassie replied.

“You mean you’re not sure?” Sam asked.

“No,” Cassie admitted, “Sam, this isn’t something from med school. It’s something Mom used to tell me. She did this same procedure on men brought out of the jungle in Vietnam. It was one of my favorite bedtime stories when I was little, if you can believe it. I guess I always pictured her taking care of Uncle Jack.”

“She always did, Cass,” Sam said, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “She took care of all of us.”

Cassie checked her wristwatch, re-tightened the tourniquet, and wiped away the blood. Then she smeared a thick layer of antibiotic creams across the wounds, squeezing out the contents of every tube the Sam had found. Finally, she wrapped Jack’s leg, from ankle to thigh, in a light dressing.

“He’ll sleep a while,” she said as she finished. “We should loosen the tourniquet every twenty minutes for five minutes.”

Cassie pulled the do-rag off her head and smiled, “How about breakfast?”

Sam nodded. She pried her fingers from his grip and then loosened the straps that had held him down. She didn’t want to leave Jack alone for a moment. Still Cassie was satisfied he would be fine and she was the doctor … almost.


Chapter 23

It was drizzling in Basel. A cluster of well-dressed officials, huddled under dark umbrellas stepped into the street, followed by a crowd carrying large brightly colored umbrellas.

A raw-boned old man observed from a coffee shop across the street. He’d been waiting for the better part of the morning. At last, it seemed, those World Court do-gooders had reached a decision. The man popped the last bit of cream-filled pastry into his mouth and drained his coffee cup.

‘At least this time, those bleeding hearts have served a purpose,’ West thought as he stood and pulled on his overcoat, ‘My purpose.’

Horace B. West still had the bearing of a General, although he’d been retired for eleven years. He was still tough and it was a point of pride that he hadn’t gained an ounce over his in-service weight. The eleven years had been long years and frustrating – particularly the first years as the Star Gate project had left him behind – but West had found ways to remain involved … unofficially. Now things were coming together at last.

The association he’d struck up through his contacts in Area 51 was bearing fruit. As the old General strolled into the misty Belgium street, he smiled. It was damp and cold.

‘But then, as they say,’ West thought, ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’

ΩΩΩ

“No word from Colonel Carter?” George asked, leaning his ear against the phone. He hadn’t slept much, after returning from Area 52.

“No, George,” Hank Landry replied. “That woman works 24/7. I figured I could cut her some slack. So, you say things were hairy out West.”

“Pretty rough,” George replied. “She was in the thick of the action. I guess I thought she might want to talk.”

“Any sign of your missing bronco?” Hank asked, referring to the President’s orders for George to ‘get the maverick on the right trail.’

“No, Hank,” George replied. “He gave us the slip. By now, with his skills and his contacts, he could be just about anywhere on this planet. No surprise really. Jack O’Neill wrote the book on special operations at the SGC. I use the same book here at Home World. That man knows our moves before we do.”

“I’d say it’s high time you threw that book away,” Landry said. “You can bet your boots I am … as of right now.”

George paused and said, “Dammit, you’re absolutely right Hank. And maybe, just maybe, we can turn some of Jack O’Neill’s procedures back on him for a change.”

“That would feel pretty good, wouldn’t it, George,” Landry observed.

“Yes, it would,” George admitted, “To turn the tables on that smart son-of-a-bitch would feel great. Besides,” George paused and said, “I’ve got to bring him in, and do it first, for his own good.”

“The World Court,” Hank asked.

George replied. “The Court met twelve hours ago. I understand from the Whitehouse that they’ve reached a verdict. If they get him, he’ll be extradited and executed according to the law of Islam.”

Hank replied, “Beheaded?”

As I understand it, that’s correct,” George replied, “but if I get him …,” George stopped and cleared his throat.

“Classified?” Hank asked.

“Classified,” George replied.

ΩΩΩ

Sam left Cassie to clean up after breakfast. She climbed the stairs quietly and crossed the bedroom without a sound. Jack was still out. He seemed to be sleeping, rather than unconscious. His leg had bled through the wrapping.

Sam stood watching him sleep and felt the knot of fear she’d carried since finding him last night loosen. Cassie knew what she was doing. He’d be okay. She’d find a way to get him someplace safe, but where?

And how?

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the side of his face. She had no idea what to do next. Then, the phone rang.

“You’re taking some time off,” George said.

“Yes, General Hammond,” Sam said.

“You okay?” the General continued.

“I am, Sir,” Sam fought to keep the waver out of her voice.

George knew her too well.

“Jack’s there right now, isn’t he, Samantha,” he said.

Sam bit her lip and finally said, “He is, General, and he needs your help. We both do, Sir.”

ΩΩΩ

The Trust, of course, was no longer a viable entity. In its place, a stronger, more nimble, and far more potent organization had grown. West and former Senator Kinsey, now deceased, had created Earth’s first interplanetary multinational.

Borrowing empire-building principles of the Dutch slavers, English military governors, and the Chinese war lords, the Trustees – as the new organization was called – had made good use of General West’s contacts within the darkest parts of the military. Kinsey had bartered his knowledge of the Star Gate mission reports for a place at the table. The others had strategic locations.

In China’s case, it had a strangle-hold on the World markets. When China sneezed, these days the US economy caught cold. Saudi Arabia, of course, controlled the old World fuel.

The Royal family had an interest in cornering access to the new technologies, particularly those that offered unlimited energy to the energy hungry planet. The idea was simple: squelch developments as long as possible for Earth … except of course for certain ‘most favored nations’. That phrase had once meant the United States. Now it referred to China.

Thus favored by the Lords of Energy, China could achieve world supremacy in basic production of everything the consuming nations required: food, fiber, steel, electronics and other consumer goods. In this way the Saudis befriended the eastern Dragon, and still maintained the whip hand over them, as the single source of both native and alien energy supplies.

Ironically, General West had first offered the idea to the U.S. military. After the USSR crumbled, West had recognized an opportunity and urged the military to seize it. Harkening back to the advances in space exploration that resulted from the use of German scientists ‘acquired’ by the Allies after Hitler fell, West urged the Joint Chiefs of Staff to bring the newly freed scientists of the old school USSR military research entities into the western military industrial fold. Working with slide-rules and protractors, these men had run the better equipped and better funded scientists of the United States in circles for years. Now, the former-Soviet scientists could be had for a song if they were paid in hard currency.

Unfortunately, Colonel Jack O’Neill had come back through the Star Gate from Abydos to bite General West in the ass. O’Neill had not acted rationally, as West saw it. He’d been clearly suicidal and he’d been handed a weapon, a higher purpose, and direct orders. By all rights he should have died a hero’s death on Abydos.

O’Neill’s unexpurgated mission reports had somehow reached the Whitehouse and, from there, the Pentagon. There had been an investigation. It had been hellacious. Rumors had been verified and old grudges had done the rest. After nearly thirty years of military service, General Horace B. West had been disgraced, sacked, and the Star Gate program had been mothballed … all because of one rebel Colonel with authority issues and balls too big for his own good.

West had laid low and watched O’Neill self-destructing. He wanted revenge, but soon realized that O’Neill was doing a better job than a paid assassin could ever do. He hardly slept, kept to himself, and – to all outward appearances – was in a downward spiral. It would be easy to put paid to accounts when O’Neill hit bottom and General West was a patient man.

Then, something had come through the ‘Gate, killed a half-dozen troops and carried off a particularly attractive Sergeant. Suddenly, George Hammond’s last assignment was no longer a mothballed research facility. It was the frontline. There was a new war against a powerful alien enemy. Hammond had recalled O’Neill, of all people, to active duty and somehow the emotional wreck that West had ordered to die had been reborn as 2IC and leader of the SGC’s battle forces.

Ejected from the military and unable to touch O’Neill for the time being, West had not been deterred. He approached the private-sector side of the military-industrial complex and received a warm welcome from the very top. After a few months and several dozen meetings, West had the hard currency, courtesy of Kinsey and those dark forces that backed him.

West already had the know-how. He’d researched the former Soviet Union installations, determined which were in border regions where no country could enforce claims of national territory effectively. West made oblique and them more direct inquiries. He personally acquired the rights to billions of dollars of high-tech materiel, including dozens of rusting nuclear submarines, and the men who could build and run them, who were begging for anything to do in order to live. On behalf of the Trustees, he purchased many times that amount.

A master of compartmentalization, West had been the man in charge of independent contractors. West had used his contacts and Kinsey’s reports to locate and exploit the expertise of others, some who’d been part of the original program but who, for one reason or another, had fallen away from the SGC. As these scientists, military experts, contractors and intelligence staff became available, West enrolled them in his growing list of independent contractors … for very lucrative signing incentives.

West also sought out the specialists within the former USSR, selected the best men in every field of potential use to the Trustees. He hired physicists and nuclear scientists, in particular, flattered them, courted them, and then bought them for hard currency. West installed them in isolated installations of the former USSR, or newly built in areas as remote as the Mongolian highlands, the Border Folds, and the plains west of Ararat. The men didn’t ask questions. Two generations of life behind an Iron Curtain had worked its magic on even the most curious scientific minds. Plenty to eat and drink, companionship, a roof and steady income was enough for even the most celebrated scientific minds to turn off their sense of human curiosity.

When all had been prepared and the system tested with minor off-world devices, West took the next step. Deliveries of important off-world technology began. West distributed a few items at a time, carefully scattered across the network. The devices were reclaimed after a few weeks. Nothing was overlooked. Every item was catalogued and tracked. In addition, there was no possibility of collaboration among the scientists. They were kept physically separate. Furthermore, no team knew of the existence of the others. No team could divine the true purpose nor grasp the full breadth and depth of the endeavor.

If any of the brain trust he’d amassed got too smart for their own good, West always had Plan B.


Five years passed as West scavenged the table scraps from the SGC. Progress improved when the Trustees added off-world members to the Board of Directors, in particular the disaffected Asguard Loki. A former member of the Science Council, Loki had a proclivity for unauthorized research. He too had run afoul of Jack O’Neill and had been stripped of his rank and privileges. That made it easy to recruit the little gray alien when West informed Loki of the revenge he planned to visit upon their common enemy.

It still rankled that O’Neill had actually been promoted to CO of the SGC, but it was an itch West could finally scratch. With the World Court’s verdict, he could do it in the name of justice for those ignorant, vermin-ridden villagers who’d been the first targets of his new Asguard-Earth hybrid-class starship, the Icarus.

West now oversaw the work of dozens of labs in seven first-world countries on three continents and another ten on off-world facilities. He had gained access to technology, plans, and highly classified documents that had allowed the various groups of scientists to develop parallel technology to that created in the SGC. As off-world facilities came online, their process of mining technology from other worlds in the ‘Gate system had resulted in hybrid-technology that far surpassed the clumsy results of the SGC. The Prometheus, for example, was laughable. Next to West’s Icarus-class fleet, it looked like a Studebaker.

While Hammond and O’Neill fought to free inconsequential worlds and seemed hell bent on putting Earth at ever greater risk, West worked to merge human and off-world technology, amassed an armory of near-orbit and deep space flying ships, ultra-quiet super-submarines, and pulse weapons that would not only protect Earth from the Goa’uld, or any other would-be invader, but would bring Earth’s nations to their knees … when the time was right.

As West wandered among the mid-day throngs and the clocks of Basel struck noon, West stopped, gazed up into the rain and smiled.

The time was right.

ΩΩΩ

“I’d like a moment alone, Colonel,” General Hammond said as he stood beside Sam’s bed, which now held Jack O’Neill.

Sam blushed slightly. It was more than strange to have both General Hammond and Jack O’Neill in her bedroom. She wished she’d done the laundry and cleared the dust kitties out from under her bed.

“Yes, Sir,” she said and then turned and left, closing the door behind her.

“Can you hear me, Jack?” George said.

Jack’s eyelids fluttered and he murmured, “General Hammond? What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing, Son,” George replied. “You know how much trouble you’re in, Jack?”

“I thought I was dying there for a while,” Jack replied with a lopsided attempt at a grin.

“If someone finds you here …” George said, then he changed tactics in mid-sentence, deciding to be brutally direct. He had to get this message through his former 2IC’s thick Irish skull.

“The World Court has convicted you of the murder of an entire village Jack, that’s two hundred and twenty-seven different counts. You are a war criminal, Jack. The President cannot help you. You’ll be extradited and the sentence will be carried out in accord with the country where the crimes were committed. That’s Iran, Jack. They will take you out into a marketplace in Teheran with your arms tied behind your back and you’ll be beaten and then … beheaded.”

Jack gazed up at George and murmured, “Sweet,” putting on a brave show.

George felt cold fury rise, not only because his friend didn’t seem to value his life.

“And …” George continued with a hard edge in his voice, “Samantha Carter and that lovely young woman who calls you Uncle Jack will be extradited. They will be convicted of aiding a fugitive from world justice and they too will be extradited. I think it is fair to say, Jack, if the authorities find you here, Sam and Cassie will see you die. Then they will be stoned to death.”

George looked hard at Jack and saw the point hit home.

“Get me the hell out of here, George,” he hissed, “Now.”

ΩΩΩ

“It’s too soon to move him!” Cassie exploded, placing her 5’10” 110-pound frame in front of General George Hammond.

“Cassie,” George said kindly, “It’s for his own good. You must know Jack belongs in a hospital.”

“Not if it means he’s going to be killed!” Cassie cried out, her face red and tears spilling down her cheeks. “Sam! Do something!”

Sam took Cassie’s arm and pulled her close. “I think the General’s right, Cass. Jack doesn’t want to get you into trouble. I trust General Hammond. I don’t think he’ll let Jack come to any harm.”

Cassie pulled away from Sam and knelt beside the litter where Jack had been strapped by a team of SGC medics.

“Jack?” she said, “I can take care of you. Just say you don’t want to go and I’ll stop them … somehow.”

“I hurt, Cass,” Jack said. “You and Sam saved my life, but I think some pain meds would be a good idea. You did good, kiddo, real good. Thanks.”

Then he gave Cassie’s hand a squeeze and murmured, “Let’s go.”

As they carried him out he locked his gaze on Sam and said, “I was never here.”


Chapter 24

Sam watched the ambulance speed away into the late afternoon sun. Her eyes stung. She felt like a traitor, letting them take him, calling General Hammond and turning him over, but she knew George had a plan. He just had to have a plan.

Cassie had collapsed on the couch and was weeping so hard that Sam wanted to hold her. She wasn’t sure Cassie would let her. The girl had never wept for Janet, at least not in front of Sam, but the mature young woman she’d become was nearly frantic with grief over Jack.

“Hey,” Sam said as she settled beside her and placed a hand on Cassie’s back, “It’s going to be okay, Cass.”

“Don’t you bullshit me!” Cassie exploded. “It’s bad enough from Uncle Jack. I’m not brainless, Sam, and I’m not a kid. I know what’s going to happen. He did it to protect us … just like he always does!”

Sam pulled Cassie close and murmured, “I found something. Come on.”

Cassie wiped her eyes and stared wide-eyed at Sam.

Sam raised her eyebrows suggestively and then headed for the office. She’d wondered what Jack had been doing in her office and, between checking his temperature, and waiting for General Hammond to arrive, she’d searched the office and found a scribbled note in Jack’s handwriting. She’d logged on immediately and skimmed through the computer history. It was all there and it was easy enough to recreate the work Jack had done.

Sam had been impressed. She never knew that Jack had the slightest grasp of computer searching. Even more remarkable, he had found something. He’d left her a lead. With no other way to help, Sam was determined to follow it up.

“Look,” she said as she settled in front of the monitor.

“What?” Cassie asked, drying her eyes and peering at the screen.

“Jack ran down everyone who accessed his mission or related files before he left,” Sam pointed. “See these are all about that date.”

“So?” Cassie asked.

“He was betrayed,” Sam replied. “To get an operative onto his team, or even just to know when to hit him, Cassie, someone had to know where he’d be and organize an interception.”

“So …”

“So,” Sam continued, “whoever knew that could only find it one place. Here, in the SGC mainframe.”

“Someone at the SGC?” Cassie blurted. “I don’t believe it, Sam.”

“Neither do I,” Sam answered as her fingers flew on the keyboard, “but look. There were several other people who accessed Jack’s files. They weren’t all at the SGC.”

“One of them,” Cassie said.

“Yeah … I think so,” Sam agreed.

ΩΩΩ

Jack forced down alarm as the ambulance sped away. George was nearby, he told himself. The old man had his back.

Still it was hard to accept that anyone still gave a damn about him after the crap he’d put them through. They didn’t know it had all been an act. In retrospect even Jack had begun to wonder. Had it really been an act to hide away and crawl into a bottle of whiskey for the better part of a month? Had it been an act ... or another way to distance himself from people who cared ... who might see private truths that he preferred to bury or hide behind a glib front or a tough facade?


They didn’t have long in the ambulance, so Jack didn’t mince words.

“It was West,” he blurted when George had settled at his side.

“West? General Horace B. West?” George exclaimed. “That son-of-a…”

“Skip the colorful phrasing, George,” Jack interrupted. “You told me he was dead.”

“I lied to you about that,” George admitted. “You were … I didn’t trust you not to take matters into your own hands, Son.”

“No kidding,” Jack growled. “He was snooping around in my files. He had a helluva motive. I trashed his career.”

“It might be bigger than that,” George replied. “I finally managed to locate the officer who cut your orders. He made contact by radio from the Pole. His family was threatened and then his wife received a check for $1 million. She cashed it. It was good.”

“Stick first,” Jack said, “then the carrot. He used to work the other way around.”

“Carrot first,” George murmured.

“Actually,” Jack grinned, “just a whole lot of sticks.”

George gave a short bark of a laugh that was cut off when Jack said, “Get me out of this ambulance George.”

ΩΩΩ

Sam and Cassie were almost out the door. In another moment they would have made it.

The doorbell rang and Cassie went to answer. Sam was racing down the stairs to stop her when the woman stepped through the entryway, pointing a hand gun at Cass.

“You,” Sam blurted stopping at the sight of the wiry middle-aged woman she’d first seen naked and dripping wet behind a very drunken Jack O’Neill, and had last seen dead on the ground with half her head blown off.

“Me,” the woman replied.

“But you were dead,” Sam “I shot you. I saw your body.”

“Strange,” the woman said, motioning for Sam and Cass to move, “Isn’t it? Let’s see how long it takes you to figure it out.”

ΩΩΩ

“You’re in no condition for a mission, Jack,” George growled.

“I’m the goat …” Jack replied, “… in Bear’s tiger trap. For that, I’m in perfect condition.”

“That’s an awful lot of animals in one sentence,” George replied, clearly wondering if Jack was delirious.

“Just dope the hell out of me and give me your pants,” Jack urged. “I’ll make a break, George. I’ll draw them out. You watch for their next move. You cover my butt.”

“You could die in the meantime, Son,” George replied, “… or be shot. You’re a fugitive from justice. Your face has been all over the news and folks are pretty damned scared of you right about now!”

Despite the words, Jack could hear George weakening and he snapped. “I’ll be executed if I don’t don’t find the bastard behind this. I’d prefer a nice clean bullet, George.”

“I’ve got orders to get you off world. President Hayes intends to pardon you, although it’ll have to wait ‘til the end of his Administration.”

“I’d be admitting to something I didn’t do. No thanks. Someone killed those villagers and wiped out my men. Horace West has the motive and, through the SGC, he had the opportunity. Besides, I recognize his MO. You send me off-world, George, and I’ll come back. I have a few connections of my own. I’ll fucking use them.
You have to know that. If that’s the way you want to play it, you won’t be around to cover my ass,” Jack threatened in a reasonable tone.

“You’re determined,” George asked.

“Unless, you lock me up or keep me under guard for the next twenty months….”

“I haven’t exactly ruled that out, Jack.”

“George, West’s got more in mind here than kicking my insubordinate ass. Hell, he could have dropped me anytime that first year. I wasn’t exactly on my toes. There’s something else coming, something bad. I feel it.”

George Hammond looked hard at Jack. The man was deathly pale. Dark smears under his eyes spoke of his condition. Hammond couldn’t help but notice that Jack’s left leg was bleeding through the bandages in several places. The blood was starting to pool under his bare foot. He’d lost so much blood that he probably couldn’t even stand up. Still, no one else was in position to infiltrate West’s operation.

“Okay,” George said. “You win.”

ΩΩΩ

“He’s not there,” the woman spoke into her cell phone. “I’m bringing in his friend and someone who was visiting.”

There was a pause while an angry voice erupted. Sam couldn’t catch the words.

“Hey,” the woman barked, “You don’t like it? You know what you can do. Get yourself another model.”

‘Model,’ Sam thought. The woman had a certain animal allure, but she was short, too wiry to be considered a professional beauty, and well into middle-age. There was no way she was a model.

‘Model,’ Sam wondered.

“Loki!” she said blurted. “You’re a clone!”

The woman turned and arched her eyebrows, and laughed.

“Right on one. Now move.”

ΩΩΩ

George Hammond growled, stripped off his pants and handed over his firearm.

Jack pulled the trousers on and grinned at the effect. George was embarrassed but had to chuckle. O’Neill looked like a clown in the size 55 waist uniform pants. George handed him a web strap from the litter.

Jack accepted it with a lopsided grin and wrapped it around the spacious pants. “Ready?” he asked.

George nodded but, despite himself, flinched when O’Neill started roaring like a madman. “I said ‘Stop!’ or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” he shouted, waving George’s hand gun.

“Sergeant?” George called, “Pull over.”

The ambulance fishtailed to a halt by the side of the road.

“Put out an APB,” Jack hissed as he scrambled and half-fell out the back door. “Give me a little time, say … five minutes.”

“Right,” George growled, not the least bit confident in Jack’s plan, and far from happy to see his uniform pants cinched around Jack’s narrow middle. Jack had only partly convinced him that Horace West would step in to pull him out of the building. George didn’t know if West possessed either the technology or the desire that would draw him into Jack’s so-called ‘tiger trap’. It was a gamble that put Jack O’Neill in a damned vulnerable position. George’s ability to control local law enforcement was Jack’s only protection. George wondered if he could perform that responsibility.

There had been two days of news hype – including a segment on Anderson Cooper 360. Law enforcement, from the County cops to the Secret Service, was nervous as a June bug in a chicken run. Some overeager cop could decide to shoot first and ask questions later and George couldn’t do a damned thing about it.


Jack didn’t hesitate. He lurched off the road and headed toward the nearest cluster of buildings to find defensible space, armed with George’s hand gun.

His plan, such as it was, was to allow himself to be cornered in one of the nearby buildings. George would claim he’d been overpowered and immediately cordon off the area. The public goal would be the capture what the news had been calling the ‘Renegade General O’Neill.’

The actual plan was to put Jack in a high-profile position where the tiger could see the goat.

ΩΩΩ

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. Cassie hadn’t spared his flesh any. His leg felt like it had been put through a blender. Spots danced before his eyes. He leaned against a metal fence that ran along the sidewalk until he could move.

Jack pulled the strap tighter around his waist. George’s pants were far too wide as well as four inches too short. The hospital gown was thin cotton with light blue biplanes on it. Jamming it inside the pants did nothing to add to his girth or his dignity. It made him look like a total wing-nut ... which was, after all, the point.

Still, Jack wished he could have gotten a pair of shoes. His size 13EE feet would never have fit into George’s dress shoes. So, he was barefoot.

Jack limped onto a street with a busy business section. A woman in a gray business suit and crisp white blouse saw him. She froze, turned and trotted quickly the other way, pulling out her cell phone and dialing.

‘Probably “911”,’ Jack figured. Her reaction told him that he wasn’t exactly blending with the crowd. He was out of time. A security guard or cop could be on him any moment.

Jack scanned the nearest buildings. He headed for the closest one that was too tall to be easily rushed by cops, or flooded with teargas canisters, but low enough to give the news crews video access to the roof. He needed Horace West to discover that the mad gunman, trapped on a roof in downtown Colorado Springs, was none other than that nutcase Jack O’Neill.

Then, once West had him …

Well …

Jack wasn’t exactly sure. He’d improvised such situations throughout most of his professional career. So, he’d just play it by ear. Hopefully, with Bear inside and George on the ground, they’d get the bastard and put an end to whatever West was up to before it ever really got started.

Jack limped another half block, focused on a mid-sized building of about ten stories. His left foot left bloody imprint with every step.

News crews could shoot down on the roof and put the whole scene on live broadcasts coast to coast. He might even merit a catchy banner and a theme song on Anderson Cooper 360 … or perhaps a poem!

‘What a schmuck,’ Jack mused, missing Aaron Brown and CNN’s ‘NewsNight’. If a guy had to die in a hail of bullets, he’d have preferred the remains of his life to be picked through by a journalist with a working brain, not a former weatherman. Jack snorted at the thought. Maybe Shepard Smith would be available.

Then, gritting his teeth against the punishment to his leg, he lurched into traffic, raising George’s hand gun overhead, he fired off four rapid shots. People screamed and scattered. Jack charged into the lobby of the building, and took control before anyone could react.

“Down!” he roared at the stunned crowd. A security guard jerked and Jack spun and shot over his head. “I SAID DOWN! GODDAMIT!”

People dropped like ten pins. Jack got to the security guard’s desk, pushed the alarm and then fired into the air, shouting. “Run! Everybody out. RUN! GO!”

The stunned crowd didn’t move. Jack hobbled into their midst and said in a wicked hiss. “The last person in here, I shoot!”

That did it.

The spell broke. The crowd scrambled up and fled into the street. Jack winced as he watched an elderly lady try to run using a cane.

“Crap,” he said under his breath. She made it to the door and into the street – the last one out. Jack jammed the door locks using the control consol at the guard’s desk.

He leaned over to jerk out the wiring, effectively sealing the building. Jack did a quick check to make sure the cameras were operating and headed to the elevators. As he walked away, a giant of a man strolled up and stopped in front of the building. He no longer wore his hair in long curls. It was carefully and conservatively cut. He wore a dove gray silk vest and London-made tweed. A large black umbrella hung from one arm. Lord Rhys-Barrington saw Jack limping to the elevators. He pulled a small cell phone from his pocket, hit speed dial and murmured in a rich, Welsh-English accent, “O’Neill is in the building I’m standing before. He’s in the elevator now. I believe he will head for the roof.”

The Welshman paused before concluding, “All debts are paid.”

Then without a backward glance, he turned and walked away.

The goat was in the trap. The rest was up to the tiger.



As the doors closed, he slumped against the wall, his heart jumping in his chest. He felt light-headed from fear and adrenalin. As the fear faded, he sunk to the floor.

ΩΩΩ


The elevator was almost at the tenth of eleven floors when it stopped and the lights died.

“Crap,” Jack shouted, slamming his head against the elevator wall. Now, he was trapped in an elevator. What else could go wrong? He hadn’t expected the police to respond so fast. He’d counted on at least ten minutes before they cut power.

What Jack didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was that the Colorado Springs police department wouldn’t respond. All units had been diverted to control crowds of blinded pedestrians and respond to traffic accidents and other emergencies that occurred when anyone outside was hit by the blast of brilliant light.

The power wasn’t just out in the building. It was out worldwide. Horace B. West had thrown the switch.

ΩΩΩ


George shouted as the streetlights darkened. “Pull over,” he demanded, “Kill the engine. Shut it down!” An instant later the first EM pulse hit Colorado Springs.

ΩΩΩ

President Hayes turned and looked through the window toward Pennsylvania Avenue as lights blinked out. The Nation’s capitol had gone black.

“What the hell?” President Hayes barked as the lights flickered in the West Wing.

The Secret Service team was moving before the lights went out.

“Mr. President,” a voice called out. Then Hayes felt someone grip his upper arm. Another guy was at his back and he was propelled through the darkened room into the corridor and down a series of steps into the bowels of the White House.

“Goddamit,” he bawled over the backs of his security detail, “Someone find out what is happening out there!”


ΩΩΩ

Sam pushed Cassie to the floor as the lights dimmed.

“Sam!” Cass protested, but a brilliant flash silenced her.

The woman who’d been holding them at gunpoint reacted too slowly. Sam’s sneaker clad foot hit her shin and, as she fell, a hard uppercut caught her chin, snapping her head back sharply. The woman lost consciousness before she hit the floor.

“You okay?” Sam asked as she crouched and hogtied the woman with an electrical cord from her floor lamp.

“You tell me,” Cassie replied in a shaky voice, “What was that?”

“EM pulse,” Sam said. “… harmless to people ... hell on electronics.”

Sam stood and punched the power button on her computer, hoping to get an SGC report on what exactly had happened. Nothing happened.

“Dammit!” she snarled. “The computer’s dead.”

ΩΩΩ

“What’s going on?” Daniel asked as the tunnel went dark.

“We’re out of contact with base,” the Marine in charge reported, effectively telling Daniel nothing.

“Turn on a radio,” Daniel suggested. “Maybe we can pick up some local news.”

“It’s just all that foreign music an’ stuff,” the jarhead replied.
“Turn it on,” Daniel repeated.

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

ΩΩΩ

“People of Earth, Attention,” West’s voice blared out from a Goa’uld spacecraft.

Jack listened from his dark box suspended somewhere between the ninth and eleventh floors.

“Those are huge honkin’ speakers,” he muttered to the walls.

“The Earth has been wasteful. You have squandered the wealth of nations while nine tenths of the world population is hungry, under fed and ill clothed.”

Jack cocked his head and squinted into the dark. This was not the typical spiel of General Horace B. West, a man who’d ordered Jack to obliterate every man, woman and child on Abydos.

“The Trustees have been forced to intervene,” West continued, “until we can bring good order to this planet, we are declaring a state of martial law. Power will be withheld from those who oppose us and provided on a fair and equitable schedule to all others in order to ensure production and minimum living conditions for all of Earth’s inhabitants – rich and poor alike.”

“That is all.”

“Oh, yeah! I am sure,” Jack muttered.

So it hadn’t been the cops, Jack realized after the ‘space cast’ concluded. Hissing through his teeth, he pulled himself up right, turned his face into the corner of the elevator and swung his good leg up onto the railing of the elevator compartment.

His left leg took his weight. Cassie had done a good job. The muscles and tendons responded to his commands. It hurt like hell, but it held. That was all he needed at the moment.

Jack screwed up his courage and jumped. It wasn’t enough and he came down hard on his left leg.

“Aaahhh,” he cried out. “Shiiit, that hurts!”

He gave it a moment, wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and concentrated. He had to really jump. He had to forget what it was going to feel like when he landed.

Jack jumped again and his left hand caught a shallow ledge at the top of the compartment. He pulled, reaching with his right hand and, as his fingers were slipping, reached the ledge and pulled. His right leg straightened and his left dangled as he balanced on the elevator railing.

Jack caught his balance for a moment and then pressed his right hand against the elevator ceiling. Nothing gave. He pushed harder, then moved to another panel and pushed. It lifted.

Jack gave a hard shove. The panel fell back. Jack felt wind and smelled the thick petroleum scent of grease and heavy machinery. He thrust his arms, head and shoulders up through the hole and kicked. In three quick swings, he had his right leg up through the space and, after a grunt and a wave of pain, his left leg followed.

Jack looked up the shaft taking care not to lose his balance on the top of the elevator. Light filtered through a grime-covered skylight about twenty feet above. He peered around in the dim shaft and, finally, saw a metal rung and another above it. He reached out, lost balance and grabbed for the first bar. He caught it, dragged himself up using his arms and swung his right leg around ‘til it connected with something solid.

Jack pressed himself against the ladder until the trembling subsided. Then, he climbed.

ΩΩΩ

“Try tying into the other terminal,” Daniel suggested, wishing Sam was on site. He hadn’t seen her for over a month, not since Jack had broken his nose.

“No,” Daniel called out, “the other terminal.”

The technician gestured and Daniel nodded, “Yes! Right! That one.”

The man nodded, tightened the wire in place and flipped the switch and the reactor exploded in a shower of sparks.

Darkness descended and silence. After a long moment Daniel said.

“Try the other terminal.”

“It’s fried, Doctor.” A voice came through the dark.

“Of course it is,” Daniel replied.

ΩΩΩ

Jack reached the skylight, climbed until his back was hard against it and then pushed hard against the thick pane of glass. It cracked with a sound like a pistol shot and, in instant later, he felt it give. Jack straightened and glass broke and fell around him.

He stood up and carefully worked his way through the broken skylight and onto the roof. Twilight was falling over the city.

Jack looked toward Denver and saw nothing but an unbroken expanse of nightfall. There wasn’t an artificial light source shining anywhere across the entire bowl. No lights sparkled on the mountain sides. No haze of light brightened the horizon in the direction of Fort Collins. As the mountains blocked the sunset, unrelieved darkness prevailed.

Jack limped across the roof and slumped against the brick wall that edged the roof. He was beat. His plan was a bust.

“What if you staged a news event,” he muttered to himself, “and nobody came?”

His hand was bleeding at the base of this right thumb. He stuck it into his mouth and sucked, trying to decide what to do next.

A light flashed and Jack found himself on an Asguard ship, sitting in the middle of the floor, sucking his hand.

A small gray Asguard with almond shaped eyes blinked and then approached him.

“Do I need to restrain you?” he asked.

“I’m thinking … Loki,” Jack said. All Asguard looked pretty much alike, except Thor. Jack’s long-time friend had something special that set him apart from the rest, despite the fact that Asguard were all small, gray, and had large luminous black eyes.

“Correct.”

“I should ‘a known. I thought you guys all committed mass suicide,” Jack replied.

“Not all of us,” Loki replied, stating the obvious.

“Thor?” Jack asked, hoping his friend had been spared.

“Gone,” Loki replied. “I am sorry.”

“Yeah,” Jack sighed, “me, too. So now what?”

“Now,” Loki replied, “I will take you to my leader.”

“No kidding? So, you guys actually do that stuff?”

“We do.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack followed Loki at a slow wobble. His leg throbbed and he was seeing spots dancing that he doubted were actually there. The halls stretched on and on.

Finally Loki turned a corner and Jack followed him into a slightly more human room. There was an actual chair, at least, and a desk, with an old man behind it.

“Still the snazzy dresser,” General Horace B. West sneered, as he stood and stepped around the desk to look Jack up and down. He scoffed.

Jack met his sneer with a bleak glare and replied, “Still murdering your own troops?”

“Your troops,” West snarled. “Put it down to payback, O’Neill.”

Jack’s left fist connected before West could react. The old man grunted, but didn’t go down. Jack swung again, but stumbled, and West connected with a solid right.

The spots spun faster and faster as Jack blacked out and crumpled at West’s perfectly shined shoes.

“Bring us around,” West barked as he turned away from Jack. “We’re taking Ararat.”

ΩΩΩ

Sam drove through nearly empty streets. Cars were scattered like toys, dead in their tracks as a result of the blast of EMP. People wandered, apparently blinded by the sudden flash of brilliant light.

‘Like Jack,’ Sam realized. ‘When did he recover his eyesight?’

Somewhere between the afternoon with the hooker and the late night escape it seemed.

“Crap,” she barked, making Cassie jump. “It’s all been a damned act! That manipulative, cold-hearted bastard! After all … Of all the …”

“Sam,” Cassie interrupted, “I can drive.”

“No need,” Sam snapped.

“Then would you?” Cassie shot back, pointing at the approaching tanks.

“Shiiiiit!” Sam yelped as she braked hard. She looked over at Cassie and said, “Sorry.”

The President, it appeared, had declared Martial Law. The grim-faced middle-aged men on the tanks, and loaded into the back of the quarter-ton trucks that brought up the rear of the column, were clearly National Guard troops. Sam was surprised that so many troops were still in the State. Colorado’s units must have just rotated back from Iraq, she figured.

“You’re going to kill Uncle Jack.” Cassie noted, “Aren’t you, Sam?”

“That would be … yes.” Sam replied as they sped past the column of trucks entering Colorado Springs. “I’m tired of being lied to … manipulated … and …lied to.”

“Don’t forget,” Cassie added solemnly, “being lied to.”

Sam flicked on the radio and Cassie played with the tuner, nothing but static came through the radio speaker. Finally, Cass gave up and inserted a CD.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The Mountain,” Sam replied. “It’s safe there. It’s a hardened site. I can get to a working computer.”

“To do what?”

“I’m not really sure, Cassie,” Sam replied. “But … if I’m going to kick your Uncle Jack’s butt over his ears, I guess I’d better try to save it, first.”

ΩΩΩ

George Hammond was up to his ass in alligators again. The Joint Chiefs of Staff had been summoned to an emergency session to address the chaos and national security ramifications of a total black out across all of North America and, according to unsubstantiated accounts, the entire planet. George sat in the ambulance and listened to the roar of static as his driver attempted to dial in any radio station on the car radio, while winding through the streets of Colorado Springs.

“I’m sorry General,” the Sergeant said for the fifth time. “I don’t think anyone’s broadcasting.”

“Just keep trying Sergeant,” George replied.

Knots of people in the streets didn’t make the trip any easier. George gazed out at them. Hundreds of well-dressed Coloradoans wandered, sightless, and lost in the growing twilight. It was disconcerting. By nightfall, it would be easy pickings for anyone unscrupulous and sighted. George intended to recommend immediate martial law and mobilization of every clerk typist, mechanic, cook, medic and every other military person who’d been inside or underground and, thus, spared the devastating effects of what was being referred to as ‘The Burst.’

George guessed that the same weapon that had blinded O’Neill had been used on Colorado Springs. From the preliminary work that Sam and Daniel had done while in the Middle East, it may have been one of many triggered worldwide. It may have been something Ra had either developed or, more likely, stolen from the Ancients and weaponized.

The potential for loss of human life was staggering. By tomorrow civilization could be a thing of the past. It all depended on what George and other men like him decided as a course of action in the next few hours.

“I am way too old for this crap,” he murmured.

Jack’s plan had fizzled and O’Neill had disappeared. George had no way of contacting him. The satellites were down as were regular telephones, computers, and every other technological convenience that had been powered up, beyond hardened sites, at the time of The Burst.

Fortunately the Pentagon had a system in place for exactly this sort of attack. Incredibly, it had worked.

George was thanking god for small miracles. It meant the President retained control over the Armed Forces and the Joint Chiefs had communication channels with those under their immediate command. Below that, it was a cook’s choice of channels ranging from antiquated Morse code via telegraph to runners and semaphore. By morning it could be homing pigeons.

George shuddered. For all he knew this was the first long night in a coming Dark Age. “Hopefully, Jack’s alive and safe,” he muttered.

“There’s not a damned thing I can do for him tonight.”

ΩΩΩ

“Try the other terminal!” Daniel shouted, hanging from a ledge high over the cavern they’d dug out of the ruins of Ararat. He was tired and filthy. His hair itched under the bandana he wore and he had the strongest sense of foreboding. Somehow, he knew, they were out of time.

“Got it,” Syler called back.

“Okay,” Daniel called, “Now punch it!”

“You’re sure this time?” Syler asked. They’d punched it six times in the past three hours, trying to power the mountain work site with a Jerry rigged power coupling to the ZPM that had powered the chair to “Deep Well.”

“Not really,” Daniel replied. “If you can come up with something better …”

“Punching it,” Syler interrupted. “Now.”

There was a strong smell of ozone in the dark cavern and a sudden flare of blue light and then, against all odds, it worked.

A shout of joy went up and Daniel lowered himself over the ledge and dropped the fifteen feet to the cavern floor below.

A buzzing caught his ear and he turned as a young Airman trotted over with a field phone.

“It’s Colonel Carter,” she said handing him the receiver.

“Sam?” Daniel started to ask what was going on, but her voice barked down the wire at him.

“You’ve got incoming Daniel! If there’s anything you can use to defend the mountain, get ready. You’ve got less than … fifteen minutes.”

“Who’s attacking us!?” Daniel demanded.

“It’s a ship from space. It’s headed directly at Ararat. It’s … Asguard.”

“How do you know they’re hostile?” Daniel replied. “They could be looking for the rest of their race.”

“General Hammond called,” Sam barked. “Home World is tracking a ship. It’s coming in way too fast. It’s coming directly at you, Daniel. It’s an attack posture, not a search for lost relatives!”

“Oh, crap!”

ΩΩΩ

Jack opened his eyes and was staring at a smooth silver-gray ceiling. He moaned and rolled onto his side. At least the light was dim, but there a screaming in his ears that didn’t seem to fit.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes hard, trying to fit the jagged pieces of reality back into place. The screaming intensified and Jack felt the ship slipping through space. He was aware of the speed, trajectory, and the fact that they were in a dive straight for Earth.

“Ararat,” Jack muttered, wondering how the hell he knew.

Jack dragged himself upright; then realized that, faster than a notion, he was standing. Things seemed more than a bit odd. For one thing he didn’t hurt from his toenails to his hair. For another … he seemed to be able to pass through solid objects.

Definitely … odd …

A long silver cylinder stood across the room. It had a body inside. Jack could see it through a clear window in the top side. He felt an icy chill, like someone had stepped on his grave. Grimacing at what he just knew he’d find, he moved closer, just close enough to peer inside.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Me … again.”

He wasn’t looking too good; looking kind of terrible, in fact. Actually, he’d have thought he was dead, except he was receiving all sorts of data on respiration, heart beat, body core temperature …

‘… and why do the Asguard have such an freaking obsession with that!?’ Jack wondered. Instantly he was barraged with waves of information regarding the usefulness of body core temperature …

‘…yadada, yadada …

Changing the subject abruptly, Jack wondered, ‘How’d I get in there?’

Again, instantly he knew that Loki had transported him from the floor of West’s office to his lab.

“Probably hoping to unlock that … lock … thingy that Thor installed in my jeans,” Jack surmised out loud. He frowned, wiggled his fingers and sighed.

“So … now what?”

ΩΩΩ

“Get the chair wired,” Daniel called out. “Check and see if it has ANY defensive capabilities. We’ve got an Asguard ship heading this way and Sam thinks it’s hostile. We have,” Daniel paused to check his watch, “less than fourteen minutes. Any ideas?”

“We’ve found an interesting artifact in the lower level,” one of the scientists replied. “I don’t know exactly what it does, but it seems to have access to a great deal of power, Doctor Jackson. There is writing on the sides.”

“Show me,” Daniel interrupted and followed the scientist.

Daniel broke into a trot and said, “I suggest we run.”

ΩΩΩ

Jack could ‘see’ the Earth spinning below him, gaining rapidly in size. Something told him this was a bad thing. He should slow down, or change direction, or … abandon ship … or blow up the ship.

Changing direction made the most sense, since several hundred sensors were screaming at him that there was insufficient time to slow the ship. He’d have to make it turn …

ΩΩΩ

Sam stared at the incoming vessel as it screamed across the stratosphere, trailing fire over Australia and the South Pacific.

“It’s definitely Asguard design!” she declared. “It’s a new model, like nothing I’ve seen before General.”

“Different, how?” General Landry asked.

“Well, Sir,” Sam replied. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was … the based on Prometheus … and … I’d …”

“And … what, Colonel!” Landry snapped. The ship was moving like a bullet straight for Ararat. He didn’t have time to guess.

“And, I’d say Gen… I mean, Jack O’Neill is flying it,” Sam muttered.

“How can you even begin to know that?” Landry asked with a hint of impatience.

“Just … a few road trips.”

ΩΩΩ

‘So, turning … not so much,’ Jack thought. He was starting to worry. Ararat was getting very big … very fast.

How about … Plan B?’ he mused, uncertain as to what Plan B might be.

Jump to hyperspace not advised, huh,’ he responded to the screaming in his head, which had started to make sense.

“Well, screw it,” Jack said out loud. “I got people down there and I can only die … twice … no four times … no …. Five?”

ΩΩΩ

Daniel heard the reverberation of the ship. The high pitched vibration became a piercing scream overhead and the Earth trembled under his feet. He knew this was his last moment. He closed his eyes and tried to be calm.

When the flash came, he believed for an instant that Oma had reclaimed him. In another second an ear-splitting boom, so far beyond the peace and joy of Ascension, shook him to his bone marrow, dispelling any notions that he had died and gone to a better place.

Daniel knew he was still alive and in danger of being buried that way in the depths of the quaking mountain.

ΩΩΩ

A massive burst of light blinded the sensors at the SGC. Sam yelped and spun away from the glowing monitor.

“What was that!” Landry demanded. “Did it hit the Mountain?”

Sam was rubbing her eyes, so a technician jumped to the secondary displays.

“Checking,” the technician replied. “Negative. The mountain was not the point of impact.”

“So where is it?” Landry asked.

“It’s … It’s gone! There’s nothing on sensors.”

ΩΩΩ



Chapter 25

General Hammond barely touched down in Washington DC when he learned of the crash. A Lieutenant Colonel had been sent to intercept him with orders that tasked him to mobilize a rescue effort and an incident investigation. He was to coordinate with the Canadian government and get a Home World Defense force to the crash site as soon as possible.


“I want the Prometheus overhead now,” George ordered.

The Colonel snapped to with a “Yes Sir!” and George leaned against the wall of the DC National Guard hut and got started on his liaison duties with their friends across the border.

He made contact with his Canadian counterpart. The man was professional and sensible. Of course he knew about the Prometheus. No, he had no problem with HWD taking the lead.

George invited the man to the site and he accepted in a purely liaison function. So the lines of command were cleared and permissions received with one phone call.


“General Hammond,” the Colonel said as George closed his cell phone. “The ship is in place and ready to bring you aboard, Sir.”

“Right,” George said and, an instant later, he disappeared in a flash of light.


It was a routine rescue mission. Jack had managed to bury the ship under a layer of snow and ice in the northern reaches of Newfoundland. His choice had saved all aboard. If the ship had hit water or solid ground at the speed it was traveling it would have disintegrated.

It was cold. There were a couple of injuries as the men worked in the harsh conditions to clear the ship and assess the damage, but the actual rescue was simple. George ordered all life forms aboard the wreck transported to the Prometheus. Medical and security teams had greeted the survivors - O'Neill and three others - and then they'd been evacuated.


A week passed. The medical staff at Walter Reed finally declared O’Neill fit for interrogation. George was escorted to a private room where two guards were stationed at the door.

“What’s this?” Hammond demanded, knowing perfectly well, but establishing his rights as top dog.

“Orders,” the older of the two Corporals replied. “We are assigned to ensure that Mr. O’Neill does not leave.”

“General O’Neill,” Hammond rumbled. “And don’t you forget it!”

“Yes Sir!” the young men yelped in unison.


Jack groaned when he heard George at the door. He’d dreaded this chat since he awoke in ICU. Unlike every other hospitalization, he’d hoped for a lengthy recovery so he wouldn’t have to face his friends and all the damned questions.

George entered, removed his cover, and tossed it on the extra chair.

“How are you, Jack?” George asked. His tone hovered between grandfatherly and pissed off.

Jack played dumb.

“Fine,” he growled, “I don’t know why I’m even in here. Everything works. I think they’re trying to keep me doped up. Get me the hell out of here, George.”

Both men knew it was an act. Still, George played his role.

“No can do, Jack,” he replied shaking his head. “The doctors say you stay, you stay. I’m not exactly in charge around here, you know.”

“Your buddy the President is,” Jack replied, raising his eyebrows.

“President Hayes covered your butt when you needed it, Son. I’m not going to waste that man’s time with your desire to skip out early.”

Jack grimaced, but he’d won the first round. When George called him ‘Son’ he was worried and could be handled.

George sat and continued, “What happened up there, Jack?”

“Don’t know,” Jack said, just a bit too fast.

“Don’t know,” George countered, “or won’t tell?”

“I was standing on a perfectly quiet roof, minding my own business mand waiting for the cops and news choppers …” Jack began.

“Knock it off!” George barked. “I am tired of this horseshit! They killed your men! Hell, Jack, they almost killed you! Now, I asked you what happened. Spill it!”

Jack’s heart was pounding. He wasn’t afraid of George, but he was overreacting and he’d completely misread his former CO’s mood. That, or maybe George was onto his routine … maybe George Hammond had always been a step ahead and had merely tolerated Jack’s games.

‘Crap,’ Jack thought.

“Loki brought me aboard the Icarus,” Jack stammered. “He’s gone ... loco.”

“Continue.”

“I … Loki took me to his leader,” Jack said and saw George’s normally pleasant face grow ominously dark. “They really do that, George, I’m not bullshitting you.”

George said nothing, so Jack continued, “So, I went and I was right. That ass-hole Horace B. West was running the whole thing.”

“Then what.”

“He criticized my ensemble,” Jack said, hoping to lighten the mood of what had become an interrogation, “I punched him in the nose. He punched me in the gut. I bled all over his rug. I passed out.”

“... And?”

“And … I woke up here, George,” Jack concluded, then changed his mind and added, “Not here, some other room … looked like this one … sorta …”


George glared at Jack. True to form, Jack reacted like a guilty adolescent. Jack was bullshitting, lying by omission, but still lying.

George had to work at his act. His instincts were to let sleeping dogs lie. West had vanished. Loki, as well. The only beings Hammond had found aboard the ship that Jack called ‘the Icarus’ were Jack O’Neill, who’d been in suspended animation in one of the Asguard pods, and three of his former command.

They’d reported being beamed to the Prometheus from Loki’s lab after finding their way there when the doors to their holding cells suddenly opened. They’d told George how they’d been brought onto the ship, as West's payback to Loki. They’d retold the terror when they realized they were to be used as test animals. Most of the men, there had been twenty at first, had died as a result of Loki’s experiments. Two of the men, who were still just boys really, had broken down and sobbed as they retold their experiences, clearly wracked by guilt – they’d survived and the others had not.

Someone had taken control of the Icarus, saving Ararat, and brought the ship down in an unpopulated area. Someone had freed those three young men from Loki's cells.

It had been O’Neill. George could feel it.

Colonel Carter's theory supported his instincts. She had postulated that somehow O'Neill's previous interface with the ship's computer on the DanielJackson had formed new neural paths in Jack O'Neill's brain. Brain scans seemed to support that possibility.

Carter asserted that those pre-existing pathways had reactivated when Loki connected O'Neill to the Icarus computer. It seemed highly likely that, while Loki had intended to map O’Neill’s genetic patterns, instead he'd turned control of the computer, and the ship, over to his captive. If Colonel Carter's guess was close, George could imagine Jack's next moves and the old man could read the truth in O'Neill's eyes. The devious bastard remembered everything, George suspected. He just wasn’t admitting it.

The question was whether to confront Jack with the fact that George knew it ... and knew that Jack knew it … or could he just let sleeping dogs lie?

If pressed too hard, Jack O’Neill might finally snap. He’d suffered devastating physical wounds. That damage was clear as a fucking bell. Jack was in bad shape. Blood poisoning had very nearly killed him. It still might claim his left leg. In a perverse twist, Loki had probably saved O'Neill's life by putting him into that pod. From the information downloaded so far from the Icarus, the medical experts had determined O’Neill’s status at the time the ship had streaked in from space and crash landed.

Jack had been dying.

Looking at him now, it was easy to believe. Besides being far too thin, even for a lanky Minnesotan, the man was ghostly pale. He’d sliced an artery in his leg, probably when he climbed through the broken skylight. The investigators had reported a blood trail on the roof as well as buckets of fresh blood inside the Icarus. The forensics team inspected the pod said it had looked like a slaughter house.

Before that, Jack had been underfed, under stress, and under assault for the better part of two months and before that …

George Hammond was the one man who appreciated exactly what Jack O’Neill had been through even before this final disastrous mission. As 2IC, he’d always worked too hard, worried too hard, cared too much, and did what he always did – put his command before himself.

At least while George had been CO of the SGC, Jack had someone else to lean on, to shoulder the ultimate responsibility, to share the blame when things went to hell and people got hurt or killed. He’d needed that brake. Once it was gone, George now realized, Jack had no one to order him to let things go. True to his nature, he’d worked harder, worried deeper, and obsessed about the welfare of his command.

Jack had protected his people and it had cost him. He’d led ‘til he couldn’t anymore. Then he’d passed the impossible job on with honor. George knew how that felt. He’d done the same thing when he left the SGC in Jack O'Neill's capable hands, and took command of HWD.

Jack might have pulled it off retirement, given some time and space and some encouragement from Sam. Unfortunately, that son-of-a-bitch West had launched his damned plot to take to control of Mount Ararat, and maybe even Earth, using stolen technology and Asguard science. Then he'd seized an opportunity to avenge himself on Jack, blowing Jack’s last command to bits and then letting that little gray devil, Loki, systematically slaughter the survivors.

Losing a man was excruciating for any commander worth his salt. Losing two dozen young men had to be nearly unbearable for a man like Jack, who cared too much about his people. Twice as many men had died on this mission as Jack had lost in the rest of his 38-year career. O’Neill had to view that as a staggering personal failure.

The last such failure had been the loss of his young son, Charlie. After Charlie's sudden and tragic death, Jack O’Neill had spiraled into despair until he was almost beyond help. Only the need to protect Earth and the demands of leading in battle had saved him.

Without the challenge of leading impossibly outmatched and untried forces … without the need to protect and lead … what would have become of Jack O’Neill?

George stared at the man and wondered. O'Neill had nerves of steel, but every man had his breaking point ... he'd endured untold emotional strain.

Untold.

'Maybe Jack's not talking for a good reason,' George thought.

'Maybe he doesn't understand it himself. Maybe he just can't relive it.'

‘Maybe,’ George thought, gazing at his friend’s drawn and battered face.

Jack fiddled nervously with the edge of the bed sheet.

‘Probably,’ George decided.

‘What else don’t you remember, Jack?’ George finally asked, hoping to reach him.

Jack just shook his head, staring at his hands as they worried the edge of the sheet.

“Did you learn anything about the fate of your men?”

“No.”

Jack raised his eyes to George’s and repeated, in a hoarse whisper, “No.”

Then George knew. Jack O'Neill knew everything that the Icarus computer knew. Those haunted eyes gave it away.

Colonel Carter had surmized that it was possible that he not only knew what happened, he’d probably experienced it. If so, he’d seen his men die in battle; he’d watched the execution squads put down those too badly wounded to be of use, and then had witnessed the lethal experimentation. Jack had seen it all and could do nothing … because, real as it might have seemed, it was just data in a file.

Jack gave a shaky sigh and dropped his eyes. George knew without a doubt that he’d endured something too terrible to share and too shameful to admit.

George stood and said, “Get some rest, Son.” He stepped closer to the bed and grasped Jack’s forearm, saying, “You’ve got to let them help you, here.”

Jack didn’t meet his eyes, but replied, “I’ll try, Sir.”

George nodded, picked up his cover, stepped through the door and tucked the hat under his arm.

“If he needs anything,” he growled at the guards, “you contact me directly … immediately.”

“Yes Sir,” the guards responded.

George didn't bother to ask about the fate of Loki or of West. O'Neill had killed countless times in the line of duty. To George’s knowledge, he’d never before murdered in cold blood. But … maybe Jack wouldn’t see it that way.

Maybe he saw it as another atrocity in the line of duty. Maybe it had been exactly that, George mused.

Or maybe he saw it as simple justice. And maybe, George decided, Jack was right.

George didn’t need to push for more information. The survivors had recounted the story of their comrades' deaths. It was enough, George figured, to tie up the loose ends, enough to create a tidy tale of adventure, heroism and daring-do to thrill the bean-counters and legal-beagles.



Jack spent another two months at Walter Reed, under house arrest, while waiting for his appeal to come up on the World Court docket. During that time, he'd been allowed other visitors, but never in private. A guard was always present, day and night.

George protested, based on National Security. International law and World Justice trumped U.S. territorial interests, these days. He got nowhere. It riled him that he was not allowed to properly debrief Jack O’Neill. It would have helped Jack process what had happened. It might have eased the guilt and the early stages of post-traumatic stress that naturally follow on near-death experiences. George roared and growled, but got nowhere.

So it was up to his old Team mates to carry the load. Despite the guards and despite Jack’s reticence, Daniel Jackson and Teal'c visited almost daily.

Sam Carter had not.

ΩΩΩ


Church bells chimed 3 o’clock on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

It was Jack’s seventh week at Walter Reed. He stared out the dusty window – beyond the dying potted plant Danny had brought – at cloud patterns that raced across a brick wall.

As the last chime died away, Jack gave up. Sam wasn’t coming. Neither Teal’c nor Danny had mentioned her during the long hours they’d spent together.

Jack had hoped there was another reason – invasion, devastation, a new shiny thing from an alien nation – but the simplest explanation was usually right.

The simple truth was that he’d done it again: Maybourne, Laira, Kerry, and now this. Except, this time, Sam hadn’t forgiven him.

Maybe she’d always been just his good friend. If so, he’d read more into their professional relationship than was ever there. Maybe, like him, Carter had hoped to be more than a colleague … more than a friend.

Maybe …

Either way, he’d trashed whatever had been between them.

As her CO, Jack could have counted on a visit. Now he was retired. There hadn’t even been a card, not even a phone call. Without friendship, there was no reason to expect that Colonel Sam Carter would spare him a second thought. She’d been obsessed with her work while he was within an arm’s reach. What were the odds she’d even notice his absence, much less drop by for a visit.

‘What’d you expect?’ Jack asked. He’d known from the start what he was risking. He’d risked it, anyway. Whether or not he’d had a choice, Jack had known exactly what it might cost. He’d feared this might be the result. Still … he’d hoped.

ΩΩΩ

“You could take a red-eye,” Daniel urged as he flopped on the stiff hotel comforter.

“Daniel,” Sam replied, “You know I can’t. I’m in Newfoundland in the middle of nowhere. There’s just too much …”

“He needs you, Sam,” Daniel interrupted. “You haven’t even called.”

“Knock it off, dammit,” Sam snapped, “Don’t you think I want to be there? Don’t you think I’d love to call? What can I explain on a call routed through a switchboard? What would it do to my credibility as an expert witness, if I call the defendant?”

Daniel didn’t answer. Frustrated, Sam yattered on.

“I am rebuilding the computer of an alien ship single-handed. Somewhere in the Icarus is proof that Jack wasn’t responsible for that massacre. I have to make this work. I have to do it in less than ten days! Otherwise, he’ll be extradited to Iran and then executed! You think he’d rather I take a little time off to drop by?”

“Sorry,” Daniel said, “You’re absolutely right. How’s it going?”

“Slowly,” Sam replied. “The Icarus is Asguard and it’s Earth technology, but it’s not like Thor’s ship and it’s way beyond Prometheus. Loki was clever and he didn’t think like a human. So, I just can’t see where his mind was going on so much of the design, but … I’ll get it … I’ll figure it out.”

“How soon?” Daniel asked.

“I really don’t know,” Sam said with a hint of impatience. “Look, Daniel, I’m getting by on three or four hours sleep. I’ve been at this for seven weeks. The World Court reconvenes on Jack’s case in eleven days. No one else has a chance of figuring it out. I am giving this everything I’ve got. I’ll get it done in time. Then …”

“You could meet the deadline, Sam,” Daniel said, “and still be too late.”

“If I don’t meet it, Daniel, Jack will be executed. That has to be my first concern. Now, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got work to do.”


Sam flicked her cell phone shut and jammed it into her fatigues as she crossed the vast space that served as a workshop. A huge metal shed had been constructed to house the Icarus. It was unheated and it was damned cold, but at least it broke the wind.

Sam rubbed her chapped hands together and, before putting her heavy canvas work gloves back on, glanced at her watch.

It was three-forty-five. Another day was almost half over.

Sam had a meeting in fifteen minutes to get updates on progress on the internal systems. Part of the problem with accessing the files she needed was a lack of power for the ship. The wilds of Canada were hardly ideal for creating a reliable power supply for an alien ship, but she was hopeful that Atlantis or perhaps the SGC might come through with a ZPM, or a couple of naquida reactors.

Sam stopped at the coffee pot that stood at the end of the shed, out of the wind. She poured a cup of brew and filled the cup with too much sugar and milk. It helped hide the taste of coffee that had been stewing for hours. She took a sip and closed her eyes for a moment.

“Please,” she murmured.

Then she tipped the cup, chugged the coffee and went to her meeting.

ΩΩΩ

Jack pulled a new dark blue suit coat over a crisp white dress shirt. Teal’c had picked out the clothes. The suit was his usual size, but the pants were far too big through the waist. The coat hung from his shoulders like a sail and the shirt collar was more than couple of inches too big. He felt like a scarecrow.

‘What does it matter?’ Jack asked himself as he tied a regulation knot in his new dark blue silk tie. Jack skewered the silk with a small silver pin in the shape of a fighter jet – a gift from George – and slipped his right foot into a black loafer. The left shoe belonged to an amputee down the hall. With Jack’s left leg still bandaged, he didn’t need two shoes. A date with a scimitar meant he probably wouldn’t need the right for much longer, either.

There was a soft rap on the door. “It’s time, Sir,” the younger of the two guards called from the hall.

“I’m ready,” Jack replied. He grabbed his cane and hobbled to the door.


The drive from Silver Spring, Maryland down Rock Creek Parkway into Washington DC proper was the first time Jack had been out of his room in two months. DC was beautiful in the early autumn light. Leaves were changing along Rock Creek. As they drove along the green and gold dappled roadway Jack realized how desperately he’d missed the sight of trees.

The Capitol Dome was visible as they passed Union Station and Jack glimpsed Washington’s Monument as they turned and drove parallel to the Washington Mall. A few long blocks of over-sized buildings crawled past. Then the military driver turned the large black sedan into an underground parking ramp, drove to the nearest elevator and stopped. Jack climbed out.

His titular guards accompanied him into the court building, walking beside him like good friends, rather than guards. Jack had no idea why the two young men treated him with such respect, but he was grateful. They even did a fair job of hiding the fact that they were hovering to catch him if he lost his balance.

Jack made it to the correct room at the stroke of 10 am. The guards had underestimated how long it would take him to limp from the elevator to the court room. He was winded and sweating when the younger guard held the door for him.

Jack hobbled into the court room and made his way to a table at the front. His attorney was already seated, but the Judges had not yet entered.

Jack reached the table as the three Judge panel swept into the room and the clerk of the court called out, “All rise.”

Jack stayed on his feet until the Judges were seated and then fumbled with the chair. His attorney helped him pull it back from the table. Jack sunk into it, shaky with fatigue.

When the rustling died down, the Judge seated at the center of the three said, “Jonathan O’Neill, rise.”

Jack struggled back onto his feet. His attorney stood beside him and held his elbow discretely.

“Jonathan O’Neill, you have been charged and found guilty of the massacre of Kurdish villagers in the Border Folds region of Iran. The lower court found you guilty of two-hundred twenty-seven counts of murder, and two-hundred twenty-seven counts of war crimes.”

The Judge placed the paper into a folder and closed it. Tension hung over the room. This was it.

Jack’s heart hammered. A hot flush of shame crept up his neck and face. He hadn’t murdered the villagers; Jack had failed the young men under his command. Whatever was coming, he deserved.

”… However …” the Judge continued after lifting a page from a different file folder, “… after consideration of the lower court’s record and new details put forward by an Amicus Curia, it seems clear that you could not have been involved in the massacre. The attack was perpetrated from … the … uh … air, whereas we have sworn testimony from four survivors of your command that you were among the ground forces who were, in fact, the target of the attack. Therefore, the Court hereby reverses the decision of the lower court. Jonathan O’Neill you are cleared of all charges. You are free to go, Sir.”

The Judge’s gavel cracked like a pistol shot.

Jack flinched. He was stunned. If not for the attorney’s grip on his elbow, he might have dropped. Instead, he stood staring at the Judges, until the clerk of the court declared, “All rise.”

Those present stood and the Judges swept out of the room. Jack O’Neill was suddenly a free man.

The courtroom emptied. Jack’s attorney turned to shake his hand. Instead, the very proper younger man blurted, “Are you alright, General?”

“Peachy,” Jack replied, but then he sank into the chair and said, “What’s an Amway curio?”

“A friend, Sir,” his attorney replied, “A friend of the court. The Judge was referring to a document written by an Amicus Curia.”

“Who?” Jack asked, clueless as to who might befriend him and more than curious as to how anyone could provide evidence of something that was beyond top secret.

“I’m sorry General O’Neill, but I don’t know who submitted that brief.”

“Why the hell not?” Jack snapped. His head was pounding and he didn’t have the strength for guessing games.

“The evidence was provided en camera,” the attorney replied.

“Speak English,” Jack snarled.

“Only the Judges and the Amicus Curia were involved,” the lawyer explained patiently, “I was not in the room because, as I understand it from the Judges’ order, the evidence presented was too highly classified, Sir.”

“Oh,” Jack muttered, too tired to pursue the matter further. All he wanted to do was to lie down.

“Can I drop you somewhere, General O’Neill?” the attorney offered.

“I …” Jack stopped, realizing he hadn’t planned for this outcome. He’d been convicted. He’d been sure he’d be locked up and until they handed him over to the Iranian government. It never occurred to him that he might be released. He had no place to go.

“He’s got a lift.” At the words and the sound of Sam Carter’s voice, Jack turned.

“I do?” he asked.

“You do,” Sam replied. “I think it’s time that I see your place in Minnesota.”


ΩΩΩ

Jack limped out of the building in a fog. It made no sense that Sam was here. It made less sense that she was driving him to Minnesota from Washington DC.

Still, he could think of no place else to go and there was no place he’d rather be than with Sam at the cabin. It had been a dream he’d replayed a million times, usually when he was there alone, fishing, and wondering how he’d convince her to ignore the rumor mill at the SGC and come up for a week … or forever.

Sam had never agreed to a visit. She’d always had too much work, too many important projects, too little time. After five or six years of invitations, Jack had let it go. Still, he’d thought after he was retired, just maybe she’d reconsider.

Now Sam was at the wheel of a shiny black Cadillac and Jack was watching her maneuver the massive vehicle through DC traffic fast and sure, like the expert pilot she was.

The silence stretched on as she drove up Connecticut Avenue. Jack didn’t feel like talking. It felt unreal. He was afraid that, if he spoke, he’d wake up and find it was just another unfulfilled dream. So he let his head drop against the head rest and watched Sam drive him home.


Jack did wake up when the car slowed and turned into Fort Meade, but Sam was still at the wheel. He was puzzled to be at the NSA Puzzle Palace, but he was too fried to worry about it. Besides, he trusted Carter to handle the thinking.

Sam drove like she knew the place. Jack knew it, of course, but it had been years ago, when he’d been teamed with Charlie. He hadn’t been back on the grounds since the totally blown mission behind the Iron Curtain. Charlie and he’d been lucky to get back alive.

Sam slowed and then stopped at a guard shack just outside an airfield. The guard snapped a sharp salute and the gates opened. Sam drove through.

Jack sat up, fully awake and curious as to what Sam had planned. He glanced at her, but she was concentrating on something ahead. He followed her gaze and saw a pinprick in the blue autumn sky.

The pinpoint grew swiftly and a shrill scream sliced the cool autumn air. Jack unbuckled his seatbelt and threw open his door. With an effort he got out, stood up and leaned against the Caddy, watching an Asguard ship position itself over Langley’s airfield.

Sam smiled at him and said politely, “If you’re ready, General O’Neill, our ride is here.”


ΩΩΩ

The flight to Ely took less than ten minutes. Sam transported Jack to the cabin and then followed, leaving the Icarus in the hands of its new crew from HWD. Her heart was in her mouth as she felt his intense brown eyes on her.

‘What now?’ they seemed to ask.

Sam smiled, feeling nervous, and said, “There’s beer in the fridge.”

Jack shook his head and said, “Against orders.”

“Oh,” Sam murmured. “How about something to eat?”

“I think I’ll stretch out for a bit,” Jack replied, “Make yourself at home.”

Surprised and a little disconcerted, Sam watched him limp into the bedroom.

“I guess I’ll take a shower,” she said as he disappeared into the tiny bedroom.

“’Kay,” Jack murmured, “There’s a bed in the loft. Sorry I can’t let you have this one.”

The door closed and Sam sat with a thump: So much for Jack’s home coming.


ΩΩΩ

It was twilight when Jack finally stirred. Sam had been reading a 1950’s book on pan fishing – catching the fish, cleaning the fish, identifying the fish, cooking the fish. She was working her way through the chapter on ice fishing for pan fish when the bedroom door opened and Jack emerged looking sheepish.

“Sorry to abandon you like that,” he said. “I don’t know what hit me.”

“Stress,” Sam replied, “First day out of bed in eight weeks … before that, let’s see, nearly extradited, nearly executed, near-death by a cloned hooker, near-death by Loki-gone-loco, near-death in the desert, nearly blown apart inside Mount Ararat, hunted by the Trust a wholly owned subsidiary of our newest problem – the Trustees, saving Ararat the greatest archeological discovery since the find in Antarctica, blinded by a secret weapon ….”

“Okay,” Jack grinned and flung himself into a battered leather club chair by the cobblestone fireplace. “You made your point. I’ve had some stuff going on lately ...” He frowned and scratched his chin before continuing, “… what cloned hooker?”

Sam grinned and, before she lost her nerve, replied, “I’m sorry Jack, but now I’ve got to go to bed.”

His face fell, but he covered his disappointment and said, “Oh, sure. I’ll just whip up some dinner and call you in a couple of hours.”

“I think I’ll be there for the night,” Sam continued. She almost relented when his brown eyes darkened, but she held her ground.

“Sure, Sam,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe we can go fishing.”

Sam stood and rubbed her back, thrusting her hips forward. Jack’s eyes darkened another shade before he tore his gaze away from her innocently wiggling hips.

Sam wandered past him, reached out and brushed her fingers through his scruffy hair. When he looked up, astonished, she murmured, “You coming?”



ΩΩΩ

Sam led Jack to his rumpled bed. Her heart was jumping in her chest. His fingers were tight around hers. She reached the bed, turned and traced her fingers along the side of his face. His expression was unreadable, but he kissed her palm and then took her hand in his.

“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, slipping his hand down to her waist and pulling her tight.

Sam felt his erection hard against her belly.

“I’m a son-of-a-bitch, Sam. I’m sorry, but I lied to you, misled you, and took a chance that you’d forgive me.”

“I … haven’t entirely,” Sam replied, as she slipped her fingers inside the band of Jack’s shabby field pants, not wanting to spoil the moment, but unwilling to lie.

“Then …” Jack tensed and pulled back slightly, “… what are we doing, Sam?”

“Well,” she replied lightly, “I thought we’d start slow and see …”

“Slow … as in sex first and then take it from there?” Jack pushed away and riveted Sam with his black, smoldering gaze.

Sam hesitated, but she’d gone too far to stop now. They both wanted this. It was up to her to make it happen.

“Slow as in sex … maybe … or just touching … like this …” Sam murmured as she ran her right hand behind and slipped it down to stroke his tight ass.

Jack didn’t react as she’d hoped. Instead, he pushed her back and said, “Whoa, Sam! I don’t know what this is … I … it’s important to me to get this straight with you … I want …”

Sam felt heat rise and embarrassment. She’d misread him. Now the worst possible thing was about to happen. Jack wanted to be friends, not lovers, not … more than lovers.”

“Oh, God!” she blurted, “Sir, I am so …”


Jack heard that hateful word, saw that look and reacted as he’d always wanted to – by silencing Sam Carter with a deep, penetrating kiss. She was tense and pulled back, but he pressed into her, forcing her lips apart as he pressed her against the wall ... exploring her mouth until he felt her melt into him …


Sam’s next word was silenced when Jack pushed her against the wall and kissed her. Her knees turned to water and Sam knew that, for all her brains and education, she’d never grasped the sheer animal power of this man. She hadn’t meant to tease … at least not to play games. She’d hoped to arouse …


Jack smelled her hair and, under the perfume of shampoo, her female scent. Her heart beat against his chest. He had to have his mouth there, where it quivered against his skin like a trapped bird. Jack move his hand to her neckline, his fingers found her collar and then slipped down, inside her buttons …


Thought fizzled as Jack's hand closed on a handful of cloth and jerked, popping her shirt buttons. Sam was aroused by the suddenness and force of it. She struggled, hoping to help him remove it, but he'd pinned her against the wall…

Jack bit her neck and shoulder as he tore her shirt away. He could touch her now, taste her, trace his lips along the warm curve where her breasts rose up toward her luscious neck. He pressed her into the wall as he ran his lips down that curve toward her nipples …


Sam was off-balance. On one level she was stunned. On another, she wanted it. Sam pressed back, panting heavily, and Jack growled …


Jack felt her press against him, her breath was on his skin, and he lost control, seized her, and tossed her onto his bed...


Sam twisted as Jack swept her off her feet and threw her onto his bed. Her tattered shirt fell open and, then, Jack was on top of her...


Jack tasted her salty, smooth skin above her breast and, in a beat of her heart, had stripped her bra off over her head. Her breasts were bare. He ran his fingers over one and squeezed the nipple hard, making her groan, as he fed on the other ...


Sam trembled as Jack devoured her. It was rough. It hurt and she wanted more of it. His teeth closed on her nipple and she cried out and tried to pull away, but Jack grasped her hips, pulled her back to him, and shoved her down into the mattress, growling, “Stay down.”


Jack reacted to Sam’s struggles with a sharp surge of lust. He grabbed her and dragged her back to him, grasped her bare shoulders and pushed her down on his bed. Then, before she could squirm away, he pinned her with his body across hers and thrust his hands into sweat pants. She twisted as he ran his hands down her hips and up the back of her thighs.

Then, he slipped off her pants. She was naked except for a sheer black thong. Jack's erection throbbed and he traced his fingers around the lacy edge of the thin silken fabric, then thrust between her legs. He felt hot wetness. He thrust lower and the fabric gave way to a narrow band.


Sam felt his full weight across her. Feeling Jack restraining her raised her need in a way she’d never known with other lovers. The sudden freedom as he stripped her was almost unbearably erotic. She felt a surge of insufferably intense need. Then, his hand was between her legs, pressing against the thin silk of her panties. She arched against him, moaning, and he moved lower. His fingers brushed over her clit and then into the light dusting of hair that curled around the narrow silk band as he moved between her cheeks …


Sam moaned, a deep and hungry sound, and Jack pressed her knees wide to open her and buried his mouth in her crotch, licking around the edge of her thong, feeling the hot, smooth silk against his face and lips. He tasted skin and salt as he pressed deeper into her. Then, slowly, feeling her heat grow, he slipped the thong down her hips and, as he uncovered the gorgous, wet cunt, that had been hidden behind the silken panties, he moved his mouth to Sam's flesh, sucking and licking her creamy, pink folds …

Jack took her pussy into his mouth and pushed his tongue between her folds. Her engorged nub pressed against his chin as she reared against him…


Sam’s body reacted to Jack’s mouth. She arched her back, lifting her hips, and was coming hard and strong against him. She struggled for breath, reality slipped and existence narrowed to Jack consuming her …


Jack brought her to orgasm. Then, as Sam cried out and peaked, he changed tactics and flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up to his belly…


Sam was on her stomach and Jack was behind her. Her arousal grew as he pressed his hard-on up against her, rough and urgent. She lifted her ass and arched to meet him. He entered her with a swift solid thrust through her wet fur and into the hot creaminess of her pulsing channel.


Jack ached to come, his balls lifted. He tried hard to ignore her muscles rippling down the length of his shaft…


Sam tipped over the edge again as he fucked her. All she felt was his thrusts and her body’s eagerness…


Jack pulled back and then drove into her again, pushing until the head of his cock pounded against her depths and his balls pressed up against her hot, hungry pussy. He groaned with unreleased need and drew back again, his thick shaft stroked by her hot, tight, slick ...

Sam reared back against him, tightening her ass muscles and clamping down as Jack withdrew. He groaned and then rammed her again, throwing her forward onto the mattress. She tipped her hips, increasing friction and contact and…

Another deep plunge…

Another…

And … again…

Then release took over in a hot rush of cum and gasps of fulfillment.



Spent, Sam sprawled across the bed. She felt the jumbled sheets under her naked body and Jack’s hot skin burning against her back. Then, to her awe, she felt him hardened inside her.

‘This is the beginning,’ Sam realized, ‘not the end.’ She’d offered a night … all night. …

‘It isn’t even dark yet.’


Sam had never come more than once with a man. She’d brought herself to orgasm multiple times – always by thinking of Jack O’Neill and usually after a period of close, intense confinement with her CO. Returning after a particularly dangerous mission, it wasn’t unusual for her to bring herself to orgasm in the shower-room of the SGC. Often she’d repeat the act at home, coming again and again, until she was so spent and sore that she’d at last fall into exhausted sleep.

After the mission when Jack had refused to abandon her within a Goa’uld facility that was about to blow up, for example, she’d stroked herself in the shower-room, replaying the terror and passion in her CO’s eyes. She’d come abruptly, leaning against the shower wall as she strained in overwrought silence as hot water beat down on her. Then, she’d staggered home and, when she still could not sleep, had brought her exhausted body to one self-induced orgasm after another through a long, sleepless night.

In the morning she’d reported for duty and had been informed that SG-1 would undergo testing to determine whether they’d been programmed by Goa'uld brainwashing technology into ‘Zatarcs.’ An emotional roller-coaster had followed. Ultimately, she’d been informed that she and Colonel O’Neill were slated to be put into chemically-induced comas, in order to prevent the possibility of triggering their programming, resulting in either completion of their missions or suicide.

Then things went from really bad to worse. Colonel O’Neill had volunteered to serve as a test subject for the Tokra scientist, Anise. He was to die in order to save her from an uncertain future.

In the end, it had all turned out. After the awful process of admitting their feelings for one another, and the painful agreement to ‘keep it in the room’, Sam had rushed home, claiming a migraine. In fact, she wanted Jack O’Neill to utter distraction. She’d availed herself of a pre-historic implement that Daniel had given her in jest. It was a larger-than-life marble phallus, mounted on a coarse granite base. Sam had dragged the thing out of her shoe closet, warmed it in her bathwater, anointed it with oil, and used it until she ached.

So, Sam knew she was perfectly capable of searing desire and multiple orgasms. She did worry, at times, whether she could respond to a man that way, since she’d never found a partner who released such passion.

That, Sam knew as her body responded to Jack’s touch, was about to change.


Jack leaned over her and bit the back of her neck, under her left ear. Sam yelped. His shaft stiffened at the vulnerable sound. He rubbed the head of his cock against her ass and slipped his hand under her, seeking her breast. He felt the firm, silken mound and squeezed, hard and insistent, tweaking her nipple...


Sam was coming again the instant Jack bit her. She rocked against him, wishing he’d enter her again, yet on fire from the mere feel of his erection against her butt and his persuasive hand about her breast. Something about his forceful use of her body was incredibly provocative...


Jack felt tremors run through Sam’s sweat-hot body. He flipped her over. Her head was twisting side to side as she came before him. He watched, fascinated, and kneaded her breast as she groaned and writhed under his touch. Then he reached down to her left knee and lifted it, locking her leg over his shoulder. The other leg followed and, as he straightened his back, Sam was lifted from the mattress and stretched against him, until she rested on her upper back…

Sam ached as she came. Jack was moving her, but her body continued to spasm with urgent waves of desire as his fingers punished her breast. She hardly knew that he was lifting her until her ass pressed against his thighs and her cunt hovered within reach of his mouth. Sam opened her eyes and Jack fixed her with a dark, hungry gaze. Then he ran his hands down her outer thighs to her buttocks. He caressed her hips and slid his fingers around her hips to fondle her.


Jack moved slowly, extending the exquisite moment as he explored Sam Carter’s most private places. Her hot female scent was in his nostrils as she came again for him. He wanted her taste, but he moved slowly, restraining himself as he tenderly brought her pleasure…

Sam’s eyes lost focus, but she held his gaze as he spread her folds and played her body like a fine instrument. He stroked from her crotch down to her belly spreading creamy hot fluids across her skin. She quivered at the simple erotic act. His long fingers caressed the wet crease between her legs again and then moved up tracing silky trails along the ultra-sensitive skin of her inner thighs…

Jack wanted to fuck her, but her blue eyes were clouded with yearning. He held her unfocused gaze.…

The fire was building again. Suspended, as she was, Sam watched as Jack explored her with his hands and his eyes. She would have come just watching, but he was touching, probing, teasing, until she mewed with anticipation. At the sound, he broke eye contact to lean forward. His tongue touched her clit…

Jack’s cock arched up painfully hard as Sam keened her desire. He leaned forward, still lifting her and suckled on her engorged clit. She gasped with pleasure and he slipped his fingers into her, pressing deep even while he sucked. Her muscled tightened around his fingers. Jack pressed another against her virgin ass. He opened his eyes and watched a rosy blush spread across her belly, chest and face. Sam wanted it…

Sam had fantasized about being eaten and fucked at the same time. This was as close as she’d ever come. Then, a third option was introduced when Jack pressed his little finger against her rim. She felt a startling desire for penetration. It made no sense. She’d never wanted it, but her body did, even as her mind reeled...

Jack wasn’t asking permission. He pressed against her and she trembled violently and groaned. He smiled a devilish grin and growled, “Up.” He lowered her to the bed, without actually penetrating her.

Sam was weak with need. She sat up, panting and breathless. He gazed at her for a long moment then stroked her hair with the back of his hand. Sam turned her mouth against his arm, without breaking eye contact, waiting for his next move, eager and intense with anticipation. She’d never experienced this mixture of tenderness, sexual freedom and control in a man.

Jack’s hand continued down her shoulder and around the back of her neck. He gripped her. Sam gazed up at him and he pulled her forward, then bent and kissed her deep and long.

Sam’s toes curled.

Jack moved his arm behind her and she felt his fingers on the small of her back. At the same time, his lips wandered down her arm, across her breast and paused, suckling and nibbling, sending supercharged shock waves from her heart to her groin.

Sam moaned and Jack bent and kissed her hip. Then, he pressed her down, turning her over onto her belly. He continued kissing and nibbling, exploring her back with his mouth and hands. Sam relaxed under his tender exploration of every inch of her ribs, spine, neck, and then he eased her legs apart.

Jack murmured, low and husky with desire, “I’ll make this good for you, Sam, I promise.”

She felt him press her buttocks wide and then lean down and tickle her ass with his tongue. She tensed, but felt heat spread from her cunt to her ass. She was weak with pleasure and desire, hoping he would continue. He pressed against her rim. For a moment she resisted, but he didn’t stop. He pressed harder, slipped his fingers under her hip and teasing her folds, working her steadily into a fever of desire, all the while pressing his cock against her ass, stiff and hot and sexy. Her body yielded.

Jack knew the moment and pressed slightly into her. Sam cried out and would have moved, but he was draped over her, barely penetrating her. Sam cried out again, this time in anticipation, as he pressed deeper. She felt new sensations, and was aching for him.

Sam groaned and bucked, lifting her ass against him. He rubbed his rough cheek against her neck and ear. She groaned again, louder, and moaned.

Jack whispered, “Shh, Sam.”

Sam held back her next moan and the tension became almost unbearable. She was coming again, tense and sweating with need, craving more.

Jack bit her again, then ran his lips along her jaw. “Relax,” he murmured. Sam moaned softly, as he withdrew. She wanted more, but he lifted and then, moved his legs between hers, pulled up her hips and the head of his cock pressed past her rim again.

Sam was about to protest when he finally entered her fully. A surge of pain and desire overwhelmed her. Sam lifted, offering greater access. Jack pressed deeper, and groaned a low, throaty moan. He wrapped her in his arms, encircled her hips and her chest, and lifted her body up against his, still penetrating her. The change in angle brought his cock hard against the back side of Sam’s channel. Her body exploded in a rage of sexual release.

Jack pumped into her. She tipped over the edge again and was lost in wave after wave of all-consuming desire. She’d never known such raw sexual response. She couldn’t get enough.

Suddenly, Jack dropped her onto the bed, grasped her hips and lifted them as he thrust into her ass hard and deep. He was no longer making love, he was butt-fucking her. His arm trapped her waist, holding her tight against him. His fingers manipulated her engorged clit, as he pumped into her. Sam was falling through a tunnel of heat and desire, coming as she fell, held only by his touch. Then she felt the hot surge of his cum. She crested again with a cry and her body tensed. Then they fell together in a tangle on the bed.



ΩΩΩ

Jack woke early. He hurt and he wondered if he’d pulled stitches. He rolled carefully out of the bed. Sam didn’t stir.

Soft pre-dawn light seeped through his thin muslin curtains and cast a golden glow across her skin. Her tousled blond hair hid her face, but her perfect back and gorgeous rump were lovely in the early morning light.

Jack limped out of the bedroom, avoiding the boards that always creaked, and gently pulled the door shut behind him. He went to the kitchen and lit the stove, put the kettle on for coffee and then hobbled outside.

He needed to think. So much unexpected had happened, that he didn’t know what to make of it. Sam … well their night together had been spectacular. Her rescuing him from DC had been a godsend.

Still, Jack was not a happy man. He’d lost it last night and the adult male part of his personality felt guilty and concerned.

‘Maybe I should … explain,’ he thought as he lowered himself to the end of the dock. ‘But explain what? That I acted like a moose in rut? That I’d waited longer for her than I’d known most women I've slept with? That I was afraid she didn’t feel the same way … so I threw her on the bed and fucked her?’

“Yeah,” he growled aloud, startling a frog, “that should work.”

Jack didn’t think he could explain it, since he didn’t understand it himself. Still, he was embarrassed and worried about facing Sam over breakfast.

The sun was up by the time Jack returned to the cabin. He heard Sam in the kitchen and smelled fresh coffee.

“Good morning,” she called out, with a smile in her voice, “you ready for coffee?”

“You betcha,” Jack replied, smiling with relief and joy. Sam was fine. Last night hadn’t been a terrible blunder. It had been their first time and it had been great … better than great.

‘Great times great, maybe,’ Jack estimated as he smiled at Sam and sipped his coffee.

Over breakfast they chatted about plans for the day. Fishing was at the top of the list and a trip into Ely for supplies.

Jack kept glancing at Sam, wondering what she was thinking. She caught him more than once and blushed every time.

‘God,’ he thought, ‘she’s so unbelievably beautiful, and hot and …’

“Penny for your thoughts,” Sam said, grinning.

“You,” Jack admitted, grinning self-consciously.

“I asked first,” Sam replied, sipping her coffee and tipping her head, giving him the baby-blues.

“You,” Jack repeated. “I was thinking about you, Sam. You’re amazing: beautiful, smarter than any ten people, and … last night … well … you nearly killed me, lady.”

Sam grinned and said, “Really?”

“Trust me,” Jack replied, “If it hadn’t been for eight weeks of bed rest, I’d be dead right now. Smiling, but dead.”



ΩΩΩ

There is a principle in Physics that perfection must decay. Sam realized that later, after it was too late.

She was driving Jack's truck and he was sitting beside her with the wind from the open window blowing his hair when everything came apart.

"I don't know how I got so lucky," Jack said.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"One minute, I'm headed for Iran on a one-way trip," he said shaking his head, "and the next someone called an Amway Curtain, bails me out with a secret meeting with the Judges. That can't even be legal."

"Well," Sam replied, feeling happy and smug, "it didn't just happen, you know."

"What?"

"Well," Sam explained, "I spent the entire time you were in DC tearing apart the Icarus, looking for some way to prove you were innocent. Didn't you wonder why I didn't show up?"

"At first," Jack admitted, "but then I figured you'd given up on me as a lost cause."

Sam frowned at that, remembering how pissed she'd been when she had realized that at least some of Jack's 'difficult recovery' had been an act.

"So," Jack continued, interrupting her thoughts, "You were the one who bailed me?"

Sam nodded, glad she didn't have to speak.

"Gesh," he exclaimed, "I should have known you'd figure it out. There's nothing you can't do, Sam."

"Well," she replied, smiling. "I didn't exactly figure it out, Jack."

"Then who did?"

"Hopefully, nobody," Sam replied, glancing sideways at a very puzzled Jack O'Neill. "I realized that I wasn't going to make the court deadline, Jack," she continued, "so ... I lied. I'm the world authority on all things technological and alien. The only person who might debate me is on Atlantis. So, I drafted my report to the court, told them there are records aboard the Icarus that prove you were on the surface and General West was behind the attack. They believed me. They let you go."

Sam glanced at Jack again. He wasn't smiling. She bit her lip and then blinked when he barked, "Pull over."

"What?" she quailed, "why?"

Jack reached over and pulled the steering wheel and flicked off the ignition. Sam stuck in the clutch and the truck rolled to a stop at the side of the dirt road.

"What is this?" she asked, sounding angrier than she was, but scared by Jack's rash behavior.

"You lied," he said. "Colonel Samantha Carter, world expert on everything, the woman with plaques and degrees all over her upstairs hallway. The smartest person I know and, until now, the one person I knew I could trust. You LIED to the court!?"

"I couldn't meet the damned deadline," Sam barked, "I worked night and day for weeks and I had nothing!"

Jack just stared at her, white with rage.

"What!" she shouted, "You think I can do anything? Jack, sometimes I can't!"

"So you lie?" he hissed. "YOU?"

"I did," Sam said in a low voice, trying to avoid a total meltdown. "I did it because I had no other way to save you, Jack."

"That's not good enough, Sam," Jack barked. "Not for you!"

That did it. Sam exploded, "Not for ME! Hey, but for General Jack O'Neill it's a different story! Blind? What was that, Jack!? You son-of-a-bitch! Don't you dare lecture me on the importance of being truthful! You'll be struck by lightening, f' cryin' out loud! Of all the asinine, pretentious, bull-headed, crap!"

"That's different," Jack barked, but losing steam as he saw he was on very thin ice.

"It's the same thing, Jack!" Sam shouted, "The SAME DAMNED THING! Do you know the hell you put us through? Do you know what you did to Daniel? To me?"

"Teal'c knew," Jack muttered.

"Well whoop-de-fucking-do!" Sam barked. "I DIDN"T! AGAIN! How many times are you planning to put me through this crap! Did you even drink that whisky, or just tip it down the drain?"

Jack didn't answer.

Sam went deadly quiet for a moment. Then she opened the truck door, climbed out and started walking.



ΩΩΩ

“Jack!” Daniel called as he walked away from the cabin. It had taken him three days to disengage from exploration of the Ancient database buried beneath Mount Ararat. He’d delegated the ordinary technical aspects of uploading the mother-load of data. He’d concluded essential work on the Ancient and Goa’uld inscriptions that SG teams had uncovered in the bowels of the Mount and, when he felt confident he’d done what only he could do, he left for Ely.

“Jack!” Daniel called again, circling the edge of the pond. There was no response. Daniel had pounded on the door of the cabin; he’d rattled the door and then, with a sick feeling of what he might find inside, used the key that was always under the first rock by the door.

Daniel had entered the dark interior of the cabin and was taken aback. The place looked like it had been ransacked. In fact, it probably had been, he realized. Jack O’Neill kept his fierce temper carefully restrained most times, but Daniel knew his best friend had the potential for hellacious rages, if Jack indulged them.

Jack had.

The small table beside the couch had been overturned and one of the legs was shattered. It looked like Jack had flung it into the bookcase. More than a dozen books lay open on the floor. Several more were tumbled behind the bookcase, as well. The bookcase itself leaned back against the window at an angle. The windowpane had cracked. Jack’s treasured antique fly rod dangled from its place on the wall and rested on the top of the tipped bookcase.

“Oh,” Daniel breathed, “This is not good.”

He stepped over bottles and half-eaten, food-encrusted bowls and made his way into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. There was no sign of destruction and no sign of Jack O’Neill, either.

Daniel checked the tiny bathroom and found the medicine cabinet open. Several medicine bottles stood on the sink. A couple of bottles, open in the sink, were empty.

Daniel lifted one and read the label: ‘Percocet.’ He grabbed the other and saw it was also percocet. The prescriptions were for twenty pills each. Daniel remembered each instance when Janet had prescribed the heavy-duty narcotics. Janet rarely prescribed anything so potent, but Jack’s injuries had been severe and painful. The first scrip was when his shoulder had been dislocated by an Unas in battle and there’d been nerve damage. The second, he’d returned from an archeological mission on P2X-989 with a concussion – the result of falling forty feet and slamming into a ravine wall when a rope bridge gave way beneath him. Jack, of course, had insisted on going first.

Daniel fingered the empty bottles and recalled vividly how Jack had refused the pills. There’d been at least thirty pills left, probably more. Now they were gone. So was Jack.

“Shit,” Daniel barked and ran out of the cabin, shouting Jack’s name.


Daniel skirted the pond, watching for any fresh signs of Jack’s boot prints. It had been dry and there were no signs. He paused and scanned the rank vegetation at the edge of the deep pine forest. His eye caught a broken stalk of goldenrod.

Daniel headed that way, plunging into the gloom of the pine stand, shouting for Jack as he trotted through the trees.

It was nearly an hour before Daniel found him.

“Jack!” he rasped, breathless and hoarse as he sprinted to the still form of his friend, leaning against the broad bole of a massive pine.

“Jack,” he repeated, shouting as he shook his friend’s shoulder and then slapping his face.

Jack opened his eyes and blinked, “Danny?” he murmured. “Whatcha doing?”

Daniel crouched and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him harder.
“How many did you take, dammit!” he demanded. “How long ago!”

“What time is it?” Jack answered.

“Jesus, Jack!” Daniel shouted. “How could you?” He grabbed Jack’s forearms and pulled him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

Jack pulled away, scrubbed his hands across his face and growled, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m getting you to the nearest hospital,” Daniel barked. “Of all the stupid …”

“Hospital! Why?” Jack demanded.

“To get your stomach pumped you selfish bastard!”

Jack straightened, yawned and sighed, shaking his head, “I flushed the percocet, Daniel.”

Daniel froze and then replied, “You swear?”

“It seemed like a good idea. Then, I was tired of drinking myself into a stupor so I took a little walk,” Jack continued, “I got sleepy. I took a nap.”

Daniel blushed and rubbed the back of his neck and then stammered, “Geesh, you scared the crap out of me, Jack.”

Jack grasped his shoulder, squeezed and turned back toward the cabin, murmuring, “I see that, Danny. C’mon. I didn’t flush the whiskey.”



ΩΩΩ
Daniel spent two weeks with Jack. On the surface he seemed fine. He ate, he slept, he joked around, and they fished. It was just like it had always been.

Except Jack didn’t mention Sam and he didn’t talk about the SGC. Not once. When Daniel tried to broach the subject, Jack deflected, ducked, or pretended not to hear.

Finally, after dinner on the fourteenth night, as they sat on the end of the dock, Daniel tried again.

“Sam loves you,” he said.

Jack’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t reply.

“You need her,” Daniel tried again.

Jack dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes.

“Say something, Jack,” Daniel whispered.

“I need her,” he said in a soft, matter-of-fact tone.

“Then tell her!” Daniel urged.

“Maybe she loved me, maybe not, Danny,” he continued. “It doesn’t really matter either way.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Daniel blurted. “Of course it matters!”

“Sara loved me ... Charlie loved me. It always ends ... like this,” Jack replied. “It always has … always will. Why drag someone I love into it?”

Then he struggled to his feet and hobbled into the cabin. When Daniel followed, Jack’s bedroom door was closed.

Daniel spent the next day trying to pry more conversation out of his friend, but Jack had closed the subject. He remained friendly, cheerful, and sober ... and totally silent on the subject of Sam.

During dinner, Jack paused over his dessert, grinned, and said, “Daniel, thanks for coming. Now, it’s time for you to go.”

The next morning, Daniel did.

ΩΩΩ


George pounded on Jack’s front door and called out, “Jack! Open up!”

There was no reply. With a deep sigh, the old General bent and started moving flower pots and likely rocks. After twenty minutes of searching, he still hadn’t located the extra key that Daniel had sworn was ‘right under the first rock’ beside the front door.

“Horse-pucky,” George muttered, figuring that Jack had probably moved it as soon as he got to the cabin.

“Jack,” he called again, “Open this gall-danged door before I call the MPs and have it broken down.”

Still nothing.

George called in a weary voice, “It’s damned hot out here, Son. Don’t you think you at least owe me a beer?”

That did it.

The door swung open and Jack stepped back slightly, as George entered quickly before he changed his mind. From the edgy look on the younger man’s face, it seemed likely.

As George passed, he caught a strong whiff of whiskey. He headed for the living room growling, to cover his concern, “I’ll take some of that, if there’s any left.”

He heard Jack fumble his way into the kitchen, then the clink of ice against glass and the sound of whiskey pouring into a tumbler.

George scanned the room. It was a wreck of half-eaten tins of pork and beans, bowls of congealed Raman noodles, scattered chips bags, emptied beer bottles, and an empty whiskey bottle. His eyes narrowed as he sat opposite the couch and saw the dull gleam of blued-metal at the corner of one of the cushions.

Jack’s hand gun.

George passed a hand across his eyes. Daniel Jackson had promised to stick with Jack until he was ready to be on his own. From the number of half-empty food containers, Jack had evicted his friend more than a few days ago.

George scrubbed his hand over his face again. What could he say that Dr. Jackson hadn’t already tried? Although Jack O'Neill had saved the people working and living around Mount Ararat, and the immensely valuable repository of Ancient knowledge that was buried beneath that mountain, O'Neill hadn't saved his men.


Jack would recover from his physical injuries in due course, but George sensed that he'd left the hospital a changed man. Or rather, for those who'd known him on the first mission through the Star Gate, perhaps as his old self again. The impression was glaring to George, now that Sam was out of Jack O'Neill's life.

She'd buried herself at the SGC. Hank Landry had claimed she was working on Icarus telemetry, gathering evidence to vindicate O'Neill, interfacing with her technical colleagues in Canada on the new technology discovered on board the Asguard-hybrid ship.

Landry had told George that the advances were nothing less than astonishing and promised to revolutionize the defensive capability of Earth. It was all good news, but George could see as he looked around his former 2IC's cabin, it came at a high cost.

What could he say that would make any difference? Almost certainly crippled and in a freefall since losing Sam, it seemed that Jack O’Neill would have preferred death beneath Mount Ararat to this ….

Jack limped to the stairs leading down to the living room, carrying George’s whiskey in one hand and leaning heavily on a cane in his left. He negotiated the two stairs clumsily, but George didn’t move to help. Jack was a proud man and stiff-necked. He’d manage.

“Thanks,” George said, reaching out a hand as Jack thrust out the glass.

Jack limped to the couch and dropped bonelessly onto the cushions.

“You look like shit,” George stated blandly. “What in hell have you been doing?”

“Thinking …” Jack said without a hint of rancor. He sounded stone cold sober. “… and drinking.”

“I can see that second part,” George chortled. “Tell me the first part.”

“What’s the fucking point!?” Jack growled. “Why!”

George leaned forward and took a thoughtful sip of Jack’s whiskey. It was smooth and smoky. He’d faced Jack’s question in one form or another too often in his career.

Why did good men and women have to die?

Why did evil seem to get all the breaks, while those who fought the good fight got the dirty deal every time?

Why was life a never-ending struggle full of pain and loss … and death?

Why go through it?

Why go on?

As if he hadn’t heard Jack’s outburst, George replied evenly, “I lost my wife eight years ago, Son. She was my joy and she was taken from me by a lingering, agonizing damnedable disease. Why?”

Jack’s face was a stony mask, but the rage had leached away. He turned his eyes downward into the glass, gazing into the amber fire. Then he took a long swallow.

“What’s the answer, George?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

George stood and emptied his glass. Then he set it on the end table.

“I never found one, Jack,” George said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’d give everything I have to be in your shoes …”

Jack winced, but George continued fiercely, “… to have one hour with her, to have just one more day … Pull yourself together, you lucky son-of-a-bitch!”


ΩΩΩ

Sam saw Jack sitting on the edge of the dock. He was leaning against the last post dangling his feet in the water, drinking a beer. Several bottles stood behind him.

He didn’t move as she approached, although she knew he’d heard her car and was listening to her footsteps as she walked the bare dirt path that led from the driveway to the pond.

Sam settled beside him without speaking. He turned slightly, then reached over, snagged a fresh beer, popped the top off on a rusted church key nailed to the post, and handed it to her.

Sam accepted it and took a long pull. It had been a dry trip.

Neither spoke.

Sam leaned back and studied Jack’s face. His sunglasses hid his eyes and the brim of his cap cast a shadow. Even so, she could see his cheek was thinner and deeply etched with the marks of his ordeal. Faded purple bruising still colored his lean jaw.

Sam finished her beer and then scooted close to his side, reaching for his hand. Jack’s fingers closed on hers and squeezed tight. His thumb found the ring she’d placed on her ring finger. The corner of his mouth turned up in a shade of a smile. They sat as the setting sun gleamed on the water and the tree shadows grew longer and, finally, blended into night.

"I got your text message," she said. "Just 'Come' ..."

"It worked," Jack replied.

"You will never lie to me again, Jack," Sam said softly.

"Yes, Colonel," he replied solemnly.

"What changed your mind about me," he asked after a long pause.

"I was finally able to access the data repository under Ararat," Sam murmured, breathing in his ear. "It holds all your life knowledge, you know."

"Danny said," he replied.

"There's some pretty good stuff in there, Jack," Sam murmured.

"'Meaning of life' stuff?" Jack asked.

"The meaning of your life," Sam replied, brushing her lips against his ear ... "and ours."

Jack grinned, turned and murmured, “C’mon.”

Sam helped him stand and handed him his cane. Then, with a million stars lighting their way, Sam led Jack up the dark and twisting path.



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