Title: Responsibilities

Author: Karen (Kent)

Email: a_non_entity@hotmail.com

Status: Complete

Category: Jack angst – nothing new there, then!

Pairings: Nope.

Spoilers: Learning Curve

Season:

Sequel/Series Info: None

Content Level: 13+

Content Warnings: Don’t think so. Oh, I think a swear word or two. Jack’s involved and folks are narked at him . . . what can I say?

Summary: Jack doesn’t get off so easily after he disobeys Hammond’s orders in Learning Curve. Disclaimer: I don’t own them, nor do you. I made no money from this, and am not rich enough to sue.

File Size (kb): 93

Archive: Jackfic, others please ask first

Author’s Note: Mega thanks to Judy (Gallagater), who offered support when I was going to give up on this, and who then ended up reading it several times without complaint, and providing wonderful suggestions that improved it immensely. Quite simply, Judy, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.

And I took considerable liberties with the OTS set up. So shoot me. It’s fiction, after all!

Tag to Learning Curve.

Responsibilities

‘You disobeyed my orders, Colonel. In front of the entire base. I can’t . . . won’t . . . allow that to pass without taking action.’

George Hammond glared at his unrepentant 2IC, who was eyeballing the shelf behind the General’s left shoulder. O’Neill stood as ramrod straight as any brave man who faces the firing squad. And, wisely, offered no claim for a last minute reprieve.

‘Everyone knows you took that little girl off the base. To A SCHOOL, for God’s sake. What were you thinking? She’s visiting from an alien culture, and you allowed her to mix with ordinary ten year olds in the fifth grade. ANYTHING could have happened.’

Hammond drew a calming breath. O’Neill still said nothing. He’d said his piece in the Control Room after he brought Merrin back. ‘Today I taught a little girl how to have fun. If you want to punish me for that, go ahead.’

Well, Hammond wasn’t being presented with much option.

And, perhaps that was no bad thing.

‘Your actions were reckless, and irresponsible. And in direct violation of your orders.’

The General ran his hands over the communiqué on his desk, which had come from the highest office in the land.

It didn’t matter that Hammond had tried to protect O’Neill. The minute he’d had to report a breach of security, and explain just what the Hell a visiting alien had been doing let loose in the general population of Colorado Springs, and the worrying fact that a whole class of ten year olds had come into contact with her, the absolutely blindingly obvious had happened.

And the proverbial fan had become well and truly clogged with masses of the proverbial flying dirt.

Shovelling through filth being dished out by several severely pissed Joint Chiefs of Staff was not amongst the General’s preferred pursuits, but Hammond was fairly certain that he was going to be cleaning his In Tray of the assorted fall out for months.

He was also sure he was still deaf in his right ear from the loud cacophony of outrage that had sounded down from on high about recent events, and the actions of one individual in particular. The Stargate Programme was not exactly a favourite with many a member of the Senior Staff, and there had been a great deal said about irresponsibility, negligence, disregard for security, considerable lack of judgement – Hell, lack of *any* judgement – and downright recklessness.

Much of it had been aimed at the less than enthusiastic head of one George Hammond, General, Officer Commanding The Stargate Programme.

But when deeper enquiries had brought up the possible court martialling of one Jonathan O’Neill, Colonel, Second in Command, The Stargate Programme, and, apparently, culprit-in-chief of said reckless escapade, Hammond had had to call in several favours, very rapidly. And eat considerable humble pie, on his Second’s behalf.

Damn it.

Whilst the Colonel had been off finding out about the effects of Merrin’s Avarium on her people, Hammond had been ensuring that the Stargate Programme, and the Colonel himself, survived O’Neill’s blatant disregard for protocol, security, and orders.

And the minute he walked back through the ‘Gate, O’Neill was summoned to hear his fate.

Hammond wanted to grind his teeth, but decided that was not the best policy when balling out his 2IC in such a fashion that the man would realise that his CO was as royally pissed as anyone at the SGC could ever remember him being.

‘A whole class! For Christ’s sake!’ Hammond fired off a broadside. ‘Ten year olds, who now think they’re going to get some hideous disease because the Government of the United States needs to have them checked thoroughly for alien contamination. AND CAN’T TELL THEM THAT!’

If there was anyone, anywhere, in the complex, who hadn’t heard the General, he wanted to know about it.

O’Neill was certainly shaken. The merest flicker in his eyes, and a fractional tightening around the mouth gave him away. Not much, but Hammond knew his man. Knew O’Neill was getting the message – that this time he’d stepped *way* over the line.

Hammond was passed pissed. He was in the next Universe to pissed. And he wanted to take out his seething anger on the right person. The person who had made him call in more markers than at any other point in his career. The person who had caused the General to have to well nigh grovel, on his behalf, to prevent said person from spending the next twenty years in Leavenworth, after being dishonourably discharged from the Air Force, for having flagrantly disobeyed the direct orders of a superior officer.

Goddammit.

‘I hope, Colonel,’ Hammond continued, ‘I hope that you will consider what your little *crusade* has cost? Children frightened they’re going to get sick for a start. Children who liked and trusted you.’

Which was below the belt, because if there was a way to Jack O’Neill’s conscience it was through his considerable consideration for children.

But, dammit, Hammond would take any weapon at present.

For all his good points, and Hammond knew there were many, had, indeed, spent the past few hours listing them to various influential members of the United States Air Force, his 2IC’s maverick streak was, at times, enough to give the General an apoplexy. Particularly when he chose to exhibit it in such a public fashion.

So that the whole base knew what he’d done.

Which meant, of course, that, eventually, so did every important person who mattered in the Air Force Chain of Command.

Sometimes the man had the subtlety of a selfish four year old in a toy shop, surrounded by Christmas goodies. With a one track mind. Who figured he had a parent he could wrap around his little finger.

Well, he was in for one hell of a shock.

It had taken a lot of persuading, and convincing, and downright wheedling, to save O’Neill’s career.

Hammond knew that, actually, O’Neill would probably have done the same thing even if he’d known it would have completely scuppered his future.

Which was part of what made him the man he was.

The officer he was.

The leader he was.

The sometime downright royal pain in the ass that he was.

But Air Force Top Brass were pissed.

At the Stargate Programme.

And Colonel Jack O’Neill.

And the Joint Chiefs were very pissed.

At the Stargate Programme.

And Colonel Jack O’Neill.

And the President was majorly pissed.

At the Stargate Programme.

And Colonel Jack O’Neill.

Which meant that General George Hammond had had a very uncomfortable time.

And was therefore pissed.

Royally pissed.

At Colonel Jack O’Neill.

Whatever his good points.

Whether he was a good officer or not.

Whether he was a good leader or not.

Whether he was the best officer and team leader Hammond had ever served with.

Made no odds.

The President had stormed, ‘Make an example of this man, General, before I change my mind and have him court martialled. *And* found guilty. *And* hung, drawn, and quartered.’ There had been a significant pause, before he’d blasted, ‘IN PUBLIC.’

And, later, when he’d calmed down a fraction, ‘O’Neill is not a law unto himself, General. He cannot be allowed to operate as a loose cannon whenever he feels like it. In view of his previous record, and actions, in the service of this country, I will *not* insist on a court martial. This time. But make sure he knows he’s treading a *very* fine tightrope with his career, General.’

Therefore, it had been up to Hammond to come up with measures that expressed the Air Force’s, and, particularly, its Commander In Chief’s, displeasure at O’Neill’s behaviour. And to place a marker on his permanent record to reflect them.

The Colonel was going to hate twelve weeks at Maxwell Air Force Base. Twelve weeks away from his team. Dealing mainly with paperwork. But he was just going to have to bite the bullet. He was the 2IC of the most important, and most *secret*, military operation in the United States, and if he started going around ignoring the chain of command, and disobeying orders as if they were insignificant shopping lists, then there was no telling where the situation would end.

This way everyone knew that the Colonel had been punished for what he’d done. But the SGC still kept one of its finest officers.

Hopefully, suitably chastened.

‘Your new orders are in this envelope, Colonel. Read them. Follow them. Without protest. Since you’re so keen to play teacher, go and play teacher.’

He looked at the shock in O’Neill’s eyes. Good. The man needed taking down a peg or two every once in a while. Needed to know that the chain of command actually stood for something in this man’s Air Force.

And it wasn’t as if the reassignment was permanent.

Just long enough for O’Neill to get the message.

And Hammond to recover his temper.

And the President to forget the indiscretion.

Until next time.

**********

O’Neill surveyed the bank of officer cadets seated in front of him. Fresh-faced, eager to please, spick and span youth. Christ he felt old.

They were waiting and watching, with the wide-eyed certainty of true believers, most of them. Waiting for his pearls of wisdom to be dropped before them. He could see one or two sceptics. Good, it always did to question everything. Never accept anything you’re told until you’ve tested it for yourself. Question everything, Airman.

Ahhhh, crap.

He locked eyes with the Master Sergeant standing at the back of the room. Shook his head slightly, looked down at his notes. What the Air Force wanted him to say. Well, stuff that. When had he ever done what anyone else wanted him to? And smiled, somewhat, at the irony of doing his own thing, here, where he’d been sent, as punishment for . . . doing his own thing.

But he’d been standing in this lecture theatre for two minutes, and he was bored already. And he hadn’t said a word yet. Just watched the future of the Air Force file into the room.

For crying out loud.

The prepared speech wasn’t the stuff these kids needed.

He approached the lectern, and felt the assembly settle quickly; could almost touch the anticipation of cadets waiting for their first Officer Training School lecture. The eagerness to learn. The desperation to do well.

Okay. Let’s get this show on the road. No messing. Straight in.

‘You are here, cadets, because you want to be officers in the Air Force of The United States. I’m gonna ask you one question this morning. One question only.’ He watched them. Knew he had made them curious. ‘Who are you responsible for in the field?’ He looked around the room, as an eager hand flew up. ‘Yes, Cadet?’

‘Yourself, sir?’

‘No, Cadet. Absolutely not.’

Too harsh.

He knew that the moment he spoke, and felt the keenness wither and shrivel, as eyes became suspicious, and uncertain.

They watched him, with the defensiveness of a group who have been challenged because the first answer was the wrong answer. Great teaching skills O’Neill. Clobber the confidence of the first poor bastard who tries to answer a question. Don’t even say thank you for trying.

Crap.

He wasn’t a teacher.

Crap.

This was going to be so hard.

Crap.

How to gain back lost ground?

Now they’re waiting for you to answer your own question.

Way to go, O’Neill.

Okay, help them out. Because they’re sure not going to help you, right now.

‘First and foremost you are responsible for your team. The men and women who serve under your command. You are responsible for their lives, and well being. You are also responsible for any poor bastard who gets in the way who isn’t serving with the enemy. You are responsible for the troops of the allied forces you are serving with. You are responsible for the defence of your country, and everyone who lives there. Up to, and including, your Commander In Chief, and down to, and including, the dumbest schmuck you can think of from high school.’ He had their full attention now. ‘And last, and definitely least, you are responsible for yourself. But only after you have considered everyone else first. That is your job. Accept it, or leave now. Take it, or leave it, and get out, because this is not for you.’

He looked around the room. Noted the ones who looked straight back, the ones whose eyes wavered, the ones who actively avoided his gaze. The leaders, followers, and shirkers. Every class had its share of each. The latter needed to be weeded out, the leaders encouraged to the hilt, and the others moulded and guided to their fullest potential.

‘Right! Here endeth the first lesson. Go away. Think about it. Decide if you’ve got what it takes. If you haven’t get out now. That is also your responsibility - to yourself, to the men and women you might lead, and to this country. If you still think that you’ve got what it takes, be back here tomorrow, same time, for the second lesson.’

He saw them look at their watches in surprise. Ten minutes was all it had taken. They were meant to be here for an hour and a half. A bank of eyes looked at him in confusion.

‘Yeah, we’re a little short on the timescale here, folks. You’ve got eighty minutes to go away and reflect on what I’ve said. Use that time wisely.’

Gathering up his folder O’Neill walked away with the sound of confused discussion breaking out behind him. Yeah, ambush and surprise. Shock tactics. Worked every time.

It had also saved him eighty minutes of tedium in front of a class, and a probable sore throat.

The Master Sergeant nodded to him on the way out.

********

‘You are not here to play by your own rules, Colonel. We have a script - I GAVE you the goddamn script. You don’t decide to do as you damn well please on MY base. No matter what you think you can get away with at Cheyenne Mountain.’ General Forrest looked as if he would burst a blood vessel at any moment, his face the puce colour of a ripe plum. ‘I don’t care what you do for George Hammond, I don’t care if you are the President’s pet Air Force officer, I don’t care if you are the best goddamn officer in the Air Force - which I KNOW you’re not, or you wouldn’t have been sent here for me to mind, DAMMIT! I WILL bust you back to Second Lieutenant so fast you’ll wish you’d never been born, if you pull a stunt like that again. AM I MAKING MYSELF CLEAR?’

To the whole fucking base, General.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then get out, Colonel, and come back tomorrow in a frame of mind to follow orders.’

‘Sir.’ O’Neill gave the General his best snapped salute and about turn, and marched out.

This was so not going well. Forrest was such an asshole. Commend a little initiative, why don’t you, General?

No way.

Because, let’s face it General, you got to BE a general by following orders. To the letter. Every crossed “t”, and dotted “i”. To the very last full stop. Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir.

O’Neill stuffed his hands into his pockets, and wandered off in search of a soul saving beer.

He wanted to talk to Daniel. About anything.

Indecipherable artefacts would be fine.

He wanted to talk to Carter. About anything.

Incomprehensible Wormhole Physics would do.

He wanted to talk to Teal’c. About anything.

Impenetrable Jaffa jokes would be okay.

But they weren’t here. And he wasn’t allowed to talk to them the whole time *he* was here.

Kicking a pebble along the asphalt parade ground, Jack decided that his life royally sucked, right about now.

*********

Forrest watched O’Neill leave and wondered what he, as CO, Officer Training School, had done to deserve being used as a jailer to an officer who had obviously done something that required disciplinary measures to be taken against him? It wasn’t his job.

He’d protested, heavily, that, surely, placing an officer who was under a cloud in front of a class of officer cadets was not conducive to them receiving the best instruction.

He’d been over-ruled. And told to make sure O’Neill was lost behind a mountain of paperwork, and given the most boring lectures to deliver. And the orders had come with the seal, and personal signature, of the Commander In Chief, so Forrest had ceased his arguing. But, on today’s evidence, he had definitely had a case.

Forrest closed O’Neill’s file with a angry snap. The man had apparently done a lot of top secret stuff, after qualifying as a pilot, and then branching out into Special Forces. Which meant that, basically, he was trouble. Special Forces were a law unto themselves. And after he had became embroiled in their secret world there was little in his file, except the word ‘Classified’, in large red letters, some personal details, and his latest assignment.

And what the Hell was Deep Space Radar Telemetry, anyway?

********

Cadets Beasley, Jones, and Freidal sat in the twelfth row back. Close enough to be taken as interested. Far enough away to idly draw on their notepads without drawing attention to themselves.

Beasley watched the Colonel and wondered how many front-line actions he had seen. Probably got to be a colonel by doing everything right by the book. That’s why he was working out his years at OTS, a nice little cushy number until retirement. He’d probably never even heard a gun fired in anger.

It was no secret that General Forrest was a veteran of many desk bound campaigns, fought with the precise efficiency of a swift pen stroke.

Beasley watched Colonel O’Neill talk. He’d not been impressed by the officer yesterday when he’d cut through Beasley’s attempted answer to his opening question.

Beasley had, in truth, been slighted by the fact that, firstly, he’d given the wrong answer, when he’d so wanted to make his mark early on in the class, and that, secondly, O’Neill had been so blunt.

Way to go, Colonel. Make friends and influence people. He watched the Colonel use his notes to plod through the lecture on the history of the US Air Force. Beasley made desultory notes of his own, and tried not be obviously falling asleep. But O’Neill really needed to crank up his style. He was deadly dull.

**************

‘Watcha doin’?’ Freidal slumped into the chair next to Beasley.

‘Checking up on O’Neill.’ Beasley perused the page he’d found in the Air Force database.

‘Why?’

‘Didn’t you hear about the bawling out Forrest gave him?’

‘Yeah.’ Friedal grinned. ‘Figure the whole place knows by now.’

‘So,’ Beasley said, ‘Forrest thinks he’s a waste of time. I dunno why he’s here teaching us, but I thought a trawl through his file might give some clues.’ He glanced up. ‘Rumour has it, he’s blotted his copybook, big time, and Forrest’s having to baby-sit him whilst they decide what to do with him.’

‘Whatcha found?’ Freidal tried hard to read over his friend’s shoulder.

‘Nothing much. He’s spent loads of time doing something called Deep Space Radar Telemetry. Whatever the fuck that is?’

Freidal shrugged his incomprehension. ‘Sounds like boring scientific shit,’ he said. ‘What else’s he done?’

Beasley scrolled down the screen. ‘Most of it’s classified beyond low lifes like us,’ he complained. ‘But it doesn’t say he served anywhere important. Doesn’t say much about anything, actually.’

Cadet Jones slipped into a chair next to his friends.

‘Whatcha got?’ he enquired.

Beasley sat back. ‘Nothing. Guy’s a complete nonentity.’

Jones peered at the record Beasley had found. ‘He’s got plenty of medals,’ he said, pointing to a portion of the screen.

‘Yeah, well, I could see that on his shirt, yesterday,’ Beasley agreed with a sneer in his voice. ‘But I don’t see too much to explain them.’ He continued, ‘You can get most of these for just being in the right place at the right time, and sitting behind a desk.’

Freidal tried to be fair, ‘Maybe it’s all classified. Top Secret. That kinda thing.’

‘Yeah, riiiiiight,’ Beasley made it clear he didn’t think that was the case. ‘The guy’s a nothing. Got promoted ‘cause he knew the right people. Now he’s here teaching us about responsibility “to the men and women who serve under your command.” It’s a friggin’ joke.’

‘He’s got the Air Medal,’ Freidal pursued.

‘For Deep Space Radar Telemetry,’ Beasley said. ‘I ask, does he strike you as the scientific type?’

There was no answer from the others.

‘Exactly,’ Beasley smirked. Then sneered, ‘Bet he spent the whole assignment with his feet on the desk, reading the paper, and letting others, waaaaaay smarter than him, do all the work, while he took the credit.’

‘You’re just pissed ‘cause he blew you out in the lecture.’

Beasley looked at Freidal in disgust. ‘And what’re you? His best buddy? Teacher’s Pet? So I’m narked. Doesn’t alter the fact that Colonel “Look After Everyone Else First, And Consider Yourself Last” hasn’t done anything worthy of respect, that I can see.’

‘The Aerial Achievement Medal,’ Freidal made a last-ditch, forlorn effort.

‘So, he can fly a plane,’ Beasley shrugged. ‘Big deal.’

The three cadets studied the screen, but it wasn’t giving up its secrets easily. Colonel O’Neill’s record was, indeed, largely classified. Freidal felt his friend might be being a touch harsh on their instructor, but couldn’t really find the inclination to carry on the discussion. He’d mainly been trying to wind up Beasley. And had obviously succeeded.

Beasley studied the screen, but there were no other clues to Colonel O’Neill’s background. Beasley couldn’t explain his disappointment to the others. How he’d wanted to boast to his dad that he was being taught by an instructor who was decorated to the hilt, with many important missions behind him. That he’d made the right choice. Air Force, not Army. And not have to admit to the fact, this early on in his career, that anyone in the Air Force might have feet of clay.

Beasley flicked the computer off and shrugged. ‘I guess the guy’s just another boring desk jockey. I bet he excels at paperwork,’ he said scornfully, as the three got up to leave.

Which sentiment, had he heard it, would have given Jack O’Neill a coronary.

As he surveyed the files, forms, and folders, piled high across his desk.

Along with records.

And reports.

He was busy, and had been for the last two hours, scribbling his signature across various evaluations that needed completing, in triplicate, before he was finished for the day. It was ridiculous. He’d barely met any of the cadets, and he was supposed to be writing reports about them.

Apparently.

He had a sneaking suspicion Forrest had invented these particular assessments in order to keep his temporary assignee tied to his desk, and not out causing any sort of possible chaos, or insurrection, around the training school.

O’Neill huffed as he shoved another completed task into his Out Tray.

Damn George Hammond.

Which wasn’t fair, and Jack O’Neill knew it. The General had, no doubt, been in deep water over the Merrin incident. Jack wasn’t above taking responsibility for his own actions, and knew he’d gone beyond the pale with his ‘little crusade’, as Hammond had called it. Which was fine. But whilst O’Neill might get his head chopped off for it, the General didn’t deserve to join him in the tumbrel on the way to the guillotine.

Which was a fancy analogy, so far as analogies went, and made Jack feel slightly less depressed. He tried to think of others, but his mind wasn’t working. It was stuck fast in the glue of endless, needless reports.

He scratched his indecipherable scrawl across another page. And another. And another.

And cursed paperwork.

And General Forrest.

And himself.

He thought about his team, and wondered how they were doing without him. That was the worst part about all this. Being separated from the folks he now called family. No matter how deserved his punishment might be.

Teal’c would tell him, in his slow and measured tones, that O’Neill must accept his sentence and wait with patience to be released. The problem was Jack O’Neill had always been rather thin on patience. Whereas Teal’c could stand with the stately, millennial serenity of a redwood tree, Jack O’Neill was the seedling tossed on the wind, light, constantly moving, eager to continue its journey. Seek out pastures new.

Okay, Teal’c ole buddy, I’m doing my best here. I know I screwed up. And I know I deserve this. But it’s so haaaard. And, I know . . . I know . . . it wouldn’t be *punishment* if it were easy, and I should just accept it in a calm Jaffa-like kinda fashion. But . . .

He scrawled his name, again.

And tried not to think about his brother in arms.

Read a report.

Felt his mind wander.

Carter.

Was probably ashamed of her CO, and glad she didn’t have to look him in the eye for a while.

Truth to tell he was glad he didn’t have to look *her* in the eye, as he was more than a little ashamed of *himself*. It had been a spur of the moment thing. Take Merrin. Show her the world. Show her fun. Think about it all later. As usual.

And he would do the same thing again. No doubts. If he was the only person who suffered. But Hammond had probably had his head chewed by officious folk on the Senior Staff, for a start. And Jack realised he’d probably come closer than the General would ever tell him to ending the Stargate Programme once and for all.

He hoped that somebody had told the kids at the school that everything would be fine. He hoped it *was* fine. After all, the safety of Earth adults whilst in Merrin’s proximity had been checked. But not kids. Nice call, Jack.

He was sure nothing would happen.

But . . .

Ahhh, quit it.

They’re fine, or jack-booted, stern looking, handcuff carrying SFs would be here, waving court martial papers in their paws.

Yeah, right.

Pursue your own little crusade, Jack.

Ignore orders, Jack.

Do your own thing, Jack.

Great.

What did he spend his entire time doing?

Berating Daniel Jackson for doing precisely that.

Some example he was to the other members of his team.

Jack gazed out of the window of his small office, at the inviting green areas of the sports ground, and beyond. Then he looked back at his well deserved penance.

He read a report.

And signed his name.

Hoped the school kids were safe.

Read a report.

And signed his name.

Hoped *his* kids were safe.

**********

The class didn’t get restless, they were too well drilled for that. But the atmosphere was less than cordial. Beasley’s suspicions about O’Neill’s service record had slithered through the group like a snake in the undergrowth. So, no matter how the Colonel valiantly tried to preach from the Service Manual Forrest had given him, about Air Force expectations, standards of behaviour, and codes of conduct, there was a smouldering resentment coming his way that he was powerless to overcome.

Unaware of the slur campaign, Jack put it all down to his crass start with the class. He could find no other explanation.

But as he had waded through the history of the Air Force, and well known military engagements that provided useful examples of what, and what not, to do in given combat situations, he had gone down about as well as a Republican nominee at a Democratic Convention.

Jack had itched to provide anecdotes of his own, liven up the stolid diet he was forced to feed the cadets. But he had resisted. Forrest would have blasted his ears off again. And, anyway, pretty much every thing he’d ever done was classified.

So, he *could* tell them. But then he’d have to shoot them.

Not good for the recruitment verses graduation average.

Therefore, he pressed on with the unsatisfactory dry details. That bored him, and the class, to the verge of comatose week on week.

And Beasley sat, quietly pleased with his little subversive operation.

The class gave the Colonel just as much as was necessary, and no more, in the lectures he gave. And he’d not taken any of the practical instruction, merely the classroom stuff. Beasley was sure there was a reason for that.

It was no secret, now, that General Forrest thought O’Neill was a liability. Several conversations had been overheard, and gleefully passed along the malicious jungle telegraph that existed in closed communities. The two men were rarely seen together, or even in the same vicinity, if they could avoid it.

O’Neill also seemed to have little to do with the other instructors, or they with him. The cadets who had been picked to serve as orderlies in the Officers’ Club reported that O’Neill had only appeared there twice, and on both occasions had been convincingly snubbed.

Conversations overheard proved the other officers believed him to be trouble, or *in* trouble, which was probably worse, and so not someone they wanted to be associated with. Also, as they were on long term assignments at OTS, they didn’t want to incur the wrath of General Forrest, who quite obviously considered O’Neill to be a tack in his shoe he couldn’t wait to prise loose.

After the second time the Colonel hadn’t braved the frosty reception again, and kept to his own company.

Beasley watched O’Neill go through the motions of delivering a lecture on possible future restructuring of the Air Force. Deadly as an overdose of barbiturates. The class was making the minimum number of notes, and quietly playing noughts and crosses, or doodling to pass the time.

They were within two days of graduating their twelve week course.

Beasley was pleased with the fact that he and Friedal looked like tying for Best Student. His dad would be proud, too. Beasley allowed his mind to drift, as he thought about Beasley senior making the journey to Maxwell. In his day, his dad would’ve given O’Neill what for, that was for certain.

***********

Captain Rod Beasley smiled at his son. He still couldn’t quite get over the fact that his son wanted to go into the Air Force, and not the Army. It had seemed like a betrayal of all he believed in when Ron told him what he wanted to do.

‘But you can’t fly jets in the Army, dad.’

So now, here he was, at a Parents’ Open Evening on the eve of his son’s graduation, looking at Ron, so proudly dressed in his Air Force Officer Cadet uniform. Ahhhh, well, he’d get used to it he supposed.

Beasley senior rested his weight against the cane that was his constant companion and support, since a bullet had destroyed his thigh, and his career, and sent shards of bone into his knee.

‘There he is, Dad.’

‘Who?’

‘The guy you can knock spots off.’

Beasley senior glowed inwardly at his son’s praise. He might be a crippled, old, ex-soldier, who hobbled around with a stick for balance, but he had been a damn fine officer once. And he knew Ron was proud of him, and the things he’d achieved before his career was so explosively cut short.

He looked across the room towards the grey haired officer with the insignia of a bird colonel on his shoulders. The one Ron had so little respect for.

‘C’mon, Dad. Let me introduce him to a *real* hero. Not one of his fictional creations, all full of *responsibility* for everyone except themselves.’

‘Ron,’ the Captain protested.

‘Dad, the man’s a liability. Makes me sick he’s in the service. I want to let him hear about your stuff.’

‘Why?’

‘To hopefully, make him feel ashamed,’ Ron snarked. ‘And if not it’ll make *me* feel better for all those boring as Hell lectures he gave us.’ He made his father laugh, as he played through a mock introduction. ‘Colonel, this is my dad. He was a Captain in the Army. And he’s waaaaay better than you, even if you *are* a Colonel in the Air Force. Please, dad.’ He wheedled. ‘He deserves it.’

And Beasley senior found himself guided firmly across the room towards the Colonel, who was sipping a drink in a desultory solitary fashion, whilst others made conversations in groups around him.

‘Sir?’

O’Neill seemed surprised that anyone had bothered to talk to him. Which wasn’t surprising after the weeks of cold shouldering he’d put up with.

‘Ummm . . . yeah? Beasley?’

‘This is my dad, sir.’

‘Oh?’

Ron looked at his dad. Now that he’d got the two men together he wasn’t sure what to say next. His father rescued him. ‘You’re one of Ron’s instructors, sir?’

‘Yes. Colonel O’Neill.’

‘Pleased to meet you, sir. Captain Rod Beasley. United States Army. Retired.’

O’Neill studied the carriage of the man on front of him. The cane he needed to steady him. Something itched at the back of his mind.

‘Dad served in the Gulf War, sir.’ Was there some bite to that?

‘Really?’ O’Neill eyed the cane once more.

The elder Beasley saw his look. ‘Busted my leg.’

‘Dad was lucky. His team thought he was dead, and left him behind.’ Ron was bursting with the details. Determined to pin the Colonel with the fact that his father had seen action, and that he was damned sure O’Neill hadn’t.

‘The Iraqis would have taken me if there hadn’t been an air strike on their advancing front line troops.’

‘Score one for the Air Force, dad,’ Ron grinned. ‘See we get you Army boys out of trouble.’

Father and son grinned at each other in obvious affection, oblivious to O’Neill’s silence, or the flickering in his eyes as the younger Beasley went on to tell the story of his father’s war.

‘Dad was lucky weren’t you?’

‘Sure was, son.’

It was clear that the details were ingrained in the minds of both Beasleys from a constant retelling of the tale.

‘A Special Forces guy on his way home from some super-secret mission found dad.’

‘Luckiest moment of my life,’ Rod nodded.

‘He carried dad home. Fifteen miles. And he had a few wounds himself.’

O’Neill was focussed now, and his hand strayed unconsciously to his left side.

‘Never did tell me his name,’ Rod sighed. ‘Special Forces secrecy, and all that, I suppose. And I couldn’t even tell you what he looked like that much, under the dirt, and the cap he wore. And I had pounding concussion, too. I was pretty much out of it when he found me. I’d have died if he hadn’t carried me home.’

He waited as if expecting O’Neill to say something. When he got no response he continued, regardless. ‘Two days it took. We travelled mostly at night. Cooler then, you know? And we talked about our kids to keep us going. I talked about Ron so much I wore my tongue out.’ He looked proudly at his son. ‘Just thinking about Ron kept me going. And the guy kept saying I had so much to go back to, that I couldn’t give up.’ Father and son looked at each other with obvious respect and affection. And Beasley senior nodded, knowingly. ‘He was so right.’

It was hard to believe that Ron had grown up enough to be able to wear the uniform of his country. That the tall athletic young man standing at his side was the son in junior high he’d described through the long chilled desert night, to a man he’d never met before, and hadn’t met since.

Ron was sure that the Colonel was bored, standing there with such a blank look on his face. And he wanted to ram his father’s story down O’Neill’s throat. All those words you spouted about responsibility, Colonel. That’s all it was, to you. Words. You wouldn’t know heroism if it ran you over in the street. I’ve found your file on the Air Force mainframe. You may be classified, but that’s because you worked on some spectacularly boring, secret, research things. Got the Air Medal for services to Deep Space Radar Telemetry. Yeah, that just about sums you up, Colonel.

He wanted to say it all.

But said none of it.

Instead his father asked, ‘You have children, Colonel?’ in a last ditch attempt to make conversation.

‘No.’

‘Oh, well, they can be a blessing and a curse.’

‘Yes, so I hear.’ Was there something odd in the man’s voice?

Captain Beasley gave up. The man was obviously bored rigid by the event, and Beasley himself. His son was right. A poor excuse for an officer if you asked the former Army man. Any officer was supposed to give his all at social functions, no matter how tedious he might find it. O’Neill was an asshole. Shame he had been instructing his son. Still Ron could obviously sort the wheat from the chaff in this place. Recognise who to take notice of. And who to ignore.

********

Jack eyed Forrest trying to make a grand impression on students and parents alike. And, once the General was otherwise occupied at the other end of the room, Jack wandered outside. Social functions were almost as much torture as Daniel’s pre-mission lectures, or Carter’s incomprehensible technological analyses.

God, he missed his team.

Crap.

Everything about this assignment was just so designed to wring him out, either with boredom, loneliness, or memories he’d rather keep locked away.

He remembered Beasley.

Rod.

Remembered how, during the long trek back from a solo sabotage mission, he’d come across the abandoned soldier lying helpless in the desert. He’d been barely conscious, and obviously left behind by rapidly retreating colleagues because they had thought he was dead. Jack smiled bitterly at how ironic *that* scenario was.

He’d suffered a badly broken leg, and severe concussion, and had been little help, at first, when Jack tried to aid him. He’d kept blacking out with dehydration and pain.

Jack had given him much of his meagre supply of water, and then decided that the only thing he could do was carry the man back with him.

They’d struggled through the chill of the first night, guided by the stars and a clear moon, that lit the empty wind-shaped landscape, like a newly cast silver dollar lying on a bed of black velvet.

Jack remembered the tiredness, as it crept into his bones like a worm eating away the marrow that gave him the strength to remain upright. He remembered how Beasley’s body across his shoulders weighed him down with responsibility, and yet uplifted him with determination.

He would get the man home.

No one got left behind.

Yeah, right.

He remembered their long conversations during the frequent stops. Anything to pass the time as they tried to make it home across hostile territory. He remembered telling him about Charlie. How proud he was of him. How much he loved his wife. Remembered wondering if telling the guy Charlie’s name was a mistake. Hadn’t told him his own name, though. Or Sara’s.

Jack tried to push the memories back in their box. So much of that time was connected with things he’d rather not think about. Four months in Hell for a start. Charlie, for another.

He really ought to be inside. Forrest was going to have his guts for garters if he didn’t put in a fine show. And he liked being a colonel. No way did he want Carter to outrank him when he got back to the SGC. Which looked a distinct possibility the way things were going.

If he didn’t watch his step the lowliest stores clerk in the mountain would be able to order him around.

And he’d probably be cleaning latrines for the rest of his Air Force career.

Peachy.

Okay, George, I get the message. Can I come back now? I promise to be a good boy.

Well, most of the time anyway. As much as I’m able.

****

General Forrest watched O’Neill seeming to sleepwalk his way through the conversation with Cadet Beasley and his father. Honestly, the man was a complete liability and the sooner his time here was over the happier Forrest would be. The man was a walking flagrant abuse to Air Force rules and regulations. If he’d come through training when Forrest was in charge he’d not have lasted a day.

Anyone as antagonistically smart assed as O’Neill deserved to be drummed out of the Air Force, no matter his record.

Determined to mend any fences the uncaring officer may have broken the General made his way through the crowd.

‘Captain Beasley?’

‘Sir.’ The retired soldier smiled and saluted. A snapped top grade salute, Forrest noted. O’Neill could learn a lot from this man.

‘Your son has done well. You must be very proud of him.’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’ Beasley looked at his son, who grimaced as his father continued, ‘I wish he’d gone into the Army, mind you. Followed his old man. But . . .’

Father and son looked at each other, and chorused, ‘You can’t fly jets in the Army.’

Forrest smiled thinly. ‘No, indeed. Still, I’m pleased with his progress. He has the makings of a fine officer.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Beasley beamed. ‘You’ve no idea how much that means to me.’

‘Well, I just wanted you to be sure about that, I wasn’t certain Colonel O’Neill would have made it clear.’

‘He didn’t really say much, sir, to be honest,’ Beasley hedged.

‘No,’ The General grimaced. ‘Colonel O’Neill is on temporary assignment here.’ And then thought, to Hell with protocol, ‘I have to say that he’s not doing so well, at the moment.’

‘Oh.’ Beasley obviously wasn’t sure what to say.

His son stood and lapped it up. He’d known O’Neill was an asshole. The General might be no front line veteran but he’d at least had the decency to treat the Training School as if it mattered. O’Neill treated it as if he desperately wanted to get back to the world of Deep Space Radar Telemetry in double quick time. Where, no doubt, he had his own little routine all sorted out, which involved everyone else doing the hard work, and O’Neill planting his feet firmly under, or on, the desk, leaning back, and taking it easy.

He’d probably been as shocked as Hell to get this assignment.

Forrest continued, ‘The Colonel hasn’t seemed quite able to embrace the values of the OTS with the enthusiasm I would have liked to have seen.’

Beasley remained silent. He found the General’s confidences rather unsettling. Fall outs amongst senior officers were not something he had ever involved himself in when he was serving in the Army, and he didn’t want to break that rule now. But the General seemed to take his silence as an invitation to pursue his less than charitable evaluation of Colonel O’Neill.

‘Frankly, Captain, the Colonel has rather failed to see the importance of what we do here. That we are shaping the lives, values, and careers of young people, entrusted to us by their parents, and guiding them along the road to becoming fine and worthy officers.’ Forrest was lost in his own rhetoric. ‘Officers who will serve their country well. And make their parents proud.’

Beasley but found himself saying, ‘Possibly Colonel O’Neill doesn’t understand as he hasn’t had any children of his own, sir.’

Forrest looked at him oddly. Then decided that imparting a further little snippet of information wouldn’t hurt. Particularly as the whole thing just went to prove what an irresponsible person O’Neill was. And therefore, by default, a sorry excuse of an officer, who had probably gotten where he was just because somebody owed somebody else a favour, or because he’d known the right people.

Or at least that had to be how he’d *stayed* where he was, the General concluded.

‘Oh, the Colonel had a son, Captain. The boy died young. Killed himself after the Colonel left his gun lying around.’ It was tragic, Forrest had to admit that. A life snuffed out so carelessly. And there was no doubt that O’Neill had been cut to the quick by what had happened. Forrest had read that personal detail in the man’s file, before he arrived. But still . . .

Beasley couldn’t find anything to say. He looked at Ron and tried to imagine losing him before he’d grown. Tried to imagine how he’d feel if he’d lost his son in the circumstances the General had described.

And couldn’t.

No one, no matter how poor an officer, no matter their background, no matter their personal story, no one deserved to have that happen to them.

***************

Beasley found the room suffocating after a while, and left his son talking to a group of his friends, whilst he decided to go outside in search of some fresh air.

Slipping out through large doors marked ‘Fire Exit’, he was pleased to feel the cool night air wash over him. His leg was starting to ache fiercely, and he wondered if there were any benches around. Leaning heavily on his cane, he hobbled painfully forward, before becoming aware of a figure he recognised, leaning on a railing, gazing out at nothing in particular, it seemed to Beasley, as the parade ground was lost in the darkness.

Obviously hearing sounds behind him, Colonel O’Neill shifted quickly, guiltily the Captain decided somewhat uncharitably, as the other man looked over his shoulder to see who had joined him.

O’Neill was standing against the back drop of the night in a silver pool of light, cast by an overhead beam. And something about his long legged, lithe stance was illusively familiar, brushing against Beasley’s mind with the lightest feather touch. O’Neill’s dress uniform peaked hat was hanging within his clasped hands. Hands that turned the hat round and round. Strong hands. With long slender fingers. Beasley’s memory stirred. Long slender fingers that moved with a restless energy that searched persistently for an outlet.

‘Captain?’ There seemed something warily hesitant about the word.

Here, outside, away from the disconcerting background hubbub, Beasley listened more closely to the voice. Gently timbred.

‘Colonel?’ He was uncertain what to say.

O’Neill shifted his position as if uncomfortable

Was there something guarded in those brown eyes?

Shit.

The eyes.

Shit.

The hands.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Shit.

The rest of the face had been obscured by sand and dust. Bracketed by a scrub of beard, and a short thatch of auburn hair under a scuffed peaked cap. And most of the time he’d worn a pair of shades. And the concussion had made focussing difficult.

The face in front of him now was clean shaven, and topped by crew cut grey. But the eyes . . . the eyes were the same. Deep dark brown. With crow’s feet. No. Perhaps they were more shadowed and guarded than Beasley remembered. But they were still the same remarkable eyes.

In the evening he’d taken the shades off and talked about his wife and son, as the two men had watched the falling sunset, and prepared to travel. It was easier to travel through the chilled night, than during the heat of the day.

And, by the moon’s silvered glow, his eyes had fired with an inner light, as he spoke of his family. Shone with a love that was undeniable. Burned with determination, as he had bullied Beasley into not giving up on his own family.

And, as his long efficient fingers had applied first aid to Beasley’s shattered leg, he’d smiled easily with his eyes, and assured the younger man that they’d make it. No sweat. And he wasn’t gonna leave Beasley. Because no one got left behind if he had anything to do with it.

Especially if they had a young son to go back to.

Shit.

Family.

To go back to.

Son.

‘Charlie.’

O’Neill flinched as if he’d been shocked by an electric current.

‘Charlie,’ Beasley repeated. ’That was the name of your son, wasn’t it?’

O’Neill squeezed his lips together, thinly, and squinted through eyes that suddenly looked lost and bereft. His head dropped, and he looked at the cap revolving in his hands as if it was the most fascinating thing in the whole wide world.

Beasley said nothing for a long time. Respecting the other’s silence. Feeling he owed him that.

Owed him so much more.

Couldn’t believe that the fates could be so cruel.

‘The General told me what happened to him. To Charlie.’

Eyes flickered briefly sideways, towards him, before going back to their study of the darkness.

‘I’m so sorry.’

At first Beasley thought there had been no reaction, then noted that the hands were stilled. Gripping the hat so tightly the frozen knuckles reflected white in the overhead beam.

‘I didn’t know . . . you . . . were . . . you. Then.’

The silence was deafening.

‘He was just talking, and . . . he mentioned it,’ Beasley was sure he was babbling. Overcome by the revelation that he had found the man to whom he owed his life. By complete accident.

O’Neill wasn’t helping. He stood so still. Eyes front. Like the freshest cadet who just knows he’s going to get blasted by the Drill Sergeant, so the safest thing to do is keep staring forwards, and make not the slightest eye contact. Then, hopefully, that way the moment will pass more quickly, and the Sergeant will move on.

But Beasley was determined that this discovery, which he’d waited over ten years to make, would not pass without him saying the things he’d waited so very long to say. Needed to say. Needed to ask. There was so much of the picture that was blurred, or just plain incomplete.

‘I tried to find you,’ he said quietly. ‘I was ages in the hospital. My leg didn’t heal right.’ He waited for a response, only to be disappointed. Again. ‘But, when they let me out, I tried to find you. To say thanks.’

O’Neill still gave him nothing.

‘I thought you might have come to check on me,’ Beasley said.

For a long time the moment stretched. Then, just as Beasley had almost given up, as if O’Neill realised he had to say something, words were served up, reluctantly.

‘Meant to.’ O’Neill grimaced, and gazed off, somewhere, a long, long way away. ‘Got held up.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh.’

I’m missing something here, Beasley thought. A piece of the puzzle.

Held up? Prevented from coming. Halted. Stopped.

Another mission? Possibly, but would it have held him up for long?

Held up. Foiled. Prevented. Obstructed. Detained.

Detained?

Shit.

Detained. Captured. Imprisoned.

Shit. In spades.

Beasley remembered all the things he’d heard, all the things he’d read, and seen, about the treatment of POWs in The Gulf War.

Shit.

Felt his way, slowly. ‘Held up?’ Was he right?

There was a long pause. ‘Yeah.’

Beasley waited for more, then, gently, enquired, ‘For long?’

O’Neill dragged his mind back from wherever it had gone, and looked at the other man with a sudden focus, and Beasley could almost see the cogs in his mind replaying the conversation rapidly, looking for evidence that he had convicted himself.

Saw him reach the conclusion at the same time as Beasley.

‘Yeah,’ he admitted, reluctantly. ‘A while.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah. So was I.’

‘What happened?’

There was a long pause, and the Captain wondered if the other man would answer. Then, quietly, ‘Got left behind.’

Ah, God, so much said in three words.

Four syllables that spoke volumes.

O’Neill was gazing across the parade ground again. His eyes shadowed by thoughts, and his face lined by the strain of memories of a time long gone, yet ever present. The hands once more turned the hat round and round, as if searching for a way out of the maze of recollections he was lost in.

‘I’m sorry,’ Beasley repeated. Feeling useless. There didn’t seem much else to say. O’Neill had suffered the very fate from which he’d rescued the Captain.

A cruel irony.

O’Neill glanced momentarily at Beasley, then went back to his intense study of the parade ground with a shrug. ‘Shit happens, I guess.’

Beasley looked out into the night, uncomfortably. Unsure about whether to stay or leave. And found himself thinking about another night. Under a well polished moon. Lying on sand. He remembered having enough strength to run the fine grains through his fingers, and think about how, cruelly, the sands of time had run out for him. That he was going to die. A long way from home. From his family. That he would never again see the people who mattered the most to him, this side of Heaven.

He remembered the pain in his leg that fired all the nerves in his body. The pounding in his head that filled him with nausea. Remembered the hopeless backwash of despair that came with knowing he was too far from his own side to ever make it back on his own.

And that he was going to die.

Soon.

Alone.

And then, like a shadow there was someone else there. And Beasley had been sure he was dreaming. Hallucinating. Losing his grip on reality, as he was losing his grip on life.

But the illusion had been real. A saviour sent by unknown forces of fate.

Who had knelt at his side and promised to get him home.

Beasley looked again at the man leaning on the railings at his side.

O’Neill didn’t turn. His hands had stilled again. His eyes fixed away beyond Maxwell Air Force Base. His body tense with memories.

‘I never . . . had the chance . . . to . . . ‘ Beasley couldn’t help the faltering words. This had come so out of the blue that he was truly knocked sideways. So many times he’d told Ron about the knight in shining armour who’d appeared as if by magic to help him.

The constant retellings had made the story a family myth. The unknown, mysterious stranger who had vanished without trace after completing his task.

Beasley gathered himself together. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. I’ll go. I just want you to know . . . I never had the chance to say . . . ‘ he almost wilted as O’Neill glanced sideways, not quite looking Beasley in the eye, and waited, a guarded expression across his face. ‘ . . . I just want you to know, . . . that I’m very grateful. For what you did. Thank you.’

O’Neill said nothing.

‘You gave me back my life. If the Iraqis had found me . . . well,’ Beasley smiled, grimly, ‘you saw the state I was in. I doubt I’d’ve gotten any real medical treatment. I’d have likely lost my leg. Probably more than that. Probably have died. And, for all that I hobble around like a lame duck, I do, at least, have two legs to hobble around on. A life to hobble around in. I owe that to you, sir.’

O’Neill nodded, fractionally. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘And my son got his father back. My wife got her husband back. I wasn’t quite whole. Wasn’t quite the same person.’ Beasley had a feeling that, somehow, despite his best intentions, he wasn’t making things any better. ‘But they got me back. And they owe that to you. *I* owe that to you. I can never repay you for what you did.’

The silence was so thick Beasley felt he could have stood a spoon up in it.

‘Sure.’

Beasley stood, helpless. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he felt he needed to say.

And yet he seemed only capable of standing and staring at O’Neill, who was staring down at the hat clasped tightly in his hands, once more, as if he was holding on to his self control with every shred of strength he had.

What was he thinking, Beasley wondered? This man to whom he owed so much? The man to whom Ron owed the fact that he had grown up with a father at his side.

Father.

Son.

Shit.

Here he was blabbering on about families.

‘The Colonel’s son killed himself. After the Colonel left his gun lying around.’ The General’s words echoed in his mind.

Beasley wanted to be sick.

To survive the hell of being POW, and then to have that happen.

Beasley thought about Charlie. Remembered the pride and joy with which this man had talked about his young son. About the wife he loved so much. About how his grubby face had seemed to shine with the feelings he had for them as they talked through the fast falling desert twilight, and on through the night.

Beasley had talked about Ron. His hopes and dreams for his son. And the two men had found so much common ground that any thought about names, and ranks, and branches of the military had not been touched upon after the opening minutes of their acquaintance.

Through the next two nights O’Neill had carried him to safety. Despite being hurt himself, wounded in the side, he had carried Beasley fifteen miles to their own lines. They holed up during the day. Snatching sleep where they could. Trying to hide from the scorching finger rays of the sun under the one man protective sheeting that O’Neill had carried. Beasley knew that his rescuer had made certain that he got the majority of the protection, whilst O’Neill kept watch.

And, when neither could sleep, or as they struggled through the night, with Beasley supported across the other man’s shoulders, they had both talked of families and home. Of futures when the war was over. Of hopes. Of dreams. And O’Neill had forced Beasley to talk about the future. Convinced him that he had one to look forward to.

‘If you think I’m going to friggin’ well let you die, after I’ve carried you half the length of the friggin’ country,’ he’d complained, ‘you’ve got another think coming.’

They’d compared notes about where they’d met their wives, how long they’d courted, and how well their wedding days had gone. Then they reminisced about the births of their children.

Beasley knew that Charlie had been born too early, and that that he had had to struggle hard for life. He told his new friend about Ron’s birth in the back of a taxi on the way to the hospital. ‘He was in a real hurry. Has been ever since!’ He’d murmured through lips that were dried and blistered, despite the generous sips from O’Neill’s water bottle.

As the time wore on, O’Neill had forced Beasley to listen to children’s stories he’d had to read to Charlie. And made him repeat them back, so he knew he was still conscious, and listening.

Now, Beasley could only look with sympathetic eyes. Could only guess at the despair. Not even begin to understand the devastation.

The determination needed to survive the death of your young child.

Who had meant the world to you.

‘I . . . Colonel . . . ‘ There was nothing to say. Nothing that could be said.

O’Neill remained statue still, eyes focussed blindly on his hands.

‘I wish . . . ‘ Beasley ground to a halt, once more. ‘Thank you, Colonel. For myself, and for my family.’

And turning, he hobbled back into the building. Leaving the Colonel alone with his memories.

For it seemed the only thing Beasley could do for this man, who had saved him when he was left behind and left alone, was to leave him behind and leave him alone.

‘Dad?’

The voice was so quiet he almost missed it.

Ron was standing in the shadowed porch way, lost in the gloom so that even after Rod knew he was there he found it difficult to see him.

‘Son?’ Then, in realisation, ‘How much did you hear?’

‘Enough.’ Ron’s voice was stunned. ‘Dad?’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Rod said quietly, acutely aware of the man standing alone in the darkness behind him.

They found two chairs, and sat down together, and for a moment were silent, as if unsure of what to say to each other.

For over ten years they had talked about the man who had saved Rod’s life. The man to whom they owed so much. Rod had tried to make enquiries, but had come up against a blank wall almost instantly, because he was searching for someone from the secretive world of Special Operations. Where names and missions were classified, and closed. Protected and private. Where outsiders were excluded. It was like looking for a name written in coal dust in the dark.

Now, here, suddenly, due to a weaving of fate as incomprehensible as when Beasley had been found himself, he had discovered the man to whom he owed his life.

He raised his eyes to his son’s, and saw the same shocked expression he knew he must have in his own eyes.

‘Dad?’ Ron sounded bemused. ‘What happened?’

‘I . . . ‘ Beasley shook his head, and then gathered himself. ‘I went outside. For some fresh air. And . . ‘ he shook his head again, as if to dispel the fog of disbelief. ‘And . . . he was standing there.’

‘Colonel O’Neill?’

Beasley nodded. ‘There was something, Ron . . .’ He looked at his son. ‘ . . . Something about the way he was standing. He was holding his hat . . . it was his hands. And his eyes.’

Ron was watching his father closely.

‘What about them?’

Beasley shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. Not really. It was just . . . I watched him work on my leg in the desert. Clean it. Set it. Splint it. Bandage it. And I remembered the hands. And how he looked when he smiled, and said he’d get me home. His hands . . . his eyes . . . they were the same hands. The same eyes. That’s all.’

‘But, Dad, I checked him out, on the computer. His records say he’s done nothing much.’

‘That’s what I would expect. He was Special Forces, remember? They hide everything. He never even told me his name.’

Ron nodded, wonderingly. Struck by the realisation that he had been wrong. Incredibly, and unforgivably, wrong.

The vague references in O’Neill’s file were not times spent relaxing on some cushy assignment. They probably signified more danger, and front line action, or even behind the lines action, than anyone would ever know about.

He felt the ghostly hand of shame flutter through his mind. The man he’d despised, and led others to despise, was someone to whom his family was so deeply in debt that the bill could never be paid in a lifetime.

He could see, through the doors, under the beam light, O’Neill still with his elbows on the railing, head bowed. Looking as if he was silently praying to the night.

There was something hauntingly lost and lonely about the figure.

His dad was watching, too. And somehow Ron knew there was something he hadn’t been told. Something more.

‘Dad?’

Rod said nothing for a while, weighing the merits of what he might say. Yet, his son was as much a part of the story as he and O’Neill were. And Beasley senior remembered his son’s scathing opinion of his instructor. Rod could not have cared if O’Neill had been, or was about to be, court martialled and dismissed from the service with dishonour. For two days in 1991 he had shown immense courage, determination, resourcefulness, and strength of character. And had made the Beasley family indebted to him for life.

It didn’t matter what had happened since. They owed him a lifetime’s support and respect, in repayment for those forty eight hours.

And yet, Beasley suspected that O’Neill could not have altered so radically. Whatever his son might believe. However, or for whatever reasons, he’d ended up at Maxwell, the man Beasley had known was incapable of being the man his son believed him to be.

Though there was no denying that O’Neill’s life had not been easy since.

‘Dad?’ Ron prompted again, quietly.

And Ron deserved to know the truth. O’Neill deserved that Ron knew the truth.

‘You promise me, that you’ll repeat nothing to anyone?’

Ron frowned. ‘Why? What’s so mysterious?’

‘Promise me, Ron.’ Beasley pressed.

‘Okay.’

‘What was the first thing you heard?’

‘Something about him giving you your life back.’ Ron shook his head. ‘I only came to see if you were all right. I didn’t expect to see you talking to . . . ‘ He stopped. Still coming to terms with the revelations about the man he had despised until half an hour ago. ‘I kinda followed what was going on, and then realised what you were saying.’ He looked at his dad, and shook his head, disbelievingly.

Rod nodded. ‘Shocked me, too, son.’ He ran his cane backwards and forwards across the floor. ‘He’s changed quite a bit. So I didn’t recognise him at first.’ He looked Ron in the eyes. ‘But, it’s definitely him, son. No mistake.’

Rod could see his son’s mind working through the story of the mysterious stranger. He knew as much of it, from the continual retellings, as his father. Could see when pieces began to fall into place.

‘Then . . . Charlie . . . ‘ Looked at his father in shock. Stunned by the memory of the General’s curt history of O’Neill’s family.

Rod nodded.

‘Shit.’

Ron shifted uncomfortably, and Rod knew he was thinking of all the times they’d laughed about Charlie, and created stories about both him, and his mysterious father, and their lives together. Hoping that they were as happy as the Beasleys had been fortunate enough to be. It was hard to alter their thinking, so quickly, to take account of the fact that the boy was dead.

They sat in silence, thinking through things quietly .

Finally, Ron asked, ‘Did he say why he just disappeared, and never came back?’

Ron took a deep breath, and nodded. ‘He . . . was left behind. Like me.’ He said. ‘Only . . . he wasn’t as lucky as me.’

He watched his words sink in. Watched realisation dawn, like a light that draws closer so quickly that its glare becomes painfully and blindingly bright.

Saw Ron blink.

‘Wasn’t as lucky?’ Ron repeated.

His father shook his head. ‘No.’

They both looked at the solitary figure still standing outside.

‘Then he was . . .’

‘A prisoner of war. In Iraq. Yes.’

A silence fell between them, but they were both knew the other was thinking about the same things. Conversations that they’d had down the years about how lucky Rod had been. How fortunate that one lone soldier, on some secret mission, had chosen a route home that meant he tripped over a concussed, left-for-dead, Army captain.

About what it would have meant if he hadn’t.

Almost definitely Rod would have lost his leg. The doctors had made that clear when they treated him. But lost in an Iraqi jail, with careless, and probably brutal, captors, the chances were even more certain that he would have died.

They had watched reports of POWs and their horrific treatment, and thanked God for the mysterious man who had spared Rod that fate. Now, it was hard to find that they could be thankful only in the knowledge that their hero had suffered just that fate himself.

Ron remembered O’Neill’s file. Remembered Jones’ and Freidal’s attempts to point out that the missions might be classified. He had been all too ready to jump to snide conclusions. Make snap judgements. Because he had wanted to make an early impression, and had had his nose put out of joint in that first lecture.

O’Neill might be under a cloud, but not getting on with Forrest could be explained by any number of reasons. It was not necessarily that O’Neill was a bad penny in the Air Force coin exchange. There was always another way to look at things. And it was an officer’s responsibility to look at all the options. Beasley was beginning to realise that he hadn’t done that. He had only seen what he wanted to see. Made a personal assumption without being willing to be open minded.

A bitter mistake.

A hard lesson to learn.

**********

Cadet Beasley moved to the podium, and stood to attention. As Top Student he got to make the Class Graduation Address.

He stepped forward.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the speech I was going to give today.’ He held up several pieces of paper. ‘However, sometimes you have to do things a little differently.’

He paused, as curious eyes watched him.

‘OTS has been the most valuable experience of my life. I have been privileged to learn many lessons. Two of which I want to share with you.’

He searched for the audience for his father’s eyes, shining with pride, as his son continued, ‘They are the lessons of judgement, and responsibility.’

Beasley saw his father nod, and squared his shoulders even further. ‘I have learned to never, ever, judge a book by its cover. And to always be sure of your facts before making any decisions. As an officer that is your responsibility. As it is, also, to study the merits of what you do. Do you do something for the good of others, or for your own rather selfish ends?’ He paused. ‘You need to consider those two points in order to do your best by those officers who serve with you, and the men and women who serve under your command. As well as those whom you serve. From the Commander In Chief, down to the dumbest schmuck you remember from high school.’

One particular head lifted at those words, and brown eyes narrowed, as they watched the speaker.

‘Because,’ Beasley paused for effect, before continuing, looking deep into the narrowed eyes, ’sometimes you can get things wrong, and those deserving of great respect do not get it.’

The eyes blinked in surprise. ‘I have learned valuable lessons here. And I shall be a better officer because of that.’

He held the watching eyes. ‘Thank you.’

There was a hush in the hall. Somehow, people knew that there was more to the heartfelt words than their literal meaning. That, somewhere, someone was being given a message of sincere gratitude.

‘For everything.’

***************

The SGC was quiet. It was late, and, although strictly speaking it was a twenty-four hour, seven day a week assignment, activity was generally muted through the night. Not that, so far down in the bowels of the earth, it was ever easy to know exactly what time it was.

Jack O’Neill made his way through the echoing halls until he came to a halt outside a half opened door. There was a light casting a long shadow across the concrete floor, and he knew the room’s owner was in residence because he’d done his homework before dragging his sorry carcass this far.

Standing a moment he grimaced, knowing that he could stand here only so long before he would have to do what he came to do. What he had to do.

Jack O’Neill was a brave man. But some actions took more courage than others. And this one was not something he’d been looking forward to.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked and waited.

‘Come.’

He stepped into the room, and stood, silently.

Hammond looked up.

‘Colonel.’ His voice was neutral.

Right, Jack. Dig deep. You owe this man far more than you’ll probably ever know. Almost certainly your career. Almost without doubt the fact that you aren’t sitting in a six by six cell in Leavenworth right now.

He shows you far more patience, latitude, and understanding than you have any right to deserve, and you need to give the man something in return, apart from smart ass comments, winsome I-know-you’ll-let-me-do-my-own-thing-really smiles, and a creative attitude to following orders.

Sure, you respect him. He’s the best CO you’ve ever had. And damn good at his job.

But you don’t make that clear often enough.

‘Good to see you.’ Hammond was still operating in shades of magnolia. Jack would have preferred blazing red, or well chilled blue. At least then he’d be certain where he stood. Instead he got bland. Unreadable.

‘Sir. It’s good to be back, sir.’ Goddammit. He couldn’t look the man in the eye. This was so hard.

‘Colonel . . . ‘

‘Sir . . . ‘

They both stopped, together.

Hammond raised an eyebrow. Jack gazed at the shelf behind the General’s ear, and tried not to think about the last time he’d been in this office, doing exactly that.

‘You first, Colonel.’

Jack paused, and searched desperately for his rehearsed words. But his mind had gone a complete blank.

‘How was OTS?’ Hammond prompted, quietly.

Gathering some threads of intelligent thought together, O’Neill took a deep breath. Shit or bust, Jack. The man deserves that you own up. Say what you need to say.

Show some backbone, O’Neill.

‘I had time to think, sir.’ He removed his eyes from the shelf, and forced himself to look his CO in the eye. ‘About judgement. And responsibility. Sir.’

Hammond blinked. ‘You did?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jack pressed on, knowing that as usual when he really needed to have words that flowed, he was stumbling. But, dammit, he would get through this. And from somewhere he heard Beasley’s voice, and the thankful penitent took the gift he was offered. ‘I learned that sometimes you can get things wrong, sir, and that you don’t always give your respect to those who deserve it. Sir.’

Hammond blinked, again. ‘Sounds like you had an interesting time, Colonel.’

‘Yes, sir.’

It wasn’t the apology he had planned, and yet, somehow, it was better than the words he had obsessed over, and which had flown away on the winds of pressure. He felt the weight lift, and he looked at Hammond.

Was surprised at the smile he found. Knew his apology had been accepted.

‘Do I need to schedule a periodic refresher course then, Colonel, to keep you on the straight and narrow in the future?’

Jack felt a grin begin to spread across his own face. ‘Ah, no, sir. Once was enough.’

And everything settled back in that moment, as things will after a minor earth tremor has upset the usual calm and order of a place. Things were not quite as they had been, but nothing important had been irretrievably disturbed or broken.

‘Good. Then tomorrow we’ll see if we can round up the rest of your team, Jack, and discuss a new mission.’ Hammond leaned back in his chair. ‘I presume you are wanting to get back to work as quickly as possible?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ O’Neill nodded, enthusiastically. Then, ‘Whatever you say, sir.’

‘Good.’ Hammond looked long and hard at his 2IC, before emphasising, ‘Just so long as we’ve got *that* straightened out, Colonel.’