The folder made a pleasant slapping sound as it landed on top of the 'out' pile, possibly an effect that was enhanced by the fact that the 'in' box was completely empty, a rarity anywhere in the facility but in this particular office, unheard of.

Colonel O'Neill leaned back in his chair and stretched out his lanky frame, he hated paperwork with a passion and it was more than phenomenal he'd managed to get through it with but a single curse. Before shutting down the computer and heading for home he tapped out the few keystrokes that would retrieve any waiting e-mail.

As usual the subject headings were more work related than anything else; with updates to personnel files, mission reports and possible new destinations identified by Carter's random dialing program with a little spam thrown in for good measure.

A simple one-word subject line caught his eye. 'Humpty'. The senders address was only a long string of random characters denoting the encryption used to hide the identity when it was sensitive in a 'top secret' classification sort of way.

He clicked it. Only one person ever called him that and it was ages ago. Dorsey was a Lieutenant Colonel back then and O'Neill had been a Captain, both Special Forces hot shots, or so they thought until O'Neill had taken that plunge out of a plane with a defective parachute. Dorsey figured his teammate was so screwed up by the experience he'd never come back. Just to challenge him, Dorsey started calling O'Neill Humpty Dumpy after the storybook character that took a 'great fall'. He taunted the young Captain time and time again about pulling himself together and getting back on that plane. Little did either of them know so long ago that what the fall from the airplane couldn't do, four months in a dank dark cell would at a later time. Broken could only begin to describe what had happened to one Jack O'Neill.

After months in a rehab facility he was recovered of his injuries from the fall and insisted on rejoining the team instead of taking the ticket for home he'd been offered. The whole team was thrilled to have him back since his special skills were often sorely needed. He *was* quite simply the best his Commander had ever seen, and that included the Navy's number one Seal team. As soon as his particular brand of genius was recognized in the academy, he'd been encouraged to go Special Forces.

While in training he'd often impressed senior officers with his ability to perceive a threat long before it was obvious and then show his strength of character by making whatever hard choice was necessary and dealing with it. Add to that his almost immediate understanding of any weapon placed in his hands and the young airman was a force to be reckoned with.

He rejoined his team, determined to overcome the setback, and in no time at all had found his 'edge', and was once again an integral part of the group. Then *it* happened. A mission gone wrong. Separated from the team. Left behind. He'd never forget the sight of the helicopter taking off and turning its tail to him and never forgive the men aboard her.

He shook off the clouding memories as the document loaded. Oddly it wasn't just a letter or note like he'd expected. It was a map with a specific site marked in red. The only words were a cryptic 'Tomorrow, 1930 Hrs'.

O'Neill squinted at the screen memorizing the location and hit the 'delete' key twice, permanently removing the message. The document disappeared from view and he leaned back in his chair again, this time not to relax but to consider the request. If this was about renewing an old friendship Dorsey had a strange way of going about it. He was certain it was about something else; he just didn't know what.

<><><>

"Second star, nice."

The older man almost leapt out of his skin. One minute he'd been sitting quietly on the park bench tossing bits of bread to a flock of pigeons while waiting for his 'appointment' to arrive and the next he was startled nearly enough to wet himself by the soft voice speaking no more than an inch from his ear.

Major General Dorsey composed himself in record time; he wasn't about to let his former teammate see how easy it had been to get the drop on him, despite the person doing it was admittedly an expert in the field of covert ops. In fact it was one of the reasons the General had kept an eye on one certain Colonel's career since coming out of retirement for, unbelievably, the second time. Skills like that were rare and needed to be utilized. Something Dorsey had seen to several times over the last few years.

"Jack. Glad you came."

O'Neill took a seat next to the General and eyed the man from head to toe. Older, of course, both of them were, but Dorsey had a bit too much of a paunch to his stomach, and far too immaculate a uniform with every crease just so. The man had become an ace paper-pusher. "Thought you'd retire as a Brigadier."

"Could have, but you know-" A tiny smirk began to show on his lips. He knew what O'Neill was thinking and despised paperwork just as much. "It's so damn exciting I couldn't pull myself away."

O'Neill allowed himself a full and genuine grin at his old CO. "Good to see you Dorce."

"I see you're still a Bird."

He shrugged as he answered. "Too many retirement breaks and too many little black marks in my file."

Dorsey looked away and off to the horizon. "Your file is just like mine Colonel, all the black is where the censors inked over the stuff we can't talk about."

A silence fell as the mere mention of the link between them dredged up memories best left forgotten.

"Why am I here?"

"Right to the point; you haven't changed much, you know. Okay then." The General took in a deep breath and blew it out. "Since your most recent 'reactivation' you've been called upon for a few missions that were shall we say, more akin to your previous occupation."

O'Neill's expression hardened just slightly; the older man now had his full attention.

"As you may have guessed it was me behind them."

Actually he hadn't, but now it made sense. Dorsey was the highest-ranking surviving member of the elite team of which they'd been a part and knew full well the Colonel's capabilities. O'Neill wondered how it was he'd been asked to take on a few 'special' missions over the past few years that were not related to his current assignment. The only one that had anything to do with the SGC itself had been to expose Makepeace as a mole and it was authorized by Hammond; the rest had come from somewhere in Washington.

Even Hammond had been privy to only two others; the remaining ones had taken place while he was on supposed 'downtime'. Luckily no one ever questioned why he sometimes came back from 'fishing' with serious jet lag or unexplained bruises, though once it was necessary for Fraiser to be contacted by a direct link from the Pentagon with orders to 'treat, ask nothing, and exclude from records'.

At first she'd been irritated and had stalked around the infirmary like a frazzled wet hen then threatened to go directly to Hammond. O'Neill had grabbed her arm and forced her into her own office and shut the door.

The manhandling didn't bother her so much, except to raise her ire even more, but when she turned and looked into his eyes all that changed.

In that moment she knew fear.

It had a name and a medical file three inches thick that she'd read cover to cover. Twice. She, possibly more than anyone else on base, save Hammond, knew exactly what the Colonel had been through during his career and the price he'd paid to get where he was now.

She felt the bile rise in her throat and hoped she wouldn't throw up.

He blinked once, twice, and it was gone, replaced with a quiet softness that she dared not intrude upon by speaking. Her breath finally came to her, and she prayed to never see that look turned in her direction again. For all the mock hostility she and her staff endured at the mercy of the Colonel, she'd always managed to stay in control of her little kingdom, that was, until now. Now she knew the truth; she only ever controlled him because he allowed it.

He shook himself as if the intensity of the atmosphere was something tangible he could remove like a cloak, and reached into his back pocket, producing a page from a newspaper folded upon itself until it was not much larger than a half sheet of paper. He plopped it on her desk, unfolding it partially so that a particular story was on top.

The infant daughter of a Texas senator was kidnapped and had just been returned two days before. The article was a blow-by-blow account of a vicious firefight between the kidnappers and Police and how when the captors knew it was over they decided to destroy themselves and the child with a couple live grenades. From out of nowhere an unnamed officer had appeared and grabbed the girl. The grenades went off and the man turned his back to the explosion with her in his arms to protect her. The rest of the story was about the flurry of activity as the Police Swat Team took over and returned the child to her parents. No further mention was made of the man who pulled her out of harm's way.

Fraiser looked at the Colonel and opened her mouth, but he shushed her with a look. Not quite as menacing as before, though just as effective. He turned the paper over to hide the story then slowly, and with obvious pain, removed his jacket and T-shirt and turned his back to her. The vest had done its job and protected most of him, but his upper arms and shoulders had several small lacerations, which had already been cleaned out and sutured as necessary. Her job would be to keep an eye on the healing process and take out the sutures when it was time.

When he turned back to face her she had tears in her eyes, perhaps the 'mother' in her showing. She helped him back into his T-shirt, and as their eyes met she smiled at him and mouthed the words 'thank you'. He'd come as close as he could to breaching classification protocol and telling her what happened, a gesture she'd remember for a long time. His only response was to give her a sharp nod, then pick up his jacket and saunter off. To anyone else it was just *him*, maybe a little stiff, but that could be chalked up to showing his age. Only Janet Fraiser and one frightened little girl knew what a hero he was.

Then again, only O'Neill and the unnamed source in Washington knew what a near failure the mission had actually been. The Colonel wasn't supposed to grab the child and get himself injured; that had happened only when events moved along faster than he'd anticipated. His orders were to neutralize the grenade threat and position himself to take out at least one of the men when the SWATs moved in. He'd earned a reprimand for foolhardiness from Washington and a handwritten note from the Senator thanking the 'anonymous officer' for what he'd done. Two sides of the same coin.

Dorsey continued. "Something has come up, another mission, and your skills and knowledge would be most useful."

"That's no different than before. So why reveal yourself now, and why meet in person?"

Dorsey's eyes fell to the ground. "This one's special. You remember Toby?"

"Sure, last time I saw him he was packing it in. Going home for good. He intended to keep his wife pregnant for three or four years and raise at least one of them to be a major league pitcher."

The General had to grin at that one. Toby was relentless when it came to baseball; he knew every stat for every year since before he was born. The grin quickly faded, and he raised his eyes to once more give his attention to O'Neill.

"Some of that happened. I think there are three kids, two of them boys." He paused before dropping the bomb his companion knew was coming. "Jack, he stayed in the reserves, got called up with this last war and shipped out."

"And?" O'Neill was becoming visibly impatient.

"And, four days before the end he was out on a routine patrol. They were ambushed and taken hostage. Six of the nine have been accounted for and are back home, two in body bags."

"Toby?"

"We've just recently received intel that even this long after the surrender, there are strongholds where people are loyal to Saddam, and some of them have American prisoners in their custody. One such camp is near where Toby's patrol was attacked. We believe he is there. The diplomatic talks are failing, and there's such an uproar about how bad conditions have gotten since we took over, who knows when they'll actually start talking prisoner exchanges and such."

In his mind O'Neill was already ticking off the logistics of a hostage extraction. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and squinted out across the small lake in front of them, deep in thought. "How good is your information?"

"Very."

"Precise location, opposing force strength and possible back up by locals, firepower estimates and usual patterns of the guards and anyone else who might be in the vicinity?"

"All available."

"Transportation?"

"You'll drop in as close as we can get you; for pick up we'll use Turkish Helos. They make frequent runs past the border, and the locals are pretty used to seeing them. Hardly pay attention to them anymore."

"Time frame?"

"From go to completion? A week or two, but you should prepare for more in case of complications, it *is* Iraq after all, and I don't expect it to be a one-man op this time, for obvious reasons. You can hand pick a team from the SF's attached to the local Command if you want, but keep the compliment small, two or three only." There was a short pause as the General gave O'Neill a moment to consider the options. "As usual I won't order you to do this, your choice alone. This could be a bad one and no official sanction."

O'Neill snorted at that. Since when had the government *ever* backed him up on one of these missions? He didn't answer right away but then suddenly sat upright and crossed his arms in front of his chest, a look of resolve on his face.

Dorsey's eyes brightened. "So, you in?"

"I'll need a cover story for Hammond, I'm not due for any time off right now."

"Don't need it, unless you want to work out something for everyone else who might be affected by your absence. Due to the nature of this mission I've decided to let Hammond into the loop if you agreed to go. I'll brief him within the hour and then head back to DC. You'll be ready to ship out at 0600?"

"Usual place?"

"Usual place."

O'Neill stood to his feet. "How many besides Toby?"

"Two others, I'll have files and photos of all relevant persons waiting for you on the plane."

"As usual." The Colonel nodded once then turned to leave. He shot a sly grin back over his shoulder as he walked away. "Two stars, huh? Wouldn't have guessed."

<><><>

The restaurant parking lot was full as a testament to their claim of having the 'best steaks outside of Texas', and the only parking O'Neill could find was on the street. This team outing had been planned several days ago and he'd been looking forward to spending some time with his 'kids' outside of work. He wasn't about to miss out on it completely despite running 45 minutes late and once again being called upon to do some extra-curricular work for good Old Uncle Sam.

Everyone was already digging into their plates by the time O'Neill stepped into the doorway. He nodded to Daniel who was waving him over then detoured to the bar to pick up a beer before joining the group at a long rectangular table set adjoining the recreation area. Teal'c and Daniel were discussing something decidedly 'X-Files' while Carter and Fraiser were eyeing the pool table and betting whether Carter could beat the current night's would-be pro.

O'Neill sat across from the women and nodded to Fraiser. It was nice to see her joining them. She wasn't specifically a member of the team but was always a welcome addition to the party.

"Ladies."

They broke from their giggling and greeted him. "Colonel."

"Sir." Carter glanced at the beer and back up at his face. "I hope that's not dinner."

"Actually," he turned the bottle and made it wobble on the table. "I might get something to take with me. I need to make this an early night."

"Hot date, Jack?" Daniel looked at him over the top of his glasses and took another bite of potato.

"Ah, not really." O'Neill's eyes stayed on the label of his beer, the only overt reaction being his eyebrows momentarily flicking upwards. "Something's come up; I've got to go out of town for a few days."

"Don't we have a mission coming up day after tomorrow?" Carter asked.

"Standard follow-up right? Known friendly. I don't see any reason to delay going on my account. You can handle it." He waved a hand in her direction. "Besides, Daniel's been looking forward to it for over a week; he hasn't talked about anything else."

"Hey! *He* is sitting right here! And what's not to look forward to? They've got a museum that rivals our own Smithsonian."

"Two-headed goats?"

The archaeologist groaned and shook his head. Leave it to O'Neill to pick the one anomalous thing out of the initial contact team's mission report. "You know a museum is about a lot more than oddities and bizarre deformities, how about history?"

"But they *do* have a two-headed goat."

"It's not a goat."

"The picture looked like a goat."

"It's still not a goat."

"As I recall it was a small horned quadruped." Teal'c offered as a compromise. The other two men both immediately looked at him trying to decide if this was another attempt at humor from the Jaffa.

Carter and Fraiser had been watching the exchange and burst out laughing at the same time. Sam leaned over to the Doctor and stage whispered an explanation. "Really, it *was* a goat."

O'Neill grinned and leaned back in his chair, saluting the younger man with his beer bottle. "Three to one."

Daniel chose to ignore him and called to the waitress for a refill on his coffee. Only twenty minutes later O'Neill stood to leave.

"I should be going."

"Anything we can do?" Daniel had gotten over his irritation and was curious about what would take O'Neill away from his post on such short notice.

"Nah, I just have to do something for a friend." He noticed the questioning look in Fraiser's eyes and stared back at her with a hint of sternness, an unspoken reminder of the nature of his occasional exploits.

"Goodnight all. Carter?" He nodded his head toward the exit asking her to see him out.

He didn't speak until they were outside and a short distance from the entrance. "This may take longer than a couple of days. In the meantime, I've talked with Hammond about the status of SG-1. I see no reason to put everyone on downtime because of my absence. You're well able to command, so you'll have the team until I get back." He paused. "If I'm delayed very long you might consider requesting a fourth."

"Sir?" Her eyes opened wide. Suddenly she understood he was up to something more than a social visit and was now preparing her for the possibility he might not come back. Ever.

"Colonel, what's this about?"

"Like I said, something for a friend."

"I don't buy it. If you can't say, then just say you can't say."

He balked at her words; the woman was spending *way* too much time around a certain archaeologist. "All right then, I can't say."

Carter stared at him for a moment blinking. She knew his history and understood covert and classified missions, but it was unsettling to find herself without clearance. She began to reach one hand out, imploring him, but caught herself and jammed both hands in her jeans pockets instead. She fought not to stammer as she spoke.

"Whatever it is, you know you could trust us."

A flicker of dismay crossed his eyes as he recalled the fallout from having left his team out of the loop before. It had taken several weeks for the team dynamic to get back to even close to where it was before he'd taken that mission for the Asgard and Tollan; he'd had to earn their trust all over again.

"I know, and I do." He looked her straight in the eye as he spoke then lowered his head slightly and continued in a softer tone. "Sam, it's all right. I just have to go."

Her head turned to the side, and she glanced at his hand where it had come to rest on her shoulder, his warmth evident through the thin fabric of her shirt.

"Just be careful, okay?"

He grinned as he released her and turned toward his truck. "Hey, it's me. Don't worry."

<><><>

The plane ride out was nothing special. O'Neill was given a courtesy lift out of Petersen on a commercial commuter flight and met his long-term ride at the airfield in Nevada. From there he wouldn't touch ground again until they were in Kuwait. It was there he'd put together his team, brief them, plan the mission and implement it.

Al Jaber Airfield hadn't changed much since the war's end. If anything it was busier than before. He noted the full hangers and a great many planes parked alongside the runway. Coming into the place via the dusty desert roadway the planes looked like a disorganized mesh of metal they were situated so closely together. Through the rising heat it was impossible to see where one ended and the next began.

O'Neill checked in with the base commander, General Marchman before going to his assigned quarters to rest for a short while. After that, he was set up to meet with the XO and choose his team. He sat on the bunk and gazed out a northward facing window. Just beyond the horizon was the one place on earth he never wanted to see again, and here he was, by his own choice going back.

He glanced at the stack of folders he'd set on the table and sighed. The top file was that of Major Tobias Sellers, the reason he was here. He lay down with his fingers interlaced behind his neck and legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He knew sleep would not come now, but he needed to rest and get his body in sync with the local time of day.

Two hours later he followed an aide back to the command headquarters and met the XO. Jeff Sykes was a few years younger but matched O'Neill's salt and pepper hair and somewhat worn appearance to his face. His background was Special Forces too, and he'd already set aside several files of likely candidates for the mission. Not surprisingly all five of O'Neill's choices were on Sykes' list. He wanted to meet with each of them before choosing three to go. The remaining two would serve as backup and be waiting aboard the Turkish helicopter to assist with the extraction.

After the meetings O'Neill made his decision: Second Lieutenant Dwight McGhee, demolitions expert, Chicago native and avid wrestling enthusiast; Second Lieutenant Sean Blacksmith, communications and electronics wizard; and a Computer Specialist, Major Rick Barnes.

Colonel Sykes nodded his approval of the choices, his only addition was to add himself to the back-up helo crew, bringing the total number of men to be prepped and ready to seven. All of the men were able pilots and trained to handle any weapon currently available on the planet.

O'Neill had to smile at Sykes boasting; little did he know one member of the team was versed in a variety of off world weaponry as well.

Something niggled at O'Neill as he prepped the day before the mission was to go. His sixth sense kicked in, and he raised his head just in time to see the base CO standing in the doorway. "Colonel. Got a minute?"

O'Neill nodded and followed the General out of the building to a group of tables and benches situated off a small distance from the bunker. None of them were being used at the time, so he and Marchman were alone out in the open air. Somewhat similar to a meeting he'd had only a few days before with another General, O'Neill noted.

"How's the mission coming together?"

"As expected, quickly. You have well-trained men, a credit to your operation."

The General didn't respond right away, so O'Neill continued talking. "In, fact they are extremely well-trained. Makes me wonder just *why* it is I'm here."

"You are acquainted with one of the hostages."

"Yeah, about that; emotional involvement is the one thing that should have excluded me from this particular mission, especially given that you have such able personnel available." He watched Marchman's body language and was pleased to see him tense, tightening one fist until a knuckle popped. "And you brought me all the way from Colorado, too."

"Dammit, Dorsey didn't say what an irreverent smart-ass you are."

"Hmm. Just an observant one."

The General squared his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest then glanced around them making sure no one was approaching. "All right. Here it is. Yes, we've got a few men being held by Iraqis, and if we don't get them out soon I don't think we ever will. But that is only part of the actual mission. The man overseeing the opposing forces is one of Saddam's Generals whom we lost track of back near the end of the war. If he continues he'll soon be able to rebuild his forces to threat level. He already has the backing of hundreds of locals. They're calling him 'Bensada' the next Saddam." He paused before continuing. "You recall how little success we've had in neutralizing these leaders once they've gone to ground?"

O'Neill nodded. The success rate would be near zero except that they'd been very lucky.

"Well, we think there's a chance to take this one out, given the right person doing the job. Colonel, my men are good, but they aren't experienced assassins."

The final word brought the answer home to O'Neill. He winced at the sound of it. Assassin. So that was how the government classified him now.

"You waited until now to tell me this?"

"Didn't want to impede your commitment."

The Colonel frowned and narrowed his eyes. "General if we get in there, and I find out your intel is off by so much as a hair, that there are no Americans to rescue-" He smirked. "Let's just say, you're right, I *am* an experienced assassin."

Marchman stiffened. Under other circumstances he'd have the Colonel up on charges for threatening a superior officer. "It's not off. You'll see." He turned to face his now nemesis. "But we want that Bensada character neutralized. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." O'Neill answered in a flat and emotionless tone.

The General stood to his feet. "You'll find additional gear stowed under your bunk. If you need anything else specific let me know. The mission goes in-" He glanced at his watch. "Just over 30 hours." The General gave no dismissal, 'goodbye' or even 'good luck'. He just walked off leaving O'Neill to ponder the additional parameters of the mission before getting up and heading for his assigned quarters.

O'Neill knew he'd left his room locked, but just the same when he entered the first thing he spotted was an unfamiliar black case under his bunk. He pulled it out and laid it on the mattress, looking it over once before opening it. Lifting the lid he found a class 1 sniper rifle broken down to its components and tucked neatly in foam. He ran his fingers over the familiar metal pieces, and without even a thought picked up the appropriate parts one at a time and put the weapon together in ten seconds flat. He held it in his hands, testing the balance and weight of it. More than adequate, it was an excellent choice. A Teflon finished M25 with a match grade barrel. If he got a clean shot anywhere within 900 meters his target would fall. He slung it lightly over his shoulder and sauntered out of the room toward the base firing range; there was plenty of time before dark to verify the weapons accuracy and make certain he was comfortable handling it.

<><><>

It took two days to gear up properly and coordinate with the Turks, but in the end it was worth it. Their contact was an older man who'd been flying recon missions over northern Iraq for twenty years. Yazu had been shot down six times, had broken both legs and three ribs and had a skull fracture- though not all at the same time, and been hospitalized for three months with massive pulmonary edema from breathing superheated air in a fire. He'd had no choice; at the time he was trapped in the cockpit of a downed plane and was slowly being roasted alive. His god smiled on him that day, and a traveler who'd seen the plane crash showed up to offer assistance riding an absconded American Humvee complete with winches and rescue gear. The side of the plane had to literally be ripped off to allow for his exit.

After that incident Yazu quit flying planes in favor of helicopters, he figured he was too old to 'dogfight' anymore and ran recon and cargo runs between Turkey, Iraq and Iran, and Jordan. He tried to keep his political entanglements to a minimum but saw no problem transporting American 'GI's'.

Final weapons check was at 2200, and O'Neill allowed himself a little amusement at the differing opinions of what should be carried in their packs. Of course Blacksmith and Barnes being techno-geeks of one kind or another had their packs crammed with rolls of wire, clamps and an assortment of odd looking gizmos all of which had at least two blinking lights and some kind of gauge. McGhee's and O'Neill's own packs were weighed down with bricks of C-4, detonators, extra magazines for their weapons and various incendiary devices. They all had to carry basic things such as first aid kits and emergency field rations, but the only job-related item they held in common was each of them carried a large roll of duct tape. O'Neill promptly labeled them the Duck Brigade and dubbed his team Huey, Louie and Dewey.

The light-hearted feeling continued as they completed prep. O'Neill had a good feeling about this mission. Success was often the result of putting together the right team for the job, and this one worked well from the moment they were introduced. It felt good; too, to be doing something other than a solo op. Especially since becoming the leader of SG-1, he'd preferred a team to going it alone. He saw a few of them take note of his additional weapon and nod their heads in understanding. All of these men were trained snipers, but he didn't know which of them might have had the opportunity to make use of their training on that level. To O'Neill, their silence was an indication of their support of the situation; he accepted it gladly.

At precisely 2245, they were in position less than two miles from the compound where the Americans were being held. As the helicopter hovered, four corded lines were dropped, and O'Neill gave the signal to descend. Simultaneously all four of them slid down the lines to the ground and dove for cover until the Helo was well away from them.

Night vision goggles in place, they headed for the Iraqi compound.

O'Neill took point himself and led the group right up to a wire fence enclosing the stronghold. He motioned to McGhee who produced a pair of wire snips and quickly created an opening. One-by-one they crept in keeping their bodies hunched over. Up to now they'd had cover from either small trees and brush or abandoned buildings. Once inside the perimeter there was little to conceal their presence. As they neared the buildings, O'Neill made a sweeping motion down with his hand and dropped to his belly. The others followed suit without question. From here on, they'd have to crawl until they made it to the deep shadows around the buildings.

They needed to pass by three outer buildings to get to the prisoner's location, and it was a certainty that all of them would be occupied. Sticking to the shadows the group split up. McGhee stayed with O'Neill, and Major Barnes swung off to the left wall followed closely by Blacksmith, the other Lieutenant.

Within sight of their target, Barnes flashed a penlight toward O'Neill and motioned that there were two guards at the entrance. O'Neill nodded and motioned back that he and McGhee were set to take the rear entrance. They coordinated a two-minute count. Then they'd go in simultaneously.

The goal was to get in without firing a shot, if they were discovered too soon, none of them would make it out alive. One minute after the deadline O'Neill was standing in the middle of the central corridor admiring the work of his team. Six Iraqis were down, two dead, four likely to be unconscious for a very long time even though the only weapons used had been knives and bare hands. The only other indigenous life forms moving about were the field mice skittering away from the intrusion, as surprised as the guards had been by the silent invasion of their abode.

Finally free to speak O'Neill pointed to the back hallway and a solid-looking bolted door. "In there."

Blacksmith relieved one of the guards of a ring of heavy iron keys and proceeded to try them on the door. The third one fit. The heavy door slid open away from him leaving an additional scrape in the already rutted floor. O'Neill was first in and moved cautiously along the row of cells looking for his friend. Most of the cages were empty but near the back he heard sounds of rustling feet and saw a hand or two clasping at the iron bars.

He motioned for the Lieutenant to come up and begin unlocking the door as he moved all the way to the back, casting only an understanding nod toward the two Americans soon to be released. When he got to the end his shoulders slumped. Toby was not here.

O'Neill turned on his heel and marched back to the open cells just in time to catch one of the emerging men by the collar. He slammed the young man back against the bars and growled as loudly as he dared. "Where is he? The other one that was with you?"

"Sir?" The airman was not much more than a boy, and having been caged for so long, he'd lost weight and muscle. He was as limp as a washrag in O'Neill's hands. "I, I don't know, Sir." He was stuttering either from shock or fear, perhaps some of both. He feared the Iraqis for sure but somehow this irate Colonel had them beat.

O'Neill relaxed his grip but didn't let go for fear the kid would drop all the way to the floor. "Okay. We're getting you out of here, but we'd like to get everyone. Tell me your name."

The young man blew out a shaky breath and slumped but held onto O'Neill's wrist where he'd grabbed him. "Mark. Mark Johnson. I mean First Lieutenant Johnson, Sir."

O'Neill smiled at the cracking of the airman's voice. "Well, Mark, Mark Johnson, do you know who we're looking for?"

"Yes, Sir. It's Toby, right?"

"Good boy. Now, was he here?"

"Yeah, all this time up until five days ago. Some guard took an interest in his Special Forces tattoo and I guess they thought he might have more information than the rest of us. They took him off for interrogation and never brought him back."

At the fallen appearance of O'Neill's face he hurriedly continued. "But he's not dead. They're just holding him somewhere else. I just saw him this afternoon when they had him out in the yard. They let us all out for short periods once a day."

O'Neill brightened. "But you don't know where he is."

"Not exactly, but the guy who runs this place has his headquarters in that large bunker at the opposite end of the compound from here. They've got some holding cells, and it's a safe bet he'd be there."

O'Neill moved his hands and clasped the boy's shoulders. "Good enough, you feel like taking a walk?"

Johnson grinned. "Hell, yeah!"

Getting out proved to be easier than getting in. The guards were still out, and they weren't due for a rotation for another forty minutes. O'Neill took up the six, and just as they left one of the other prisoners called out. The language was a hill dialect O'Neill didn't recognize but the intent was clear. 'Take us too'.

The plan was supposed to have been to get the American prisoners safely away before the Iraqis had any idea they'd been infiltrated. Now with additional prisoners to think about O'Neill wondered at the possibility of compromising his own people. If he released them and left them to find their own route to freedom, the chance they'd all be found out might be increased. Leave them behind, and it was for certain; he knew they'd raise such a ruckus he'd have no time to get his team and their charges to safety.

O'Neill snagged the keys from his Lieutenant and held them up to the man in the cell. He tapped his watch and motioned holding up ten fingers.

The man nodded and answered in English, though with a heavy accent. "Ten, yes, ten minutes. We wait." O'Neill touched his finger to his mouth in a gesture of shushing and tossed the keys through the bars. He watched as the man slinked to the back of the cell and hunched down, whispering to another man in the adjacent cell. The Colonel hoped they valued their freedom as much as he and would be quiet when they made their move.

The now party of six moved quickly from shadow to shadow and then crawled across the open expanse before getting back to the fence. After passing the barrier they picked up their pace as much as they could with the two haggard officers in tow.

After they'd gone past the first hill Barnes paused and radioed to the helicopter waiting just beyond the border. They didn't want to have to wait at the pick up point for too long; he gave them an estimate of forty-five minutes to the rendezvous.

Just as he started to move out, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see O'Neill.

"Major, a moment." He waved McGhee over to join them.

The Lieutenant trotted over to the men and offered a salute. "Ready when you are, Colonel."

Barnes looked from one to the other and frowned. "Ready for what?"

"Slight change of plans here; actually for you, too, Lieutenant. Major, as you may have realized a portion of this mission has not yet been addressed." He swung the state-of-the-art sniper rifle down off his shoulder and let it rest across his left forearm. "The original plan was for McGhee and I to return to the compound where I would set off an alarm on purpose. We'd be waiting on that small rise to the south, and when Bensada showed himself, I'd have maybe one good opportunity to take a shot. McGhee was to be there to watch my six."

Barnes face grew red with anger. "That's what the second helicopter was for, you wanted us to go on ahead with the guys we rescued while you and McGhee did this."

McGhee was still absorbing what the Colonel had said and frowned. "Sir? Was?"

"Exactly, *was*. "

Both Barnes and McGhee looked at their Commander in confusion. O'Neill clarified. "*Was* the plan, not *is*. Toby is still back there. Dwight, you go with Barnes and the others on the first Helo. Get those men to safety. That's a direct order. Radio to the second chopper and tell them to abort."

Barnes nearly yelped a reply. "What? Leave you behind in hostile territory? Alone?"

"Hold on," O'Neill raised a hand to him. "It's just a delay. Tell Sykes I want him to advise the General there's been a slight complication. I'll need twenty-four hours instead of the two we'd planned. Have a Helo at the same extraction point tomorrow night. I'll be there."

"Sir, with all due respect-" Barnes shook is head. "There is no way in Hell-"

O'Neill spat at the man. "Major! What part of 'direct order' do you not understand?"

Barnes held his ground. "Sir, this is not our mission."

"No, it's not. Your mission was to retrieve hostages. This mission is mine." There was dead silence between the three men. Then Barnes eyes fell on the rifle O'Neill was carrying. "And just what *is* that mission Colonel? Are you going after Toby or Bensada?"

"Both."

O'Neill's sudden honesty surprised Barnes, and he lowered his eyes. "This Toby must be a hell of a guy." Even as he said it the Major had a feeling O'Neill would have done the same for any of the men.

"He is. Now go." O'Neill turned and trotted off without a look back.

<><><>

As he distanced himself from his team O'Neill thought of what he'd just done- stranded himself behind enemy lines with only what he carried in his pack and a few weapons. Far in the distance he noted the low pulsing sound of helicopter blades and sighed; at least his team was getting out. He had a small pang of guilt for the position he'd put Barnes into. His counterpart, Colonel Sykes, would be on that Helo and was sure to take a piece out of the Major's hide for bowing to O'Neill's new and somewhat reckless plan. He shook it off and kept moving, much more slowly now. It was possible the escape had been noticed by this time, and Iraqi soldiers could be anywhere searching for them.

He was nearly back to the compound when a sound in the brush behind him made O'Neill freeze. There were few nocturnal animals about and he was sure the rustling was made by something much larger than a mouse or rabbit. He waited, listening intently until another rustle occurred not ten meters behind him.

O'Neill dropped and spun at the same moment bringing up the MP-5 to shooting position. Only quick reflexes stopped his finger from depressing the trigger when he saw not Iraqi regulars but an American face in the dim light.

"Dammit Barnes! I said go!"

"You said to get those men to safety. I did that."

"That's a fine line you're treading Major."

"As are you." Another voice spoke out of the darkness, and Sykes stepped forward. "I suppose you call this following orders."

"As a matter of fact I do."

Sykes shook his head at the other Colonel. "Jack, I don't know the full extent of whatever your actual orders were, but I can make an educated guess. Did you really think you were going to be left to accomplish what has become a suicide mission?"

"I have a habit of getting out alive, thank you, and it is *my* mission, not yours."

"Yeah, well *my* mission was to get your sorry ass out of the zone. Did you have to go and make it so difficult?"

"You can go back anytime now."

"Not quite. The chopper's already been called off. We've arranged an additional pick up in twenty-four hours, same place, as per your instructions." His voice dripped sarcasm. "You've got that long. You do your thing, and we see if there's a snowballs chance to get Sellers out. If you aren't ready to go when time's up, I'll shoot you myself and carry your ass to the chopper. And I want you to know my knees have been killing me all day, hiking with you over my shoulder won't improve my mood."

O'Neill's glare turned to a smirk and then to a grin as he lowered his head and broke eye contact. "Damn, Sykes, if I didn't know better I'd say you had a wee bit o' stubborn Irishman in you."

Sykes was still glaring and clenching his fists; he was not yet ready to drop the argument. The sight of a Jeep heading in their direction with a searchlight sweeping the area caught the attention of all three men. Immediately their disagreement was forgotten.

"All right. All right." O'Neill's eyes scanned the area for soldiers on foot. "Twenty-four hours. Whatever happens we go. But for now we need to find a place to hide for awhile. We went near several abandoned buildings earlier, I'm sure we could find someplace to stay out of sight." The two officers nodded. They let O'Neill lead on circling away from the Jeep and then straight for the compound and shelter.

Their situation was much more dangerous than before. The Iraqis would be looking for the escaped prisoners but would also be aware that such a thing could not have been done without help. The building O'Neill chose was adequate. The cellar was cool and dry, and there was so much rickety lumber above them it was improbable anyone would dare check out the lower level. Barnes himself voiced a bit of concern, it seemed to him a slight breeze would cause the building to collapse on them.

O'Neill's strategy worked. A patrol did come by and got close enough O'Neill could smell the cigar smoke lingering in their clothing, but they just scanned the wreckage with flashlights and did not enter. After that Sykes produced a handful of energy bars and passed them out in lieu of dinner. They couldn't chance a fire to heat water so instead of coffee and MRE's the three made do with only water from their canteens and the packaged bars.

Hours before first light O'Neill decided to move out, they'd need to find someplace suitable to at least observe the compound and yet remain hidden. Just outside the fence one of the abandoned buildings still held all of its four stories; though there was no roof, it would provide an acceptable vantage point. It also was on the opposite side of the compound from where the team had entered the night before. Hopefully it was closer to where Toby was being held.

O'Neill set up a tripod in the corner of an opening that at one time must have been a beautiful picture window. Tiny shards of glass crunched underfoot as he kicked away the largest pieces to make an area where he could sit and lean his back against the wall. Sykes and Barnes made their own 'nests' of sorts moving a few planks and the odd chunk of plaster or stone to make enough room to get comfortable. They would be there a good while, possibly until it was time to leave.

Once daylight arrived it was evident most of the patrols were being recalled. Sykes mentioned they'd have to keep their ears and eyes alert for any airborne recon since it was most likely that would be the Iraqis next step.

O'Neill concurred and leaned a large plank against the wall over his head to at least partially obscure him if a chopper flew over. Their position proved to be more advantageous than they'd thought. Not too long after sunrise a man was dragged out and deposited in the center of a small courtyard flanked by a bunker on one side and a small but intact building on the other. O'Neill leaned into his rifle scope and confirmed his worst fears. The bound man was his friend Toby, bruised, battered and underweight but still recognizable.

O'Neill watched with interest as a man of some obvious importance emerged from the small building and surveyed the area. It was Bensada himself, and he appeared to be preparing to conduct his interrogation in the open this time. A show meant to entice any onlookers to give away their positions. O'Neill steeled himself for the barbaric scene to come.

His instincts proved right. The Iraqi leader seemed to be asking very few questions and making a great show of every blow he inflicted on the American. They were too far away to hear any dialog, but O'Neill was certain it would be all spoken in English and mostly for their benefit just in case they were nearby.

Instead of continuing to focus on what was happening to Toby, O'Neill switched to binoculars to better survey a broader area, noting the positions of the soldiers and what they seemed to be doing. Right now he was far from being in a position to rescue his friend; all he could do was observe.

The shoving and slapping turned into a hard gut-punch, and Sellers crumpled on his side in obvious pain. Instead of staying down he rolled up on one shoulder and forced himself back up, not an easy task given his hands were tied securely behind his back. O'Neill tossed his binoculars to Sykes and resumed watching the spectacle through his scope.

The Iraqi was becoming angrier and flailed his arms about as he taunted the American. Whatever was being said, Toby must have understood it; the anger was growing is his eyes as well. At one point he leaned forward, and O'Neill was easily able to make out his words by watching the movements of his mouth. 'Fuck you.'

O'Neill's soft chuckle was cut off suddenly when Bensada backed up a few steps and drew a handgun from the holster on his hip. He waved the object with abandon, and when it finally stilled it was pointing directly at Sellers head. The American only blinked in response; he did not cower or try to get away.

Without realizing it, O'Neill had positioned himself to shoot. One hand braced the weapon against his shoulder while the other held the grip with one finger lightly resting against the trigger. He depressed it ever so slightly, just enough to make his fingertip flatten a little against the metal. His breathing slowed and he blinked once, rewetting his eyes. In a moment he would have to make the decision to take the shot or not and allow an execution to take place right in front of him.

It was no contest, really.

The explosive sound of gunfire erupted from two locations simultaneously. One from beyond the compound, somewhere among the cluster of burned out buildings and the second from the courtyard.

Two men fell.

O'Neill held position and quickly verified his shot was true. Bensada was lying flat out on his back with a single bullet hole in his head. The rifle swung a few inches to the right and O'Neill looked for Toby. The American was also down, this time not moving. "Shit."

O'Neill's head lowered, and he closed his eyes, damning himself for taking that one-tenth second too long to make his choice. Toby had paid the price.

The compound was suddenly a rush of activity as soldiers came from all of the buildings at once. Some were dispatched to search the immediate area while the rest secured the compound or tended to the fallen leader. O'Neill checked the scope out one last time and saw an Iraqi kneeling beside his friend. The man waved his hand and called another soldier over as if he'd found something. Toby's body remained still but there was a glint of hope that perhaps the Iraqis shot had not quite found its mark.

Sykes put his hand on O'Neill's shoulder. "We have to go, now."

"Not yet, I just want to see-"

"Now." The second Colonel used the most commanding tone he could muster. "Even if he is, there's nothing we can do. Just hope they still believe he has enough value to let their doctors work on him."

O'Neill blew out a breath and nodded. Of course Sykes was right. He got to his feet and turned away from the window. "Back stairs, there. We'll head back to that cellar. Watch what tracks you leave; they won't have any trouble seeing them in the daylight. Hopefully they'll think we took off into the brush and have long since left the area."

The three Americans quickly exited to ground level and ran deeper into the mass of ruins only to find the place swarming with Iraqi regulars. There were no deep dark shadows to obscure them from view now, and though they were yet free, they were running out of places to go.

Barnes was on the six and suddenly let out a muffled cry. Fearing the worst both Colonels dropped and spun around with their weapons raised to fire. An Iraqi man dressed all in black had Barnes from behind, one arm around his neck and the other holding a long bladed knife to his abdomen. O'Neill and Sykes both froze, each determining their best chance to take a shot.

In a move that stunned all three Americans the unidentified man released his hostage and took a step backwards, extending his arms wide.

"I will not harm you!" He demonstrated by slowly crouching and laying the knife on the ground.

O'Neill straightened up but did not lower his weapon. "Didn't look that way a minute ago."

"Danger comes in many forms. I, too, must protect myself."

"From us?" Sykes frowned at him.

"Shoot first, question later? Is this not an American concept?"

O'Neill glanced at Sykes then to Barnes and back to the Iraqi. "You'll notice some of us aren't picky about timing, we're just as likely to shoot you before, during *and* after questioning you." He waved the muzzle of the gun at the man. "Let's start with name and what do you want?"

The man's breathing was noticeably more rapid. "I am Alianni Um'Sallabon and I *want* you to come with me."

"And why would we do that?" Sykes growled.

"Because unless I am mistaken, you want to live." He looked at each of the Americans individually then continued. "Bensada is a very bad man. You may think you have stopped him. You have not. Even now his soldiers close in on this position. You will not escape."

"Shit." It was O'Neill's turn to growl. If there was one thing he hated with a passion it was being backed into a corner, out of options. "And I suppose you know a way out of this."

"Indeed I do." Alianni gestured toward a side entrance. The sounds of vehicles could be heard getting closer to their location. "We must hurry."

O'Neill was first to lower his weapon. He shrugged. "Show us what you've got."

Immediately the Iraqi was through the door. "Come! Hurry!" He ran not out and away from the buildings but into a large one with a huge mural of Hussein on the one still intact wall. He disappeared into the rubble behind it, and the Americans had no choice but to follow him or take their chances with the soldiers soon to arrive.

Only a short way within, the Iraqi seemed to simply vanish. O'Neill nearly fell into a man-sized opening beneath him as Alianni grabbed his boot.

"Down. You must come down here. The tunnels will take us to safety."

O'Neill shook his head and adjusted the rifle he was still carrying on his back. There was no ladder to facilitate entry into the tunnel, only fallen timbers and rocks. Not one of them made it without a scrape and a splinter or two.

Alianni didn't waste any time; as soon as all four of them were together he started moving using only a dim flashlight to see. O'Neill and the others flicked on their own lights affixed to their weapons and stumbled on behind him, barely keeping up.

The tunnel seemed to go on forever, turning one way and then the other as it detoured to connect several buildings via the subterranean maze. O'Neill caught up to their new friend.

"Are you saying Bensada's men don't know about all these tunnels?"

"Of course they do."

O'Neill came to a dead stop. "And we are safe here because?"

Alianni turned and shot a look of irritation. "Because they believe them to be either collapsed or too unsafe to travel."

"Are they?"

The man turned back to the tunnel before him. "Safer here than on the surface."

O'Neill, Sykes and Barnes all looked at each other. "Shit." "Right." "Crap."

They hurried along trailing behind before they lost sight of Alianni's dim torch.

Many feet later and too many twists and turns to count, they noticed they were moving up an incline. After one last right angle turn Alianni stopped and shoved on the wall directly in front of him. Amazingly it gave.

Brilliant white sunlight poured into the black hole making all four men squint and flinch back as if assaulted. Alianni wasted no time, and stepped into the daylight. They emerged one at a time into another bombed out building, so similar to the first they wondered if they'd left at all.

"Ah, good. You see? No soldiers here. Come." He crawled into the driver's seat of what looked like a derelict Jeep and motioned for them to join him.

They settled themselves, O'Neill in front beside Alianni and the other men in the rear seats, all of them glad to have a moment just to sit down. It certainly didn't appear they were going anywhere anytime soon. Alianni pointed to a pile of dusty brown rags on the floor. "It would be wise to cover your faces."

Sykes passed out what turned out to be robes and they each covered up, dutifully, still wondering what for.

Alianni smiled a crooked grin and spoke with a voice full of laughter. "Hold on. This one, she bucks sometimes!" With that he turned the ignition and started the shaky engine. Without warning or explanation he shifted the vehicle into reverse and stomped the gas. It lurched backwards into the paper thin plaster wall of the building and went right through showering all of them with bits of debris.

"Dammit, Ali. What are you doing?"

He grinned again as he turned the wheel. "Going home. My wife and son, they will enjoy meeting you."

O'Neill was speechless. He shut his mouth and closed his eyes as the Jeep jerked forward making all of their heads wobble at the sudden unsteady movement. There was no point in arguing; they didn't even really know where they were at that point. Hopefully this hadn't been a terribly bad mistake.

<><><>

They were away from any structures in no time bumping on down the dirt road; the cleared area giving way quickly to scrubby trees and overgrown grasses. Unless someone was directly overhead it would have been hard to spot the Jeep or anything else traveling along the rural highway.

The road twisted as much as the tunnels did but soon they came upon a small encampment. Alianni stopped the Jeep by a large tent with brightly colored red and yellow woven cloths arranged as walls and jumped out. Before the first American could follow him; the Jeep was surrounded by twenty armed men who suddenly appeared from all parts of the camp and the surrounding grass. Alianni turned and waved his hand almost without concern. "S'okay. They are here to help us fight Bensada."

The men backed away just enough to give the Americans room to exit the vehicle but did not lower their weapons. Alianni only shrugged by way of explanation. "It has been difficult for a very long time, not just the war."

O'Neill carefully exited the Jeep, one hand on his MP 5 and the other resting on the hilt of his knife under the robe. He followed Alianni to the tent end entered as the man held back the heavy tapestry to admit his guests.

The inside was a typical nomadic abode. The ground was covered with several multicolored carpets, and there was a seating area in the center and in the corner a low table with implements for food preparation. Off against one wall were cots for sleeping. Alianni introduced his wife, Indirae, who carefully kept her face hidden and his young son, Maku, who did nothing but stare wide-eyed at the decidedly non-Arabic looking visitors.

They were given towels and water to wipe the dust off their faces and hands. Alianni then passed out cups and gave them each cold water to drink.

O'Neill eyed his cup and raised an eyebrow; he didn't expect these people to have access to refrigeration given the living accommodations. Alianni noted his unspoken question and answered. "No, we have no modern conveniences. This is from a well that has been controlled by my family for ten generations. The water is clear and always cold, a blessing from God." He made a quick gesture of thanks and took a long draft from his own cup to demonstrate the safety of the water.

The Americans nodded their thanks and drank. After taking a few sips O'Neill set his cup beside him on the floor.

"Alianni, correct?"

The Iraqi nodded.

"Believe me, your hospitality is appreciated, but most unexpected. Why are you doing this?"

The man looked as though it was a subject he did not want to discuss. "In recent years much evil has come to my country. I am one of the few who does not believe this includes the American forces." He picked up a piece of pottery and fiddled with it. "Saddam was as powerful as he was evil; it is sad even now how many are loyal to him. I have chosen not to take that path. Here we are far enough away from Baghdad and its politics that we were left alone to live as we chose. That was until Bensada came."

"My people have been aware of information gathering by the Americans and Turks recently, and I have been watching for something to happen. When my people reported what you'd done, I thought perhaps it was time for me to take action as well. What kind of man would I be to say one thing and do another? It is dangerous to disagree with those in power, but they will remain so unless some of us at least try."

O'Neill inclined his head. "So you helped us. But the 'they're here to help us fight' thing? You know we're not going to do that; we're not here to start another war. Bensada might be out of the picture, but eventually one of his Generals will take his place. Maybe things will be better for you, maybe not."

Alianni leaned back against a beam for support. "You are mistaken. Believe me when I say no one will take his place, for he is not dead."

"Are you telling me I shot the wrong man? I damn well shot someone who looked just like him, and unless he's a lot closer to his god than any of us are, he will only be going one place- into the ground." O'Neill pointed at the floor sharply making his point.

Alianni scrubbed a hand over his beard and thought for a moment. He folded his hands in his lap and gestured using only his thumbs. "Yes, the man you shot *was* Bensada. But you do not know of what I speak. This man, he cannot be killed. I have seen it myself not six months ago. There was a disagreement with the Turks, and someone tried to kill him with a grenade. I swear it landed in his lap and went off. How could anyone survive that? And yet he lives and bears no scars, does not limp."

"Some kind of body armor maybe. I *know* my shot was good."

"Perhaps it was." His tone became hushed and he leaned forward. "There are stories told about this man. He is said to command great magic. Great evil. I have heard of a mysterious box he has in his possession. It is covered with gold and can bring a man back from death itself."

Sykes next glance was at O'Neill, who had shifted over closer to Alianni and was asking him some very odd questions. His brow knit as he listened.

"Gold, huh? How big a box? Is there writing on it? Can anyone here read it? Has anyone here actually seen it? How long after the grenade was he seen alive and well?"

Shocked at first at the American's questions, Alianni grinned as he began to answer them in order. He didn't expect to be believed so easily.

"Yes, gold. Real gold, a sufficient amount to buy a man's soul. Big enough that a man can fit inside it. Yes, strange writing. It is said only Bensada himself and a few trusted aides can read it at all. Perhaps it is an incantation to make the box work. Um, after the grenade? One day, no less than that, only several hours."

"You're not believing this fairy-tale are you?"

O'Neill shut Sykes up with an icy glare and turned back to Alianni. "Ali, this is important. Where is the box now?"

He shrugged as if the question was too simple. "He keeps it in the compound, of course; he never goes far from it."

O'Neill's mouth was frozen in a thin tense line for several moments before he spoke. "You are expecting us to help you. We can do that. But right now it's important we get out of here. If I am to help you, I need my own people to do it. I must go back and contact them."

Sykes mouth gaped at what he'd just heard. He couldn't believe O'Neill had changed his position so suddenly and offered military support to the man.

Alianni licked his lips and nodded. "Your friends, they have magic like Bensada?"

"No." O'Neill shook his head. "It's not magic, Ali, none of it. It's technology."

Barnes was only half listening. "Oh, yeah, like you know all about some big gold box that-"

His eyes meet O'Neill's, and what he saw there made his voice fail. Every eye in the room lit on O'Neill in that instant. Alianni's wife dropped the earthen jar she was holding and apologized quickly as she cleaned up what had spilled. "You do." It was meant to be a question, but Barnes spoke it as a fact.

"You what?" Sykes demanded. "You not only believe this load of bunk, you're verifying it's true?"

O'Neill took a deep breath in and huffed it out before answering. He'd already said too much, just admitting this was not something new to him. "Jeff, look, if it was some fancy new weapon you wouldn't be questioning it would you? It's something I do back in Colorado; deal with technologies like you have no idea. Trust me on this, okay?"

He snorted loudly. "O'Neill, you sure don't come off as a geek. You're surprising the hell out of me."

"Just wait 'til you meet my team."

<><><>

O'Neill explained to Alianni that a pick up had already been arranged; they only needed transportation to the site. He hesitated to divulge the exact location at first but then decided if the Iraqi wanted them dead he'd already had ample opportunity to do it. Alianni knew the place and agreed to take them there after sundown. Until then the Americans were free to rest and refresh themselves.

Alianni was more than impressed with both O'Neill's attitude and seeming command of the situation and kindly offered the men tents in order to have a private place to relax, as if they were visiting sheiks. O'Neill chose to sleep over all else and only grabbed a few dates to eat then headed to his tent immediately. His clothing was in fair shape considering what they'd been through but still dusty, and with his trust in Alianni growing, he decided it was safe enough to not have to rest fully dressed with boots on. Sykes was being paranoid enough for both of them anyway.

Being midday, it was hot, so he shed his clothing down to his boxers and stretched out on a low cot. He hadn't intended to sleep, but in a few moments he drifted off.

He wasn't even aware he had been asleep until he woke. His sixth sense had kicked in, and what awakened him were the small hairs on the back of his neck coming to attention. Wide-awake but not moving, he maintained the depth and rhythm of his breathing the same as it had been when he slept. Not even an eyelid fluttered but inside his senses were running in high gear.

He listened.

A rustle of fabric. A swish of clothing. The scent of perhaps ginger or some other spice. Someone was definitely in the tent. Very light footfalls. Either the person was small or they were trying to approach covertly.

His suspicious mind chose the latter.

His Beretta was lying beside him, tucked under a corner of the blanket he was lying on; feeling secure or not, access to a weapon was not something he'd concede under any circumstances. It was too warm to be under even a thin layer so he had stretched out on top of the cot, uncovered.

Very slowly, knowing full well he was being watched, O'Neill slid his fingers around the grip of the handgun.

A heavier sound, as if a small bag or coat had been dropped on the floor then a thud and oddly the sound of water swishing. O'Neill almost opened his eyes but was knew if this person meant to harm him it would come by hand to hand; and *that* was something he could deal with.

More water dripping noises. Perhaps someone had just brought him fresh water. He might have believed that, had the person not moved so close that O'Neill could now hear soft breathing and sense nearby body heat. His hand tightened on the Beretta.

The next sensations were anything but expected.

The light touch of a cool wet cloth moving across his chest and the fragrance of something flowery with a hint of ginger. In a single motion his free hand grabbed the hand touching him, and he bolted to a sitting position. A squeal of surprise stopped him from taking further action, and his eyes opened to meet the wide-set almost black ones of a young woman of typical middle-eastern descent. His peripheral vision took in the rest of her appearance. She had thick black hair and dark olive-toned skin and was wearing only a thin robe.

He broke contact with her eyes and tried to look anywhere but down. Being male though, there was only so much he could do, so he looked. He knew she probably wouldn't understand it but he asked anyway, "What are you doing?"

She flinched in fear and grimaced at her wrist still held in a vise-like grip. "For you."

He released her wrist and scooted over on the cot until he was sitting with his feet on the ground. He glanced past the kneeling woman to the earthenware bowl and small stack of towels and then to the wet cloth still in her hand.

"You don't need to do this." He shook his head as he spoke, unsure of just how much English the woman understood.

She blinked and looked back at him questioning then lowered her eyes. She mustered up some additional measure of courage and dunked the cloth in the water and wrung it out. Still intent on her task, she began to rub it over his shoulder.

"Seriously, you don't-" One of her hands settled not so subtly on his groin.

"Shit!" He shot to his feet and took a step away, suddenly feeling the need to find something more to cover himself or at least get his pants back on. He made a move to pick up his BDU's where he'd left them folded at the foot of the cot and noticed his companion's posture had slumped a bit. Her head was down but he could see her pinched expression. When she sobbed, his shoulders slumped too. She pushed the basin away and began to rise. "Forgive. Another will be sent."

'Aw, crap' he thought to himself as he sat back down on the cot and reached for her arm, bringing her back to her knees. Really, he should be used to things like this with all his off world exploitations and exposure to differing cultures. Alianni was just being what he considered to be a good host by assuring relaxation for his guests. He wondered if Sykes and Barnes were having similar encounters.

With a touch of resignation he took the cloth from her hand and used it to thoroughly wipe his face and neck then handed it back to her. She smiled at his acceptance and rinsed it in the perfumed water and handed it back to him. Dutifully he accepted it and washed off more of his body. After several more back and forth exchanges he was decidedly feeling better despite the awkwardness of the situation.

She rinsed the cloth again but this time didn't hand it off, instead she rose up and crawled onto the cot behind him to wash his back. He permitted it this time, even letting her towel him off but found himself regretting it when from somewhere she produced a bottle of oil and began to massage his back and shoulders.

Her hands continued to move further around his body and she leaned into him causing her breasts to touch his back.

That was all the Colonel could stand; he had no intention of taking advantage of the *full* extent of Alianni's gift, despite the part of him that was definitely interested. He grasped her upper arm and pushed her away as he turned to face her. "Thank you." He shook his head as he spoke. "That's enough, please."

She frowned and knit her brow, but backed off. She stood and turned to him once more and finding him avoiding her gaze, quickly donned a heavier weight robe she'd brought and gathered up the water basin and towels then left the tent, turning at the doorway to catch his eye once more and give him a smile of gratitude before leaving.

O'Neill scrubbed his hands through his hair and lowered his head. "Shit." This little adventure was throwing him curve balls every time he so much as blinked. At least he'd managed to get through this last one with his dignity, not to mention the girl's, intact.

He dressed quickly, and emerged from the tent and made his way over to a large common area where the other Americans were seated talking with Alianni.

Alianni smiled at him. "You are refreshed?"

O'Neill nodded and gave him just a small smile. "So, guys, enjoy your gifts?"

Sykes and Barnes exchanged a look. "What gifts?"

"You know, the..." His voice trailed off as he realized the Iraqi had only given *him* the gift, and turned to his host. "Um, Ali, thank you, very generous of you."

Sykes frowned and raised his eyebrows at the other Colonel. Alianni explained. "It is customary to offer a gift of companionship to another leader of men." He bowed his head slightly.

O'Neill felt a flush rising to his cheeks as Barnes turned and questioned him. "Of the female variety?"

"Before you ask, no, I didn't." O'Neill snapped at the younger officer.

He realized he may have just insulted their host and cringed internally.

Sykes saw Alianni's eyebrows rise and stepped in. "In America it's customary for a man to have one wife and be with her only."

The Iraqi nodded, and turned to O'Neill. "Of course. In that case, I hope I have not offended you- or your wife."

O'Neill shook his head, "I'm not ma-" He paused. Why had he actually stopped? The girl was a true beauty and he was, after all a red-blooded American male who'd been celibate for far too long. Could it be there *was* someone else, a blonde someone, who'd been foremost in his mind even during his brief encounter with the Iraqi woman? He sighed and waved a hand at Alianni. "No harm done, you didn't know." It was a coward's way out he knew, but it was better than admitting to *pining* over someone he couldn't have.

His answer seemed to satisfy Alianni who nodded to the group then left to prepare for the night's excursion.

Barnes grinned at the Colonel. "So, what does one have to do to earn a *gift*?"

<><><>

Before they even arrived the sound of a helicopter could be heard off in the distance, and Alianni doused the Jeep's headlights in case the arriving chopper was not the one they expected. It was already close enough for contact, and Sykes spoke into his radio. He motioned to Barnes that it was their ride, and the Major signaled their precise location with his flashlight.

Immediately from all directions around them gunfire erupted.

Somehow the site had become known to the Iraqi soldiers, and they were lying in wait for the pickup. Though most of the fire seemed to be aimed at the helicopter some was at ground level, blanketing the area in an attempt to take down anyone who might be there. Bullets began to strike the Jeep making pinging sounds as they impacted the metal. O'Neill saw the shrubbery just to their left begin to shatter from the multiple hits and slapped the light out of Barnes' hand. His next move was to drop to the ground taking the other officer with him. Sykes and Alianni followed suit without hesitation.

They were as yet undiscovered and lay still in the tall grass as they were pelted with bits of bark and leaves from the destroyed trees. The Jeep's engine squeaked to a halt as a stray bullet took out some essential piece of its machinery.

O'Neill rolled up on one elbow to see what was happening with the chopper, now their only means of escape. What he saw was not good. Even in the darkness it was apparent the tail rotor had been hit; the pilot was having a rough time of it. It was all he could do to keep himself in the air, let alone complete the rescue.

The craft swung wildly in a counter clockwise motion with the tail dipping precariously downward; mere inches from the treetops by that time. More bullets hit the fuselage sending sparks flying in every direction. The gas tank must have taken a hit too, and it sprayed liquid fire to the ground igniting patches of dried grass everywhere. Sykes grunted as an ash blew into his face.

"Under here!" He pointed to the now silent Jeep. "Move or get cooked!"

Barnes followed crawling on his elbows and knees and then Alianni. O'Neill was last to the improvised shelter and rolled so he could see out from under it. He immediately turned his back to the scene beyond as the helicopter pilot lost his fight. The craft bucked, and the engine roared as it was forced into a too steep angle. One of the long rotor blades suddenly caught the edge of a large rocky outcropping. The rotor crumpled upon impact, and the helicopter pitched into the rock exploding in a gigantic ball of fire.

The Jeep provided moderate protection for the men under it, but the entire area surrounding them burned from splattered aviation fuel. O'Neill grasped Alianni's shoulder with one hand while reaching upward with the other and touching the tank situated just above his head.

"How much gas is in here?"

The Iraqis eyes widened. "More than enough! We must go!"

"Go? Where?" Barnes gestured to the burning field and what was certainly an enemy regiment beyond. "If you haven't noticed, there *is* nowhere to go."

Alianni shook his head and chewed the too long hairs of his moustache as he considered the options. O'Neill tightened his grip on the man's shoulder, "Pretty soon anywhere will be preferable to here. Even if we get caught, we have to go."

Suddenly Alianni perked up. "There is a way- if the soldiers are more intent on the helicopter and the fire. We may get there."

"Where?"

"You'll see. Come."

For the second time the man who would be considered an enemy collaborator led the group of Americans on a chase to safety; this time with all of them crawling on their bellies. He motioned to a small rocky formation where it seemed the rocks had once been upright like Roman columns and then collapsed upon themselves. There was a fair amount of rubble at the base, but there were also several places where a man could fit between the fallen stones.

They had to cross an area where the fire had already burned off the vegetation, leaving the ground scorched and smoking. The carbon residue clung to every bit of clothing or skin that contacted it covering them with black. By the time they made it to the rocks, all of the men had burns on their hands and knees. Alianni crawled into a hole and waved the others to follow.

Before he went in, O'Neill scanned the area to make sure they hadn't been spotted by any soldiers and was forced to stop when he heard a slight moaning sound from the other side of a small ridge of stone. Curious, and relatively sure the soldiers were busy elsewhere, he chanced to take a look, creeping slowly up the incline, careful to not dislodge too much of the loose shale.

Just on the other side, up against yet another half buried column, was the crumpled body of a man so covered with soot it could not be seen what uniform he wore. O'Neill moved to turn away but suddenly noted a glint of pure red light on the man's right hand. The exact place Yazu wore his prized possession, a large perfect ruby set in a ring.

He immediately knew the identity of the injured man and called back behind him in a hushed tone for help. Sykes crawled to the crest of the rise and frowned seeing O'Neill already at the man's side.

"What the Hell are you doing?"

"We can't leave him- it's Yazu."

"Can't be- the chopper went down."

"Well somehow he bailed out, it's him, trust me. Come on."

Sykes shook his head but complied. They were far from safety themselves; the last thing they needed was to be dragging around a dead man.

Foregoing safety, O'Neill and Sykes stood and carried Yazu to the hole where Alianni had gone. They made it less than halfway before being spotted. Both men crouched and ran now, dragging the unconscious man through whatever debris was on the ground. At the hole Sykes went in first pulling on Yazu to make room for O'Neill.

Once inside the hole they were both shocked; it opened into a passageway large enough for a man to stand easily. Alianni was at the far end beckoning. O'Neill handed off his portion of Yazu's weight to Barnes and told him to go before turning back to the opening. He quickly dug a chunk of C-4 out of his vest pocket and stuck it to the bare rock, pressing a detonator into its surface. He glanced outside in time to see several soldiers converge on the location.

"Move it! We're gonna have company in two seconds! Go!"

Alianni turned and disappeared down the passage followed closely by Sykes and Barnes, still dragging Yazu between them. O'Neill followed as far as he could and still see the exit. He crouched against the wall and prayed it would hold for his next move.

Two men entered, and their dim flashlights shone into the hollow illuminating O'Neill's face. As the light hit him he pressed the detonation trigger.

The cavern rocked in an approximation of a miniature earthquake showering O'Neill this time with stones and a cloud of dust. When he looked up the opening was no longer there, collapsed from above, and the only sign the soldiers had been there was a single flashlight beam cutting through the haze. There was no sign of the owner.

O'Neill brushed the dirt from corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and squinted to see if any more dared to follow. Satisfied the opening was permanently sealed, he turned to the passageway and crept on through it. He could only hope this was another underground maze complete with multiple exits. If not, he'd just buried them alive.

Thirty feet on down the tunnel he caught up with the others.

"Jeff, everybody okay?"

"All accounted for. You think you might give a little more warning the next time you do something like that?"

"Couldn't be helped, they were already coming in."

"Sure they were. How much more of that stuff have you got?"

O'Neill grinned and flipped open two vest pockets brimming with explosives and detonators. "Always be prepared."

'Good thing.' Sykes thought. This little episode had relieved them of nearly all their belongings. All three packs along with O'Neill's rifle were still on the now certainly destroyed Jeep. All they had left was what they carried on them, their vests, sidearms and MP-5's.

As soon as they were able, Alianni encouraged them to move. The tunnel eventually opened into a large cavern with no apparent exits. O'Neill stood in the center and eyed the Iraqi carefully. "So, which way to Kuwait?"

Alianni shook his head. "The only exit you already know; if it still exists."

"That's it? We're stuck in here until those soldiers decide they want a piece of us and dig us out, or worse figure we've dug our own grave and leave us here?" Barnes voice exposed the panic he was feeling.

"Stand down, Major." O'Neill shot him a stern glance then squinted around at the cave walls. "Well, with all the confusion outside they may not know we're here. With any luck they'll figure we're all dead and burned up. We should have a window of time before they come back and do a proper body search."

The other Colonel was sitting with his back against the wall. "Jack, if you didn't hear the man, he said you just blew up the only exit."

O'Neill took off his vest and knelt beside Yazu, checking him over for any obvious injuries. Seeing no bones out of place and no gushing of blood, he turned his attention to Alianni. "No other way out?"

"No."

"What about that?" O'Neill pointed to a section of the wall.

The others all looked and were amazed to see an area where the pitch black of the cave recess had been replaced by light gray. The early morning sky. Alianni walked over and stood directly beneath it. He extended a hand and could easily reach the bottom edge of the opening.

"It is very narrow but high enough I do not think the soldiers know it is here."

"Can we get out?"

"I still hear the men outside. It would not be safe yet."

"But *can* we?" Sykes echoed O'Neill's question.

Alianni rubbed a hand over the rough stone. "Not as it is, we would need to enlarge it, at least a little."

"And how do we do that?" Sykes was letting his pessimism show. "C-4 would bring the place down on our heads."

"So." Alianni shrugged. "We dig."

<><><>

A day and a half later they were once again 'guests' of Alianni at his camp. The digging was tedious but fruitful, and the twenty-plus mile hike to where Alianni knew someone would help was cut short by sheer luck.

They could not travel openly during the day, so they found an acceptable hideout and slept in shifts. Yazu had awakened for a short time but was too delirious to recognize anyone. They got as much water into him as they could while he was awake, stretching their own supplies to the max. Even before finding help and transportation, they were soon going to be forced to find water. Alianni chose to lead them straight to the nearest water source before moving on.

As it turned out, Alianni's 'help' was there waiting for them. One of his cousins was moving a herd of cattle and was letting them rest at the small watering hole. The troupe endured another bouncy ride, this time in a canvas-covered truck to the camp.

When they arrived Indirae took over tending to Yazu while the men toted buckets of water from the well. Some to drink but mostly to bathe; all of them were covered head to toe in soot and cave-dust. At Indirae's insistence, punctuated by holding her nose, all clothing was shed. She enlisted the local women to wash the garments while the men washed themselves. Each of them was given a simple robe to wear until their own clothing was available. The girls even swiped their boots for cleaning.

Clean but feeling most uncomfortable wrapped in only the thin robe and barefoot, O'Neill ducked his head into Alianni's tent to check on Yazu. He sat on the edge of the cot and took the cloth from the man's forehead, dipped it in water and wrung it out. He dabbed it lightly over Yazu's face to cool him. The Colonel felt completely responsible for what had happened. If he hadn't decided to stay, Yazu wouldn't have been recruited for another foray into Iraq, wouldn't have lost his helicopter and wouldn't be fighting for his life right now in some dusty tent with no doctors or nurses hovering over him.

When Alianni entered O'Neill stood and faced him. "My friend here, needs to be taken to a hospital, he needs some kind of medical attention and soon."

"We have done all we can for now. You also must still return to your people."

O'Neill nodded. "Yeah, I do. Any ideas?"

"Perhaps." He motioned for them to continue the conversation outside. "You don't happen to have a pilot among you, do you?"

"Depends, I've never flown a helicopter."

"Hmm." Alianni nodded. "It was not a helicopter I had in mind. The nearest airfield is at Bensada's compound, and now, with the helicopters out on patrol continually, there are only jets."

O'Neill's eyebrow arched. "And how does this help us?"

"We could...borrow one."

"Ah." O'Neill's head bobbed in disbelief. "You are certifiable. Anybody ever told you that? You want to not only go *back* to that stronghold, you want to *steal* a *plane*?"

"My wife's brother works with the ground crew. If you dressed as we do, it is possible."

"Oh, excuse me, you want *me* to steal a plane. What about Yazu and the rest of my team?"

"Your men can be taken across the border by truck, they can arrange transportation to Kuwait once they are out of the country. But Yazu, as you said, needs medical attention, could you not land here and pick him up?"

"What? It's a *jet* you can't land one on a dirt road like-" As he spoke O'Neill gestured wide with his hand and scanned the horizon with his eyes. He stopped dead midway through the sweep, staring at the wide flat expanse of a dry lake bed southeast of the camp. "How far across is that at its widest point?"

"The lake? It is more than a mile. Why?"

"Looks like you've got yourself a runway." He folded his arms across his chest and squinted his eyes. "Ali? Just how would you get me into that compound?"

<><><>

The next day just before the sky began to lighten, the ground crew was out doing their early morning rounds of the six planes Bensada kept there. No one noticed an additional man dressed as they were in brown coveralls, his head covered with a black and white checkered cloth to keep the sand at bay, just like everyone else.

Having checked the plane of choice over, O'Neill nodded silently to Alianni's brother in-law. He was ready. There was no way to bring a ladder with them onto the field covertly, so it was up to Hassan to give the American a boost up.

The chosen plane was a two-seat Czech L-39 Albatross. O'Neill had been second seat on one ages ago in training and was confident he could fly it, and fight if need be, despite all the instrumentation being in a language he couldn't understand.

Once aboard the plane, and with the canopy in place he gave Hassan a nod, and the Iraqi began to yell

and wave his arms about madly. O'Neill grinned as the man played his part for all it was worth. The idea was to make the others believe he'd commandeered the plane on his own, and Hassan was only another surprised member of the ground crew.

As several men approached the plane O'Neill lit up the engine. A few just made it to the plane when he began to taxi to the runway, but none were fast enough to replace the wheel blocks to prevent him moving. They were so excited no one asked why Hassan didn't do it. Another thing no one noticed was why Hassan had an extra pair of coveralls with him, the ones O'Neill had used to conceal the flight suit he was wearing.

At the end of the runway O'Neill didn't hesitate; he throttled up and rocketed the plane into the air. He barely made it to a thousand feet before needing to decelerate and land on the lake bed. The landing was bumpy to say the least, but the landing gear held. O'Neill taxied the plane to a small group of people standing near the edge of the flat ground.

As he braked to a full stop, he pulled the lever to open the canopy and lowered his head to remove his helmet. When he looked up he was staring into the muzzle of an Iraqi rifle. A quick glance to the group of people was all it took for O'Neill to realize Alianni and his friends were not in sight.

Two ladders had been hastily leaned against the plane, and a soldier was standing at the top of each one. As the second rifle came into his peripheral vision the first man leaned in and switched off the engine. O'Neill leaned back in the seat and took in a deep breath before unbuckling the harness. No point in arguing now, they probably already had Sykes, Barnes, Yazu and Alianni and all of his cohorts.

On a small ridge overlooking the lake bed Alianni slipped the binoculars to Sykes. The man looked through and cursed. "Dammit to hell, Jack. I hope you haven't used up your ninth life yet, you're gonna need it."

<><><>

The holding cell was merely an additional room built of the same light brown stone as the rest of the structure. There was one small window with a grate covering the opening, and the door was made of sturdy iron bars. It was empty save a small dented metal bowl, which O'Neill expected was to be used for food and water. He wondered how likely it was at one time or another it had been used as the 'facilities' in this place.

The Colonel sat with his back against the wall furthest from the door, facing it, with his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them. His thoughts were anywhere but on himself and his current situation. He hadn't seen or heard anything that let him know the fate of his comrades and he dared hope they had all escaped. If they'd gotten away, maybe Alianni had them in a truck and was bouncing along some rutted highway on his way to Turkey right now. He hoped Yazu was still among the living.

Heavy footsteps alerted him to the arrival of two guards who then unlocked the door and swung it wide. One stepped inside and motioned toward the door with the muzzle of his rifle. His dialect was unintelligible, but O'Neill got the point and stood up, stretched his legs a bit and walked through the doorway. His casual movements belied that he was prepared to take action at the slightest opportunity. The man behind him couldn't resist the urge to prod the American and thrust the weapon's barrel into O'Neill's flank.

'Wrong move.' O'Neill's hands moved even more quickly than his thoughts. He grabbed the barrel and pulled it away from the guard then jabbed it back at him hard, connecting with the two lowest ribs and snapping them. The man let out a surprised 'oof' and fell back to the floor. Before the second guard could react O'Neill had taken hold of the heavy cell door and swung it forcefully. Solid iron struck human bone, and the guard went down unconscious, a tiny trickle of blood threading its way down from his nose.

O'Neill bent to pick up the weapon the guard had dropped and suddenly froze. From only several feet away was the unmistakable sound of a 9mm round being chambered. The next sound was the somewhat rhythmic clapping of a slow applause.

"Very good. I am not easily impressed."

O'Neill didn't move from his crouched position but raised his head slightly. There in the hallway was the man he recognized as Bensada and another guard, this one with a two-handed grip on a 9-mil pointed at the Colonel's head.

"Shit." O'Neill tried to hide his shock at seeing the previously dead man alive and well.

The Iraqis eyebrows twitched, and he grinned. "Indeed."

A few minutes later O'Neill was in a large room on the lower level and strapped to a chair with what was possibly his own duct tape. He pulled at the bindings and grimaced. They'd even bound his ankles to the legs of the chair.

"Don't bother trying to get free. I have more of this wonderful American invention." Bensada tossed the remainder of the roll aside. "I also enjoy the plastic ties your 'SWAT' teams use."

O'Neill rolled his eyes. A smart-alek Iraqi. And *why* was the guy speaking English so well? He barely had any accent at all.

Bensada took a few steps to the left and walked back slowly; he stopped directly in front of O'Neill. "I truly can't believe it, you know. You stole my plane! What the hell were you thinking?"

If it was to be games, O'Neill was up for it. "I thought I left my oven on."

The leader stared at him blankly.

"I just wanted to go turn it off. Wouldn't want the place to catch fire."

"I think you have more things than this to worry you. What is your name?"

"Luke, Luke Skywalker." At the look in Bensada's eyes O'Neill conceded. "Okay, Luke Perry."

O'Neill noted another inconsistency: the man was apparently versed enough in western pop culture to understand his answers were not valid.

The Iraqi moved to a long table against one wall. "I can see you do not take me seriously. That will change." He flicked a hand, and two guards came from somewhere at the rear of the room to stand on either side of O'Neill.

"What are you waiting for?" Bensada barked at the men. O'Neill watched him closely and could have sworn he saw a slight flash in the man's eyes. Before he could say anything more the guards were moving. One got behind him and pressed down on his shoulders, pushing him solidly into the chair as the other swung his fist and connected with O'Neill's jaw.

His head jerked at the impact, but he straightened it and glared back at the Iraqi. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."

Bensada motioned to the guard and tossed him a metal rod from the table. The man held it like a baseball bat and swung. The club impacted O'Neill's lower chest and his breath came out in a harsh grunt. He'd tightened his abdominal muscles in an attempt to reduce the strength of the blow, but it wasn't enough and his head dropped to his chest as he strove to compose himself.

He didn't see the guard raise the weapon for another blow. This one fell across the back of his neck and shoulders. O'Neill yelped in pain as the bar crunched against his vertebrae. The guard behind him grabbed his shoulders and forced him to sit upright again.

Bensada raised his hand to temporarily stop the assault. "Name, rank."

O'Neill licked a drop of coppery fluid from the corner of his mouth; he'd bit his tongue when the last blow hit. "Bart Simpson, Astronaut."

The Iraqi was incensed. He stepped forward and took the bar from the guard and waved it menacingly in front of O'Neill's face. He asked again, slowly, with barely controlled rage in his voice. "Name and rank."

There hadn't been another flash, and O'Neill wondered if he really saw it or not. He took a chance and answered in the same slow deiberate manner as he'd been asked. "Cronos, System Lord."

Bensada stopped waving the rod and took a single step back. He narrowed his eyes at his prisoner.

"Oh, sorry, you're right. That would be 'dead' System Lord."

The bar was suddenly tossed away, and it clattered as it hit the floor and rolled. "Who *are* you?"

There was no more doubt in O'Neill's mind. "Just someone who knows at least one dirty little secret."

"Get him out of here!" Bensada spun and stalked to the door; he paused at the opening. "Not back to the cell, take him outside."

'Outside' turned out to be their version of solitary confinement. O'Neill was thrust into something that resembled a crate and sealed inside. No padlocks were used; the soldiers literally nailed the lid in place. The only ventilation was from where the slats did not meet up precisely and in a very short time O'Neill felt himself breathing more heavily as if the air were going stale.

He was sitting with his long legs drawn up and was hugging his knees. It was difficult to turn but he managed to get his face right up against where a sliver of light shone through and sucked fresh air into his mouth.

The day wore on, and the crate heated up to a stifling temperature from the relentless sunlight bearing down upon it. O'Neill wondered how long Bensada might leave him there. Lack of food wouldn't be a problem, since he didn't think he could stomach it anyway, but without water the day would be a very long one indeed.

<><><>

Sykes and Barnes were more than glad to see the collection of bunkers, hangars and other semi-permanent structures that made up Al Jaber Air Base. They didn't mind at all when General Marchman dressed them down in front of a whole hangar full of airmen for going off half-cocked on a fool's mission with O'Neill. They'd already given him the short-short version over a satellite-link phone from the Turkish base, and now the General had had a full day to work himself up into a full-blown tempest over it.

"Colonel and Major, I fully intend to have you attend Court martial for this; the papers are on my desk as we speak. O'Neill's lack of discipline and failure to follow orders is something I do not see as a positive model. As far as I'm concerned the man got what he deserved; he's a disgrace to the uniform, and so are you." He squared his shoulders. "You will be in my office and prepared for a full debrief in twenty minutes. If I am not completely satisfied, your next stop will be the stockade." He didn't pause even a moment and spun on his heel to stalk back to his Jeep.

Colonel Sykes stood at absolute attention in the Generals office three feet in front of his desk and waited. And waited.

Marchman had called him in and then told him he needed a minute to get a few things together. 'Most likely, the Court martial papers' Sykes thought to himself dryly. One minute turned into three and then ten. Twice the Colonel had opened his mouth to say something and been told in no uncertain terms that he would be informed when it was time to speak. It had turned into a contest of wills.

Finally after twenty-seven minutes, the General leaned back in his chair and looked his subordinate in the eye. "You still here? I guess you'd better report then."

Sykes nearly voiced the chuckle that was in his throat. Marchman might be the base Commander, but he had no Special Forces training. Standing at attention for half an hour was mere child's play. Try standing perfectly still in the dark as an enemy soldier comes within six feet of you and takes a piss.

It *did* however