A Bird in Flight
By Soles
E-Mail : soles@gamewood.net
Category : A/A, H/C
Spoilers - Point Of No Return, Ascension, and Desperate Measures.
Season : Season 5, anytime after Desperate Measures, but
before
CONTENT LEVEL: 18+for language and implied sexual activity
Pairing : implied Sam/Jack, Jack/Other
Summary : Jack doesn't have to go off world for trouble to
find him.
Author's note : This story first appeared in Ad Astra
Per
Aspira, but after it was published I felt it needed
a lot of work. I
have reworked, rewritten, and revamped it, and I want to thank my
beta, Victor, for his unstinting assistance. He has helped me make
this a much better story. But, all mistakes are mine.
Feedback would be appreciated : good or ill, Thanks, Soles.
Disclaimer : I own nothing in the Stargate universe. The
original characters portrayed in this work of fiction are the
property of the author.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A small cheerful fire crackled with good will, shooting sparks and
smoke up into the crisp cold air. The weak sunlight was fading from a
densely clouded, sunless sky. The fragrance of freshly cut pine
boughs mixed with the sharp tang of spruce, both a counterpoint to
the smell of snow in the air.
He sat in his homemade accommodations, alternately mesmerized by the
cheerful flames and the lightly falling, first flakes of snow. Fresh
mountain air and his daylong exertions combined to compound his need
for rest, which in turn, banished his need for sustenance. Pulling
the light blanket ever closer around his shoulders, he reclined among
the tangy branches, and let the pull of exhaustion close his eyes.
Sights and sounds from his last twenty-four hours hovered behind
closed eyelids, and the sound of quiet surrounded the fire lit oasis.
Out of the quiet, the single loud snap of a generous sized tree limb
erased his need for sleep, as his eyes popped open. Was someone out
there? Had they caught up to him? Had he let his guard down? Or was
his imagination in hyper drive? The 9mm slipped into his hand with
ease, as he prepared to take on anyone and everyone.
Part 2
The late-night shift of the Stargate Command had settled in, the
shift change over procedures were completed and logged. The late crew
was getting comfortable with the monitor read-outs, diagnostics and
technical information continuously tracking on the monitor screens.
The night had been quiet so far, and the new shift - after putting on
a pot of coffee, was hoping it would stay that way. The control
room’s relaxed and subdued atmosphere was interrupted only by the
quiet discussions and conversations scattered randomly around the
computer terminals.
General Hammond was still in his office, still at his desk,
ostensibly to finish work on a special project. The older staffers
knew he was waiting around to welcome SG-1 home
- they had been off
world for the past twenty-four hours, and were due back soon. Every
so often, he came out of his office to stretch his legs and greet the
new shift. General Hammond would be flying to D.C. in the morning, to
meet with the Joint Chiefs. He and Colonel O’Neill had finally
completed a project, one on which they’d been working overtime for
months, and the General would present to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
looked out over the Stargate, the lateness of the hour was getting to
him. Staring at the gate, he was silently rehearsing his...their...speech
presentation, when suddenly the vast room erupted with the klaxon
call warning of an incoming wormhole. The SF’s ran to take up
defensive positions at the base of the Stargate and the staff shifted
into high gear - there just went the quiet night.
“Off world activation, Sir. Incoming travelers,” echoed through the
SGC, and after pausing to confirm the signal's source, Sgt. Davis
continued. “Identification verified, Sir...it’s SG-1,” he stated, over
the address system.
“Bring them home, Sergeant,” General Hammond spoke softly, as he
swiftly arrived in the control room
.
The SF’s busily moved into position to welcome home another team.
They watched the energy flux spew out and settle back into the blue
puddle of the open anomaly. Waiting impatiently
- the next few
seconds would tell whether or not there was trouble and the homebound
team should appear.
Before too long Dr. Daniel Jackson was tossed out of the ring of
light, rolling down the ramp. Major Samantha Carter followed him
closely. The tall, blonde Major completed a body roll by coming up on
one knee with her P-90 pointed back at the gate, ready to fire. The
SF’s cocked their weapons in unison, tensely waiting for the last
members of the team to step through.
“Close the iris,” Colonel O’Neill shouted as he ran through, holding
and supporting Teal’c.
Several projectiles, in the form of large rocks came through the gate
along with the last two travelers. Just barely missing the
stragglers, the projectiles headed straight toward the line of SF
Infantry; who quickly moved out of the line of fire. One infantryman
wasn’t quick enough and a large stone smashed into his foot - he went
down with a scream of agony.
“Medic...medical team to the gate room,” General Hammond was the first
to respond.
With Teal’c still clutched to his chest, O’Neill dropped both of them
down to the metal ramp, hoping to dodge the heavy missiles. The
closed iris rumbled as more projectiles were thrown through. But mere
seconds later, the wormhole dissolved and the iris re-opened.
The tension in the vast room was palpable. The klaxon continued
blaring and the red emergency lighting continued revolving and
flashing.
“Shut that damned noise off,” the General shouted. The technician
responded quickly, but the resounding silence was almost as deafening.
The just arriving team sat on the ramp as if too tired to move. The
medical team surged into the embarkation room, checking everyone for
injuries. The SF Marine was carried away on a stretcher, his own
medic in attendance. Out of SG-1, Teal’c's injury was the most
serious. He'd suffered a fractured ankle earlier on the mission, and
was released from Colonel O’Neill’s care, into the tender mercies of
Dr. Fraiser. Dr. Jackson received a sprained wrist - the result of
his expeditious toss from the wormhole. And although she was pumped
up from their hasty retreat, Major Carter was unharmed.
Colonel O’Neill looked up from his position on the ramp to the large
windows of the control room. Gen. Hammond stood calmly waiting,
looking down at his 2IC.
“It’s a write-off, general," O'Neill reported tiredly, "...Snakeheads
got there first.”
The CO nodded, then, “ Welcome back SG-1, get cleaned up, see Dr.
Fraiser, and then we’ll have a short debrief in one hour.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The long corridor was dimly lit, approximating the circadian rhythm
of the vast complex topside. The OD walked quickly and quietly down
the darkened hall, some small mental trepidation apparent on his
young face. This was his first rotation as duty officer for the SGC,
and to say he was nervous was a vast understatement. To say he wanted
to succeed here, and have a chance at off-world exploration was
another understatement. Reaching the specific door that was his
destination, Capt. Piscatelli quietly and timidly
knocked. He should
have sent an NCO instead of coming himself, or at least someone with
whom the Colonel was familiar.
Everyone in the complex knew it was never a good idea to awaken or
startle Colonel O’Neill out of much-needed rest. After an extremely
hectic twenty-four hours, his rest had been well earned. The Captain
knocked again, preparing to unlock the door with a key from among the
many on his key ring.
A slight noise from inside the room prompted the young officer to
unlock the door and peer inside.
“Colonel O’Neill...Colonel O’Neill?” Piscatelli
whispered
apprehensively.
“Captain, what can I do for you this early..." The sleeping man
roused slightly at hearing
his name, but didn’t move, "What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s 0300hrs. Sir.”
“...At this time of the morning? I think I just got to sleep...” he
yawned, long and loud, yet remained unmoving from his position
in the bed. The warm covers were up around his ears, the pillow
clutched to his chest and his long legs were flung over the edge
of the mattress.
“Yes, Sir, I’m sorry, Sir and General Hammond sent his respects,
Sir." The Captain stepped inside the dark room, but still clutched at
the door, "...He needs to see you in his office, Sir... and I’m to escort
you there, Sir.”
“Captain, see if you can lose a few of those ‘Sirs’ while I get my
pants,” O’Neill said, as he quickly rose from the bed, reaching
for his clothing.
“Yes, Sir!” The Captain responded, backing out of the darkened room,
and into the hallway to await O'Neill.
Without killing himself in the dark, O’Neill dressed as fast as he
could, and then joined the young officer for the trip back down
to the
through the empty hallways, each as silent as the corridors they
traveled. But each man was silent for a different reason. The older
man was trying to fathom the reason for his summons. It had to be
something big, and bad, for
the night. Especially after SG-1 had gotten
back so late. And had been kept up even later with medical check ups
and debriefing - although the General had kept it short.
The younger officers’ silence was akin to hero worship and awe. His
nervousness was due, in part, to being in the company of a legend - a
legend who could make or break a career with only his sarcastic wit.
This story would bear repeating and a tiny bit
of embellishment, for his fellow officers at the O club.
As the elevator traveled further back down inside the mountain,
Piscatelli kept his eyes on the control panel. But
surreptitiously
watched the older officer for the greater part of the trip. O’Neill
leaned tiredly against the back elevator wall, his eyes closed and
puffy from lack of sleep.
The slight tug of gravity that signaled the end of the ride, brought
O’Neill straight to his feet. Striding out of the opening doors,
with hands jammed in the pockets of his fatigue pants, the Colonel
looked like a man on a mission.
The younger officer bounded after him; like a puppy galloping after
its parent, trying to overtake him, to lead the way to
office. The SF at
walked double time down the corridor. Colonel O’Neill knocked on the
closed door and was granted entrance by a quiet voice from inside.
General Hammond sat at his desk, his back to the desk. A framed
portrait was in his hands - of his daughter and her family, the one
kept in his private drawer. Other than give permission to enter his
office, the General said nothing. He gave no indication that he was
aware of Colonel O’Neill’s presence.
The silence lengthened and was getting to him. O’Neill cleared his
throat, keeping his eyes on his CO and the photograph. His squirrelly
feeling returned...in swarms.
“Hey, General...Sir? What’s up?” There was no response from the other
man.
“General? O’Neill reporting...as ordered, Sir.” His instincts were on
alert, and the bad feeling was growing with every passing second.
Again he cleared his suddenly dry throat.
“General...what’s happened?” From the way
framed picture, had something happened to his daughter? Or Tessa and
Kayla?
O’Neill moved around to the other side of the large mahogany desk,
putting his hand on the older man’s constantly moving hand, and
gripped it hard.
“General...George, tell me.”
glancing around the office in despair. His eyes were red
with emotion, and he suddenly looked much older than his years. A
complete change, thought O'Neill, from only a few hours
ago.
“What’s happened, sir?”
A despairing George S. Hammond carefully set the photograph down on
his desk, stood up and moved away from the desk. He began pacing the
room, picking up randomly displayed items, only to set them down
again. They were reminders of a long and, he’d like to think,
illustrious career.
“Along with Tessa and Kayla, my daughter has been in an automobile
accident. I’ve just come from the hospital. They.... Katherine is in
surgery now...a ruptured spleen. We’re...I’m still waiting for a report
on the girls...” If ever there was a time that Jack O’Neill imagined
General Hammond would, or could, be brought to tears, this he thought
was that moment. And he let
out a breath he’d been unaware of holding.
“General...you need to be with your family - I’ll hold the...”
"...They were on their way back from
little girl is dead.” Finally, making eye contact with
Jack, his pain and uncertainty, and the dread that filled his heart
clearly showed.
Jack didn’t know what to say...what parent would? Just because he’d
been in a situation, very similar to this one, he had gained no
extraordinary wisdom to pass on, no quick-fix pain remover, and no
easy cliché’s to spout.
“Oh, General...Sir” - and as one father to another, Jack O’Neill
gathered the distraught man in his arms. The two men shared the
misery for only a short moment, but it was long enough to gather
shredded composure, communicate understanding and brace for the next
step.
“Thanks Jack, I knew I could count on you, son.” He cleared his
emotion-choked throat.
“What I really need now, is for you to go to
hours, instead of me. I hate to be selfish, but I’ve got to be here,
for my girls...and someone has to be in
Chiefs.” General George S. Hammond was not above begging, and had
done so many times in his long career. He'd begged quite often for
reinforcements, and supplies, for information, or funding; the list
was infinite. But just this one time, he was begging for a personal
reason. His family needed him and he needed to be with his family.
The Government could go screw itself, but Jack O’Neill didn’t deserve
such crude reasoning.
Initially, O’Neill’s face reflected a look of complete acquiescence
as General Hammond and the SGC’s 2IC. An acceptance
of
his duty, to be deployed wherever it was determined he would best
serve, was his lot as a soldier. But, the look on Jack’s face that
followed was priceless. His expression was a cross between a deer
caught in the headlights of an oncoming car and an apoplectic
seizure. In any other situation, George Hammond might have thought
the fleeting changes of emotion, flitting across O’Neill’s face
amusing. Except, for a short moment,
another casualty here. O’Neill, ever the professional, quickly reined
in his own surprised irritation and pessimistic emotions.
Colonel Jack O’Neill hated
He hated the town - least of all, most of all he hated the politics,
the politico’s; he hated the protocol and the stiffness. He hated
the artificial atmosphere, and he even hated the smell of
He'd hated the city for a long, long time, but the Armand Selig
affair seemed to have permanently soured his outlook. And, when in
Jack O’Neill the bum's rush. Yes, to say Jack O’Neill hated the place
was a gross understatement.
But the General was asking a favor of him.
Who was he to say no?
He wouldn’t even think of saying no. The General had been there for
him, so many times since they’d first met. And, he never complained...
but
“Yes, Sir...you need to be here. I’ll...it’ll...” he cleared his throat, “I
would be honored to go in your place, Sir. Although, I
won’t be held responsible, if I run into Senator Kinsey.”
The weak comeback made the General smile, just as it was meant to.
The older man looked again at the portrait of his smiling family, the
smile slowly fading from his face.
“I appreciate this Jack. I know just how you feel about going, but...
well, Thanks, son. Now, since you have a plane to catch,”
he looked at his watch, “...In three and a half hours, let’s quickly go
over a few points, so you can get a couple hours of sleep.”
The General moved back over to his desk, and pulled a For Your Eyes
Only folder from a locked desk drawer. O’Neill was familiar with the
folder and its contents, but he wasn’t thinking about the folder, or
its contents. He wasn't even thinking of the speech and presentation
he’d have to give in a few hours. His thoughts centered on those
words spoken by the General.
Thanks, son, I know just how you feel about going....
Both the General and the Colonel were heading into unknown territory,
it was reassuring that each understood the misgivings and
uncertainties of the other.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The otherworldly quiet, of the Pentagon’s corridors, muffled the
footsteps of the uniformed staff members traversing those same
hallways, carrying out their respective duties. An air of history -
already made, and in the making, pervaded the ivory tower atmosphere
of the famous building. It seemed only natural, that whispering
should be the accepted mode of speech.
And although it was not, a few not unimportant visitors would catch
themselves doing just that.
Elegantly wood-paneled doors, of a Senior Command Staff conference
room, swung open on very well oiled hinges, decanting
the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff - more brass than should be
in one location, at any one time. Some of the exiting faces were
somber and thoughtful. Others were laughing and joking with their
assistants. As soon as the crowd thinned out and dispersed, Colonel
Jack O’Neill made his get-away. He casually walked out of the empty
conference room, battered briefcase
in hand, very pleased to have completed his presentation, and the
favor to his General.
It had gone well, Project Excalibur had been well received. As Earth
Defensive plans go, this one was relatively simple and inexpensive -
relatively speaking.
In a place, where military colonels were a-dime-a-dozen, O’Neill’s
commanding presence stood out. Helped in no small part by his
professional demeanor, height, and reputation. The graying light
brown hair lent an air of wisdom and experience to his younger than
his years face. He had been well received, not just his presentation,
but he himself. He felt ridiculously pleased. Several invitations for
dinner, had been sent his way, but graciously declined. He was beat...
with only two hours of real sleep,
out of the last twenty-four; he was dead tired and cruising on fumes.
O'Neill, you must be feeling your years, he mused, you used to do
twenty-four out of twenty-four, with no thought whatsoever - but not
any more.
O’Neill made his way out of the huge building; getting lost only
once, and climbed into the waiting cab. Sometimes, he pondered, it
could be very nice, having an assistant to make life work for you,
but he wouldn’t want one on any regular basis. They came
with too much regulation for his taste. He thanked his helper, and
then gave the cab driver the address of an upscale bar near his hotel.
Someone’s assistant had recommended it. He felt like having a beer
before calling it quits and claiming his bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cab dropped him off in front of the Bistro. The driver asked if
he'd need anything else tonight - his cab was available until
Walking into the tastefully decorated, elegantly quiet supper club,
O’Neill's eyebrows raised skyward. This place alone would
put him to sleep. At least he wouldn’t run the risk of getting into a
drunken brawl. The hostess inquired whether he wanted
dinner, or just drinks, and found him a place at the massive bar,
when he stated drinks only.
Jack nursed his second beer. He’d been sitting here for over an hour
now - contemplating life in general and his life in particular. And
was giving serious thought again to leaving. He was lost in thought
when a hand clamped hard and strong on his left
shoulder. Out of the mists of time, a voice spoke.
“Got a seat for a lady, Soldier?”
Using slow precise movements, O’Neill gently set his drink on the bar
and then turned to face the newcomer. He recognized the voice from
that time just before
Her hand remained on his shoulder, and then, as he swiveled around to
face her, she enveloped him in a fierce hug. Caught off guard, Jack
responded.
“Haven’t seen any ladies yet, Fly girl,” and then returned her
embrace just as fiercely.
“Jack O’Neill, as I live and breathe, when did you blow into town,
and from under which rock?” She asked in that very
irreverent style as only comrades-in-arms manage. Releasing him from
her bear hug and holding him at arms length, she looked
him over, long and leisurely. She was attempting to see the brash
young airman, with whom she’d shared so much.
“Carolyn, the Mushroom, Musgrove - if you’re here, can Calvin
Musgrove be far behind? And what are you doing in
O’Neill asked. He looked around the bar area, expecting
his friends beloved husband and co-pilot to appear. He saw the frown
appear on her still pretty face, and sadness cloud her eyes.
“
went out on...I never even received his remains....”
Jack nodded, he understood. So many good people had been lost, so
many to unknown circumstances.
“I’m sorry, Mushroom...I guess I should’ve kept in touch . So many
other things fell apart in my life after that. I just took it for
granted that you two were untouchable.”
“Me too, O’Neill...guess we were wrong, huh?” The two friends
commiserated in silence for long minutes, until Carolyn remembered
his only half-joking inquiry.
“As for being in
I’m supposed to be flying a General Somebody out of here in
the morning, but he was a no-show. I’m the head pilot for a company
out in
“No..." Jack shook his head, "I’m on assignment with
deep space radar telemetry. We haven’t gotten to play with any real
ordinance...yet. It’s a lot calmer than the Gulf War, but...I like it.
Hey, speaking of getting out of here, I’d better get out of here and
get to bed - I’m flying out in the morning myself.”
O’Neill paid for both their drinks and then Carolyn, getting up to
leave, asked, “Where’re you staying, Jack? ...Maybe...I
could walk you home?"
Jack looked up from counting his change, surprise evident in his
handsome face, a questioning look in his eyes. Who was she
trying to kid; good private Corporation pilots were usually put up in
four-star...if not five-star hotels.
“Hey, Jack, we’re just two friends who want to spend some time
together. You put me up for the night, and I...well, I can be
very appreciative,” her voice softly suggestive.
O’Neill smiled at her candor, wrapped an arm around her slim
shoulders, drawing her closer, nuzzled her neck with a
brotherly kiss, and replied, “Don’t push, Carolyn. I’m a lonely man,
in a lonely town, and I’m not trying’ to be good. But
would haunt me for the rest of my life, if I so much as touched you
inappropriately...so, be nice. And let’s get out of here.”
The duo left the Bistro, laughing and talking as only close friends
who haven’t seen each other in ages can. They headed up the busy
thoroughfare, lively with after mid-night traffic, to Jack’s hotel.
Carolyn inquired into his military career, especially about his rise
in rank and not being in a combat unit anymore. She also, touched on
his marriage to Sara, expressing her sadness at its demise. She
didn’t ask about Charlie; she’d heard through the military grapevine
about that incident, and knew with certainty that this man had been,
and still was, devastated by the event. Just before arriving at the
hotel entrance, she inquired of his present assignment; just what
exactly was deep space radar telemetry?
O’Neill’s well rehearsed, and oft repeated cover-up slid seamlessly
from his golden tongue; weaving a picture of rock solid, Stand-up-for-
America and all-that-she-stands-for, fight-the-good-fight, apple-pie,
Mom and Dad patriotic eyewash. Never
once did he tell her what, exactly, his work was. As a former pilot
for Uncle Sam, Carolyn got the message.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sam!”
Total orgasmic release wrung the name from O’Neill’s lips - although
he didn’t comprehend, just whose name he’d hoarsely murmured. His
sweat-covered body heaved, attempting to drag oxygen into deprived
lungs. His strong muscles trembled with exertion after maintaining
an all-night sex marathon. Warm soft arms pulled him back down into
the jumble of bedclothes. One sweat slicked body slid against the
other, snuggling together to rest, if only for a short while.
“I should be pissed with you, forgetting exactly whom you’re with...”
Carolyn breathed into his ear, causing shivers to dance on his still
moist skin.
“Don’t be pissed. I can’t be with her, anymore than I should be here
with you.” O’Neill replied, while smoothing his hand down her flat
abdomen, again searching for her hot, wet center.
His fingers tangled through her pubic curls, softly stroking,
seeking, causing her breathing to once again cease automatic
function. “Oh?" she inquired, glad he had someone in his life again,
the grapevine was very thorough; his divorce was old news,”How
come?”
“Regulations,” he softly replied, covering her neck with wet kisses,
tasting the salty sweat collecting between her bony
structures, “Regulations."
“Oh,” was all she could manage, as he began his assault - an assault
that would take them back to a world of their own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The early dawn crept through the slightly parted hotel curtains,
illuminating two tangled bodies, exhausted from a night of
fulfillment. Weak early morning sunlight, slowly oozed across the
bright, gaudy carpet, brightening the room with artificial colors.
Ingrained from thirty years of early morning risings, Jack O’Neill
was awake long before the sun began it journey up into the eastern
sky. He was awake, watching the sleeping woman lying beside him. He
remembered their good times as young Air Force Officers, eager to
take on the world. He also remembered their dedication to an ideal,
and tried not to remember their fall back to earth - from regrets,
disappointments, and the inhumanity of their fellow man.
He shouldn’t be here with this woman, this friend from another time
long past. He shouldn’t have succumbed to her enticements, but he
wasn’t blaming her, God no! He couldn’t blame her for this - anymore
than he could blame himself for breathing. He just wished it hadn’t
happened. Somehow he felt unfaithful...to Carter, and what they could
have had. What he wished, with every fiber of his soul, that they did
have.
It was too late for any regrets...what was done was done...and they’d had
an incredible night together. They were two lonely souls who'd come
together for a short reprieve. Not bad...for an old guy. But now, real
life intervened and the day was passing with incredible speed. He
needed to call the Mountain, check in with
that plane to catch.
Gently, disentangling himself from Carolyn’s warm embrace, O'Neill
slowly and carefully eased his body out of the warm, rumpled bed.
Heading for the john, O’Neill jumped when a soft, hoarse voice, loud
in the quiet room asked, “Where are you going?”
“Shit, Carolyn. Don’t scare me like that. I thought you were asleep...
why aren’t you asleep?” O’Neill stood, gloriously naked in the
morning light - not an extra ounce of fat to be seen on his entire
body. His bulky muscles of youth, had settled down into well-defined,
mature proportions. Carolyn enjoyed looking - she enjoyed touching
even more. Calvin Musgrove had been gone for a long time - a girl had
to watch out for herself.
“I have to get up and get going too, Colonel O’Neill. Say, you know,
I’ve been thinking...”
O’Neill cocked his eyebrow at her, as if to say - Oh yeah, when have
you had time to think?
“Yes...I’ve been thinking! Since my General was a no-show, and I have
to deliver the new Gulfstream anyway, why don’t I fly you back to
Please, please say you will...please?”
Her sexy, sixteen year-old pout, on a sexy forty-something year-old
face completely undid the hard-as-nails officer, who laughed at her
antics.
“Well, I guess it would save the
pocket change. Okay, but let me call in first...has your flight plan
been filed yet?” She nodded affirmative.
“Well, first off I have got to empty my bladder...see a man about a
horse. And then, while you get your shower, I’ll check in with my
boss, make sure they know what I’m up to.”
O’Neill kissed the top of Carolyn’s head and wandered into the
bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Musgrove slipped out of the bed, looking toward the bathroom - as if
O’Neill would burst out at any moment, and then pulled a cell-phone
from her handbag. When she heard the sound of running water, she
tapped in a series of numbers and waited for a response. Unmindful of
her own nudity, the mere seconds of waiting had her foot tapping a
staccato beat on the carpet, and a supremely nervous look plastered
on her lovely face.
“Come on, come on...answer the damned phone...”
“Hello...” finally, someone picked up.
“Yeah, it’s me...number one didn’t show...number two is with me now.
We’re flying out this morning...saving the taxpayers a few dollars,”
she laughed, a humorless laugh, and continued, “...Yes, I know...just
like we planned... yeah, keep in touch.”
Carolyn Musgrove’s face was a study of indecision, as she punched off
the power to her pocket phone, Gees, this was Jack...not some unknown
General... you'll just have to figure something else out, go to plan B -
when you figure out exactly what plan B is. Hearing the shower water
turn off, she moved quickly to her open overnighter, removed clean
clothing and then moved quickly back over to the bed, in search of
last night’s discarded bits.
She was on her hands and knees; grappling under the bed, when Jack
jerked the bathroom door open. Dressed only in a towel around his
waist, and furiously towel drying his hair, he saw her firm, naked
butt sticking up and out from under the bed as she attempted the
search and retrieval. Moving closer to the bed, O’Neill sat down.
“Hey!! I’m under here...” she shouted, her voice muffled.
“I know...I can see a very delectable part of you, right now. Can I
help?” His Good Samaritan act of charity was only getting him into
trouble - deeper and deeper. “Carolyn, I really think you need to get
up, go take your shower, and most of all, get dressed. I’m only a
mere mortal. I can’t handle stuff like this,” he intoned seriously,
his hands itching to caress the smooth muscular buttocks.
“What the hell are you blabbering about?” she asked indignantly,
pushing herself out from under the bed.
“GO, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON...before we spend another afternoon doing what
we did last night! I’m already going be haunted for the rest of my
life...”
She laughed when she saw his dilemma, choosing to ignore it. But
instead, straightened herself up and then walked slowly and
seductively into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it behind
her.
Smiling broadly, but rubbing himself to ease a burgeoning erection,
O’Neill moved over to his belongings on the dresser. As soon as he
heard the water turn on, out came his own cell phone. Punching in a
string of numbers he waited - what felt like much longer than
necessary, until a voice came over the line. O'Neill identified
himself and requested to speak to General Hammond. He was passed off
to
unavailable to the phone, as was the OIC - Lt. Col. Dalton.
“Okay then, let me talk to Major Carter, or Dr. Jackson, or...or
Teal’c, for crying out loud....”
“Is this a secure line, Sir?”
“No, it is not.”
"Then I’ll have to decline answering you questions, Sir. SG-1 is in
conference with the OIC, and a Colonel Simmons, and unavailable to
the phone. Could I take a message, Colonel O’Neill?"
“What the hell is he doing there? No offense, Captain Smith, but I
guess I’ll have to leave one with you...”
“None taken, sir.”
“Let the General know that I’m dead-heading back to
with a friend...her flight plan has been filed, and we should be
getting out of here in another hour. Tell Major Carter; I’m riding in
style, in a NEW Gulfstream. I’ll call her later, before we take-off.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”
“No, I think that’s it for now, Captain. Keep the porch light on...”
“Yes, Sir. Will do...and Good-day, Sir.”
O’Neill had just finished dressing when the bathroom door opened, and
a completely, and carefully put together Carolyn Musgrove stepped
out. The uniform she wore was dark gray in color, and accented with
dark red accoutrements, which accented her curves in just the right
places. O’Neill’s eyebrows reached for his hairline. He hadn’t paid
close enough attention last night - at least to her clothing. But he
could see her professional demeanor had taken over; the seductive
coquette was safely returned to the box.
Carolyn looked her friend over, with a not completely professional
interest. O’Neill was smartly dressed, but casual. He’d chosen khaki-
colored chino slacks and a long sleeved black golf shirt, along with
his black leather jacket. Both dark items
complimented his silver streaked hair. Carolyn looked him over from
head to toe with womanly appreciation, but stopped looking and stared
instead at his choice of footwear. Carolyn, looking down at his
insulated combat boots, raised her eyebrow in question.
“They’re old and they’re comfortable, and my feet get cold when I
fly - so sue me....”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Breakfast, and the ride to the airport, was uneventful. Both Jack and
Carolyn were anxious to get going...although Carolyn seemed overly
nervous, and had been since they’d left the hotel. O’Neill wanted to
call the base again, make sure Carter or Daniel, could get his truck
to the airport in
necessary, but he preferred the freedom of his own vehicle.
The cab driver dropped them off at the main terminal - "What with
security being so stringent." After the security check-in, they would
take ground support transportation to the Gen-Tec hanger, where a new
General Dynamics Gulfstream IV-SP aircraft awaited their arrival.
Jack was excited, just like a kid, over co-piloting the expensive,
sleek piece of machinery. He could just hear Carter now, expounding
on the pertinent facts about this particular aircraft - maximum
speed, range, altitude, gross weight even, and flight time...yeah,
Carter loved her airplanes!
O’Neill began to think they’d have to walk the distance to the
hanger, after all the steps, ramps, twists and turns Carolyn made,
just to get to the ground taxi that would carry them out. He hadn’t
really paid close attention and when Carolyn stopped at a counter to
check in, one more time, Jack almost ran her down.
Apologizing profusely for his inattention, and moving out of her way,
he swung his bags up, into one of the available seats in the waiting
area, and moved over to the large ground level windows, which looked
out onto the seeming confusion.
Outside the window was a shuttle bus with the Gen-Tec logo emblazoned
on the side panels. O’Neill watched the activity. The Gen-Tec logo
caught his eye, it seemed familiar although he couldn’t place exactly
why. If they were weapons manufacturers, why had he never heard of
them? Even in the military, especially in the military, a working
familiarity was maintained with weapons designers. He’d have to ask
the General, or Carter when he called in again.
Finally, they were on the shuttle. The ride out to their destination
was necessarily slow due to the multitude of aircraft pulling out of
gates, preparing for take-off. O’Neill’s impatience nearly over-rode
his happy expectations of traveling in the fantastic jet. His
anticipation was dampened further by the nervousness of his pilot,
who was busy checking and re-checking weather printouts and maps. Her
mind was totally absorbed with flight preparations.
The shuttle finally pulled up outside the Gen-Tec hanger. The large
doors were open, revealing the sleek jet - in all of its glory.
Rubber-necking until the shuttle pulled to a stop, O’Neill observed
several maintenance people working on the aft section of the plane.
Prodding Carolyn’s arm for attention, O’Neill asked, “Is this thing
ready to fly? Cause there seems to be an awful lot of activity near
those engines.”
Musgrove looked up from her print-outs to where he pointed,
dismissing the activity as normal, “ Just good ground maintenance,
Jack...why don’t we get out of here, you can call in and I can start
the preflight check off.” She smiled up at him, her bright, open-
faced smile, as if to apologize for her distraction. Together they
stepped out of the shuttle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Dammit, doesn’t the woman ever answer her phone?” O’Neill growled
into his cell-phone. He'd really been hoping her conference was over
so she could give him a clue as to what the son-of-a-bitch Simmons
wanted. “Carter, pick up!”
“Hi, this is me," Major Carter’s voice finally spoke into his ear, "I
can't answer your call right now, so leave a message, and I’ll get
back to you a.s.a.p.”
Sonofabitch
"Yeah...Carter, It’s me...O’Neill. I’m coming in this evening, would
you
make sure my truck is parked at the airport? If you can’t take it
yourself, ask Daniel...”
Another voice intruded.
“Jack, are you finished? I’m about ready to get going...” Carolyn
hailed, from the flight deck of the aircraft. O’Neill grinned as she
leaned out of the opened forward window.
“Yeah,” he waved to his pilot, and then shouted, “ Yes, I’m coming
Carolyn” - then into the phone, “Okay, Carter, I've got to go now...see
you.” Pressing the end button on the small instrument, he sighed with
regret.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
General Hammond was pissed - he’d left upset in the dust, and was
headed straight for pissed. The nerve of that...that man, for want of a
better word, coming here; to the SGC, to interrogate his people...it
was ludicrous. His adjutant, Captain Smith, had given him the low-
down as soon as he’d stepped back on base. AFTER he'd left messages
at the sentry post, and any number of them on the general's cell
phone.
The general didn’t like surprises, especially when they came from his
own backyard, and subordinates. Besides, what was the man after this
time? General Hammond marched through the hallways, in search of a
predator. A man who would sully, slander, even kill his own kind, for
no other reason than it was an order -
no questions asked.
Captain Smith double-timed his steps to catch up with
had been jumpy ever since the smarmy Colonel arrived. All superior
attitude and
SG-1 together for a conference. The young adjutant had complied, but
he’d also notified his superior, LTC. Kevin Dalton, the SGC/OD.
Together the OD and SG-1 were sequestered with the smug, all-knowing
Colonel. Smith wished - not for the first time today that Colonel
O’Neill was here.
“What’s the meaning of this, Colonel?” the General asked angrily , as
he stepped from the metal stairway into the briefing room. “I don’t
believe I received a request for a conference with any of my people,
Colonel. What game are you playing this time?”
On his arrival,
faces as they hurriedly stood to attention. Everyone stood except
Colonel Simmons, who looked like he’d just bitten into a green
persimmon - his face was all scrunched up, his full lips
pursed like
he'd sucked something sour, otherwise he looked very unhappy.
“General
SGC with your presence. My intelligence tells me you’ve let the
second string carry the ball...is there something you’re not telling
us?” Colonel Simmons was bluffing, he knew it; he just hoped
didn’t.
“Nothing that I haven’t already told My Boss, Colonel, and we all
know who that is, don’t we?”
satisfaction. Chalk one up for the good guys.
Carter,
comeback. Captain Smith was still too nervous to do anything more
than smile and mentally declare "Atta' boy George!"
“Now, Colonel, I suggest you cut the crap, and tell me just why
you’re here...unwanted AND uninvited.”
Simmons looked uncomfortable, he really hated giving up information -
he felt it was more blessed to receive than to give it away, but he
was getting nowhere with this tactic and time was wasting.
“First...let me say, that your poster boy, O’Neill, is conspicuous by
the absence of his mouth...” SG-1’s facial expressions took a decided
downturn at the insult to their leader. “Second...we have evidence of
his collusion with suspected enemies of the United States Government.”
“What!?”
“That’s absurd!”
“He would not...”
“You’ve got to be crazy.”
“Colonel, what the Sam Hill are you talking about?"
Ha! Ha! - Now, Colonel Simmons grinned, his was the smug satisfaction.
“He was seen with a... Carolyn Musgrove,” he checked his notes, but
it was all for show. He knew the document by heart, “...Who is a
pilot for a firm that retro-designs stolen weapons. Last evening at
a
hotel...they appeared to be very...cozy.”
They hadn’t looked that cozy, but this was his story, he’d tell it
like he wanted to. And that look on Major Carter’s face
was very telling.
“Colonel Simmons, you’ve reached some pretty tall conclusions there,
with next to nothing in real hard facts. You’re mighty good at
jumping, aren’t you?”
to dishonor a man, who put his own life on the line, every day of his
life for this country. “Although it’s none of your business, Colonel,
but my second-in-command was in
I hadn’t had a family emergency I’d have been there instead. Would
that make me a collaborator too, Colonel?”
The NID Colonel was silent.
“General
hostile atmosphere. All eyes turned to the youngest officer in the
room, Captain Andrew Jackson Smith, the general’s adjutant.
“General
came on the base. He wanted to speak to you or Major Carter. He
would’ve spoken to Dr. Jackson or Mr. Teal’c, but Colonel Simmons had
them in conference already, Sir.”
“Did he leave a message, son?” The General asked softly, he knew
Captain Smith was not the bravest, or the most vocal soldier in this
man’s Air Force. But, he did an excellent job, in spite of it.
“Yes, Sir. He wanted you to know that he’d be deadheading back to
file. And then he asked me to tell Major Carter that he’d be flying
back in a new Gulfstream, and he’d try to call her from the airport,
before take-off. He...he...also said 'to leave the porch light on for
him', Sir.” Smith took a deep, unsteady breath, he liked Colonel
O’Neill and hoped nothing bad would happen to him.
“Did you get the call, Major?”
Dick Tracy.
“No, sir. My cell phone’s in my locker and I’ve been in here most of
the morning, and haven’t had a chance to check my voice mail.”
Carter’s heart was in her throat. If someone could travel two
thousand miles and have trouble meet them at the airport, it’d have
to be Colonel Jack O’Neill.
“Would you mind going upstairs and checking, please Major Carter?”
Colonel Simmons rolled his eyes,
Gentleman...it was enough to make a strong man sick.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sleek twin-engine jet roared down the runway, looking - for all
that took notice, like a beautiful metallic bird seeking flight. The
fair, crisp weather aided the aircraft as it lifted higher and higher
into the thin air, catching the rays of the afternoon sun, making
them dance and shimmer.
Jack watched in fascination as Carolyn managed the controls like the
pro that she was. Carolyn promised, since this was now only a ferry
flight, that he could take the stick, as soon as they were up to
cruising altitude. O’Neill would love to be flying one of these
babies with Carter, listening to all the gobble-de-gook/ techno-
babble she could think of. Carolyn was all business, too serious and
too preoccupied since they’d left the hanger. It was looking like a
very long trip to
But, once she’d leveled off at 45,000 feet, and had been flying long
enough to get a feel for the aircraft and the weather conditions,
Carolyn gave Jack her attention. The two old friends talked about
themselves and about what they’d been doing for the past several
years. Each had areas in their lives, which were forbidden territory
and no-mans land; filled with regrets, disappointment, and secrets.
But for each, there were also areas of joy, and hope, and renewal.
O’Neill only spoke a few words about his team, but those few quiet
word spoke volumes about his relationship with those special people.
As their conversation wound down, Carolyn gave Jack permission to
walk around the aircraft and see it up close, since his curiosity was
getting to him. Jack’s first stop would be the tiny lavatory; his
breakfast coffee was calling his name.
The lavatory bounced and jumped with turbulence. The vibrations were
felt all the way from his feet up to his teeth, as O’Neill washed his
hands and dried them. For such a refined, sophisticated piece of
equipment, this aircraft sure did rattle and roll a lot. Walking out
of the door, he heard a loud pop, it was probably his ears doing that
thing they did when he flew. He made his way forward again, poking
into nooks, compartments and storage, taking note of the lavish
leather seating, and the obviously expensive appointments.
Appointments created especially for the discerning millionaire mogul
weapons designer.
In the increasing turbulence O’Neill staggered forward to the flight
deck. Carolyn’s attention was glued to the control panel. She
maintained a death grip on the stick, fighting for control. O’Neill
slid into his seat, looking at his friend with raised eyebrows and
concern - something was wrong.
Had something happened during his expedition aft?
“Carolyn? What’s up?” O’Neill asked quietly, as he clipped his seat
belt together. He didn’t like her attention being so totally focused
on the instruments, as if not believing what they were telling
her. “You need to take a break, or...”
“Jack, we...something’s wrong with the aircraft...it’s not... responding
like it should. All of a sudden it just went soft and sluggish on me.
Would you help me hold on to her?” She looked into his eyes, showing
him her deep concern.
“Sure, no sweat,” he replied, with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. But,
she was busy enough, he didn’t need to increase her stress with
pointless questions. O’Neill grabbed hold of his controls with both
hands; hands which had suddenly grown sweaty. Both maintained a
steady hold, while the aircraft tried its best to wrest control from
their combined grip.
“It feels like the hydraulics. I’m getting only minimal response from
the elevator or the rudder...they’re feeling way too sluggish.”
“Carolyn, we CAN land this plane without those - right? We just have
to find the right landing strip...
"Right now, Jack, I'm not so much worried about landing this baby as
I am about holding her up in the air.
"Yeah, there is that." He thought for a moment, still maintaining
a
death grip on the feisty controls. "But...come to think of it, I did
hear a loud pop just as I was leaving the rear lavatory. I thought it
was my ears, but it could have been something else....” Jack turned in
his seat, looking out the forward side-window, attempting to see
something aft. The only sign of their movement through the sky were
the contrails streaming behind the aircraft.
“What could it have been, Jack? This plane was checked, and double-
checked from stem to stern before I arrived. And then I checked it
again myself.” But Carolyn had her suspicions, and it didn’t look
good for either one of them.
“How about I go check? There is access from inside? Can you hold her
while I take a look?” Jack hated asking the questions, hated
distracting his friend, but if he was to be of any help, he needed
the answers. “Maybe I need to get on the horn, and warn your company,
or find us that tall mountain to land on...”
“Yes, aft... It’s a tight squeeze. I’ve got her for now, but come
running if I call, huh? Let’s find out what’s wrong before we stir up
anybody. I’ve got it here, you go on back there.” Even though her
fear was becoming apparent, Carolyn maintained control of the
situation. Her military training and level head was a solid support
during any emergency. And, she could still give a mean command.
Jack removed himself from the seat, and staggered back to the rear of
the aircraft. It seemed bent on pitching and yawing him back to the
front. He found the access panel, opened it quickly and moved inside
the maintenance area. The compartment was dark, but he smelt the
overpowering stench of smoke and burnt electrical insulation and
hydraulic fluid. Snapping on the flashlight he’d filched from the
rear compartment, O’Neill began his search, shining the light over
the interior shell of the aircraft. Shining the light aft highlighted
the starboard wall, where conduits and cables marched in profusion
along that side of the plane. Splintered and fractured cables, which
no longer marched in single file, picked up the light from the
flashlight. Jack breathed a sigh of disgust.
”Sweet...Jesus.”
It had taken a pro to rig the explosive. The force had been small,
controlled and deadly. The area immediately around the explosion was
only mildly disturbed. And, it accounted for the loud pop O’Neill had
heard earlier. Now they were trapped in a flying coffin - not
to put
too dramatic a spin on it. Now, until he got those wires and the
hydraulics reconnected again landing this baby was not going to be
so sweet.
O’Neill moved over to get a closer look at the damage. Several wires
still sparked, as if begging for its sister connection. He wasn’t
much of an airplane mechanic, it had been a while since he'd been up
close and personal with the guts of an airplane, but he could fix it,
or jury-rig it, or MacGyver it...like Carter always said. Fix it strong
enough and long enough, to gain even a tiny degree of control. Then
Carolyn could get them down to a lower altitude, and turn in a useful
direction.
Was there any duct tape on board?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Samantha Carter stood on the tarmac watching the vast number of
aircraft taxi, one by one out of their gates, and move into position
down the runway for take-off. She and Daniel watched as smaller
planes jockeyed for positions amongst the larger ones. Each aircraft,
regardless of size, was equally anxious to gain the sky and lose the
gravity-bound earth. Others were equally anxious to lazily land on
firm soil.
Sam and Daniel had been here since getting out of Colonel Simmons’
grip. Ever since General Hammond had strongly advised him to leave
the SGC, and to not even think of Jack O’Neill, in any context, as an
enemy of the government - or else.
Carter had driven O’Neill’s truck here for when he landed. After
checking at the main terminal, they were directed to this area. A new
large hanger, with an adjacent office building stood behind them -
the company logo Gen-Tec, was proudly on display.
Carter enjoyed driving the heavy-duty truck, and felt more than
reluctant leaving it here, alone and unattended - even though it was
locked. She also missed the truck’s owner - though it had only been a
tiny bit over thirty-six hours since she’d last seen O’Neill. It had
been a long thirty-six hours. The Colonel might be out of sight, but
seldom out of a girl’s mind, she laughed softly to herself. They were
originally supposed to drop the vehicle off and leave, but after
that... Colonel’s ...insinuations,
stay until O’Neill arrived. And now Daniel was off investigating,
asking questions at the Gen-Tec offices.
The crisp breeze took on a decidedly colder feel as the sun slid from
the sky. Artificial lighting could be seen automatically turning on,
brightening up the shadows, as the sun sunk lower into the western
horizon. O’Neill loved to watch the sun set Carter knew, and wondered
if he was seeing the same one she was watching? Or was he seeing an
even better show from his vantage point far above the earth?
Carter’s musings, lost high in the sky above, were interrupted when
Daniel Jackson hurriedly returned from his foray into the Gen-Tec
office.
“Sam, something is definitely wrong. These people haven’t heard from
Jack’s plane and they were supposed to call in, just over,” he sighed
as he checked his watch, “...Just over fifty minutes ago. And...” he
paused, “There’s been no flight plan filed.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The beautiful metallic bird came to rest; nose down against large
glacier borne boulders, well above the tree line on Jack’s tall
mountain. A wide, skid-marked debris trail defined its passage over
rough, rocky terrain. Metal fragments and large chunks of mountain
detritus had been flung haphazardly, deeply gouging an earthy trough.
Graceful wings had been swept away with the force of the aircraft’s
plunge. A fearful plunge past rock formations and the sparse, sturdy
vegetation located at this height. The fuselage remained intact, but
was strangely naked. The soft sigh of the wind, the feeble crackle of
spot fires, and the high-pitched shriek of metal combined in a
symphony of sound. That sound was the only noise to be heard on the
mountain.
Inside the downed aircraft, its two occupants remained bound to their
respective seats, looking relatively unharmed. Unharmed - except for
the large jagged piece of metal, extruding from the abdomen of the
pilot, and the sluggish flow of bright red blood, which surrounded
it. The setting sun highlighted the pilots' too pale complexion and
the tiny beads of sweat erupting over her quiescent face.
The co-pilot was out cold, his face marred by the blood flowing from
a wide gash on his forehead.
The bright sun slowly receded from the western sky. The distant howl
of four-legged predators joined the sigh of wind in the distant
trees, and the pale silvery moon finally illuminated the crash site.
Jack slowly ascended from his unconscious realm and automatically
took stock of his condition. He was conscious of the smell of burning
circuitry, mixed with the stinking fumes of aviation fuel. His legs
and arms seemed okay - no broken bones grinding together in a pain
all their own. His head hurt like hell as brilliant streaks and
flashes paraded behind closed lids. His head pounded in tandem with
his heartbeat, as did his chest. He groaned with the pain, probably
broken ribs, as he slowly moved - he’d cross that bridge when he
moved.
Jack gradually opened his eyes - or at least tried to. Something had
glued his right eyelids shut. And bringing his hand up to the eye, he
felt fresh, wet sticky warmth. He fuzzily wondered why his head ached
so insistently. Remaining quiet, he slowly turned his aching head
toward the starboard side of the plane, taking in the dark, moonlit
landscape just outside.
How much time, he pondered - still dazed from the impact, had passed
since their free fall back to earth? Yeah, it could be classified as
free fall, for all the control they’d had. But they were on the
ground, everything else seemed irrelevant in comparison.
Jack said a silent Thank You to the Man upstairs. He took a deep
painful breath,
“Oh man...Shit, that hurts,” then turned his head to the left side to
check on his pilot. He only vaguely remembered that he hadn’t heard
any sound coming from her.
The sight of moonlight reflecting off the large, jagged piece of
metal extruding from his friend's body, made his stomach flip. And
caused his heart to break. Chills raced down his spine at the sight
of the steady ooze of blood from the exit wound, sending any
remaining mental cobwebs to oblivion.
Was she breathing? Was she alive?
O’Neill slowly unbuckled the seat belt harness, and turned to the
left easing his battered upper body out of the safety device. A wave
of dizziness swamped his senses, as thoughts of relieving himself of
a long forgotten meal danced with dark spots in front of his eyes.
Breathing deeply and filling his battered lungs, Jack successfully
cleared his light-headedness, improved his vision, and temporarily
settled his stomach. He needed a flashlight, where had he put the one
he’d used before?
“Think Jack, think,” he muttered.
The whereabouts of the previous apparatus refused to enter his brain.
But Carolyn had gleefully pointed out the presence of a “plethora of
storage places for other battery powered lights.” All he had to do
was remember just where they were. Seconds passed, then he quickly
brought his hand up to the back of his seat, and there, still
undisturbed, was another flashlight, ready for use.
O’Neill moved over to the other seat, shining the industrial
strength, battery powered light on Carolyn. He looked at the damage,
while reaching for her neck to feel for a pulse. She was alive. She
was breathing...but for how long?
He knew with dead - pardon the pun Carolyn, certainty that even his
relatively advanced field training in first aid wasn’t going to help.
It would not be enough to keep her alive. A rush of emotion stung his
eyes and for a millisecond, O’Neill felt the weight of his friend's
desperate condition. He felt overwhelmed and unsure. But he took
another deep breath; Calvin Musgrove really would haunt him if he let
Carolyn die without having made some kind of effort, albeit useless.
Jack began his assessment of the situation, and began mentally
cataloguing the injuries of his friend.
Moving his hand from the pulse point of her neck, Jack picked up her
small, very capable hand. It reacted with a slight pressure in his
hand and he held it as one would a fragile, irreplaceable crystal
treasure.
“Carolyn...Carolyn...Caro Mio,” Jack whispered her husband's favorite
nickname into her ear. “Can you hear me? It’s Jack...we made it. You
got us down. Carolyn, but you’ve been injured...so don’t try to move.”
Her sage-green eyes fluttered open, dazed and glazed with pain. Her
breathing was shallow and rapid, as she attempted to speak to him.
" Jack?” Her eyes drifted from Jacks’ face to the destruction around
them. She asked in a voice barely audible, and a throat gone dry and
rough, “We made it down?”
“Yes ma’am," he declared, "we made it down. Now we have to go find
those sonsofbitches that did this to us. You've got to hold on,
Carolyn...so together, we can go hang their Asses.”
The woman moaned softly. Jack smoothed her hair out of her eyes,
giving comfort in his contact, and waited for her to recognize him.
She slowly lifted her head and looked into his dark eyes; eyes made
even more dark by his fear.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” She asked softly, almost gasping for breath.
Indecision was evident on O’Neill’s face. Should he tell her, what
should he say?
“Who’re you trying to fool here, O’Neill? Carolyn saw his
hesitation, "Me, or you? I can see this huge,” she started coughing,
bringing up blood with each exertion, “...Huge slab of airplane stic...
sticking out of...my ...gut. I’m pretty sure...it’s," she struggled to
breathe. "...It’s not...supposed to be...there. Hold me, Jack, I’m feeling
kind of cold.”
O’Neill never hesitated, but unfastened the safety harness from her
shoulders and lap, easing the mortally injured woman out of the seat
and into his strong grip. Moving out of the tight space of the flight
deck, he grabbed an emergency kit from its storage. Jack laid his
friend on the carpeted floor, and sat down beside her, easing her
impossibly small, now fragile body into his warm arms. He could hear
the blood rattling in her lungs, as they filled with the life-
suffocating fluid. She moaned, very softly, as he maneuvered her into
his embrace.
Carolyn could feel her strength draining from her body, with each
drop of lost blood. She had to tell Jack; Calvin would expect it of
her.
“
concentration deteriorated, “I was... pick up the SGC’s man... it was
just your..." she took a breath, "your dumb luck...”
O’Neill gripped her hand, as much to stay his anger as to give her
succor. He remained quiet, and she continued with her deathbed
confession.
“Gen-Tec...a high-tech think...tank - not...necessari...ly...for good...of...
mankind. I took job, because of risks. A...ah, General Hammond...was to...
to be ...pass'nger, not you...never...you.” With her slow and halting
breath, Carolyn told of her mission - Get General Hammond, compromise
the SGC. Continuing slowly, she told Jack how life had been after
Calvin, the love of her life, had gone away. Ever since Calvin
Musgrove, Major - USAF, disappeared into enemy territory, Carolyn’s
life had slowly unraveled. And then her beloved son Keith had died -
in a traffic accident. She began fast tracking down the road to
destruction, “I didn’t want to live...you can understand, can’t you,
Jack?” She asked in a breathless, small voice.
If there was any pain, which Jack O’Neill understood completely, it
was the pain of losing a child. He slowly nodded his head. He was
sure she didn’t have much time left.
“But, I didn’t want you... to suffer, that’s why we left in such a
hurry, why... I never filed a flight... plan. They would’ve known...
where to look. I guess this must be plan B. I just wanted to be with
you - talk about Calvin a little more. God, I miss him so much,” her
voice ended in a whisper, “ Kind of like you, and your Sam...Jack. ...
You've got to grab what little bit of...heaven on earth...you...can...get.
Jack...don’t...don’t let the parade...pass...that’s a song you know.”
At her non sequitur, Jack smiled a tight smile.
Her voice slowed to a whisper, her eyes no longer focused on any
earthly plane. O’Neill tried to staunch the flow of blood, with
whatever was available, whatever was in the emergency kit - Damned
useless thing. His hands and clothing were saturated with her blood.
She was dying.
With a force of strength neither Jack, nor she quite realized she
still possessed, Carolyn pulled herself up, and out of O’Neill’s warm
embrace. “ Jack, you have to leave this place...they’ll find you...
they’re coming.” And then, taking one last shallow breath, Carolyn
Musgrove died.
Tears flooded Jack O’Neill’s eyes, as he held her lifeless body.
Tears of frustration - for two lives sacrificed on a field of war, of
pain - for a lost friend, of anger - that this should have happened
to his friend, and of guilt - that he might’ve been able to turn this
lost soul from destruction. He might have helped her find a purpose
in life, but he’d been too consumed with his own pain. Tears silently
coursed down tanned cheeks as he sat, holding onto her body, giving
solace in death, as he had not in life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Well, just keep looking, Colonel, we’ll keep it up on our end also,”
General Hammond concluded his call, softly replacing the receiver
into its cradle. Then taking a deep breath, scrubbed a hand through
his almost non-existent hair.
pensively reflecting back over the last two days. His family - the
daughter and grandchildren he loved beyond life, had been hurt and
injured. But they had now been returned to him, through the grace of
God. Tessa and Kayla had been located; scared but unharmed, and
returned home. Katherine’s surgery had been successful, removing her
ruptured spleen had put an end to her hemorrhaging, and she would
soon be on the mend.
Now his other family was in danger - lost, possibly hurt and in need.
He’d hated sending Jack O’Neill to
detested the place. But, O’Neill was a soldier, who did as he was
ordered. But most importantly, he was a friend, who did what needed
to be done as a friend, without regret, or guilt.
Yes, he had to admit, and never to the man himself, that Jack O’Neill
was like the son, or brother, he’d never had. And taking into
consideration that he could be a pain in the ass, a thorn in his
side, a nightmare to try to control, and the best-damned con man this
side of the
Everything that could be done to find Jack and his friend would be
done, until the last hope was reluctantly given up. But Jack O’Neill
was one resilient soldier, who never gave up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack sat in the darkened aircraft, which had brought them to this
place from
The overwhelming emotions were long past. Jack sat in the dark,
coming to grips with the calamitous events of the last few hours.
Yet, still soothing her dead body. To have said he was in shock would
be an understatement.
Falling out of the sky was enough of a shock for any normal, sane
person. But compounded as it was by the confession of collusion, from
someone he trusted with his life - and had done so on many occasions
in the past, was an even greater shock. The death of this same
person, a friend...traumatized - was a more accurate description of
O’Neill’s state of mind.
The long night slowly passed as Jack sat in the protection of the
ruined aircraft. Cold mountain wind whistled through its torn and
mangled exterior skin. Eerie howls and noises of nighttime mountain
dwellers could be heard - prowling around, investigating the crash
site. O’Neill held the dead woman in a crushing grip, afraid that a
scavenger would try to rip her from his arms. He didn't quite realize
that the aircraft remained too much intact, for them to gain
entrance. As the night progressed never once did he think of laying
aside his burden. As he shivered in the chilled air, the cold body in
his arms pulled the warmth from his own body.
Trauma, Traumatic, Traumatized....
Long, cold hours passed, until night melted into day and the dark
cabin interior was easier to distinguish. The sun had yet to rise,
but as he sat, O’Neill watched the shadows disappear and the sky
lighten. With the coming of the new day, also came his resolve to
leave this place. Carolyn had warned him to leave, to get out of
here.
The first rule for any lost person who wanted to be found, was to
stay put, don’t leave the area, if at all possible. But, someone was
most likely on their way; in search of the aircraft and its
occupants. And not on any altruistic rescue-mission attempt either.
How would they know just where to look? Unless this bird had a homing
device, or locator beam - which of course it would for such a
sophisticated piece of art, or...or what Jack?
Jack had to plan; he had to get out of here, get off this mountain,
and get back to civilization. But first, he had to take care of
Carolyn’s body.
His hands were stiff and sticky with dried blood. His clothing was
saturated with the dried remnants of a wasted life. O’Neill gently
laid Carolyn’s body aside, getting up out of the cramped position
he’d maintained during the cold night. His joints screamed in agony
as they moved for the first time in hours.
He limped around the cabin in search of Carolyn's resting place,
somewhere out of harm’s way. O’Neill decided the rear lavatory was
best suited to the task. Walking, more like stumbling, aft on numb
feet Jack inspected his chosen temporary site. The door could be
closed and jury-rigged not to open, except by two-legged predators.
It would hold her until he, or his representative could return for
her. Now, for her burial shroud. Looking around the galley, invading
each and every drawer, Jack found a container with large plastic
bags. He was perplexed, why would this size of bag be on a thirteen
passenger aircraft? But, who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?
Working and sweating, O'Neill finally secured the body inside the
lavatory, after completing the task of wrapping it entirely in the
plastic bags. He closed and locked the door, using a length of wire
from the tangled and broken mess in the maintenance area to secure
it. Jack stood at the closed door, his head leaning on the door; to
offer up a petition for his fallen comrade. God always forgave fools
and soldiers.
Now, if the animals outside the wreckage found a way inside,
Carolyn’s body would be safe, until he returned for her.
Turning to look out the smashed windows, O’Neill saw the sunlight
climbing the horizon. With the coming day and a little preparation,
it would soon be time to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The briefing room was quiet, no easy banter or chitchat disturbed the
solemn individuals gathered there. Major Samantha Carter, Dr. Daniel
Jackson, and Teal’c, in thoughtful, contemplative moods, sat around
the large mahogany table waiting for General Hammond. They had been
on alert, since Daniel's foray into the
Corporation, and were here now to make plans to locate Colonel
O’Neill - assuming he needed locating. Although Teal’c was still
mending he’d insisted on being involved...and as long as he could
maneuver on crutches, Dr. Fraiser couldn’t deny him.
General Hammond walked into the briefing room, with the doctor in
tow. The petite doctor seated herself next to Dr. Jackson, who smiled
sweetly at her as she sat down. Carter saw the glow on Daniel’s face,
and smiled to herself at their connection.
“People,” the General began, “ What we do know... is that Colonel
O’Neill was returning home. Apparently, he was offered a ride from a
friend...and I do stress friend, contrary to Colonel Simmons’ report. A
friend, I might add, who had served with him in the Gulf War. Air
Search and Rescue has been alerted to a possible crash. The FAA at
citizen, who didn’t know which authority to contact, reporting a
possible crash outside of Rustic, near
area, so getting in there will be touchy.”
“So, let’s get going, Sir. Jack’s out there, probably hurt,”
interrupted.
“Thank you, Dr. Jackson, we will, in due time...we won't go half-
cocked. Colonel O’Neill would expect us to get our ducks in a row,
without going off on a wild goose chase. Is that clear, son?”
“Yes, sir,” the chastened Doctor of Archaeology replied, surprised at
the number of clichés General Hammond had strung together. Jack
seemed to rub off on everyone, even the general.
“Daniel Jackson, General Hammond is correct. Colonel O'Neill would be
best helped if we were prepared for his rescue, and not wildly
compound more confusion,” Teal’c sagely intoned. Sometimes, being
over 100 years of age helped when subduing the young.
”So, what do you want us to do, sir? If Colonel O’Neill’s plane went
down, they’re definitely in need of medical attention. All we have to
do is find them and get to them, right?” Major Carter brightened up
at the prospect of doing something.
“Right Major, that could be easier said than done. The Colorado
Ground Search and Rescue are mobilizing and will keep in close
contact with me. But first, until we hear something definite, we’re
going to do a little more investigation into Gen-Tec.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack O’Neill was tired. He was so tired; he couldn’t remember when
his last good night’s sleep had been. It surely had not been in
grinned, WHENEVER it was, it had to have been more hours ago than he
could comfortably count. Too many hours, and now that he needed his
strength and stamina, and all of his senses working in tandem, he was
crushingly tired and feeling every one of his years.
O’Neill left the crash site as soon as the sun rose. He took only
those few items he could carry on his body, in a blanket roll -
courtesy of the Gen-Tec Corporation, or in his jacket. He was lucky
that he’d brought along his 9mm. On this mountain, it might come in
handy. Too bad he’d only found one extra clip. Count yourself lucky
on that one too, O’Neill.
He’d departed the site only after making sure the entry door was
locked, and secure from any curiosity seekers. But, he realized after
looking the damage over for himself that any wild animal that really
wanted to get inside, could probably get inside.
The supplies he’d found in the planes galley amounted to little more
then cocktail refreshments. Apparently, since Carolyn was ferrying
the aircraft elsewhere, no real food supplies had been on-loaded.
Bottled water and club soda would come in mighty handy if fresh water
couldn’t be found. The honey-roasted peanuts, which he normally
wouldn’t touch with the proverbial ten-foot pole, would make a nice
protein supplement. It wasn’t much he thought, still looking over his
meager assortment, but it would keep him going for a while until he
found something else.
Jack looked down at his watch, only to find the sweep hand wasn’t
moving, and the little hand declared it to be five-something. He’d
never know what, because the large hand was gone, along with the
crystal face. Sonofabitch...he fumed, he’d just gotten that watch for
his birthday. A little something - from Carter...Shit! Maybe she’ll get
you a Timex next time, O'Neill. You know -
It takes a likin' and
keeps on tickin' - sort of like you.
Jack took stock of his surroundings, and his position in relation to
the downed aircraft. He should call the SGC; they’d probably be
worried by now, not having heard from him in so long. His thoughts
turned to his commander, wondering how
out...and the granddaughter's?
His team would definitely be worried about him. Sam was probably
beside herself, since his truck was at the airport and he was nowhere
in sight. Daniel was probably already aggravating General Hammond to
death about his absence. And Teal’c...well, Teal’c was Teal’c; he’d be
worried in his own way. But, most of all, the General would be
worried and maybe feeling guilty. Not that he had anything to feel
guilty about, just...O’Neill knew his General. The small cell phone was
tucked securely in his jacket pocket, and if he hadn’t gone too far
down the slope, he’d, hopefully, still be able to get a clear
connection.
O’Neill removed the phone from its secure position, flipping it open
as he pulled out the antenna. For a second, the public number for the
Cheyenne Mountain Complex escaped him. How many times had he ever had
to use that number? It was like trying to call his own home number...he
had to think for a second.
Finally, the numbers tumbled through his brain, and his dialing
finger followed suit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Stargate Command was on alert. General Hammond was on a rampage.
And SG-1 was on a search and rescue mission, leading a military
convoy up a mountain, into the higher elevations near Piney Ridge.
Since no one had clue as to the whereabouts of Colonel O’Neill, Major
Carter, Dr. Jackson and Teal’c were ordered to join the search and
rescue attempt advanced by the CGSART (Colorado Ground Search and
Rescue Team.)
hand wherever possible. Teal’c would be working under the more
Americanized and less-alien assumed name of
O’Neill had given him on a previous mission. It was simple and
honest, and he took it again without trepidation.
General Hammond’s blood pressure was at the boiling point, and unless
he got some answers to the questions being raised by this latest
frustrating imbroglio, he would surely burst a blood vessel. Colonel
Simmons appearance at the SGC, and the accusations leveled at Colonel
O’Neill had been no more than a blind bear hunt. Especially since
Colonel Simmons saw himself as a much more worthy 2IC of the Stargate
project - a MUCH more worthy man than one Jack O’Neill. He was more
worthy AND NID to boot.
But, after calling in some favors,
different picture of Jack O’Neill’s friend, Carolyn Musgrove. A
picture of illegal, nefarious deeds, which caused the General to hope
the aircraft did not reach its destination. Maybe a crash was for the
best, even an injured O'Neill was still a dangerous force to deal
with. With the SGC on alert; everyone was on his or her toes just in
case Jack O’Neill, heaven forbid, had been compromised. George
Hammond didn’t want to think about the possibility of an enemy
getting to his 2IC. It sounded too much like an old 'B' movie.
Because one thing
O’Neill would die fighting them, and he’d take as many of them with
him as he could.
thinking of the events and intrigue swirling around him and his
people. Trouble always seemed to follow O’Neill like a dark cloud,
just like that cartoon character...which one was that?
The intercom buzzed for attention, startling the General from his
ruminations.
“Call, Sir...outside open line, General. It’s Colonel O’Neill...”
General Hammond grabbed the telephone receiver with the swiftness of
a striking snake, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“Jack, where the hell are you, son? How are you?”
“Hell if I know, General. I’m in a mountainous area...I can’t figure
out if it’s
I’m okay, so far...just a bump on the head, Sir, and you know how hard
my head is...”
as the Colonel continued.
“My pilot is dead,” O’Neill’s throat constricted with emotion, and
then swallowing the sudden lump, which had formed there,
continued, “I know this is an unsecured line, General, but I just
wanted you to know...” O’Neill cleared his dry throat.
“Generally speaking, Sir, the Texan prize was a no-show, so I had the
honors. I’m expecting visitors, any time now. I’d really appreciate
you guys coming to get me...as in, soon. Or, at least send in the
Cavalry, Sir.” O’Neill hoped his sad little effort, to warn the
General, was noted and understood, because his brain wasn’t up to its
usual covert level.
“I understand Colonel, and our people are already on it. Your ride
left a little while ago and is well on its way.” The General was
quiet for a moment, expecting O’Neill to continue, but the line
remained too quiet.
“Colonel, you watch yourself out there. And Jack...Thank you, my girls
are okay.”
“Yes, Sir,” he softly responded, “I’ll do my best. I’m glad, Sir,
thanks, that’s good to know.”
The line went dead.
irritating noise of a telephone, too long off the hook, interrupted.
Placing the receiver in its cradle, the officer flicked a switch on
his intercom.
“Did you get anything? Was he on long enough?”
The voice on the other side sounded relieved, “Yes, Sir. We have a
good lock on it, and our people are headed in the right direction,
but one thing General...”
“What would that be, Major?”
“That area is in for snow, Sir. We checked it before the search team
went out. If Colonel O’Neill isn’t found soon, he may be lost in the
storm. SAR won’t be able to reach him, if it gets too bad out there.”
vacillate between the frying pan and the fire with frightening
regularity.
“He’s already lost, Major. Let Search and Rescue know what we know,
keep a watch on the storm, and son, keep your fingers crossed.”
“Yes, Sir. I will.”
been one hell of a week. First, his daughter’s accident, and then the
girls scaring him out of his wits. And now, his second was doing the
same. Add to that, he had been a target - for which O’Neill was now
taking the heat. Enemies of the government were at large. For who
knew what purpose, in the disguise of a tax paying, jobs for the
qualified, American capitalistic free enterprise.
As his dear old mother used to say, “Son of a bitch.”
super-secret projects forgotten. O’Neill was in a heap of trouble.
Until he was safe and sound back in the confines of
tender mercies of subordinates. O’Neill was out there because he,
George S. Hammond, had asked him to go. He was a grateful father and
a guilt-ridden CO wrapped up in one tight ball. He wouldn’t rest
until his 2IC was returned to him, aggravating the Devil out of them
all.
The General walked out of his office, headed for a bite to eat - it
had been a long time since lunch. Had he even had lunch? Getting a
bite to eat and consulting with his CMO were two things he most
wanted to do right now. He was hungry. Plus, Dr. Fraiser had a knack
for always putting things into perspective, and right now, he needed
a different view of all that was going on around him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feeling the heat, he looked up into the sky. Most likely it was only
mid-morning, since the sun wasn’t directly overhead. O’Neill felt he
was making good time. He’d be past the tree line and into the cover
of the forest in another hour or two, and then, maybe he could rest
for a while. Sweat trickled down his face, and ran down his spine,
the combination of morning heat and exertion was more noticeable.
Salty beads of moisture stung the open gash on his forehead, even
after he’d hurriedly bandaged it. At least it wasn’t bleeding
anymore.
O’Neill removed his jacket in an effort to cool down, stashing it in
the blanket roll along with his meager supplies. This heat wouldn’t
last long, only as long as his exertions. It wouldn’t do to be caught
out here at night, without some type of cover. And, although it was
only mid-morning, he couldn’t plan on a quick rescue.
Jack walked among the large boulders and scrub vegetation, lost in
thought, unmindful of his own stumbling and lurching gait. If someone
truly was after him, and whatever knowledge they thought he carried,
it would be better to put as much distance between him and that big
honking, come-and-get-me sign back up the mountain. O’Neill pulled a
pair of ever-present sunglasses from his pants pocket, slipping them
on to get a clearer look at his surroundings.
On any normal day, the mountain vista might excite his taste for
expansive, tree covered, mountainous ranges, capped off with a
picturesque early fall of deep snow. But today, the azure peaks, and
green forests in the distance, failed to capture his attention.
Except as a measurement of how far he had to travel and how long it
would take to get to any civilized area. The rough, rocky, barren
terrain on which he traveled, glared with the brilliant sun,
increasing his discomfort. O'Neill yearned for a cool drink of water.
The sun rose higher in the sky, and the rough ground gave way under
his relentless march down the steep grade. O’Neill suddenly staggered
to the ground, dark spots danced in and out of his vision; unchecked
by his dark glasses. The headache, which had plagued him since the
crash, returned full force.
Keep walking, O'Neill, keep going...one foot in front of the other.
Left right, left right. He didn’t have time to be sick; he had to get
off this mountain. Even if all of this was a big joke, at his
expense. Even if no one was coming after him and the SGC even now had
teams out swarming over the mountain looking for him. Even...even...he
had to get off the mountain.
The tree line came closer and closer. Until finally the sigh of wind
in the pines and the fragrant pine aroma wafted on the breeze toward
him, and became a tangible sensation. O’Neill’s knees buckled, as
soon as he reached the shade and comfort of the cooler air. He lay on
a bed of dry pine needles, attempting to calm his erratic breathing,
slow his racing heart, and ignore those spots still dancing in his
vision.
Jack O’Neill remained where his ungraceful movement had pitched him,
aware of the rivulets of sweat tracing down his face, and the itchy
salt trails down his back and legs. He closed his eyes letting his
body rest. He lay still listening to the sounds around him,
permitting those quiet sounds of wind, trees and distant creatures,
to lull him into a state of calm. Calm...except for four out of his
five senses being on red alert.
O’Neill opened one eye, and lifted his head up to look around. This
was as good a place as any to rest, take a bite of his cocktail fare,
and make a plan. He didn't have a clue where he was, or even which
state exactly. Lack of that sort of information tended to make
planning more difficult. But Jack O’Neill had a habit of making
lemonade from the lemons he had been handed throughout his life. He'd
never gotten around to asking Carolyn about her flight path - the
subject had never come up in their conversation. But from the looks
of the surrounding area, it looked like
it home.
Gazing up at the overhead sky, as near as he could determine it was
now mid-afternoon. Great masses of ominous clouds were collecting in
the west. God, he hoped - no prayed, there wasn’t a forecast of rain,
or snow at the higher elevations. But, he couldn’t expect anything
else; at this time of year the weather couldn't make up its mind what
it wanted to do.
Jack felt the colder air stir as he lay quietly planning, and then
decided to risk a small fire - he might not get another chance.
Rising up off the ground O’Neill removed his dark glasses, and again
experienced the darkening of his vision. Probably was a concussion,
to go along with his dented forehead.
Holy shit, O’Neill, you get any more concussions, and your brain will
turn to soup!
He gave himself time for the world to stop spinning, and then opened
his roll of goodies. He’d pilfered Carolyn’s handbag, and found a
pack of hotel matches, which had been thrown in the pot. After
collecting bits and pieces of forest detritus dry enough to burn,
Jack built a credible fire. Big enough to keep him warm, but not big
enough to raise an alarm. He gave the fire several minutes to catch
on before turning to the meager food and drink he’d brought. A good
stiff drink would go down very nicely about now O’Neill, but with
those mushy brains of yours, we’d better not.
Jack replaced the miniature bottle of scotch he’d picked out, and
instead opened a bottle of Perrier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
General Hammond's sedan led the procession of military vehicles up
and into the mountain foothills. A citizen’s report, of an aircraft
in trouble, had been their only clue, their only possible lead to
finding one Jack O’Neill alive.
A Mr. Tom Selmore, of
sighting, “of a fancy airplane flying over his parcel of land, which
looked to be in trouble, cause it was flying’ funny and too low - for
these here mountains.” Mr. Selmore went on to explain that
he “knowed it was in trouble, cause he watched The Learning Channel -
by satellite, had a big fancy dish on the roof.”
A second report had been received regarding a possible crash “up on
the mountain,” from a concerned citizen, who didn’t want to get
involved.
The
then called the Colorado Ground Search And Rescue Team, or the
acronym CGSART . The CGSART was already on alert, due to a “heads up”
from General George S. Hammond.
The Gen-Tec Corporation had been very little help, which of itself
was strange. Considering one of their aircraft was missing, along
with its pilot and a passenger. General Hammond, having ‘friends’ in
the NID, called in a favor or two, asking them to quietly investigate
the corporation which Colonel Simmons accused of being an alien
weapon’s manufacturer. But where would their weapons be coming from,
now that the second Stargate was locked up “tighter than a virgin?”
So far, there had been no concrete news, or information about the
company except rumor and intimation. And now, his sedan was headed up
into those mountains, with part of his premier team, to join in the
search...while he sat here, in his own office, giving himself an ulcer
from his own accusations of guilt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill slept...not intentionally, but peacefully for the first time in
over eighty hours. Sleeping peacefully was a rarity in itself - but
sleeping when he was cold, hungry, and thirsty, he was a pro! The
small fire died down as he slept, leaving only glowing embers with
which to bring it back to life. His position near the fire insured
that if he moved in his sleep he wouldn’t get injured, but it would
awaken him should the fire go out ...which it did. After a brief moment
of disorientation, O’Neill felt like a rookie falling asleep like
that. It couldn’t possibly be that he was dead tired...still in shock,
and stretched to his limit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The convoy of military vehicles moved slowly up the winding, two-lane
mountain highway - much to the chagrin of the any motorists unlucky
enough to be in the rear. General Hammond’s sedan carried three
solemn tenants, who had long since given up trying to keep up each
other’s spirits. The two-hour trip to
quickly, but the tedious drive up the winding road was getting on
everyone’s nerves, even Teal’c. When they reached their destination,
they would rendezvous with a Lt. Colonel Anderson, of the CGSART.
their assistance; providing insight into the man for whom they were
searching, and relief for their need to do something.
As the scenery passed, Major Carter watched from the side window. Any
other time she would have been thrilled to be here. Watching the
picture postcard scenery, soaking in the fresh air, and ready to help
her fellow man. She enjoyed a rare get away from the confines of the
mountain. But, this fellow man was her CO, someone whom she really
cared about. His being lost, in an area of tens of thousands of
wilderness acres, after surviving a plane crash, turned her thoughts
to a different arena. This past year had not been a good one for the
Sam and Jack aspect of their relationship, either working or personal.
After Orlan returned to his place among his own kind, wherever that
was, she and the...Jack, hadn’t returned to their easy way with each
other. Gone was the flirting and those 'just for her' smiles...and
truth to tell, she missed it. He’d been there for her when, following
his own agenda, Adrian Conrad had masterminded her kidnapping.
Colonel O’Neill had been Johnny on the spot trying to find her. He
had, along with Harry Maybourne of all people, successfully rescued
her from a death sentence. She felt emotions clouding her eyes, and
was glad that neither Daniel, nor Teal’c, could see her face and the
tears slowly tracing down.
Teal’c sat in the front seat of the car, rubber-necking at the
impressive scenery rolling by. The General had only reluctantly
allowed Teal’c to join the search. But both Major Carter and Daniel
Jackson had pointed out the obvious - Teal’c was an excellent tracker
and pathfinder, and was familiar with their quarry if the situation
soured. Teal'c had dressed for his outing in Air Force BDU’s and a
Military baseball cap, which covered the mark of Apophis. He looked
just like any other airmen who had volunteered to look for the lost
Colonel.
Teal’c was not comfortable with idle chitchat. And his concern for
Colonel O'Neill would have immediately stumped any attempt. Acute
hearing alerted him to Major Carter's quiet sniffles and throat
clearing release of emotions. He too, thought of his friend and
mentor, O’Neill. He sent a prayer to the one true God, that O’Neill
would be found, undaunted and unscathed. He looked forward to their
arrival at this place where they would join in the search for O’Neill.
Daniel Jackson was about to jump out of his skin. This tediously slow
trip was driving him crazy - why hadn’t they taken a helicopter to
this point, and then this slow boat up the mountain? He sat in the
back seat of an undeniably - even for a General, even for the
military, posh sedan. It couldn’t detract from the fact that his best
friend was lost, somewhere in a vast humongous mountain range.
car, not really focused on the beauty displayed outside the glass.
He was thankful that General Hammond’s daughter was recuperating from
the ruptured spleen, and that his granddaughters had been found safe
and sound. He was also glad they were now in the loving arms of their
father. But that didn’t preclude his anger that Jack was in trouble
because of it all. He knew it was selfish, and he knew Jack wouldn’t
approve, but it didn’t dampen his feelings of anger. Hearing the
quiet sniffles from the other side of the posh seat, Daniel turned
his head in time to see Sam, surreptitiously wiping tears from her
face.
Oh my God...Daniel was shocked, Sam is crying.
Daniel moved over closer to Sam and slid his hand along the seat,
finally enclosing her hand with his own. He gave it an encouraging
squeeze. When, in hell, were they going to reach their destination?
Sam Carter turned her head from the window. She felt Daniels warm
encouragement and bestowed him with a watery smile - half apologetic,
half dismayed. The driver of their vehicle saw them in his rearview
mirror, holding hands, and thought it strange that no one spoke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The brilliant sun, which had so warmed him only minutes ago, was now
hidden behind dark, heavy clouds. A chill in the mountain air became
more pronounced as the temperature plummeted quite a few degrees. The
smell of snow, and a pre-snow stillness filled the air.
O’Neill shivered into his heavy leather jacket - it was made more for
looks and comfort, than traipsing around on top of a mountain. Note
to self - the well-dressed survivor should always take into
consideration his mode of dress, before planning any type of air
crash.
He’d watched the heavy clouds gather, and felt that certain something
in the air that meant snow, as he moved quickly down the slope. He’d
been able to discern a game trail, quite a ways back, but had lost
site of it for a few minutes now. Not ready to give up looking for
the faint trail, O’Neill moved on, keeping the sun over his right
shoulder. At one point on the trail, he’d glimpsed the distant
sparkle of water. Must be a lake, or stream run-off, but he hadn’t
seen it again when he changed directions.
A single snowflake finally caught Jack's attention when it landed on
his dark coat sleeve. He’d been so intent on finding the lost game
tracks; he’d almost forgotten the oncoming weather. Stupid mistake,
O’Neill, you could get us into big trouble like that, he scolded.
Looking up he saw the tiny ice crystals floating from the sky. The
beauty of the falling flakes mesmerized him, until a chilled wind
picked up the tiny flakes and swirled them into miniature tornadoes.
O’Neill pulled his attention back to the matter at hand, which was
finding a shelter, or making one before the snowstorm caught him
unprepared. As it was, his blanket and meager supplies were woefully
inadequate to weather a bad storm. After all of his years in the
military, and as an avid outdoorsman, he’d learned a thing or two and
now was as good a time as any to put it all together.
As he walked, he searched for a sheltered place where he could park
for the night, one sheltered from the worst of the winds and blowing
snow. He finally found what he was looking for in a stand of fallen
and broken deciduous trees, probably the result of a lightning
strike. He could make a shelter from the many spruce and pine trees
in the immediate area. It would also provide a wealth of firewood to
keep him warm. O’Neill looked the area over - satisfied with his
choice, and then dropped his bundle out of the way. Pulling out his
Swiss army knife, he started to work...the light wouldn’t last too much
longer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The jump-off point for the convoy was a small town located high in
the mountains. An area had been set up there from which helicopters
had been deployed, and were now flying over the thickly forested
mountains. Lt. Colonel Douglas Anderson, the field commander for the
Colorado Ground Search and Rescue Team, was delighted that three more
able bodies were available for this mammoth effort. There was also a
truckload of people from
With the coming snowstorm, their efforts had sped up. The entire area
of thousands of acres had to be searched until they had more concrete
data regarding the lost individuals pattern of movement. It was a
daunting task, starting at the lonely crash site, working their way
down the mountain. The men and women of the CGSART were good at their
jobs, and
base camp, three helicopters were taking on the challenge of the vast
acreage, and a large number of ground troops were already beating the
bushes.
Upon their arrival to the base camp, Carter, Jackson and Murray were
shown to a large tent; the busy tactical headquarters, and introduced
to Lt. Colonel Anderson.
the Air Force, due to a tragic flight accident, but kept his hand in
through the CGSART. He was glad he had three friends, three teammates
of the lost man. Their knowledge would give him an in-depth
understanding of how O’Neill’s mind worked. He might just possibly
figure out some of his moves in the mountainous terrain. He was also
reassured that Colonel O’Neill was an avid outdoorsman, and well
trained in survival techniques. Given enough time, unless he was sick
or injured, he could walk out of the forest on his on.
“But, he doesn’t have that time, he isn’t prepared, and food will be
a major problem...”
a miracle, nor business as usual. “As I understand it, Colonel
O’Neill has already survived a plane crash, he’s got to be in shock,
even if he doesn’t realize it. And people in shock do not think like
they ordinarily would. And now, you say you believe the crash was
deliberate and not an accident. That puts a whole different light on
our efforts...”
“How so, Lieutenant Colonel Anderson?” a quiet voice asked, one that
hadn't really wanted the attention turned his way. Teal’c had
remained quiet during the briefing. He'd let Major Carter and Daniel
Jackson ask the questions and provide necessary information. But now
he wanted to understand exactly what difficulty his friend was in.
see concern for a friend and colleague shining in his dark, intense
eyes. He understood their concern. Waiting out any search and rescue
was always hardest on the friends and loved ones. But, it never
served a good purpose to give false hope - too many factors were
involved.
“Well, Mr. Murray, if the crash was deliberate, whoever caused it
will be looking to see if their efforts were successful, and
definitely looking for the Colonel. And if we don’t find him before
they do, O’Neill may have more problems than just bad weather and
starvation to look forward to.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack O’Neill was cold. He couldn’t remember when he’d been this cold,
probably not since finding that second gate. It certainly did not
rival
cheerfully and enthusiastically, and he’d gathered plenty of dry wood
to keep it going, but still the fact remained, he was cold. His
shelter was solid, and comfortable, and would keep anything, except
the heaviest rainfall off him. The pine and spruce boughs made a
comfortable bed. Maybe not like his own at home, but no worse...and
certainly better than the cold ground.
Stop bellyaching, O’Neill...you could be dead, he grunted, just like
Carolyn and it wouldn’t matter, so suck it up, airman!
He’d been busy before nightfall. Building a fire, fashioning a
shelter for the night, gathering wood to keep up the fire. He’d even
set up small game traps, though he doubted any game would be out this
time in the season. But, it gave him something to occupy his mind,
other than seeing that huge chunk of metal impaling his friend, and
the steady drip of blood as her life ebbed away.
He tried to think more pleasant thoughts, like his team and the
hockey playoffs he was missing right about now. But, somehow all of
those pleasant thoughts turned sour and fused into the sight of that
hunk of metal piercing Carolyn.
"You’re losing it, O’Neill," he mumbled to himself, "you are
definitely going wacko here."
Pulling the light blanket closer around his shoulders, he relaxed
back against the fragrant branches of his bed, and let the pull of
exhaustion close his eyes. Sights and sounds from his last twenty-
four hours hovered behind closed eyelids, and the sound of stillness
surrounded the fire lit oasis.
Out of the quiet, the single loud snap of a generously sized tree
limb erased his need for sleep. At the sound his eyes popped wide
open. Was someone out there? Had they caught up to him? Had he let
his guard down? Or was his imagination going wild? The 9mm slipped
into his hand with ease, as he turned toward the sound. Swiftly
pulling himself into a sitting position, O’Neill swung his long legs
around, kneeling at the side of his pine bed, prepared to confront
anything that came into range. He remained motionless for long
seconds, holding his breath in the quiet stillness.
The sound repeated, another snap of broken branches - that has got to
be the noisiest hit-man in the world, Jack thought, as he released a
pent up sigh. Hating to show himself, but wanting to investigate,
O’Neill slowly moved from his position in the shelter.
Careful Jack, that might just be what they’re after...you showing your
dumb mug.
Crawling along the cold snow-covered ground, O’Neill moved closer to
where the sound originated and jumped back startled. A large male
deer - with antlers a hunter would kill for - no pun intended Bambi -
bounded out of the dark woods. The large frightened animal headed
straight for O’Neill, who barely escaped being rammed by the huge
antlers, only by throwing himself out of its path.
Jack landed on the hard ground with a bone-rattling thump, and
remained lying where he landed, the adrenalin rush leaving him weak.
As he lay on the cold ground, listening to the noise beating in his
ears, his pounding heart slowly calmed.
Smooth move, O’Neill, he chastised, anymore like that and you’ll die
from heart failure long before anybody shows up to shoot you.
Gathering himself up, along with his composure, Jack stood and
brushed the collection of twigs, grasses, and snow from his clothing.
”Fucking Son of a Bitch!” He shouted, after taking a deep breath of
frustration - to hell with keeping quiet, to hell with stealth and
covert movements, and to hell with everything. Except, now his bad
knee was screaming for attention from the bone-shaking throw he’d
landed, and hurt like the devil.
”Could this night get any better?” Don’t ask Jack... don't ask.
“Fraiser is going to kill me, when she gets a look at this knee...at
least that’s what she threatened last time around." O’Neill limped
back to his shelter, threw more wood on the fire, and then collapsed
on the bed, rubbing his injured knee. He could hear her heels tap-
tapping on the concrete floor, and see her disgruntled expression.
But she was always ready with the TLC, and drugs when he needed them.
He grabbed the discarded blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders
again, and then put the guns’ safety on, relaxing back on the bed. He
felt today’s accumulated aches and pains stir to life - his head
still pounded, his knee hurt like the devil, and his pride was in
shreds. But, now he wasn’t cold. His little rough and tumble with
Bambi, had warmed him up...go figure.
He wouldn't sleep anymore tonight...anymore?
Had he slept at all?
Not really.
His eyes felt like sand had been thrown in them, and were sore and
gritty. But to close them could spell disaster for his health, so...no
sleep. He’d gone without sleep many times, many places. He was an old
hand at the sleep deprivation game. A loud, jaw-popping yawn escaped
him.
Oh yeah, he was an old hand at the sl...eep...depriv...(yawn)...
deprivation ...thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Silent, watchful eyes regarded the tableau spread before them.
Curious eyes shifted from the blazing, cheerful campfire to the
homely emergency shelter, and then, finally to the man he had been
sent to eliminate. O'Neill walked the perimeter of his temporary
shelter, seemingly tense and on edge, but still alert. Watching and
waiting from the safety and the distance of a darkened forest, and
binoculars, he watched. The Colonel grabbed his solitary blanket,
wrapped it around his shoulders for added warmth, and then settled
down for the night.
O’Neill had to give out at some point - and that deer had been a
masterstroke, keep him guessing, keep him on edge. Even the sharpest
knife blade becomes dull from constant use. Let him have a night of
rest if he could. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and with tomorrow,
we’ll see the end of one smart-aleck bird Colonel. Yeah, let the man
rest....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill had been through too many campaigns, too many tense
situations, and too many war zones to blithely presume he was alone,
safe, and out of harms way. The small hairs at the back of his neck
had been on red alert ever since Bambi dropped by. As a trouble
barometer, they worked just fine, and had kept his ass out of the
frying pan too many times to be discounted. Someone was out there.
Someone was there who didn’t want him to think beyond his
predicament. But that run away deer-thing had been a little too pat,
a little too...staged.
He eased his long frame back into the scratchy comfort of his bed,
releasing a deep sigh of relief. He swung long limbs up, easing the
pain in his swollen knee. The pain and dizziness of his head injury
overwhelmed his tired body. It was still a problem. He felt relief
that he hadn’t eaten, as he rolled out of bed again, cause it
would’ve been wasted. It would've ended up on the ground as wave
after wave of nausea took its toll. This was going be a long night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Dr. Jackson, I can not send my choppers out in a blinding snowstorm.
Even helicopters have some limits,” a very disgruntled Col. Anderson,
patiently explained, as if to a three-year-old. “And, I realize
you’re concerned for Colonel O’Neill’s welfare, but, even He would
not condone the deployment of valuable aircraft, in a useless effort.
We’ll have to wait, at least until the wind dies down. I did tell
you, we were racing against the weather. Surely you can understand. I
don’t like leaving him out there anymore than you; it’s my job to
find him. It's what I do, but we won’t find him, by endangering the
very people who are looking for him. If O’Neill is as good an
outdoorsman as you say, he’ll have gone to ground with the bad
weather.”
situation to this man thoroughly enough?
What more did the man want? A blood oath!
Daniel Jackson, linguist par excellence, could not find the right
words. What were the right words that would make this man understand
the plight of his best friend? He couldn't convey the deep sense of
urgency Jack’s situation demanded. To hell with a few flakes of snow!
He turned and walked away from
nearby frosted window, into the white opacity of falling snow.
Where are you, Jack?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill rubbed a grubby, blood flecked hand over his face, feeling
his days-old beard scrape and pull. He sat huddled in the meager
warmth of his coat and the blanket, shivering constantly. He watched
the snowfall - from the comfort of his shelter. His thoughts were
muddled, churning round and around, as he tried to stay the constant
painful chatter of his teeth. One thought surfaced with regularity,
that being that whoever was stalking him, wouldn’t have to go to too
much effort, because he’d probably freeze to death in this weather.
He’d built the fire back up after nodding off for a short while.
O’Neill was having trouble with his feet and hands now, probably just
the inevitable touch of the cold, plus exposure.
He’d checked his trap early after waking from his doze, only to find
it empty. But there were tiny footprints nearby, so something had
shown an interest. With the snow, he’d have plenty of water to drink,
but food was going to be a problem. The last of his cocktail supplies
had been consumed earlier.
Hey, where was the cell phone, maybe he could call for a pizza, and a
six-pack? The cell phone...why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? O’Neill
scrambled around in his shelter, looking for the absent device. Where
had he put it? He remembered having it in the pocket of his coat when
Bambi made his mad dash. Was it still there, safe and secure? Frantic
searching in all the coat pockets, revealed only its absence.
Where, where, where...had he put it? Jack closed his eyes, attempting
to visualize the last time he remembered having the phone at hand. He
could still see the huge pointed antlers of the frightened animal,
heading straight toward him. And he could see himself with the device
in his hand, putting it into his coat pocket. But apparently it
hadn’t gone into his pocket, and was now somewhere under a foot of
fresh snow...Sweet! If he couldn’t find it, there’d be no pizza, no
beer and no calling for help.
"Great, just great, O’Neill," he chastised, "freezing to death...been
there. Starving to death...haven’t tried that one lately."
O’Neill’s weary gaze wandered from the dark forest surrounding him,
to the approximate site where the deer’s charge had landed him on his
keister. No use trying to find the phone in the dark, he’d try again
at first light. And then, having made that decision, O’Neill selected
a thin branch from his collection of firewood, flinging it to the
site, marking the area for search. He watched as the odd projectile
lazily arched over the snow-covered ground, landing upright in the
fresh powder.
Yes...one for the home team!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As O’Neill sat shivering in the snow-covered cold
one individual sat in the warm comfort of a mountain retreat. Eating
hot food, drinking down expensive spirits, enjoying the ambience of
good friends and comfortable surroundings was as it should be.
His mind wasn’t totally on the current, enlightening conversation,
but more so on the lone occupant of a homemade shelter, somewhere
high in these same mountains. His handsome older face split into a
grin, at the thought of his adversary slowly freezing, and starving
to death. His companion for the evening saw his grin, asked what the
joke was?
“Oh, nothing,” he said, with a small shake of his head as if to clear
away a mental picture, “Just thinking about an old TV program, my
dear...nothing important.” And then, with a broad smile, he turned his
attention to the conversation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The drawn-out moan of rotor blades screaming into motion filled the
cold, pre-dawn air. The heavy smell of aviation exhaust fumes choked
the atmosphere. A clear, cold, star strewn sky greeted rescue workers
as they filed out of temporary shelters. More than a foot of new snow
greeted early risers headed for the mess tent. The end of the
snowfall was a welcomed sight, and Lt. Colonel Anderson was quick off
the mark getting his machines and people back on the job, and up in
the air.
Carter, Jackson and Teal’c, still too distraught to sleep soundly,
had been up long before the others. They had breakfasted early, eager
to begin the new day, which would bring O’Neill’s plight to an end.
While eating breakfast, the team counted up the hours Jack O’Neill
had officially been missing, dismayed at the final tally of ninety
hours.
vast wilderness. In the cold and snow, without the proper equipment
to sustain any long-term survival. Finally, Teal’c spoke up, trying
to reassure his young friend.
“Daniel Jackson, has not O'Neill been trained in the survival skills
he now most needs?”
“Yes...”
“Has not O'Neill perfected those skills, in the most distressing of
circumstances, during his military career?”
“Yeah, but...”
“There are no buts, Daniel Jackson, O'Neill will endeavor to survive,
even this, and return to us. We must endeavor to make that return
possible, as soon as possible.”
expression implied total agreement with Teal’c, but she added a
slight smile, she was just as worried as the other two.
“Carter, Jackson, Murray...front and center, please,” Lt. Colonel
Anderson shouted from the front of the mess tent. His sharp tone
intrusive, jarring the early morning calm. He had the look of a
harried commander as he left the tent hurriedly, with them struggling
to catch up.
in front of the large topographical map, intently studying the
displayed loops and swirls. He had two choppers preparing for take
off, and he’d fill its crew compliment with the
volunteers. That big guy, Murray - reportedly being an expert
tracker, he’d love to send with the ground search. But he couldn't.
What he thought he’d accomplish and how he’d go about it, out here on
a bum ankle, the Colonel had no clue.
just reported a new front coming down from the north. That was all
O’Neill needed, a blizzard dumping more snow on the landscape to hold
up his rescue.
just might have to save his own six, if he expected to be saved at
all. Too bad they hadn’t been able to raise him again on his cell
phone....
SG-1 hurried into the command tent, eager to get moving, yet fearful
of the latest report.
compelled to give them the best news he could.
“Major Carter, Dr. Jackson, Mr. Murray,” each team member nodded
their head, but remained silent, “ I know you’re anxious to get out
of here and on with the search. I’ve assigned you to three different
squads - Major Carter, you and Mr. Murray will each help with the air
search. Dr. Jackson will help with Captain Pearce’s ground detail.
General Hammond indicated Mr. Murray was a skilled all-weather
tracker, and we need all of those we can get, but it’s next to
impossible to travel in snow on crutches. If that’s alright with you,
Dr. Jackson, let’s get moving.”
Daniel nodded his head in agreement.
“Good...good, they’re ready to head out as soon as you are.”
The commander took a deep breath, running a hand through his dark
salt and pepper hair.
“Another piece of information, I’m honor bound to give you...we’re in
for another spell of bad weather. Our meteorologists are tracking
another front,” he tapped the map with his pen, indicating the
direction from which the front would be coming, “...From the north,
heading in an eastward direction - blizzard, or near blizzard
conditions out there. The weather we had yesterday could look like a
light dusting compared to the full force of this one. We’ll do what
we can, while we can, until I have to pull everybody back.”
He paused, giving everyone time to digest his words before
continuing. He watched as the trio took in the information, processed
it and reached an understanding, each in his or her own fashion.
Major Carter and Dr. Jackson’s face showed anxious dismay.
face was an open book, while the Major had learned to quickly guard
her feelings. He almost couldn’t tell what
this bad news, except for something in his eyes. As near a look of
anguish as he had ever seen.
“And I just want to caution you, before you head out - anything, and
I mean anything that catches your eye, or seems out of place, or out
of the ordinary, or just a curiosity, let your squad leader know. It
may or may not be important, but let your team leader know about it.
Okay? Great...good hunting out there!”
other details he had to wrestle into submission. SG-1 left the tent,
escorted to their respective squads by the NCO in charge of the
flight line.
leader. A fresh faced young man, Captain Lee Pearce. Carter and
Teal’c continued on to the helicopters, even now preparing for lift-
off.
Captain Pearce was immediately taken with the new volunteer. He
didn’t look much like the outdoors type, nor capable of holding up
under stressful conditions. But, Pearce had discovered early in his
career not to make snap judgments, especially where people were
concerned.
Pearce was a CGSART veteran, a fact belied by his fresh face and
youthful attitude. He'd served in the Air Force, but had decided the
regimented military life wasn’t for him. Yet he still craved the
adrenalin high which could only be achieved from pitting ones self
against nature, and all of her forces. The added opportunity to ski
some of the best snow ranges in
his decision. He found just what he needed in the Colorado Wing of
The Civil Air Patrol - a match made in heaven.
Daniel watched the young team leader closely, as he briefed his squad
members on their objectives, and search coordinates. The thoroughness
of his preparation and the depth of his commitment impressed Daniel.
Jack was safe, he mused, with these people searching for him. If only
they could reach him in time!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack O’Neill awoke, to see dark, starry skies peeking through the
cloud cover. He’d fallen asleep, finally, and much to his
displeasure. Those tiny hairs at the back of his neck were still on
alert. He hadn’t rested long, but felt much better and his fire was
still lit. For that mercy he was thankful, his matches were dwindling
rapidly. Although, if he had to, he could still start a fire rubbing
two sticks together. Or two ‘artifacts’... he thought with a smile.
O’Neill painfully raised himself up. He felt like every bone, every
muscle, every part of his body had been mauled - pounded, whipped,
trampled, with hit-on and beat-up thrown in for good measure. And
only after being pummeled had he been left to freeze dry in the
frozen
O’Neill washed his face and hands. Still gasping from his cold bath,
he tiredly dragged his long limbs out of the very questionable
comfort of his resting place. He felt every pound per square inch of
pressure on his sore, swollen feet. Feet that had been compromised by
the amount of walking he’d already done, and even more compromised by
the deep fall of new snow. His poor tired, abused feet, which
gingerly and achingly had to support his full weight.
"Shit! If I ever fly private again, I’m flying with Superman,"
O’Neill grunted to himself.
The snowstorm had ended before his wake up call. The clouds gave
every indication of moving rapidly out of the area. Looking up at the
clearing sky, O’Neill dried his hands over the warm fire. Maybe he’d
catch some luck today, for a fast trip out of here.
Yeah...it could happen and maybe pigs could fly, too. You make your own
luck airman. O’Neill grunted again.
Dragging himself tiredly, Jack slowly walked to the two traps he’d
set out. Maybe breakfast had dropped by. One was empty, its structure
crushed by the weight of snow falling from overhanging branches. The
second trap held a rabbit, waiting to be sprung from the contraption
he’d blundered into.
“Well hey...lo, Thumper...nice of you to wander by. I just want you to
know, Thump, that I appreciate you showing up like this...really...I do.
And I deeply appreciate your sacrifice. You know, in times like
these, we all have to do our part,” the small animal twitched its
nose at the conversation directed its way.
“No last words? No pleading for a stay of execution? Wouldn’t help
anyway...huh, Thumper? Bambi dropped by last night...said to say ‘Hi’...if
I saw you.” O’Neill continued his one-sided conversation, while
slowly reaching into the trap and snagging the small mammal.
He cradled the round timid body close to his chest for a few seconds,
calming the animal’s nervous attempt at freedom. And then,
maintaining a firm, yet still soothing hold on the animal, Jack
reached a hand around its neck and twisted. Fragile bones crushed
with an audible crunch, as the animal died instantly. O’Neill held
the small body close, thankful for the gift, and as the rising cold
wind penetrated his clothing, turned back to his camp - time to fix
breakfast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Without a backward look, O’Neill walked away from his overnight home.
He knew he should stay, knew any rescue attempt would depend on his
rescuers being able to find him. But if they could find him, then so
could Carolyn’s ominous they find him as well. Whoever they were,
he’d rather not find out. So, get moving, keep moving - until he
found someone he could depend on, someone he knew, somewhere safe.
Too bad about the cell phone. O’Neill had searched; he'd scrambled
through the freezing snow trying to locate the damned thing, until
his clothing was cold and soggy, his hands and knees frozen numb.
Some camper would probably find it - come the spring thaw. Most
likely, Bambi had stepped on it and had crushed the guts out of it,
and now it lay under a mantle of snow, useless and forgotten.
No use crying’ over spilt milk.
Roasted rabbit and cold water provided a belly-filling breakfast, and
the leftover was safely stashed for later. A scruffy and grungy
O’Neill departed his home-built oasis. Hopefully, he'd make good time
getting to that stream he’d seen early yesterday. Aside from not
having to melt snow for water, the stream might also contain fish,
waiting and willing to be caught for dinner. It would certainly be
worth a try.
O’Neill walked through the deep snow, plowing his own trail. He’d
thanked any number of deities that he’d worn the comfortable old
boots. They were a lifesaver. Even though they were old, they were
still well insulated, and had provided the only frostbite protection
he had. Still, only time would tell whether his feet paid a dear
price for his bid for freedom. He’d dried his wet clothes as well as
he could, before dousing the fire. He knew their dampness would also
hinder his plight. If he came down with raging pneumonia, on top of
hypothermia, the bad guys wouldn’t have to lift a finger to finish
him off.
“Speaking of the bad guys, where are they? Better yet, who are they?”
O’Neill asked himself, aloud, “And what do they want with me? No
wait, wait a minute...they didn’t want me, they were after General
Hammond...yeah...and...so?”
“So, Dimwitt,” O’Neill stopped trudging through
the unbroken
snow, “So, if they’re not after you, as in Jack O’Neill, and General
Hammond is safe, twenty-eight floors underground, why would they
still be looking for you?”
Intense cold, penetrating damp leather, finally reminded O’Neill to
move on, to keep the blood circulating in his already cold and
swollen feet. He just didn't have enough information. But he wasn't
going to wait around for any bad guys, just in case. Once again
plowing a trail, he took stock of his own physical state - starting
at the top.
Head - have one, not too bad a shape...headache and some dizziness -
probably a concussion, no more bleeding. Eyes - not seeing double,
but the sun on this snow may cause a problem later - will deal with
it later. Neck - present. Arms - two each, present and accounted for.
Hands - freezing, sore, chapped and cracked. Chest - slightly
battered, no moving parts to worry about. Legs - tired, muscles
cramping from exertion. Feet - cold, tired, sore, and swollen from
walking, damp... and cold, hurt like hell, not a good thing. Can’t be
helped, O’Neill, so keep moving.
Jack gathered his jacket closer around him, covered his upper body
with the blanket, and made sure to keep his head and shoulders
covered. He stored his meager fare safely in his pockets. It wasn’t
much - it had never been much, but he was still alive. He was still
very much alive and kicking. Plan C was based on him staying that
way.
His plan was to get off this mountain and find out who was
responsible for this 'situation'. He had a grudge that was firmly
lodged in his craw. Jack O’Neill was not a vindictive man, but having
an aircraft blown out from under him didn't settle well. Plus, he
needed to act for Carolyn. She hadn't deserved this mess either.
O'Neill nodded to himself, as if it was a done deal, and continued on
his path.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The beat of rotor blades of the HH/MH-60G - or USAF PAVE HAWK, beat
in time with her heart, or so it seemed to Major Samantha Carter. She
felt the thrum of the engines through her entire body, and would have
gladly given herself over entirely to the joy of this fascinating
flying machine. If only the reason for her being here was not so
serious. She listened, with less than half of her attention, to the
chatter coming through the earphones of her flight helmet. She chose
instead to scan the snow-covered terrain passing beneath the
helicopter’s belly.
This HAWK was one of two, which General Hammond had lent to the
search, courtesy of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. She again checked
her watch, they’d been at this now for three hours, and hadn’t seen
anything, not even mountain wildlife.
Looking through the binoculars, Carter maintained a close watch on
the fast moving terrain. Anything, which would indicate that Jack...
Colonel O’Neill was down there. The Hawk's pilot had wanted to take
them higher up the mountain, to the crash site for photos, but the
lost time and bad weather forecast precluded that little side trip.
So here they were flying in circles - or rather, grid squares.
Daniel had called her once; his team was “going gangbusters” up the
mountain trail. Except that they were looking for Jack, he was
enjoying his adventure and “he had to get himself a pair of these
snowshoes.” Carter grinned, remembering his enthusiasm.
Teal’c reported seeing nothing, except a lone fisherman on a frozen
lake.
“How do the fisherman manage to get the fish out of the ice?” He'd
asked
Carter smiled, promising him a detailed breakdown of the art of ice
fishing - courtesy of Colonel O’Neill. After the colonel was located.
She sensed his regal nod of acquiescence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 2a
“Holy smokes, that was close.”
The fisherman took a deep breath, finally remembering to bring his
arm back down to his side. He’d waved at the helicopter. Shown a
friendly face, or rather had shown no fear at their sudden
appearance. Even now, he was still surprised that the pilot hadn’t
turned around, landing the ‘chopper’ to investigate his presence.
Guess they’re trying, he pondered, still looking off in the distance,
to cover as much territory as they possibly can before the weather
changed. Good, good...’cause your ass is freezing, and if Colonel
Almighty doesn’t show pretty soon, you’ll be frozen solid.
"Shit...it’s freezing out here!"
The fisherman surveyed the surrounding mountains, while defiantly
stamping his feet encouraging a return of blood flow to his frozen
appendages. He released a gusty sigh. He’d found this run-off basin
after deciding to let his quarry come to him instead of running
around in the frozen
any to pretend to be something he was not, and never would be - a
fucking ice fisherman.
He hated the magnificent outdoors, the pervasive cold, and being here
in general He wanted nothing more than to get this job over with
ASAP, and back to the lodge. Back to his lodgings for fun and games -
with any one of the willing lovelies usually found at such places.
"Just your luck, son, a blizzard yesterday and one on the way...tends
to make a guy jumpy."
The Boss wanted a clean kill, nothing fancy. It's supposed to look
like an accident. Yeah...like nobody would suspect a thing after that
beauty of a plane crash. And the number of people chasing after the
colonel was now about equal to the number trying to rescue him. The
man snorted at his little joke. Yeah well, his was not to question,
just get the job done.
Moving away from the waters edge, he scanned the area for any sign of
life, other than him, making sure nothing was obviously out of place
in his little scenario. O’Neill was way too smart to fall for
anything too obvious. At least out here, he wouldn’t have his fan
club running interference. Although, another loud snort, he wouldn’t
mind playing tag with the bitch major. Maybe she’d like to join his
team, once O’Neill was taken care of....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bright sunlight was fast fading; clouds once again rolled over
the sky, eagerly covering the sun like a heavenly game of hopscotch.
It was a welcomed relief to Jack O’Neill - because just as he’d
feared, the blinding, reflected sunlight on the snow was causing
problems with his eyes, even with sunglasses. He’d stopped several
times to bathe sore eyes in a cold snow bath, just barely relieving
his discomfort.
Following his finely honed sense of direction, O’Neill pursued an
easterly heading toward the glistening body of water. He’d only had a
brief glimpse of it yesterday. But, it couldn’t have disappeared
overnight - not unless a hot, dry spell hit the mountains. From where
he was standing - in over a foot of crisp, new snow, it was highly
unlikely. Although, highly desirable to his frozen appendages and his
face.
The faces of his team members danced in random thoughts through his
tired exhausted brain. They were worried; he knew they were worried -
exactly like he worried about each of them. He only hoped they hadn’t
aggravated the General into some harebrained scheme to rescue him.
So far thing’s were hunky-dory, and would stay that way if his luck
held. Then he could slip off this mountain without "evil whomever's"
being the wiser.
Piece of cake - right, O’Neill? Yeah, and elephants can fly
too.
O’Neill’s wandering thoughts took him back to the hot, hellish heat
of the Iraqi desert, as the freezing cold insinuated itself time and
again in his thoughts. It was a waste of his time and depleted energy
to wish for something as fleeting as warmth and comfort. But he was
only human, as well as tired, hungry, cold, dirty, and he would
definitely start to smell soon - like a beached salmon. The first
thing he’d do when he returned to civilization would be to take a
bath in the hottest water he could stand, a long...leisurely...bath. Not
a shower, but soaking endlessly until his skin was wrinkled like a
prune, and as pink as a baby's bottom.
Hot, dry, gritty, blast furnace-like heat versus frigid, frozen,
glacially cold numbness...
He finally came to the conclusion that each extreme had its own
downside. Heat stroke and boiling to death was just as final as frost
bite and freezing solid...what a comforting thought, O'Neill.
His attention was diverted from his own morbid rumination by a brief
moment of sunlight shimmering on water.
Finally!
A couple hundred yards in the distance, the glistening basin of half
frozen water greeted his tenacity - finally at last.
O’Neill stood on a rise, looking down at the semi solid lake, nestled
among pine, blue spruce, and bare aspen trees. The scene was one
straight out of a Christmas greeting card - beautiful, serene, and....
Another movement caught his eye.
O’Neill ducked down behind a clump of stunted conifers, all the
better to get a lay of the land. The sudden appearance of a lone
fisherman was strange. This high on a mountain, this late in the day?
The last bit of sun would be gone in another couple to three hours.
But something itched at the back of O’Neill’s brain, something he
couldn’t quite put his finger on, something just out of reach. The
presence of another human being, in mountains closed off by severe
weather was too much of a coincidence, just like that deer. This
could be it; Carolyn’s mysterious they, one of the very persistent
she'd warned him about.
O’Neill watched the man stand motionless beside the water -
motionless was definitely a telling factor. He remembered ice fishing
with his grandfather in
interspersed with sitting by a roaring campfire, trying to stay warm.
His gaze wandered over the adjacent area, looking for a campfire. He
searched the campsite for fishing gear, and equipment necessary for
breaking through ice, like an auger. Or one of those depth finders,
for finding fish that escape the colder temperatures just under the
ice.
Now he was definitely suspicious - a campfire burned brightly, but
looked insubstantial. There were no pans cooking, or more importantly
no pot of coffee boiling - tirelessly keeping hypothermia at bay. A
tackle box lay near the fire, but its contents were
haphazardly spilt out over the snow cover. O’Neill didn’t know a
single fisherman who wasn’t obsessive about keeping his stuff
together, straight, and ready to use. Only a novice, or the
hopelessly uninformed would have his equipment in such a jumble -
which one was this guy?
There was only one way to find out.
O’Neill stood up, straightening his long legs out of the crouch he’d
held for the last few minutes. The pain in his damaged knee shot up
like fire into his tired body, causing a hissed groan to escape from
cracked, sun burnt lips.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A sound penetrated the mountain stillness.
Whipping around in the direction of the slight noise, the fisherman
caught sight of a tall, scruffy stranger struggling to rise to his
feet out of the scrub pines. He watched as the man painfully limped
down the long hill leading to the edge of the water.
The fisherman took note of the man’s destitute appearance - days old
beard, gaunt sunburned face, shadowed eyes and painful movements. The
man was not dressed for this weather and clutched a blanket around
his head and shoulders for added warmth against the frigid cold. A
rough bandage peeked out from under the blanket, and purple bruising
marked the right eye, which looked swollen almost shut. A pair of
sunglasses hung haphazardly from one ear.
Plastering a smile of greeting on his face - it could be someone
else, someone who did not have a sanction for his death. He casually
waved to the newcomer, whose painfully slow steps brought him ever
closer.
Bingo...Christmas had come early this year! He moved up the hill to
assist the stranger down to his fire.
“You look almost frozen to death, man. Come here, sit by the fire. I
have a little bit of coffee left; you’re welcome to it. Where the
hell did you wander in from?”
O’Neill took the offered cup of warm coffee, gratefully and without
hesitation. As second nature, he observed that it was poured from a
thermos container near the fire. The warmth of the cup penetrated the
painful numbness of his fingers, setting up an even more painful
tingling as his hands thawed. The sickening sweet taste of cream and
sugar greeted his palate as he drank the first swallow down, too
grateful for the warm fluid to whine about taking his coffee straight.
“Here, put your feet on this log, they must be plumb froze off,” the
man moved a log over, closer to the fire to accommodate O’Neill’s
long legs and feet.
“Gees man, a little bit later and I’d have been gone...called it a day.
The rest of my group already left.” Fisherman turned away to get more
wood for the fire.
O’Neill surreptitiously glanced around the area, taking note of the
glaring lack of footprints, or ski tracks, or any outward bound
disturbance in the snow. What group? The three o’clock swarm of
griffins?
The fire’s warmth penetrated the solid numbness of his frozen feet,
again bringing on a painful tingling as the flow of blood thawed. His
constant shivering was a deterrent to speech, but as the shivers
finally abated O’Neill put the cup down and spoke, his voice hoarse
from disuse.
“Thanks, appreciate it...I was separated from my group. We’re up here
on a retreat" - his lie was just as plausible as the other
man’s. "Got caught out in that snowstorm yesterday...thought I was a
goner. You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone would you? I need to
get in touch with my people, let them know I’m okay. I lost mine last
night...damned buck nearly ran me down.”
“No, I’m sorry I don’t...I come up here to get away from that stuff.”
The fisherman gave Jack a knowing nod, which he returned in kind with
a tight smile.
“You come here often?” O’Neill held his breath.
“Only when I can’t find parking any where else...” the fisherman seemed
inordinately pleased with his little ice fishing joke, one Jack had
heard many times - ad nauseam. He nodded knowingly.
O’Neill watched the fire, minutes passed as he sat mesmerized, just
warming his body and planning a retreat from this place. He’d walked
right into this one, and now had to figure a way out. This guy was no
more a sportsman than Daniel Jackson. Too many things didn’t ring
true, and why would he remain here alone if he’d come with a group,
with no obvious means of returning to civilization.
Get out of here, O’Neill, as fast and as furiously as possible. Do
not stop, go straight to...what? The police? The State police? How
about the FBI, and the CIA while you’re at it?
“Thanks for the coffee and the fire, a real life saver. I got to get
going, as near as I can remember - make it sound good, O’Neill, keep
your feet moving as well as your mouth - there’s a ranger station
back down that trail. They’ll help me get back with my own people.”
Jack stretched tense, tired muscles and stood, his accumulated aches
and injuries causing him to stagger. But, pulling his blanket tightly
around his shoulders, he once again thanked the man, and offered his
hand in farewell. The other man took the offered hand, shaking it
solemnly, silently marveling at his control.
He’d been made...O’Neill knew.
“Are you sure, my guys are coming back...” his sentence trailed to an
end, as O’Neill immediately walked away, still limping, favoring his
injured knee.
The fisherman watched in stunned awe, as his target calmly and
blithely marched out of harms way, or so he though. Who the hell did
the bastard think he was, just walking away like that? He remained
motionless; watching until O’Neill had attained a measure of
distance, and then pulled a large caliber handgun from its place of
concealment, aiming for the retreating back.
“Hold it right there, Colonel.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Major Samantha Carter brushed the hair from her eyes, leaning tiredly
on a mess table. The coffee was lukewarm and tasted like battery
acid, but would have to do for now. She and her flight crew were off
again in a few minutes. The helicopter was being refueled - even
HAWKS had to refill at some point.
Lt. Colonel Anderson had debriefed her team in lengthy detail, and
had reported the Colonel still at large, no traces of him had been
found by any of the teams. But "remember, it’s a large area out
there."
Her tired thoughts turned to the man for whom they searched.
“Colonel...where the hell are you? I know you’re trained for this
stuff, Sir, but I’m not. We’re not. Are you safe? Or are you hurt and
dying out there, beyond our help?”
The toll of the last four days was telling on the young major. Four
days of constant worrying about the health, safety, and welfare of
someone who had come to mean more to her than she'd thought possible.
More than was allowed...more than was good for either of them. Finding
Jack O’Neill had become a quest...to bring him home alive, safe, and
healthy - possibly a little freezer burn around the edges.
Otherwise,
bring him home, and then find out who was responsible for his death.
Dimly Major Carter heard her name called, and shaking the dragging
tiredness from her thoughts, came back to reality. The dark mess
tent, warm and fragrant like a cozy winter kitchen coalesced around
her.
“Major Carter, we’re ready, ‘s go!”
From his position at the front door flap, the excited voice of her
crew chief spoke , beckoning her to swiftly follow. As she ran to the
helicopter, flakes of snow lightly drifting from the sky grabbed her
attention. There weren't enough yet to abort this flight, but soon
Carter realized, they’d be grounded again...and what about the Colonel?
He’d still be out in the cold, out of their reach and in harm’s way.
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The lightly falling snow drifted down past his coat collar, tickling
his neck with tiny dots of cold. Or is that the chill of having some
big honking gun pointed at the center of your back?
“Hold it right there, Colonel...turn around slowly. Don’t make any
sudden moves, I don’t want to shoot you, at least not in the back,
but I will.”
The fisherman pointed the weapon squarely at the O'Neill’s back with
a steady hand and a cold eye. He wanted to get out of here. More
importantly, get out of this damned cold, but first he had a job to
do and it was supposed to look like an accident...
“I said turn around, Colonel. And don’t try any heroics today. You
had to know you were a dead man when that plane went down. Were you
being noble, or just too stupid to realize it?”
O’Neill stood still, holding his hands up. Scenarios scrolled through
his brain with the speed of light. But nothing plausible came to
mind. At least nothing that would prevent his untimely demise. He
wasn't able to reach his own gun without tipping his hand, and he was
too far away from the other man for hand to hand. All that came to
mind was to run, run as fast as he could, try and out run the bullet.
O’Neill when have you ever been able to outrun a bullet? Are you
crazy? Not as crazy as turning around and letting this asshole gut-
shoot me. Then think of something!
The Colonel made a slight move as if to turn as ordered. But in mid
step he twisted in the opposite direction and took off running. He
was headed for the cover of scrub growth dotting the area in
profusion. With each jarring step the injured knee hurt like a
bitch. And getting enough air into his battered lungs was next to
impossible, but run he did. He who lives and runs away....
The fisherman was caught off guard for the space of a heartbeat, yet
fired his weapon in reaction. The bullet caught O’Neill in his ribs,
glancing off the bone and then exited through muscle and soft tissue.
The impact broke the stride and flow of his swift flight. Fierce pain
burned a path from his right flank to his abdomen, a sudden warmth
flowed from his side, chilling in the cold air. He stumbled, falling
into the brush, and landed in a freezing puddle of water, mixed
generously with ice.
Black swirls and dark flashes flickered before his eyes as he lay
still, trying to control his ragged breathing. The frigid cold erased
the darkness from his vision, and uncontrollable shivering took over.
The fisherman shook his head - the boss was going to’ have to pay
double for this - having to get rid of a body wasn’t in the contract -
slogging through the flowing stream, hunting his wayward quarry. The
dark color of O’Neill’s jacket too soon led the gunman to him in the
cold, gurgling stream. He lay curled up, almost under the flowing
water.
“I guess you were just too stupid, huh O’Neill?”
The gunman warily moved around the downed man. O'Neill's covert
skills were almost legendary. He watched for any sign of life, not
getting close enough for those deadly hands to grab him. The Colonel
lay quietly shivering in the cold water, his unconscious body
attempting to compensate. The fisherman swung a heavily booted foot,
which collided with an unprotected abdomen .
Hands of steel suddenly reached up, grabbed his ankle with lightening
speed, and twisted with ungodly force. Overbalanced , the fisherman
splashed headlong into the frigid stream. His gun flew out of his
grip and off in a different direction. Now he was fighting for his
existence.
Fists pummeled his head and face unrelentingly as O'Neill quickly
surfaced. Yet, his strong legs soon straddled the other man's torso
for added purchase in the flowing stream. O’Neill came up swinging
and fighting , eager and ready to vent his anger on this stranger who
had been paid to put an end to Jack O'Neill. He may be down but he
wasn’t out - not yet. Now the odds were even - he’d bag himself a
phony fisherman, or die trying.
“Not as stupid as you, asshole...that’s the oldest trick in the book,”
O’Neill gasped as he landed another punch to the other man's head. “
Now tell me who sent you, or I’ll finish you right here. Your people
killed a friend of mine in that crash, and I’m not above collecting
on the debt. And I’d as soon kill you - right here, as look at your
ugly face.”
The gunman looked up, into the eyes of the man straddling him, seeing
no emotion, no indication that his death would mean anything to this
soldier, except revenge. He knew that if he talked, his life was
over, his people would see to it. There was no place he could hide.
Either way, it was a toss up. Let Colonel O’Neill kill him quick and
easy, or his own people, long, hard and painful.
With renewed strength, the fisherman heaved his body out from under
the strong legs restraining him in the water. O’Neill grabbed for his
head, but missed as the man pulled out of his wet hold and instantly
rose up from the stream. He grabbed the soldier's neck in a wet
chokehold, but O'Neill quickly slipped out of the move and turned the
tables. The two men tussled and splashed, rolling over and over in
the icy water, throwing spouts of water high into the air, their
breathing ragged and rasping. Each man’s lungs burned hungrily for
breath. Each vainly attempted drawing oxygen into depleted lungs as
each man fought for the advantage.
Finally, a misstep, a stumble, a misguided move brought the fisherman
under the strangle hold control of Colonel Jack O’Neill. Special Ops
trained in a thousand and one ways to kill, it only took an instant.
A very audible crunch of crushed bones and a severe twist of an
unwary neck for the battle to end. Unlike a certain small mammal, who
was cradled close at the moment of death, the fisherman/gunman was
flung away - dead, and dismissed from a disgusted grip.
The red haze of revenge dissipated from O’Neill’s eyes as he took
stock of his surroundings, and finally his own condition. Freezing
cold, wet to the skin, bleeding and injured - again. Flopping his
soaked body down on all fours finally on dry ground, O’Neill remained
motionless, dragging oxygen back into starving lungs. Shivering
uncontrollably, he tried to get his brain back on track, back online.
He wasn't thinking clearly, he couldn’t -
his mind was a blank. His
brain had stopped receiving the necessary input for survival. He had
to flip back to the preservation mode that would get him out of here -
before the fisherman’s people returned to investigate. It was time
to move again.
O’Neill looked up, finally, blearily aware of the steady fall of
snowflakes. When had it started snowing like that? The pain and
warmth at his side, brought his attention to other matters. He needed
to stop the bleeding, take care of his injuries, get out of another
snowstorm, and find cover where he could warm himself. If he did not,
hypothermia would finish what the fisherman had started.
With a grunt of pain, O’Neill pulled himself to his feet. There
should be campsites dotting these mountains; vacation cottages locked
up for the winter, small oases in a vast snow desert. With any luck -
That’s a joke, airman, he could break into one, use the facilities
and be on his way. Easy as 1-2-3 - Yeah, like that’s ever going to
happen, O’Neill. Easy ain’t in your vocabulary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 3
“We have a dead body here, sir. Looks like there was a struggle. Ace
found footprints going into the stream, a few yards from here, but
hasn’t found any coming out yet - on either side of the stream. She
also...” Captain Pearce looked around to see who was near, and lowered
his voice, “ ...She also found traces of blood, sir. Going into the
stream.”
The voice on the radio held the Captains attention with rapid-fire
questions.
“No sir, his neck was broken...no sir, it looks deliberate, or at
least, not an accident. Oh, and sir...one other thing, we...we found a
blanket lying in the water. We think it’s from the downed Gulfstream,
sir. Dr. Jackson couldn’t identify the sti...ah,
body. Although we’re
positive it’s not Colonel O’Neill. Yes, sir, we thought so too.”
“The snow's coming down pretty heavy. A few minutes later, and we
would've been too far away to make out what it was, sir. We’re
setting up camp now, until the storm blows over. If O’Neill’s up here
somewhere, he couldn’t have gotten far, not if he’s hurt, and
fighting hypothermia.”
“Yes, sir, we’ll keep you posted. You’re welcome, sir. Yes, sir...we
will.”
Daniel Jackson stood near his team leader, half listening to the one
sided conversation, but felt compelled to speak as soon as Pearce
toggled his off switch.
“He could, you know.”
“He could what, Dr. Jackson?”
“Jack could be anywhere. He wouldn’t let a little thing like bleeding
to death, or freezing to death stop him. He eats and drinks this
stuff, and is very proud of his...uhm, skills. He’s
managed to get
our butts out of quite a few impossible spots.”
“Well so far, Dr. Jackson, he’s managed to elude every one of our
search teams, and not once did the helicopters spot him. And granted,
we’re searching a huge area, in which a person could get lost and
stay that way, but I figure he’s trying to hide from us, as well...
what’s your guess?
his friend, trying to understand O’Neill’s maneuvers, and came up
empty.
“Knowing Jack, I think you’re right...but why? That’s the real
question."
Both men nodded in agreement, then headed over to the warmly blazing
fire, which one of the team members had salvaged.
The wind, now blowing gustily, had picked up. The snow was falling
and blowing so heavily, visibility was down to ‘your hand in front of
your face’. Even if they'd wanted to, at this point the search team
couldn’t continue and would rest the night here. They would wait out
the storm tucked up warm and safe in temporary shelters, out of the
howling wind, blowing snow and the freezing conditions. Each man was
grateful for the respite.
For Jack O’Neill, there would be no such respite.
At least, not yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His feet were frozen and seemingly had a mind of their own - at least
he couldn’t make them follow his directions. His movements were slow,
and sluggish, a precursor of the deadly hypothermia. He knew his
survival now depended on getting out of the cold, and getting out of
his own wet clothing - but where, and how?
And, where was his blanket?
Where did one find a convenient thermal cave? Or the randomly placed
mountain cabin, or even a land depression suitable for a six foot,
two-inch Popsicle?
What’s our motto, Jack? Where there’s a will, there’s an or...so, you’d
better find that Or before Will freezes to death.
O’Neill clamped his coat collar tighter around his neck trying to
seal in the remainder of his body warmth - warm being relative, of
course. The dunking back there had seriously compromised his
situation. If he didn't find shelter, soon the lack of warmth would
reach a critical state.
Keep walking, Jack. Think of something more pleasant than snow, and
hypothermia, and freezing. Just keep placing one foot in front of the
other, move forward, ahead. Advance, onward and upward, ahead of the
crowd, out in front, first in line...
Think, Jack...think of something, or someone other than your own sorry
butt...O’Neill tripped over something hidden under the snow cover, but
caught himself before landing.
Don’t zone out O’Neill...keep your mind on what’s going on here, airman.
Think of your team, Jack. They’re looking for you. General Hammond is
looking for you. He certainly wouldn’t let some nefarious, over
dramatized, civil service sycophant mess with his favorite 2IC. And
Carter, she’s a real spitfire when someone messes with her team, her
CO. Carter, along with Daniel and Teal’c...all of them are out here,
somewhere, looking for you. Daniel will stun them with ten syllable
words, while Teal’c knocks them out with just a lifted eyebrow. You
have a good team, O’Neill don’t give up.
For what seemed like hours, O’Neill blazed a trail in the deep and
heavily falling snow. Unmindful of the solid white appearance of his
hands and fingers, he continued alternating the hand holding his
jacket closed, with keeping one buried deep in the damp leather
pocket. His neck, shoulders, and back muscles screamed 'bloody
murder' from maintaining the stiff hunched over, turtle impression
he’d been trying for.
Face it Airman, you’ve gone from the frying’ pan to the fire, and
now, on to a Big pot of boiling’ water - with the cannibals circling.
Boiling water...yeah, don’t I wish....
For O’Neill, his trip down a mountain had become a steady descent
into hell. His nonstop march became increasingly interspersed with
trips and falls, as the numb pain in both feet intensified.
He could still feel a sluggish warm trickle of blood from the flank
wound turning to ice, his knee still hurt like a bitch, his head and
ears were now frozen as well as dented, and his six pack abs - looked
and felt like a few containers were absent.
Taking a mental tally of his bumps and bruises, O’Neill failed to
notice the sudden appearance of a large male deer until it snorted
loudly in the insulated quiet of the snowfall. He had also failed to
notice the thinning veil of snow and a heightened visibility.
A sound penetrated his mental grocery list, as he trudged tiredly on.
A sound he’d heard before...before...when? Just before Bambie
paid us a
visit...knocked you flat on your ass.
The large animal stood impassively still in O’Neill’s path, unmoving
and unafraid. His fantastic rack of antlers, backlit by the still
falling flakes, told the story of his survival skills. His breath
clouded the frosty air with great, gusty billows and the ground
echoed with the stamping of his feet.
“Hey Bbambie, what’s up?” O’Neill croaked, stopping
in his
tracks. “Look, I'm really sorry about Ttthummper...but
it was himmm or
mmme. He died like a rreal
ttrooper. You’re not ggonna’ rrun me
downnn againnn, are yyyou?”
The large animal looked at O'Neill as if he was an intruder. And then
it looked him in the eye, sizing O’Neill up for long minutes. Yet
finally it recognized a kindred warrior. It seemed as if he'd found a
kinsman in the fight to protect what was his; his home and territory.
And then the animal turned away. O’Neill watched the beautiful animal
fade away, into the veil of falling snow, puzzled about what had just
happened. He decided to follow as closely as he could, the animal
knew this forest, probably had a home, and a family around these
parts. A few yards distant, the animal appeared again, stopping,
stationary until O’Neill caught up.
“What’s happening, Big ffella’? You ttryin’ to help an old ssoldier
get home? I’d be mmmuch obliged,” O’Neill spoke
softly to the animal,
which seemed to listen. He was not spooked by the presence of this
alien in his home.
The deer snorted, stamping the ground again, and turned away as if to
say, I’ll lead - you follow. Whereon, being a career military man,
O’Neill - recognizing authority when he saw it, followed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The lines blurred on the page. And finally realizing he wasn’t paying
close enough attention to whatever well thought-out ideas were
present in this document, General Hammond placed it in a folder.
Placed it in the folder that contained several other documents which
all showed a distressing tendency toward blurred lines. He’d have to
speak to his adjutant, who in turn would speak to the head of the
secretarial pool, about documents with blurring lines.
energy and stamina to run a base of this complexity. No, he was tired
of the waiting, the worrying and the not knowing. He had a base to
run, yes, but he also had a friend lost out in the cold, snow-covered
mountains. A friend who neither had the luxury of waiting for help to
arrive, nor had he someone else who would worry about his situation
for him. It galled him, not knowing if Jack had reached safety before
the elements, or the bad guys, caught up to him.
wanted to do something...some...thing...to help Jack.
Calling for his attention, the harsh sound of a telephone interrupted
his thoughts.
intrusion yet put on his professional demeanor, and picked up the
receiver.
“
“Outside call, line two, sir... he said it was important.”
“Did the caller give you a name, son?”
“Yes sir, a Sergeant Hutchinson.”
Hutchinson, and couldn’t remember having ever served with anyone by
that name.
“Did he say in reference to what?”
“No, sir. Just said he needed to speak to you sir.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’ve got it.”
hand through his non-existent hair and punched the button for line
two.
“This is General Hammond, May I help you?”
“Thanks for the offer General, but this time I have some information
that could help you.”
The voice was one
supposed to be in jail, behind bars, and under lock and key. At least
according to the Federal Judicial System. Or on a
enjoying his hard earned retirement from public life, and ill-gotten
gains - according to Colonel Jack O’Neill.
“Colonel Maybourne...to what do I owe this pleasure?”
"Let’s just say a long lost, but mutual friend...shall we General? Oh,
and let’s ix-nay on the ame-nay, too. I’m calling
from an unsecured
phone...and I really don’t want to forfeit my little home away from
home.”
hoping to hear some...thing he could use to get his man home.
“It’s your dime Harr...ah, Sergeant Hutchinson,
start talking.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The small cabin through the snow-covered trees was a sight to behold.
It was almost more than a frost bitten, hypothermic, battered, and
over-exposed body could fathom. But, the deer had brought him here,
as strange as it was, in an almost straight line.
O’Neill’s sense of direction told him the cabin hadn’t been too far
off the beaten path, and it was in a direction he’d had no intention
of going. But being one who never looked a gift horse in the mouth -
well very seldom, he’d settle in, get warm, make himself at home, and
wait for the bad guys to come charging through the door.
O’Neill’s heart pounded noisily - beating in time with his
uncontrollable shivering. On numb feet he stumbled up to the tiny
cabin's tiny front stoop. The little cabin didn't have an abandoned
look to it, but the small building could use quite a few repairs and
a good coat of paint. All of which would have to wait, because right
now a severely cold man had to get inside. Wonder if the owner left
his key handy?
O’Neill knocked on the warped and weather-beaten wooden front door.
If anyone was here, they should hear his pounding. The place couldn’t
be more than one room. Yet no one came to the door, or called from
the inside for O’Neill to go away.
“The owner must not spend the winters here, huh, Bambie?
Is that how
you knew about this place? Or are you just a forest sprite, come to
help the fools and idiots that get lost in your mountains?”
O’Neill pounded again, just in case someone happened to have slept
through all of the noise he was making. Cold seconds passed and no
one opened the door.
“Okay, Bambie, I guess this means we can go in.
Uninvited or freeze
to death...I choose uninvited.”
The large animal lifted his head from foraging in the deep snow, as
if listening to O’Neill’s one-sided conversation. He solemnly watched
O’Neill rattle the doorknob. Positioning himself, ready to bust down
the door, O’Neill was surprised when the door swung open easily, as
if on oiled hinges.
Stepping inside the rustic one room abode, he could dimly make out a
large fireplace at one end, and a table at the other. The air in the
small room was chilled, but not cold, and smelled of smoke from many,
long forgotten fires. He walked further into the room, heading for
the fireplace. O'Neill hoped someone - skiers or fishermen most
likely, hadn’t used all of the wood and supplies, and had then
neglected to replace it. Jack looked around the area, trying to see
in the low light as he searched for matches or flint, anything with
which to start a fire. Moving his hand along the rustic mantelpiece
his stiff fingers knocked over a tin container, which spilled out old-
fashioned wood matches. Grabbing a handful, O’Neill painfully knelt
down.
This place must be one of those shelters for people just like me,
who’ve gotten lost on the mountain. He’d make sure the Forest Rangers
received a special donation when he got home. The trained deer was an
extra special bonus, just like
the
With numb hands, and shaking almost too hard to set up the materials,
O’Neill began to build his fire. It seemed like a lifetime ago since
he’d been warm, and as soon as the fire caught hold he’d remove these
wet garments. But first, he’d look around to see if there were
anything available to change into, right now even a gunnysack would
be appreciated.
He sat before the fledgling fire, watching the small flames fight for
existence, fed by the dry, brittle kindling. That small warmth felt
good, felt better than the biting cold he’d just left, and even now
he could feel the abatement of his shivers. He wasn’t out of the
woods yet; he still had to get out of his wet clothing, still had to
get some warm food into his belly, and he had to heat a pan of water
for a homemade steam humidifier. Warming up his insides was just as
important, probably more important, than warming up his sorry butt.
That was one thing he’d learned the hard way, from that little side
trip to
Picking himself up off the floor, Jack limped over to the kitchen
section of the small cabin. He looked for a bucket or cooking pot
large enough to boil snow for humidifying the air. Moving slowly,
trying not to use half-frozen muscles any more than he had to, or
wear-out non-existent energy, he spotted a rusted, cast iron cooking
pot - perfect! Now, we’ve got the pot - hopefully there’s not a hole
rusted through it, got to’ get the water - snow makes good water...
excellent water!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill’s homemade humidifier bubbled riotously, sending clouds of
water vapor into the room. Getting the snow had been a chore, but it
was done, and now he only hoped the pot outlasted his roaring blaze.
He once again sat beside the fire, tossing logs onto the bonfire with
seeming abandon.
From his resting place, against the rough stone fireplace, O’Neill
felt his frozen hands and feet thaw, with tingling pain. The frost
nipped and wind burned skin of his face and hands tingled, and then
burned like an acid injury. Looking around the room, he saw a small
door - maybe there’d be something in there for him to change into...a
blanket perhaps - fresh thermals, warm cords, and a wool turtleneck
was asking too much, huh?
Slowly and painfully, Jack pulled himself back to his feet - Fraiser
would definitely have something to say about this knee, limped over
to the door, and opened it with a rushed flourish, as if expecting
someone hiding there to jump out.
It was a closet.
It did hold some old, moth eaten blankets, but beggars couldn’t be
choosers, and O’Neill had been in places that made these musty old
blankets look like L.L.Bean'sn finest country wear.
So off with the
wet gear. Limping back to the table, a reflection of the fire caught
his eye. The bright blaze reflected off something hanging on the
smaller door catching his attention.
He shrugged, first things first, O’Neill, get out of this wet stuff
and then you can sight see.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, wrapped up in dry, surprisingly warm blankets, the lure of
sleep pulled at O’Neill’s eyelids. He hadn’t eaten, but he wasn’t
hungry, maybe he’d just waited too long. Before wrapping his cold
naked body in the woolen blankets, Jack checked every inch of his
long, slightly dented and abused self that he could see by the
firelight. His knee was still swollen twice its normal size, his face
and hands still burned like a bitch from exposure, and those white
areas on three toes of his left foot would definitely get worse,
before getting better. The fight with the gunman had finally broken
that rib, which hurt like a bitch too, but he didn’t think it was out
of alignment, and the wound in his flank was finally bandaged -
courtesy of your favorite shirt, O'Neill. Overall, he had dents,
dings, bangs and bruises galore, but nothing life threatening. And
now that he was out of the driving, freezing snow, things were
looking up.
“Not bad for falling’ out of the sky, and rolling’ down a mountain,
with bad guys behind every tree, huh Jack?”
Before he sat back down by the fire, he wanted to check out the
place - lock the door, if possible. Making the rounds of the small
room didn’t take very long, and then he secured the one wooden door
with an old-fashioned bolt lock. Finally his curiosity got the better
of him; it reminded him of the oddity hanging on the closet door.
Go look Jack, before the suspense alone kills you.
O’Neill removed the curiosity from its place of honor. The light was
too dim to determine its origin or purpose, so he took it over to the
blazing firelight. It was a framed memento, hung for decoration on
the door. The frame was old, battered and dirty. The crinkled, faded
paper looked as if it’d seen better days, and had, once upon a time,
been better taken care of. The paper was scorched, as if it had been
in a fire, but the sentiments were still strong. Surprised at the
condition of the framed poem, O’Neill read it aloud.
“Come on in, Rest your feet,
Build yourself a fire, and enjoy the heat.
Foods in the cupboard, Wood in the box,
Kerosene
in the barrel, Matches up top.
Don’t take more, don’t take less,
But,
before you leave, corral your mess.
Stay or leave, it’s all the same.
Gabe says, “Howdy,” He’s very glad you came.”
O’Neill held the frame, wondering just who exactly Gabe
was, and
where he was. It was nice of him, trusting strangers with his home,
even as humble as it was - especially as humble as it was. Maybe Gabe
was the one who’d trained that awesome deer. So, this place was a way
station for lost travelers. Thanks Gabe. He replaced
the frame back
in its rightful place, took one more trip around the perimeter of the
small rustic room, and then grabbed his 9mm from among his damp
belongings. He cuddled up in the warm blankets, and sat down by the
bright fire, far enough away from the blaze to prevent disaster. He
watched the fire until his front was toasty warm; while field
stripping the firearm. He made sure there was no remaining moisture
to interfere with discharging his remaining ammunition - if the need
arose.
“Not if, O’Neill, let’s be positive...when ...when the need arises,” he
grunted, in the silence.
Finally, his eyes burning with fatigue, he laid the spotless gun down
within easy reach, and turned, facing the open room, relaxing down
among his blankets. He allowed the heat to warm his backside, and
welcomed sleep.
Outside the cozy cabin, another storm raged. The sky was white with
shifting and blowing snow, and tree limbs bristled and crackled in
the snow filled wind. A night not fit for man or beast to be out in,
howled itself into the record books as the coldest night of the year.
In the shadows cast by the faint light escaping the cabin’s covered
window, a large specter could be seen prowling the vicinity, as if on
guard. An antlered specter, impatiently stamping the cold, snow
covered ground, breathing gusty, frost-laden billows, and kept watch
over the homely haven.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“General, I’m just as frustrated as you are. I’ve had to pull back
all the choppers, and my teams up there have all gone to ground
waiting out this storm. Your man chose a really bad time to get lost,
Sir.” Lt. Colonel Anderson’s attempt at levity met with total
silence.
Apparently generals didn’t have the same sense of humor that mere
mortals possessed. Too bad, sometimes a little humor was the only
thing that kept his guys strong out there.
“At first light, sir, they’ll be back on the job. And General
Hammond, just remember if we can’t get to him nobody else can either.
Uh...General, I hate to be the pessimist, but, you know it may be too
late already, what with the weather and all...”
“I’m trying not to think along those lines, Colonel, I suggest you
don’t either. I’ve seen Jack O’Neill withstand every form of
adversity...he may be hurt, but he’s not out. I suggest you remember
that.
“Yes Sir, I will.”
can do for you, General?”
“Yes, Colonel...the real reason I called. I received an anonymous call
from a reliable source,” If Maybourne ever heard
those words coming
out of my mouth, the man would probably drop stone cold dead. He’s
come a long way from miserable traitor to reliable source, “...He
indicated that a person, or persons, had been sent to deter Colonel
O’Neill’s extraction from his current situation. The caller also
indicated that a team of trained imposters was already deployed among
your people. I suggest you put it to a test. I haven’t the faintest
idea what these people are really after, but I don’t like our people
being caught in the middle.”
man to serve with - more concerned about his men, than his next
promotion.
“Yes Sir, General. Can do...I’ll get right on it. Unfortunately, I have
some extra time at my disposal.”
This time the general smiled - the man did understand his frustration.
“Good, Colonel...I’m here if you need me, keep in touch.”
“Yes, General...Thank you, Sir.”
gets any easier, the waiting, the worrying and the uncertainty...just
never gets any easier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Son of a bitch, I told you I wanted this to look like an accident...
and now the Army, Navy, Air Force, AND Marines, along with Air Search
and Rescue, and for all I know Saint John’s Military Academy, are out
looking for the bastard. How many men does it take to hunt down one
single man?”
“Sir, he’s a trained...”
“I thought the men we... you employed, had received special training
too. Am I right, or was I misled?”
“No, Sir. Our recruits have all been well trained...”
“Then why are they not getting the job done? Colonel O’Neill may, or
may not have seen our merchandise being loaded onto that plane, but I
don’t want to take a chance. Dead men tell no tales, Walters, and now
that the merchandise has been off loaded, we get O’Neill, and the
tale dies a natural death...what could be easier?”
Walters had the good grace to look uncomfortable...for all the good it
would do.
“Sir, those mountains have been swallowed up by a blizzard, the men
we already have up there can’t do a thing until the storm dies.
O’Neill could already be dead, under two, three feet of snow, and we
wouldn’t be able to find him until next spring.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up, Walt. I want that smart mouthed, son of a
bitch found and I want him taken care of. Do I make myself clear?”
The younger man nodded affirmative, as the older man heartily pounded
his back.
“Good, let’s go on in to dinner...I’ve worked up one hell of an
appetite.”
The two men headed for the door, entering an elegantly appointed
dining area, already peopled with laughter, good spirits and pleasant
conversation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill awoke with a start. He lay still, trying to identify exactly
what it was that had brought him out of a surprisingly deep sleep.
Outside the cabin walls, the storm still howled its mournful cry. The
tree limbs still crackled and chafed in the wind, adding their own
eerie noise to the discord. The silence inside the cabin was
unbroken, except for the breathing of its occupant, who suddenly felt
foolish. But not foolish enough to discount his instincts - those
same instincts had too many times saved his six.
He had to get up any way, he had to pee and the fire was just about
to go out. In his sleep, he’d rolled out of his meager covers and was
shivering with the cold. What I wouldn’t give for central heat right
now, and I will never again argue the merits of a heat pump over a
furnace ever - warm is warm.
Slowly and painfully O’Neill turned over onto raw, aching hands and
painful knees to back out of his sleeping arrangements; careful not
to bump an already sore body against the table he’d used hold in the
heat. Once untangled from the table, he straightened his tall frame
into a semblance of upward extent, stretching cramped and
uncomfortably sore muscles. He felt slightly nauseous but dismissed
it as hunger. The stretch didn’t quite accomplish the satisfying
muscle limbering it was supposed to, and his chest felt even tighter
than it had yesterday.
O’Neill dismissed his body’s symptoms as the onset of a cold, and
hunger. Traipsing around like he’d done for the past week would give
anyone a cold. Plus, he’d received a major dunking at the hands of
that fisherman. Fisherman...huh! If that guy had had the least
knowledge of fishing he might not be lying dead near the top of a
mountain. He gave that idea a second thought. If the fisherman had
been more genuine it was a toss up as to who exactly would be lying
dead up there....
He threw several small sticks on the fire to catch it back up, and
gathered the blankets around him before checking his clothes for
dryness. His beautiful leather jacket was ruined; the water damage
beyond repair. The drying out process had sucked all of the natural
oils and moisture out of the fine material, leaving it brittle, and
cracked.
“So much for Italian leather...” he sighed with regret, as his long
fingers caressed the favored garment. “But, there's no use crying
over a jacket...”
In the chilly room, he scrambled into the dry underwear, socks and
outerwear - “ Think positive, Jack, at least they’re dry.” He had to
use the facilities. O’Neill gazed out the darkened window, yet only
pitch-black reflecting back his own image could be seen through the
dirty panes of glass. Something had awakened him out of a dead sleep -
instinct told him something, or someone, was out there still. Out
there, still dogging his every step, or could it be an over active
imagination?
After all that had happened to him in the last few days, who could
blame him for seeing bogeymen behind every tree?
Or hearing things that might not be real?
“Go empty your bladder, Jack. You’ll feel much better, think much
clearer without all that pressure.” He snorted an inelegant laugh at
himself - duty calls.
Shrugging into his jacket, and unlocking the bolt, O’Neill gingerly
opened the cabin door, trying to hold on to the door. He needed to
hang on to something in the blowing gale-force wind. He didn’t want
the hard won heat completely sucked out of his haven, nor damage come
to his borrowed domicile. The icy cold struck him like a
sledgehammer, stealing his breath as if by a giant vacuum.
On second thought maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea, O’Neill. In this
wind you might get that warm shower you wanted after all....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Duty answered, O’Neill hurried back to the warm cabin interior,
moving quickly to the fireplace to tend his fledgling flame, and
warming chilled bones in the process. After throwing several larger
pieces of wood onto the glowing embers, he moved back over to the
curtained window, his sense of unease had not abated.
Again he watched from the frosted windows - daylight changed the
shapes and images of the scenery outside. The wind and blowing snow
did its best to camouflage everything.
O’Neill’s thoughts finally turned to things he’d tried not to think
about, especially while scaling down the mountain, evading would-be
hit men. He wondered what his team was up to. They were probably
scared shitless for him - just like you’d be scared shitless for them.
“O’Neill, you’ve probably scared the S&R teams shitless. They’re
wondering what kind of idiot gets lost, but refuses to be found...”
When exactly had SG-1 become so meticulously caring for one another?
When had their thoughts and feelings for each other gone beyond good
teamwork, into the realm of family, and why?
It just happened - over the space of what...years?
Yes, it had been, but why? Probably because each and every member of
SG-1 had no regular family to lean on or depend upon, and no other
ties to ground them. Carter has Jacob -
who was never around...and
Mark - who was angry at her most of the time. Daniel had no one...
Teal’c had a family - a galaxy or two away. Me - I got no one either -
except my kids, and General Hammond and the SGC. Even though you
hate admitting it, O’Neill, you’ve found a home with SG-1, a family
you can lead, and guide, and nurture - enjoy it son.
Turning away from the dark window, O’Neill’s stomach rumbled,
reminding him that his last meal had been a long time ago. He came up
empty after searching in his jacket pocket. The left over rabbit must
have been lost during the scuffle. But then, he remembered the poem
stating, “ Food was in a cupboard,” which cupboard he had no idea, he
hadn’t been hungry enough to look last night.
Walking over to the old-fashioned water pump, O’Neill opened the
crude cabinets, which held an assortment of canned goods. Pulling one
can from the shelf; he discovered it was indeed a can of soup, and
his Swiss Army knife had just the utensil with which to open the can -
now for a pot to warm it in.
The accumulated aches, pains, cuts and bruises were joined now by the
definite symptoms of a head cold. Oh joy, that’s all I need,
coughing, and sneezing, while hiding from the bad guys. After
enjoying the soup de jour, O'Neill sleepily remained in front of the
warm fire. Old Gabe had laid on a mountain of firewood
in that box of
his - hope he doesn’t mind me taking this much. He was still tired
from all his exertions and after filling his belly the lure of sleep
was overwhelming. The warm blaze, his full belly and the quiet room
combined with the monotonous sound of the wind outside to lull the
exhausted colonel back to sleep. Sleep came even as he thought about
his next step - "off of this damned mountain."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometime after daylight, the storm blew itself out, and the resultant
low temperature created an icy glaze on the two feet of new snow.
Tree branches hung low, either from accumulated snowfall, or damage
done by the wind.
Furtive footsteps crunched loudly in the snowy ground cover, sounding
like an on-rushing train in the after-storm silence.
The young man, dressed in the USAF military camouflage of an enlisted
airman, moved slowly, cautiously through the deep frozen white. His
team had been up since daybreak. He and his partner had orders to
scour this area of dense woods and prickly underbrush, while the
remainder of the team went on ahead a few hundred yards.
He was already cold, the wind chill felt about minus zero, and as
anxious as he was to find the lost officer, he’d really like to be
back at the base - tucked up warm and cozy, doing other things.
Peterson, his partner, was ahead of him somewhere among the trees.
They’d split up because Pete thought he’d seen something off the
trail, and had gone to investigate. And now here he was, sneaking
through scrub brush, waiting for Pete, freezing his ass off.
“Hey Peterson, what’s taking so long, man? I’m freezing out here,
have you found something, or not?” his shouted inquiry re-echoed in
the softly wind-blown silence.
Far off in the distance, a voice finally answered his question.
“You go on ahead Repete, I’m kind of off the beaten
path here. But
I’ll catch up ASAP. Let the CO know I’ll catch up...”
“You know he’s not going to be happy, us splitting up like this?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. He’ll get over it. If I find anything, I’ll call
it in. Right? Now...I got to take a piss.”
“Thanks for the picture, Pete.” The young airman smiled.
Typical of his older partner...he’d snuck off so many times to go
potty, Repete was sure 'he was having some kind
of prostate problem -
probably wasn’t getting enough.' He smiled again, and then pushed on
through the snow-cover, looking for one lost Bird Colonel.
TSgt. Randall Peterson stood unmoving in the snow, the last response
from his young partner dying in the cold wind. Turning to his left,
he could see- nestled in a small land depression, a tiny rustic cabin
that had seen better days, but now had a plume of blue smoke rising
from its crumbling chimney. Standing on the ridge above it, the
Sergeant took out binoculars to watch his surroundings, any movement
into or out of the cabin, and any movement in the woods around the
cabin. The only movement he saw - heading for wooded cover, was the
bounding jumps of a mammoth male deer which apparently had been
frightened by something - Stupid animal, scared of his own shadow.
The Sergeant was one of several men, under orders to find the
colonel - to find him but make sure he wasn't found alive. Peterson
was glad he’d been able to shake the kid - it never looked good
killing one of our own, especially someone of Colonel O’Neill’s
reputation.
Crouching low on the crest of the ridge, the soldier watched, yet saw
no movement in the cabin and no footprints in the snow to indicate
the occupant had left.
If O’Neill wasn’t in there, then maybe whoever was in there had seen
him.
The little cabin was surrounded by plenty of spruce, pine and brush
to cover his stealth movements. From his position, he saw a definite
trail winding down the hill, and around to the structure. Peterson
looked back behind him, to see if Repete had returned
on some
stubborn whim, and then scanned the area again for other searchers.
Captain Pearce might be pissed at him going off on his own, but like
he’d already said, “he’d get over it...the man was too gung-ho for his
own good.”
Easing slowly down the deep snow covered hill, and then on through
the stand of trees, Peterson worked his way up to the quiet cabin.
Over to his left, the snow cover was bare in one spot, and trampled,
like that damned deer had spent the night keeping warm by the
chimney - maybe not so stupid after all. The cabin’s front door -
tucked under a small covered stoop-type porch, was situated in the
middle of the dilapidated structure, with one small window on each
side of the door. He hadn’t seen any but the two windows so far, but
doubted if there were more to worry about. One window looked like it
had been broken out, some time in the remote past, and had been
replaced with wooden boards instead of glass. The other window had
dark, tattered curtains, which had definitely seen better days. So
far, so good, it didn’t look too insurmountable, only going through
that front door would tell the tale.
Before moving out of his cover, Peterson checked his weapon, making
sure it was ready. Surely it wouldn’t take much ammo to kill one man,
but with O’Neill's reputation he wasn’t about to take any chances.
The Sergeant pushed out of the convenient cover of the fir trees,
confidently walking up to the front door. If O’Neill weren’t here so
be it, but if he was, then he’d be escorted to his own funeral.
Peterson grabbed the old-fashioned doorknob, while raising his other
hand to knock - just like any good search and rescue team would, but
the door opened slightly - without pressure from his hand. Surprised
that O’Neill would forget to lock the door, he put it down to shock
and then ventured inside, gun cocked and ready.
Taking a second for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark interior,
Peterson stood just inside the door, breathing quietly, looking
around the small room for his quarry. Over near the banked fire, a
silvered head poked out from among a pile of blankets.
Colonel O’Neill lay beside the fire curled up in the worn blankets,
sleeping the sleep of an exhausted man. He was tired beyond belief,
stretched beyond the limit of his endurance. Even in the low light,
Peterson saw dark shadows under the man's eyes, while his right eye
appeared to be engulfed by a livid bruise, his forehead swathed in a
crude, soiled bandage. His skin seemed to have shrunk several sizes
from its translucent, stretched appearance. Peterson felt a momentary
pang of remorse for what he was about to do, but duty came first.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Airman R. Peter Delaney, or Repete to his teammates,
hadn’t heard
from Peterson in quite some time. Where the hell was he? Captain
Pearce would have both their hides for this stunt, “even if he was
too gung-ho.”
Thumbing the switch of his radio, the young soldier called for his
teammate. Silence, intermingled with static, was the only response.
Delaney had traveled approximately two miles - searching diligently
and beating the proverbial bush before it finally dawned on him that
Peterson hadn’t caught up to him, or radioed his position. And now,
he figured that his being too new, and too stupid to question the
older soldier, they’d both be in hot water. But, he’d also rather be
in hot water, than have something bad happen to his partner.
“Come on, Peterson, don’t do this to me...where the hell are you man...
come in.”
“Come on man...even my old man don’t piss as much as you have today...
what’s going on? Peterson...come in....”
The radio remained stubbornly silent...as if the other man’s radio were
turned off, or to a different channel. The young man groaned - there
just went his military career, looked around him as if seeking succor
from his surroundings, and then toggled the radio. Might as well fess
up, contain the fall-out, and contain all of the soon-to-be-born
jokes made at his expense.
“Mountain search 5, come in...Captain Pearce, come in...this is Delaney...
over.”
“Ms-5, Pearce here, what’s up Delaney? You boy’s taking your own
sweet time...found anything...over.”
“Sorry Sir, I did a two mile sweep of the coordinates, haven’t seen
anything...ah, but...ah...”
“Spit it out Delaney, we’re losing light...”
“Uh...Sir, Sgt. Peterson left our designated area - about two miles
back, said he thought he’d found something, but now I can’t reach him
on the radio and he said he’d check in, Sir ...did he?”
“He hasn’t checked in with me, Airman. Why would he leave your
designated area? You guys haven’t been goofing off out there, have
you?
“No Sir,” the young airman was most emphatic, “He’s gone off on his
own a lot this morning, Captain. I think he’s having’ some sort of ...
ah, problem Sir. He had to pi...relieve himself...an awful lot, if you
know what I mean.”
Pearce grinned at the young man’s slip, but then a serious uneasiness
settled in his mind. The strange behavior of the older man worried
the team leader - who’d already been briefed on the possibility of a
ringer in the search teams. Certainly whatever was wrong with the
sergeant would have to be investigated. Whether the man was a plant
or not, was immaterial at the moment. Because right now, he was
holding up the search for a person who’d been lost in the woods for
over a week, and who was, most definitely, in trouble.
“That’s just great, Airman, that’s all we need, another lost soldier
to look for out here. When Peterson finishes his latrine duty, let
him know he’s on report.”
Pearce signaled to another team member, indicating that he was to
bring Dr. Jackson here.
“Listen up, Delaney...hold your position, don’t move...don’t get yourself
lost. I’m coming over, give me your coordinates.”
Captain Pearce listened carefully as the young soldier relayed his
position. He wrote it down while watching Dr. Daniel Jackson stride
over from the fire, a fresh cup of coffee still in his hand. When Dr.
Jackson opened his mouth to speak, Pearce shook his head to ward off
questions, or distractions. Spooking Delaney anymore than he already
was would serve no purpose.
“Make yourself cozy until I get there...Ms-5 out.”
“Do you have something? Have they found Jack?” His coffee forgotten,
the hapless young soldier.
himself feel again. This whole ordeal had been tough on him and his
teammates, but he theorized, it was much less of an ordeal for them
than it was on Jack. At least, they had ample food and shelter, warm
clothing and the comfort of a warm fire and military support. Jack
was out there fighting for his life on a cold, desolate mountain, and
miles away from medical attention. And there was no food except what
he could catch or find himself, and he fought alone.
“We haven’t found Colonel O’Neill yet, but we may have caught a break...
one of my men just called. Said his partner had gone missing, and he
wasn’t responding to radio calls. It could be that he’s in trouble,
but I don’t think so... he’s an experienced man, he knows proper
procedure. Delaney reports that Sergeant Peterson - that’s his
partner, has been acting strange all morning...going off on his own,
taking excessive latrine breaks, etcetera, and now he’s not
responding to radio communication. It might be nothing, but it could
also be our break...”
“That’s great, let’s go check it out, when do we leave?”
a lead, a possible trail that would lead Jack home.
“ASAP, Dr. Jackson, and as soon as we close up shop here,” he turned,
and shouted to his 2IC, “ ACE, we’re out of here, get everybody
moving...we’re going to go looking for plants.”
The young officer gave the archaeologist a grin, and then hurried off
to gather his own equipment.
“What kind of plants, Capt’n?”
The captain shouted back over his shoulder, never breaking
stride, “Deadly ones, Ace, deadly ones.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack O’Neill was dreaming. Not that he didn’t dream - God only knew
how many times his nightmarish dreams had awakened him, but now he
dreamt he’d fallen out of the sky. Fallen out of the sky, landed on a
mountain and the mountain wouldn’t release him, wouldn’t let him go
home, wouldn’t let his friends reach him. He was doomed to forever
chase around the mountain, forever out of reach of home. He just kept
falling and falling...
Only to awaken abruptly with a startled jump, a disembodied hand
reaching out for him.
O’Neill scrambled away from the hand, grabbing for the gun he’d
placed nearby.
“Whoa...whoa there, Colonel. I didn’t mean to startle you...” a voice
cautioned. “I tried knocking, but the door was open and unlocked, so
I came on in. We’ve been looking all over this mountain for you, sir.
I guess I hit the jack-pot - no pun intended...if I may be so bold,
Sir.”
Sleep and weariness weren’t clearing from O’Neill's brain with a
customary speed. It left him somewhat befuddled at the presence of
this stranger. Hanging on to his sidearm with dogged persistence, he
could only stare at the name emblazoned on the airman’s fatigues and
pointed, in all probability, a useless gun at the man’s head.
“Who,” O’Neill cleared his throat, long since grown hoarse from lack
of use. “Who are you, Sergeant?”
He felt disinclined to offer words of praise for his rescue, until he
was sure this man was on the up and up. The face of a dead fisherman
skittered through his mind - that hadn’t turned out too well. And
after four...five days - god he’d lost count, of running for his life,
he didn’t have the strength.
“Technical Sergeant Randall Peterson, Sir...
Rescue, Colonel. There’s a lot of people anxious to find you, Sir.”
O’Neill lowered his weapon, but kept it clutched in his hand.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” O’Neill murmured quietly to
himself.
“Excuse me Sir?”
“Nothing, Sergeant...when do the troops get here? I thought you guys
always traveled in pairs. N’est-ce pas?”
“Not necessarily Sir...would you like a cup of coffee? I can fix you
one really quick; after I call in...I know Dr. Jackson will be glad to
hear that we’ve found you. You just rest, Sir.”
The Sergeant fumbled with his backpack, reaching for the radio
clipped to his parka.
“Airlift One...Peterson here, come in...Airlift One, come in...over.”
“Airlift One...”
“Airlift One-niner... we read you five by...come
in, Peterson...over.”
“One-niner, I have our bird with me now, Sir,” Peterson
ruefully
glanced at the colonel, thus referred to in military slang. “Yes,
Sir, he appears to be okay, except for minor bumps and bruises -
although I haven’t checked him out just yet. I wanted to give the
chopper time to get here. Yes, Sir, I’ll take real good care of him.
I wouldn’t want his friends to miss seeing him again....”
The Sergeant went on to succinctly give his coordinates to the search
team commander.
O’Neill only half-listened to the one-sided conversation, paying
little heed to the words until he heard the last phrase, “ I wouldn’t
want his friends to miss seeing him again.” It didn’t sound right...in
fact, it sounded wrong but his sleep-befuddled brain refused to think
straight. And then again, maybe he was reading something into it,
where there was nothing. But those short hairs at the back of his
neck were standing again - and so far they had been straight on the
mark.
And why would the Sergeant want to make sure the chopper arrived so
quickly? O’Neill watched the other man as he moved around the tiny
room, in search of ...what? Surely the search teams had snowmobiles;
surely they wouldn’t think he needed to be airlifted from here? Or
would they? A chopper couldn't really set down anywhere around here,
the ground cover was way too dense. Maybe they thought that after
being so long on this damned mountain, he’d be either dead, half
dead, or stark raving mad. Right at this moment, he fit the bill for
the latter two choices.
O’Neill had been involved in only one search and rescue while
stationed in
own rescue would. And now he couldn’t afford to trust anyone...anyone
whom he didn’t know on sight. That sort of puts a crimp in your
rescue, Jack...do you really think someone you know and trust
absolutely will be here to lead you home?
Yes! Daniel was here somewhere on this mountain, and Carter and
Teal’c weren’t far behind him, so the good guys in the white hats
couldn’t be too far off. Right...just watch your step.
TSgt. Peterson was in the process of removing his parka, before
O’Neill - whose mind was busy dealing with his suspicions, realized
he had finished speaking.
“I’ve got a med kit here, Sir, let’s give you the once over. I’m sure
we can at least re-bandage that cut on your head, and see to whatever
else is bothering you. Here let’s get this fire built back up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill endured the Sergeant’s examination with stoic embarrassment,
while the non-com nattered away about inconsequential nonsense. By
the end of the exam, O’Neill sported a newly bandaged head, an ace-
wrapped bum knee, pressure dressing on the flank/abdominal wound -
which still oozed, a wrapped rib cage, and an entire tube of
antibiotic ointment on all of his scrapes and cuts. Peterson left him
to tend to the fire and make that cup of coffee he’d promised, along
with an MRE breakfast.
O’Neill didn’t feel like eating anything, but drank the hot coffee
like a starving man. And he felt a little breathy - like his lungs
couldn’t take in enough oxygen, but he put it down to the restrictive
dressing around his ribs.
“Peterson, when’s that chopper getting here...it’s been a while since
you called. You don’t suppose something happened do you? These
mountains can be very treacherous...believe me, I know.”
“Yes Sir, I agree. I’ll call back...just see what’s up.” The sergeant
took his radio out of the discarded parka, and pressing the call
button, spoke, “ Airlift One...come in...Peterson here, Airlift One...do
you copy ...over.”
The sound of the activated radio made the colonel jump - he must be
in bad shape.
“Airlift One, we read you five by...we’re having a spot of trouble
here. Between the tree cover and the wind, we are unable to extract
from your location. Is Colonel O’Neill able to go to a more open
location? Over.”
Peterson looked over at the colonel, his eyebrows raised in question.
He silently asked O’Neill if he was able to travel to different area
for his extraction. O’Neill slowly nodded his head; he’d do almost
anything to get home. His suspicions were justified, if someone was
planning something, it would be the perfect time to make the attempt.
But, he hoped Peterson wasn’t the one sent to do the dirty work,
because in the short time the man had been here, O’Neill had started
to like him. A bad thing in an assassination, and a very bad thing
for the victim.
“That’s a roger, Airlift One...which location, and where...over.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ten minutes later found O’Neill, wrapped up in Peterson’s extra kit,
trudging slowly and stiffly through the snow again. He felt a pang of
remorse as he moved away from the tiny cabin. As a refuge it hadn't
been half bad, as a lifesaver it was beyond comparison.
O’Neill listened to the other man's incessant chatter with half his
attention. He was still wary, still waiting for the other shoe to
drop, anxious to get this over with. His rest at the cabin had
rejuvenated him, although he knew he was in poor shape, and Doc
Fraiser would have plenty to tut-tut over. He wanted to go home,
sleep in his own bed, eat his own food, and warm himself by his own
hearth. It was a very long time since he’d last been homesick...
probably when he'd left a pregnant Sarah and their home headed for
yesterday.
“Stop right there, Colonel.”
The sound on a weapon cocking for action brought O’Neill out of his
introspection, and to a standstill.
Shit...he’d been caught napping... daydreaming like a raw recruit.
“Stop right there, Colonel and turn around...”
O’Neill slowly raised his hands skyward as he turned to face the
formerly very congenial Sgt. Peterson.
“Ya' know, you guys really need some new lines.
I’m sick to of
hearing the same old crap...can’t you boys get a little more creative?”
“Shut up, O’Neill. The only creative requirement on this assignment
is killing you and making it look like an accident. How am I going do
that when I want to shoot you between the eyes...um?”
“That’s Colonel O’Neill, Sir to you. Who put you up to this? Was it
Kinsey? Or Simmons? My money’s on Simmons...he’s been acting like a
snake ever since he stole his own.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Colonel...and I don’t care. I
just know there’s a lot of money riding on your ass, and I do believe
I’m going to get me some of it.”
“Move it.” Peterson pointed down a curving hill with his Glock,
to a
clearing up ahead.
”... And keep your hands where I can see ‘em.
I wouldn’t want you to
get any bright ideas about that gun in your belt. In fact, why don’t
you just take it out of your belt slowly...slowly, and throw it over
there. Don’t make any stupid moves that you might die regretting.”
Peterson waved his weapon menacingly toward O’Neill and the downhill
slope. He wanted O’Neill’s weapon. He knew his own chance of survival
increased many times over if he secured the Colonel’s handgun. And he
knew some of this colonel’s background. He wouldn’t have a chance
against the fancy moves O’Neill had at his disposal. Twenty years
experience in Spec Ops tended to do that. So, keep a gun on him, keep
his hands in plain sight, get behind him and stay out of his range at
all times. You might live to enjoy your bounty money after all.
O’Neill made a show of removing the weapon from behind his back,
flinging it down the hillside where Peterson pointed. He really hated
giving it up, but he’d been in similar situations before, and lived
to talk about it. This scenario only required his attention to
everything going on around him, while playing dumb. It wasn't too big
a stretch; he knew he could do it. Peterson seemed pleased with his
cooperation. Sucker!
O’Neill sauntered down the hill, as if going to the opera. Although,
limping on his battered knee ruined the nonchalant effect he strove
for. His loose, long limbed stride belied his difficulties, of which
he wasn’t about to bring to the present company’s attention. It
really made no difference. If he couldn’t think of some way to get
out of this honkin’ hang-up, the rest would be swiftly
taken care of -
courtesy of one small, explosive projectile.
Down the snow and rock covered slope the two men silently trekked.
O’Neill desperately coached his exhausted brain cells into firing off
a plan. Peterson was thankful that the sarcastic Colonel had finally
shut-up. He didn’t need any pesky moral attitudes at work here. He
was following orders, and...if ...a little extra financial remuneration
came his way, he wouldn’t refuse it. In fact, Peterson welcomed any
extras; he had bills to pay just like every other working stiff. He’d
learned a long time ago that having a guilty conscience was no better
or worse than having a clear conscience. At least a guilty conscience
paid off at the end of the month.
The wind was dying down. It felt calmer than when the two men first
started into the woods. The Sergeant guided their steps by pointing
his weapon in the intended direction - mainly downhill, through thick
stands of trees.
O’Neill, being an environmentalist, was amazed at the size of the
trees eking out a living in the barren, rocky ground. Also, he was
thankful for their abundant presence. He knew that as soon as they
cleared the trees, a chopper would be there to airlift him to who-
knows-where, and he really didn’t want to go there. O’Neill had made
his decision, for better or worse, this was where he’d make his
stand. Dead or alive, he wasn’t getting on any chopper, or going any
further until he saw a friendly face - someone he implicitly trusted.
Suddenly, O’Neill’s gimpy knee seemed to have a mind of its own. Its
stability was sorely tested time and again over the ice covered
rocks. Finally the stress of the past few days, and the rough
terrain, toppled years of exercise and conditioning. The offending
joint buckled - with the ease of silk flowing over glass, pitching
O’Neill painfully down the rocky embankment. He twisted and tumbled,
rolling ass-over-tea-kettle, almost too astounded to protect himself
from the shards of rock grating even more painfully over his body.
Cuts, scrapes, scratches and chunks of missing tissue blossomed over
O’Neill’s exposed skin surface. He inadvertently barreled down the
rough ground, letting his momentum carry him. His first instinct was
to tighten up in a ball and tough out the ride, but bones had a
distressing tendency to break using that technique. He chose option
number two, and a controlled descent down the rocky surface -
protecting vulnerable body parts during the long ride.
“Colonel cut the crap, you’re not getting away,” Peterson shouted
like a madman. He stumbled quickly down the slope behind his quarry,
not to be out done. He wasn't about to watch his hard earned loot fly
out of his reach, at a speed he couldn’t match. He didn't want to end
up with every bone in his body shattered.
Jack’s spectacular free-fall ended at the bottom of the rocky slope,
just short of the upper edge of a deep ravine.
“Sometimes the simplest plan was the most surprising,” O’Neill
mumbled to himself, lying where he’d landed, sucking in great gusts
of oxygen while waiting for his heartbeat to still. The shock of his
precipitous descent slowly receded as the pain from multiple minor
injuries claimed his attention. The roaring in his eardrums combined
with his gasping breath, and a darkening vision to almost obliterate
the sound of Sergeant Peterson’s hysterical screaming higher up the
incline. O’Neill felt momentary bewilderment at the Sergeant’s
behavior. One minute the man was a kind paramedic, then a cold-
blooded kidnapper, and now a raving lunatic. The NID fringe element
must be paying good money to get rid of one Jack O’Neill -
professional thorn-in-the-side... at your service.
If he only knew why....
O’Neill pushed his body’s clamor for attention out of his thoughts,
waiting for his adversary’s arrival. He calmed his inner turmoil, and
prepared to spring. He was ready to exact payment for the ill
treatment afforded him. The clatter of cold stones hitting against
the other, alerted him to the nearness of his opponent.
Peterson slowed his descent, still quietly cursing, but under better
self-control now. He saw O’Neill lying unmoving where he’d landed.
And although this Colonel was a wily old bird, he wasn’t taking any
chances. He relaxed the death grip he’d maintained on his weapon
while racing down the slope. Peterson looked around the area, seeking
answers where only the icy, blowing wind shifted.
“Where the hell is that damned chopper? If we screw around here much
longer, the whole CGSART’s gonna’
show up...on your feet O’Neill.” He
kicked O’Neill’s rib cage with a booted foot. It was a move
guaranteed to rouse the dead, but O’Neill remained quiet, and
unmoving.
“Don’t play possum with me, smart guy. Get on your feet, before I
roll you on over this cliff myself. I don’t need a body to collect my
money...just proof of your premature death...how about a nice set
of ‘giant brass ones’, huh, smart guy? I said on your feet....”
Peterson drew back his foot to kick the downed soldier again, but the
move was interrupted. Strong hands gripped his foot and ankle,
twisting with terrible force. His unbalanced body was thrown closer
to the ravines edge. O’Neill turned his body, moving as if possessed
to grab the offensive extremity and threw his own body weight into
the maneuver. Bring Peterson down was his only thought. The agonized
man had a brief glimpse into the cold, brown depths of his avengers
eyes. Once warm amber eyes were frozen a flinty black, cold with the
need for revenge and restitution.
Too far off balance to save himself, Peterson clutched at O’Neill.
O'Neill in turn was just as determined to topple the Sergeant over
the precipice. Each man fought and grappled, one pulling the other
closer, ever closer to the edge.
Resolved to take the Colonel with him, Peterson fought like a man
possessed. He tried with all of his strength to break O’Neill’s hold,
yet the older man doggedly hung on. He struggled to get off a shot,
yet was unable to. The Sergeant had no desire to be unceremoniously
tossed over the edge. Finally, a numbing blow to his arm sent the
pistol flying through the air and down the rocky incline.
But, five days - or was that six now, of very little food, exposure
to the elements, hypothermia, frost bite, exhaustion, battered and
broken ribs, loss of blood, a tragic death and a concussion finally
culminated, and in one last gasp of impossible strength O’Neill threw
the other soldier over the edge. He felt his own body roll over the
edge to bounce - landing against a welcome, but amazingly hard,
outcrop of solid rock. A winded O’Neill watched the other man drop;
watching for the final time the other mans eyes. A scared and
terrified man transformed from a self-assured killer as he plunged
hundreds of feet to the ravine floor below, landing in a disjointed
heap - unmoving.
O’Neill remained where he was, hanging onto the outcropping of rock.
It had been the only thing that stopped his acceleration down the
rock wall. Again dark spots and tunneling vision danced in his sight,
as he gulped in air to fill his depleted lungs. He waited for the
trip hammer that beat painfully within his chest walls to stop. Now,
he felt every one of those five, or six days of deprivation. All he
wanted to do was to curl up and sleep, or die - which ever was the
easiest. He laid his face against the cold, wet rock-face, breathing
hard, shaking like a leaf.
Carried on the wind, the sound of helicopter rotor blades intruded on
his thoughts, and he brought his head up to scan the sky. From the
amount of bright sunlight shining on him O’Neill was surprised that
his confrontation with the Sergeant had taken such a short time. It
felt like days had elapsed since he’d left the sanctuary of Gabe’s
cabin.
He inched along the outcrop of rock, seeking firm ground. His arms
were stretched to their limits, almost ready to pull out of their
sockets. He’d have to find a safe hiding place, and then go back to
the cabin - it shouldn't be too hard to find again. Finally,
O’Neill
pulled himself up and over the rim of the precipice, sweating from
exertion, his arms trembling with exhaustion. He lay there - thanking
the powers-that-be that he hadn’t ended up at the bottom as worm
bait. Finally, his breathing returned to normal, and his strength
gathered for his next move.
Although louder now, the chopper was still only a sound on the
horizon. The tired soldier streaked across the open rock field to one
of the trees dotting the area. He crouched low among the scrubby
branches, his eyes glued to the clear blue sky.
“Here we go again...”
If he were the cursing type, he’d rail at the fucking misfortune fate
seemed intent on throwing his way. But since he remained - for a
soldier - temperate in his language, this God-awful, sonofabitching,
fucking piss-poor state of affairs was starting to make him mad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Captain Pearce, TSgt. Trenace Moore, and Dr. Daniel
Jackson
surrounded the hapless non-com like vengeful angels seeking
retribution. Or so it seemed to R. Peter Delaney.
It was not his fault Colonel O’Neill was lost. It wasn’t his fault
that Peterson was missing. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that
Peterson had left his area of search. His own area had been explored
with a fine toothcomb, and if Colonel O’Neill was anywhere within a
two mile radius, he’d eat his own snowshoe. And so he explained to
his CO.
“You just might get that chance, RePete,” TSgt.
Moore commented
wryly. “You also might get a chance to spend some time on brig duty,
if I find you two were goofing off out there.”
“No ma’am, Sergeant Moore!”
“And Sgt. Peterson gave no indication that anything was wrong, that
he was having a problem...?”
intent on delaying further badgering of the young soldier.
“No sir, but he seemed really distracted...sometimes. I’d call on the
squawk and he wouldn’t answer, or take a way long time - like he
didn’t want to be bothered, or was talking to somebody else, or his
channel was busy, or something. Ya’ know?”
“Yes...yes I do Sergeant. Thank you.” Daniel’s eyes caught and held the
suspicious look in Captain Pearce’s eyes.
“Could you take us back to where you separated, Sergeant? Maybe
Peterson’s in a ditch, or something. This mountain’s famous for its
calamities. Ace, let’s see that map.” Pearce slung a muscular leg
across his snowmobile, preparing to study the topographical maps his
2IC carried.
Daniel walked away from the huddled group of map-readers. When it
came to map reading, he felt kin to Tennessee William’s Blanche
Dubois in that he tended “to depend on the kindness of strangers” to
get him safely from point A to point B, and so far, his map skills
were as rusty as ever. But now, he wanted a moment to catch his
breath, he knew with an uncanny certainty that Jack was not far off,
he could feel it. And the missing Sergeant, along with the dead man
they’d already found, was involved - even so far as having been sent
to make sure Jack didn’t get off this cold, lonely mountain. Two
names circled around and around in his head. The names of two men who
were well placed enough, and unscrupulous enough, to use this
incident as an opportunity. An opportunity to get rid of one of only
two men who stood between them and an entire mother lode of galaxies.
Kinsey...Simmons. Simmons...Kinsey. Daniel knew one thing for sure, when
Jack made an enemy...he didn’t fool around. Of course, the bane of an
honest man’s existence was the dedication of his enemies.
Daniel stared off into the middle distance, willing his eyes to see
through objects and obstacles to where Jack O’Neill was. To the
location where his friend just possibly lay - hurt and bleeding, and
in danger.
“But,” he sighed, “ I don’t have second sight, or a crystal ball,
Jack. So hang on till we get there - wherever there might be.”
Captain Pearce. The rescue squad members mounted their
transportation, leaving the area in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes,
and a shower of powdered snow. Their abrupt leave taking was marked
only by abundant trails in the fresh snow - each going off in a
different direction, and the wind, softly screaming in the trees.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O’Neill watched the ‘chopper’s’ maneuvers through eyes squinted in
the cold, brilliant sunlight. If...no, when they discovered TSgt.
Peterson's body at the bottom of that ravine, there’d be enough
troops swarming over this ground to find the proverbial needle in the
haystack. But, since he couldn’t keep track of the good guys from the
bad guys, and he didn't know the ground rules, he’d play their game
by his own rules. He might have lived the soft, good life since
joining the SGC, but he still had quite a few good moves left. When
pushing came to shoving, he was ready.
“Uh oh,” O’Neill sighed. He watched the HAWK lower itself into the
deep anomaly. Either the apparently sharp eyes of its crewmembers had
spotted the dead man lying at the bottom sooner than expected, or
they’d known beforehand to expect a dead body lying around. Time to
skedaddle - he painfully and cautiously rose from his hiding place,
and keeping low to the ground skedaddled past the scrubby firs,
heading back further into the tree cover.
The pain in his injured knee made him sick to his stomach - although
it could be lack of food, and now - what with the Sergeant using me
for a soccer ball, his back and chest were on fire. His thoughts
visited Dr. Fraiser’s infirmary, briefly longing
for a small taste of
the CMO’s brand of TLC - clean sheets, warmer than
warm heated
blankets, and medication - even for reluctant Colonels. Large amounts
of really strong medication guaranteed to take away the edge of pain,
and probably the memory of it too.
O’Neill turned back toward the area he’d just evacuated, he could
still hear the muffled sound of the aircrafts’ blades, vibrating
against the walls of the chasm. His tired, grubby face reflected both
his mental and physical stress. The thought of killing one of Uncle
Sam’s finest always galled, but the thought of being killed by that
same soldier was just as shocking. He wiped a hand across tired eyes,
as if to wipe away the terror. Taking one last look behind him and
pulling the collar of his jacket up around his ears, O’Neill struck
out in a general direction toward Gabe’s cabin.
Back toward safety
and shelter.
“Let ‘em come.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Major Carter’s eyes ached from constant peering into the bright
sunlit, cloudless sky. It was such a small price to pay for finding
the Colonel. Her head and back ached in tandem from the uncomfortable
accommodations, and the uninterrupted vibrations of the helicopter.
Her heart ached with the news that something, or someone, had been
spotted in a deep gulch, and the aircraft was on its way to check.
They’d been flying since sunup, and had yet to find anything. This
was their first break - if finding a dead body could be considered a
break. Carter was ill with apprehension and dread.
It was officially six days since the colonel’s plane had gone down.
Six long days of anxiety, apprehension, fear, and now, dread. Dread
as, with each passing day, the chances of finding the colonel alive
decreased exponentially. She’d spent her few free hours away from the
search, thinking about this man who had come to mean so much to her.
A mentor for her growth as a soldier and explorer. She was grateful
for the latitude he granted between her scientific research and her
duties as 2IC of SG-1. And as a man - who had become more to her than
just a favorite and endearing CO. Carter felt her throat tighten and
the tell-tell sting in her eyes. Soldiers don’t cry....
Yes... they do - if their hearts are breaking.
Carter quickly turned back toward the window, watching outside as the
machine was maneuvered down into the deep, wide chasm. She watched
the ground rise above her, intrigued by the layers of exposed rock
wall, and the cacophony of noise echoing around them - even through
her flight helmet. One crewman pointed out an area of disturbance in
the otherwise pristine white snow cover. The isolated area was marked
by beaten and tossed snow, with large divots of displaced sod. A
scuffle or fight had started and abruptly ended right there on the
edge of the vast fault. Or, most likely...at the bottom of a long fall.
Carter shivered...that fear thing again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Either he had completely lost his always-excellent sense of
direction, and was going around in circles. Or he was totally lost
and had no idea where he was, or where he was headed. The general
direction seemed to slip away from him with each footstep.
O’Neill fought a losing battle with the cold, fatigue and exposure,
and each step taken was another test of his endurance. Now his chest
burned with the dry frozen air he breathed, as well as the damage
done by fighting for his life. A sharp pain, sharp enough to make him
wish he could cease that activity, punctuated each breath. Frozen
toes, numb feet, sore calf muscles, and grinding knee joints joined
in a collage of pain screaming for rest.
And, he was tired. So tremendously tired ...that last encounter wrote
the end to his ever-decreasing reserves of strength. Even tough
colonels hit the wall at some point, and O’Neill’s point was here and
now. He only wanted to rest, to lie down, to sleep - just for a
little while. Just until he’d gotten his second wind. Just until the
pain stopped. Just until his head was clearer, and the constant
buzzing he’d lived with for the last six - no five days, left him
alone.
O’Neill ran a grubby, cold blanched, blood streaked hand through his
hair, which was also too tired to spike up as usual. Give up was not
in his vocabulary, but a prudent man always knew when to stop
fighting, and when to let life continue, as it was ordained.
Gabe’s cabin was too far off, and he’d managed to
lose himself in
this vast acreage. So well that maybe even the bad guys couldn’t find
him. But that meant the good guys wouldn’t be coming either. He
suddenly saw the specter of a desiccated, freeze-dried corpse -
vaguely reminiscent of him, uncovered by the spring thaw and the
receding, melting snow.
No!
That would be playing into their hands, the same as letting them kill
him.
Over his dead body! He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction!
Three people - one of whom had been a good friend, were already dead
for some unknown reason. He’d be damned if he’d just lie down and
give...uh, stop fighting. Besides, if his team ever found out that he
wanted to give up, had even contemplated it, he’d never hear the end
of it - either in this life, or throughout eternity.
He could just hear Daniel’s spiel, spoken in words of four or more
syllables, aimed solely at making one Colonel Jack O’Neill feel like
a quitter. Which he wasn’t, and never had been. And then Carter - he
could see the disappointment in those large, clear blue eyes of hers.
Her beautiful eyes in which he so often wanted to get lost. And
Teal’c - his warrior brother. Teal’c wouldn’t say a word, but his
displeasure would be there - in his face, his demeanor and in his
soul for all to see, and know.
There were people you just didn’t disappoint....
“Okay soldier, get your ass in gear...we’ve got some ground to cover.
Stop bellyaching.”
O’Neill took a deep breath, pain flared savagely in his tight chest,
and did a slow three-sixty of the area. He fervently hoped something
would jog a memory, and then struck out again - to meet his fate. It
seemed like his fate was always in different direction, one he hadn’t
really planned on going.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He couldn’t find it.
The sun was way past its zenith and he couldn’t find the small,
dilapidated refuge.
No male deer of mythical proportions appeared to show him the way. No
welcoming cabin appeared out of a swirling mist, and not enough
sunlight remained to keep on looking.
If one slightly dilapidated Colonel - USAF, planned on surviving
another night out here, he’d better have another plan, because plan A
was a bust.
O’Neill surveyed his surroundings. He’d climbed down into a land
depression, much like going down a mountain, except it was bowl
shaped like a caldera, and lush with stands of conifer and deciduous
trees. The shape of the land should effectively block most of the bad
weather, and he found plenty of material to make yet another shelter.
One incongruent thought sprang to his mind - when he got out of this
mess, he’d never bitch and moan about the price of fuel, fuel oil,
electricity, and cord wood again as long as he lived.
O’Neill moved stealthily down the curved slope, his eyes alert for
areas most suited to his purpose. An area protected from the
elements, and from any intruders or predators. It had to be an area
he could defend if he needed to.
Numb feet stumbled over large rocks hidden under the cover of snow
yet flung haphazardly around the area. Dead weeds and vines clung
lovingly to another mound, which for all intent resembled a chimney
fallen on bad times. Squinting both eyes, O’Neill attempted to
visualize the detail, but it had too long ago gone back to nature.
Probably just another long forgotten miners cabin - you found them
every once in a great while in
But, first things first - a fire, shelter, and maybe there’d be time,
before sunset, to rig another trap. With that thought, his stomach
decided to make its delicate condition known, growling loudly and
hollowly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The lean-to appeared to cling to the weed covered pile of rubble,
clinging as if seeking comfort from a fire long since dead. It wasn’t
much, he was capable of better, yet O’Neill knew with certainty he
was incapable of putting forth the effort to achieve more.
But, it would get him through the cold night - a night cold enough to
freeze the balls off an Eskimo.
The fire he’d finally coaxed into life would have willingly burst
into a warm conflagration if only the kindling was drier. But instead
it struggled from the damp. O’Neill sat almost on top of the small
blaze, trying to get warm, trying to thaw hands and feet, while
trying not to set himself ablaze. He’d scratched around, struggling
to find suitable tinder, only to pause a moment to curse the damp
conditions. But it really didn’t matter, this would do.
Thinking here he was once again, O'Neill leaned back on his fragrant
pine bed. He was still alone, now most definitely lost and out of
touch with the rest of the world. He was also ready to come in from
the cold - but unable too. Sometimes the desire to get up again was a
struggle in itself...he’d had a good life...
Sometime during the night, O’Neill felt added warmth press against
his back, a low snort broke the silence. His exhaustion-clouded brain
acknowledged the warmth as a dream.
O’Neill slept.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Jack, wake up Jack...come on Jack, wakey, wakey...”
A familiar voice intruded in his sleep, as a warm hand was
cautiously, but firmly, laid on his cold, cold skin. He was dreaming
again - warm fires, warm food, warm clothing, all having a similar
underlying theme, yet this was the cruelest one of all.
Daniel was here, in this frozen substitute for hell?
O’Neill’s sluggish frozen brain grabbed onto the thought, but was
unable to respond.
Daniel...was...here...?
“Jack...we found you Jack. We’re going to get you out of here.”
A tear moved slowly down Daniel Jackson’s cheek, undeterred in its
journey south. The sight of his best friend lying on a primitive pine
branch bed, in a primitive shelter, half frozen - for a heartbeat
he’d thought Jack was dead. Half starved, scruffy, dirty, hurt and
bloody - all of these elements struck at his softhearted compassion.
From the sharp planes of his face, Daniel could tell the soldier had
lost a ton of weight. And he looked almost as bad as when they’d
found him and Sam in
right eye and a seriously inflamed looking cut took up residence on
his high forehead. In addition, dark rings under his eyes spoke of
deprivation, exhaustion and extreme conditions.
Unseen hands wrapped the constantly shivering, prostrate man in
blankets, while others attempted to get warm fluids down his throat.
The Colonel fought a short, weak, and uncoordinated battle over the
attempts to feed him. Finally, Daniel took over the cup of broth
himself to get something warm inside his friend.
“Here we go Jack. You’re not going to fight me, are you? Over a cup
of soup? Come on Jack...for me?”
O’Neill opened his mouth slightly - still unaware this was not a
dream.
“If not for me, Jack...” Daniel whispered in O’Neill’s ear, “Take some
for Sam, she’s worried sick.”
O’Neill’s resistance stilled at the mention of Samantha Carters’
name. Even if it was a dream - a nightmare, anything Carter asked of
him was a done deal. If the dream Carter wanted him to eat, he’d eat.
O’Neill, opened his mouth and blindly sought sustenance. It reminded
Daniel of a baby bird fed by its mother, as he again spoon-fed the
warm soup into his friend. Daniel spoke quietly to the half-frozen
man, telling him repeatedly that help was here, his ordeal was over,
and a helicopter was waiting. The weakened man’s glazed brown eyes
never left Daniels face until a coughing spell, caused by a drop of
soup taking the wrong turn down his throat, broke the connection.
Lack of oxygen and the rush of pain in his ribs brought O’Neill
jolting back to the present. He bolted up into a sitting position,
but the pounding on his back was as uncomfortable as the grinding
pain in his ribs.
“Okay, okay Carter, I’m good...I’m good, stop while I still have some
bones left intact...”
The hoarse, rusty voice surprised Jackson, who immediately stopped
his actions. He was disconcerted that Jack thought he was the major.
“It’s me, Jack. Sam’s still flying around this God forsaken place
somewhere else trying to find you...”
O’Neill turned his head to look at his friend, finally seeing him for
the first time, through eyes still distant, and bright with fever. A
half smile glimmered on his lips, as unabashed tears gathered in his
eyes. The one face he always counted on as being honest and
upstanding.
“Hey Danny...you’re a sight for sore eyes. Did you bring the Boy Scouts
with you?
“Nooo, we left the Boy Scouts at home, Jack,” Daniel
had to swallow
the huge lump which had suddenly taken space in his throat, “but
they’re probably the only ones we left out of this little wild goose
chase you’ve embroiled yourself in...”
“Dr. Jackson,” TSgt. Moore interrupted, “ Captain Pearce says we’re
ready to go if you are...if the Colonel is ready, sir.”
Daniel started slightly at the unexpected intrusion. O’Neill answered
for him.
“The Colonel is ready, Sergeant,” his voice soft and breathless, “I
see you’ve been busy...how did I miss all the action?”
“I guess being half frozen, half starved and exhausted could probably
account for it. But, I think you’ve probably had more than enough
action this time round, and I can’t wait to hear your report.”
O’Neill made wobbling motions to stand, but Daniel stayed him with a
hand on his shoulder.
“Let us do it Jack, give yourself a break. Besides, we have all of
these highly trained search and rescue people here...how about letting
them rescue you?”
Jack nodded, head down looking at his weather-roughened hands, too
tired and too shaky to argue.
“You know me Danny, I wouldn’t want somebody else doing what I could
have done under my own steam.”
“I know Jack...but you’ve already done it all, we’re just the taxi ride
home.”
Jack reluctantly acquiesced, lying back in the basket stretcher,
cuddling into the scratchy warmth of the woolen blankets. It was nice
to finally be warm. And he was tired, so tired - the medic had given
him a dose of painkiller, probably morphine. Good stuff that
morphine. He’d just close his eyes for a minute or two....
Members of MS-5 strapped the unconscious soldier safely and securely
into the basket for the ride to
Jackson hovered over and around the stretcher as it was carried to
the noisy helicopter, and then carefully on loaded.
As soon as the medical technicians exchanged patient information, and
the patient and his
‘Family’ were secured aboard, the aircraft lifted up into the sky,
sending up gusts and swirls of powdered snow. The members of MS-5
stood silent, watching the helicopter until it disappeared from
sight. Then as one, the members raised a loud, exultant shout of self-
congratulation. The Colonel might have gotten himself this far down
from the top of the mountain, but they’d reached him also. They'd
found him before he’d succumbed to exposure and starvation...and other
unsavory elements. The end of a successful mission, another one of
which to be proud.
Captain Pearce, with the assistance of TSgt. Moore, corralled his
team, policed the area and then left - in another swirl of powdered
snow and blue, gasoline exhaust smoke. By the time the snowmobiles
disappeared over the distant hill, and their blue exhaust smoke had
dissipated, the only sound heard was the wind sighing through the
pine trees.
Yet, another slight sound punctuated the cold mountain stillness.
Standing quiet amongst a group of pines, a large male deer – “with a
rack of antlers a hunter would kill for”- watched as the aircraft
disappeared from sight, followed closely behind by the group of
snowmobiles. The magnificent animal pawed the snow, stamping the
frozen ground impatiently. He snorted loudly - as if to chide the
silly humans for their folly, and then walked back over to the ruined
chimney. It was still warm from the earlier fire. The mammoth animal
finally settled down against the warmth.
Silence returned to the mountain, the bird was flying home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Major Samantha Carter all but ran through the halls of the SGC.
“Excuse me...excuse me...coming through,” held place of precedence on her
lips, as she plowed through fellow-mountain inhabitants littering the
hallways.
When had so many people had so much business loitering in the way?
The Infirmary was her destination. She’d practically run the entire
distance from the helipad to here. And if too many more co-workers
insinuated themselves between herself and her goal - well, she
wouldn’t be held responsible.
Daniel was responsible for her forward momentum. He’d called her with
the news of Colonel O’Neill’s rescue - said they were on their way
home. They’d found him, and he was on his way home. And now, here she
was flying through the hallways, practically elbowing people out of
the way in her rush for the Infirmary.
After almost head locking Captain Stanley, insisting he fly the HAWK
faster....
She was still smarting from his reply that “ with all due respect
ma’am, this aircraft is flying in excess of 180 mph, if that’s not
fast enough, maybe the Major would like to get out and walk?”
Rounding the Infirmary doorway, the quiet atmosphere surprised her.
Usually the infirmary was a madhouse when any injured soldier was
brought in. But maybe she’d arrived later than she had first thought.
Maybe the Colonel had been taken care of and was now safely tucked up
in bed? She walked into the patient area. She saw only Teal’c,
sitting quietly on one of the beds, his plaster encased foot up on
the bed, supported on pillows. His position indicated a state of
Kel'no'reem.
“Teal’c,” she slowly approached his bed, “You okay? Where’s...have you
seen Colonel O’Neill?”
“I have not, Major Carter,” the dark alien replied, slowly opening
his eyes, bowing respectfully to his team member. “Dr. Fraiser
requested that I return here, my ankle has been a source of great
discomfort. Dr. Fraiser feels I have not taken proper care of it, and
that it may be misaligned. There was no time for me to go to the
hospital...”
“The hospital? Which hospital...the
Gees...did she sound as stupid as she felt?
He bowed again, in affirmation.
Carter nodded, turning away to leave, then turned back to the quiet
man.
“You are okay, right Teal’c? I mean...”
“I do well, Samantha Carter...my symbiote is easing
my discomfort as we
speak, the medic has changed my cast and is now preparing an ice...
bag,” he looked mystified. “...For the swelling. Do not concern
yourself with me, please...go...see to our friend O’Neill.”
Carter nodded again and smiled, patting Teal’c’s muscular arm while
reaching up to kiss his cheek.
“Thanks Teal’c...I didn’t know you were in here or...”
“As I stated, do not concern yourself with my well being. I, too, am
worried about Colonel O’Neill, but I cannot now depart the Infirmary.
You must be my ‘Good Will’ emissary as well. I am here among friends
while O’Neill is alone, among strangers, after a most unpleasant
week.”
Carter’s smile dimmed, as she remembered the agony of the past week.
The uncertainty, the ‘what ifs’, the ‘how comes’, and finally the ‘if
only’ which had plagued her every step. But, it was over now.
“Thanks again Teal’c, I’ll be happy to act as your emissary...can I get
you anything before I leave? Something to eat...or read?”
Teal’c shook his head, denying any need.
“O’Neill awaits your presence. You must go to him.”
Sam Carter squeezed Teal’c’s huge hand, leaving the Infirmary without
a backward glance. Teal’c watched her leave the room, anxious for
both of his friends. It was appropriate their being together after a
very trying week.
The need for Kel'no'reem called to his desire for
tranquility and
repose, as well as the symbiote's requirement of
calm for healing.
Teal’c closed his dark eyes, calming his emotions and summoned his
inner force.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dr. Janet Fraiser watched her patient’s thin face, warm, relaxed now
and sleeping peacefully . She’d been shocked, but not at all
surprised, at the amount of weight Jack O’Neill had lost, along with
other sundry abuse garnered from his weeklong survival on that
mountain. She thanked God he’d been found when he had, because by the
looks of his body he had no reserves left with which to carry on his
struggle.
His grocery list of problems, abuse and injuries still had the power
to shock and appall the doctor. Hypothermia alone was a killer, which
the colonel had somehow evaded just as successfully as he'd evaded
that bullet scoring his right flank. But the unhealthy mix of blood
loss, exhaustion, starvation, broken ribs and a possible punctured
lung, a concussion, pneumonia, cuts, scrapes, and bruises were just
the tip of the iceberg. The Colonel's knee was so battered she’d
have to wait for the swelling to go down to make a responsible
diagnosis. And last, but certainly not the least worry, was
frostbite.
Frostbitten ears, hands and feet were serious, but not limb
threatening at this point. Physical therapy, whirlpool treatments,
and possible tissue debridemont were in Colonel
O'Neill's not-too-
distant future. He wouldn’t be losing any fingers, or toes in the
near future if she could prevent it, but she’d schedule some O.R.
time for tissue debridemont, just in case.
”We’ll know more as the healing progresses.”
When the helicopter arrived at
the pain medication he'd received in the field was still affecting
him. That was good thing, in that with all she’d had to do to and for
her patient, he’d been relatively comfortable without too much fuss.
And the Colonel was a great one for kicking up a fuss, when he wanted
to.
Daniel was almost hyperactive with the release of pent-up emotion. He
popped up, eager to help, but in her way every time she moved. She’d
finally had to threaten expulsion from the hospital to get him out of
her hair and triage. So far she'd seen neither hide-nor-hair of Sam,
but was expecting her arrival any minute now. If Teal’c knew what was
good for him, she wouldn’t see hide-nor-hair of him (granting even
that he had no hair.)
Right now, she was giving herself time to contain her own emotions.
Being the doctor never made it easier to get herself under control,
this was her friend as well as her patient. She was preparing to
answer a barrage of questions from SG-1, General Hammond, and the
press.
Oh yes, the press...our favorite Colonel and all-round problem child
was on page one of the news. He was a hero.
A hero, Fraiser grunted to herself, we already knew that. Now all of
secret.
Dr. Fraiser looked once more at her patient’s chart, made one more
note in the progress notes, and then placed the chart in its carrier.
She heard the mumble of familiar voices outside in the hallway. Sam
had arrived.
Janet made sure her patient was covered with warm blankets, checked
his intravenous line again, and gave his oxygen mask a slight
adjustment. The warm, misted oxygen for hypothermia would continue
until his pneumonia subsided. Before she turned to leave the room,
Janet reached out a hand to Jack O’Neill’s limp, gauze dressing
covered long fingers. He was one lucky man, in so many ways.
Janet Fraiser took a deep breath, it was time to face the music and
stop hiding in the Colonel’s room. He was safe, warm and as
comfortable as humanly possible. Now was the time for his friends to
see for themselves exactly what she was about to tell them. The
petite doctor pulled herself to the full extent of her height,
squared her slim shoulders, and gave the sleeping soldier one more
pat for good luck. She then turned and walked out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hey Jack, you made the papers...can I have your autograph? You really
need to update your press photo though...this one just doesn’t capture
the real you.”
Daniel Jackson, dressed in his Sunday best, strode through the door
on a breeze, as if the past weeks were no more than a bad dream - at
least he hoped that was his impression.
Jack O’Neill looked up from a breakfast he was pushing around the
plate. For someone who had nearly starved to death, his appetite was
nonexistent. It probably had more to do with the pneumonia, an
infected gunshot wound, a concussion and a knee that hadn’t given him
a moments rest since arriving here than actually not being hungry,
but still....
“To hell with the papers...” O’Neill’s voice was husky with illness,
his eyes still glazed with fever, “ ...did you come to spring me out of
here?”
“Jack, I’ll bet if you even tried to get out of that bed you’d fall
flat on your face, and Janet would be mad at me... not you, me. So,
long story short, no...I didn’t come to spring you.”
“Thanks Daniel. I knew I could count on you...”
“Yes Jack, you can, but why would you want to go? You get delicious,”
his eyebrow raised in comic question, “ ...Nutritious food. A bevy of
these young nurse lieutenants to give you a bed bath. I’ll bet
they’re drawing straws to see who gets to pamper and powder you
first.”
“They’re probably drawing straws alright, but I doubt if it’s to give
him a bed bath,”
Samantha Carter replied for the Colonel, as she too strolled into his
room, dressed in the dress uniform. She gave O’Neill a brilliant
smile. A smile that left no doubt as to her being happy that he was
here and safe. It was a smile, which also put an extra hitch in his
respirations.
“I’ll let you take my place, Danny-boy,” the Colonel smirked. “See
how you like having a bath in bed, under a paltry bath sheet, with
less-than-lukewarm water, served up by a giggling, nervous baby - for
crying out loud. See how you like some young lieutenant doing
everything,” he held up and waved his bandaged hands, “...And I do mean
EVERYTHING, for you.”
As it was meant to, O’Neill’s response brought a bright red blush to
Daniel’s cheeks, and he looked everywhere in the room except at his
friend.
O’Neill’s long-winded harangue left him gasping for breath. Carter
quietly returned the oxygen mask to his face, from its position
around his neck supplying moist oxygen to the room.
For minutes the quiet was unbroken, except for the loud hiss of the
oxygen supply, until a thought occurred to the older man.
“How was the funeral? Did they give her a good send off? Were a lot
of the guy’s there?”
Of course O’Neill referred to his friend Carolyn Musgrove, and the
military funeral he’d requested for her...in her honor.
“It was very nice, Jack. You would’ve been proud...even Gen-Tec sent an
arrangement. Although by the size of it, I’d say someone in that
company has a guilty conscience, if you catch my drift.”
waggled his eyebrows at O’Neill.
O’Neill smiled behind the mask, a tight grim shadow of the real
thing. Or it could have been distortion, caused by the tight fit of
the oxygen mask. Either way the smile didn’t touch his eyes. The dark
amber orbs took on a distant gaze, as if looking back down the years.
As if he could see a less grim, not-quite-happy-but-definitely-not-
sad time in his life, and two people who had come to mean so much to
him, as friends and colleague’s. Both were now gone.
Carolyn had taken a wrong turn in her path through life. But at the
end, he could only feel she had found her way, and had saved his
life.
O’Neill’s eyes focused on the present and his two friends sitting now
at his bedside. He was comfortable in their attendance, comforted by
their attention. Another smile touched his lips, and lit his eyes.
“That I do, Danny-me-boy...that I do. So, how’s Teal’c...anything new on
the home front?”
Carter watched
before jumping to his rescue.
“Yes sir...I suppose you could say this is new, and good news...”
“Yeah? What’s Teal’c been up to?”
“It’s not Teal’c...”
“General Hammond? Who Carter...what...I’m a sick man here...”
“Well sir, it seems you’re in Ms. Musgrove’s will. Her executer has
been trying to contact you, but Janet’s keeping you incommunicado.
What with your being a hero and all...and the press, sir.
“Well that is good news,” he answered sarcastically. “ What am I in
line for? A ton of unpaid bills, the family's moth eaten moose-head,
or could it be stock in psychotic pharmaceuticals? Bottom line,
Carter.”
“Yes sir. I don’t actually know for sure, you’ll have to talk to the
man himself, Sir. But from his early calculations, it looks to be
about $100,000.00...”
“Gees Carter, I’m only a Colonel in the USAF, not the President.
Where am I supposed to get that kind of money to pay her bills?”
Daniel Jackson jumped to Sam’s rescue - tag team style.
“No...no Jack, you don’t understand. After taxes, settlements, blah,
blah, blah...you will receive $100,000.00 dollars.”
Sam and Daniel beamed at the speechless new heir.
“Close your mouth, Jack. There are flies in here."
**** Epilogue ****
The sound of slow, careful footsteps up the treads of the ladder,
brought Jack O’Neill out of his self-imposed fugue state. Sitting up
here under the now dark, star scattered sky had lulled him into a
comfortable, secure state, pondering the mysteries of the universe.
And until a hand reached up to grasp the railing, scaring him more
than he'd ever admit, he had thought he'd laid those mysteries to
rest.
“Permission to come aboard, Jack,” George Hammond’s slightly winded
voice boomed loudly in the quiet night.
“Permission granted, Sir. What brings you out this time of the
evening, General? Not that I’m not glad to see you, help yourself to
a beer,” O'Neill pointed to a galvanized bucket loaded with ice and
longnecks.
O’Neill settled back into the comfort of his own chair, while the
general grabbed a bottle and settled himself in the only other chair
present on O’Neill’s sky-deck.
The older man didn’t immediately answer Jack’s question, but instead
sat quietly gazing up at the star-strewn display, sipping the beer,
letting his heavy responsibilities slide from his shoulders - for a
little while. Just as O’Neill’s thoughts turned back to his own
internal musings, the General spoke.
“I came out here tonight for two reasons, Jack...”
“You mean other than my pleasing appearance and scintillating
conversation, Sir?”
The General grinned, as he was supposed to.
“Yes Jack, aside from those...” he took a deep breath. “You were
discharged from the hospital before I could get away from the Joint
Chiefs, and I felt I really needed to say Thank you...”
O’Neill’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“General...George, you don’t...”
“Please Jack, let me say my piece,” taking another deep breath, he
continued,
“One of the mysteries of the universe is ‘why things happen’ and in
which order they happen, and are we just along for the ride. You
saved my life, Jack... first of all - as a father.”
“You know how much my girls mean to me, and without any hesitation,
you stepped up to the line - not only because it was your duty, but
first as a good friend. And then, you got on that airplane. And don’t
say you didn’t know, or didn’t suspect something, or “it was a
surprise to me too” - because I think you had your suspicions. I know
you Jack - sometimes better than you know yourself.”
O’Neill’s face was hidden in the shadows, but he felt as if the
bright red flush staining it would have made an ample beacon for
ships lost at sea.
“General, please...spare me my blushes...”
“I can’t help but think, Jack, that if it had been me on that
aircraft, even supposing I survived the crash, the outcome may not
have been as encouraging. I’m in good enough shape to pass the Air
Force physicals, but my survival skills are ‘way’ too rusty.”
“Sir, by necessity, your survival skills have sharpened in a
different direction. While I’m just a scrappy old soldier with more
brawn than brains. The bad guys take one look at my dumb mug and...and...”
A warm hand settled on his chilled arm.
“Thank you, Jack.”
O’Neill gazed at the warm, beefy hand resting on his arm, thankful
he’d been able to help this man, his commanding officer.
commanded in more ways than the obvious - and
guarded his back, just
as Jack selflessly guarded those under his own command.
“Yes Sir, my pleasure Sir.”
The companionable silence fell again, each man was lost in his own
quiet thoughts, each comfortable in the presence of the other.
O’Neill was the one to break the silence.
“By the way, General, speaking of universal mysteries...take a look at
this.”
O’Neill pulled a white envelope from his back pants pocket, and
passed it to the other man, along with a flashlight.
“What’s this, son?”
“Just read it, Sir. I think it’s self explanatory.”
letter.
To Colonel Jonathan J. O’Neill - United States Air Force,
Mountain,
From the Commander -
Springs, CO.
Dear Colonel O’Neill,
I want to take this opportunity to Thank you for the very generous
donation of $75,000.00, the general raised his head, eyeing O’Neill
with an astonished look. The slight shrug of O’Neill’s shoulders was
his only reply, “...to the Colorado Ground Search and Rescue Team
effort. The grateful men and women of CGSART are unstinting in their
mission efforts, as we provide Ground Search and Rescue to our
neighbors and citizens.
We, at CGSART, are very pleased that we could be of service to you,
and to your continued well-being. This generous donation will go far
in assisting with our goals and mission statement, and our day-to-day
needs.
I am a bit confused, as to the allocation of another donation of
$25,000.00 to one Gabe Johnson - for usage and re-supply
of his
cabin, during your most unfortunate situation. While Mr. Johnson was
responsible for saving the lives of many stranded travelers, he was
killed in a fire, which burnt his cabin to the ground, over ten years
ago. In fact, the very spot where you were found was the site of his
cabin, and as you well know some remains can still be found to this
day.
I have taken the liberty of returning your check; Mr. Johnson left no
heirs, or provisions with which to carry on his very worthwhile
traveler's assistance.
I have also taken the liberty of enclosing a postcard photo of the
only artifact surviving that fire - a poem Mr. Johnson was
particularly pleased with, since he’d reportedly written it himself...
The General looked at the picture, a close-up of the fire scorched,
framed poem - looking the worse for wear. Just as Jack had reported
and described, when he’d been awake long enough to string two words
together.
“Come on in, Rest your feet,
Build yourself a fire and enjoy the heat.
Foods in the cupboard, wood in the box,
Kerosene in the barrel, matches up top.
Don’t take more - don’t take less,
But before you go, corral your mess.
Stay or leave, it’s all the same,
Gabe says “Howdy,” He’s very glad you came.”
George Hammond remained silent, what could he say that Jack hadn’t
already said, or asked himself or analyzed to infinity? Handing the
envelope and its contents back to O’Neill,
thoughts, finally speaking.
“There’s nothing you, or I could add to that, or subtract from your
experiences on that mountain, son. Some mysteries will never be
solved and those are the ones we learn to live with.”
“It’s the stuff of dime store novels, Sir.”
Into the night the two men remained sitting, watching the mysteries
swirl overhead.
The End
12-25-02
Rev. 02-06-05