by Karen Miller
“A scenario we sorted out on our own,” he pointed out. “No need for any Pentagon strike teams.”
“Only because Carter contacted Maybourne,” said Hammond, wryly. “And he was playing his own brand of politics. Trust me, Jack — if she’d called anyone else the strike team would’ve been deployed.”
And that was true enough, dammit. “But even so, sir — ”
“Jack, people were spooked. Hell, I was spooked. It was a damn close thing and you know it. This whole business of an oversight committee — it was only ever going to be a matter of time. To be honest with you I’m surprised it’s taken Washington this long.” With a grunt Hammond pushed out of the armchair to restlessly roam the carpeted space between steps and curtained French doors. “The Stargate program has snowballed. Before our eyes it’s turned into something huge and complex with political ramifications that frankly scare me to death. I can’t control them. I don’t think I even understand them all. What I do understand is we have to perform at peak proficiency. We no longer have the luxury of taking six weeks off while we lick our wounds. Our profile’s grown too big. Week in and week out, regular as clockwork, we have to provide tangible results to our political masters… or we will be in serious trouble.”
O’Neill sighed. Hammond was right, but it made him sick. “Maybe we should just save the planet from annihilation a couple more times, sir,” he said, picking at a torn spot in the knee of his Levis. “I’m free this weekend, the team and I could — ”
“Jack,” said Hammond, and rested his fists on his hips. “That’s not helping.”
He subsided. “Sorry.”
“Anyway,” Hammond added, and returned to his chair, “in light of this and our current personnel crisis, I have to do whatever’s necessary to protect the viability of the SGC. Which brings us back to the question of the strike team and Colonel Dixon.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “You want to bring them in to plug the holes in our roster?”
Hammond nodded. “Exactly. As it happens I was already in discussions to do something like this before our people started dropping like flies.”
He was? He’d never mentioned it. “The Pentagon wants to send the strike team on field trips? How very… enterprising of them. Sir.” Because hey, we’ve got nothing better to do than take amateurs sight-seeing.
“Nobody knows better than you, Jack, that reading about the SGC and living it are two very different things,” said Hammond, frowning. “I wasn’t happy that Frank Cromwell could come in and take over in an emergency having never set foot on the base, let alone through the Stargate. As I recall you weren’t too happy about it either.”
No. He wasn’t. But since the black hole incident he’d been able to shove the fact of the strike team’s existence to one side and pretty much forget about them. Forget about Frank. Nostalgia was way over-rated.
“There’s more,” said Hammond, watching him carefully. “Even though Dixon and his men are up-to-date with what’s been happening in the SGC, and even though they are top-notch Special Forces operatives with all the necessary security clearances, I’m not going to turn them loose the moment they get here. They’ll be going out as observers with established teams first, one mission each, on their own, so I can assess them and their value to the SGC.”
Okay. I should’ve seen that one coming. “And you want me babysitting Dixon.”
Hammond’s eyebrows lifted. “Of course. Assuming he makes the grade — and I imagine he will, his record’s impressive — your assessment will help determine which SGC team to give him.”
“That still only gets us one team back in rotation, General.”
“I know. But Dixon’s second in command, Major Logan, is another possibility as a temporary team leader. If he agrees to the secondment, that is. We’ll have to play it by ear, Jack. Who knows? Fraiser could be wrong, our own people could be back on deck faster than she anticipates.”
Not likely. They could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Janet Fraiser had been wrong, and the general knew it.
“Jack…” Now Hammond’s voice was gentle. “We never really talked about you and Frank Cromwell.”
He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the rip in his jeans. “No, sir, we didn’t.”
“I’m not interested in prying,” Hammond continued. “Your private life is private and I respect that. But allow me to say this: I realize Cromwell’s death was very hard for you. And I understand having Colonel Dixon on base might well be uncomfortable, even after so long. That’s why I came over here tonight, so we could talk about this… unofficially. As friends.”
As friends. O’Neill looked up, surprised and moved. Hammond had never been so blunt before. He really must be desperate. “I appreciate that, General.”
“I have every confidence the SGC will weather this latest storm,” said Hammond. “If the last three years have taught me anything it’s never to underestimate the courage, strength and resourcefulness of the people under my command. But if bringing in this Pentagon strike team means we weather the storm faster, with less collateral damage, then I don’t have a choice. I have to do it. Even if that means putting you in a difficult position.”
He nodded. “Of course you do, sir. The SGC comes first. What, you think I don’t know that?”
Hammond’s smile was gently wry. “No. But I didn’t want you to think I was taking you for granted.”
“Okay,” he said, after a moment. “For the record, I would never think that. But also for the record? If taking me for granted is what you need to do to get the job done, then take away. With my blessing.”
Silence fell between them, then, crowded with complicated feelings that two lifetimes of military service would not allow to be spoken. Not that speaking was necessary. In fact most times words only got in the way.
O’Neill sat back. “Soil samples? Carter’s after soil samples now? Oy vez mamma mia.”
“And plant samples,” said Hammond, grinning. “Let’s not forget the plants.”
He pulled a face. “She talks to them, you know. She talks to plants. Shouldn’t that, I don’t know, disqualify her from romping in alien pastures picking flowers?”
“Now, now,” said Hammond reprovingly. “That’s just sour grapes because the last plant samples she gathered — over your vigorous complaints, if memory serves — look like they’re turning the world of pharmacology on its head.”
“Oh. Yes. That,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Well if you’re going to count that as an excuse for her to run around the galaxy impersonating Maria von Trapp…”
Laughing, Hammond stood. “I should head home. It’s late and tomorrow’s a busy day.”
He stood too. “When do Dixon and his team arrive on base, sir?”
“Nothing’s finalized, but if it’s going to happen I’d say within forty-eight hours,” said Hammond, heading for the door.
Walking with him, O’Neill felt an unwelcome twist in his gut. “The sooner the better, sir, if this oversight committee crap is as real as you say.”
Some of the warmth died out of Hammond’s face. “Trust me. It is. I’m going to have to sit down and re-evaluate the mission slate, Jack. We’ve got some fancy juggling to do in the next few days. I’d appreciate your input on that.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you need.”
“What I need is those incomplete missions reports completed, Colonel,” said Hammond, only teasing a little bit. “On my desk by 1100 tomorrow, understood?”
O’Neill stared. Y’know, he’s like a dog with a bone. He needs to learn to let go. “Understood.”
“Good,” said Hammond, nodding. “Thanks for the meal and the beer, Jack. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes you will, sir,” he said, and watched until the general’s car had pulled clear of the driveway. Then, unsettled and restless, he returned to the television and what turned out to be a marathon-rerun of Cheers season three.
He fell asleep in front of it, to
wake just after dawn with a cricked neck, an MSG hangover and a tedious sensation of impending doom.
Returned to the SGC by a whisker past 0800, he looked with sour disfavor at his paperwork-cluttered desk.
Homework. It’s like homework. I’m too damned old for homework.
He had till 1100. Three whole hours. That was a little time up his sleeve. And there were sick people in the infirmary, after all. It was his duty, wasn’t it, to go cheer them up?
And if it wasn’t before it’s going to be now.
“Hey, here’s trouble,” said Janet Fraiser as he sauntered through the infirmary doors. “Something I can do for you, sir?”
Hands shoved in his pockets he waggled his eyebrows at her. “Ask not what you can do for your colonel, ask what your colonel can do for you.”
“Ah.” She clipped the pen she’d been using onto the clipboard in her other hand, put that on top of the medical gizmo she was playing with and tipped her head a little to one side. He knew that look. It said: Don’t try playing me, buster. I know all your moves.
She didn’t. But she did know most of them… a fact that sometimes he relied on, sometimes he resented… and all the time knew he couldn’t escape.
“Just dropped in to say hi to your patients,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”
She grinned. “Boy, those reports have really got you cornered, haven’t they?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied loftily. “You must have me mixed up with some other dilatory colonel.”
Still grinning, she waved a hand in the direction of the base wards. “Visit away, sir. With luck you’ll scare a few of them back onto their feet.”
She did that a lot. Called him sir. When they both knew she had the drop on him, day and night. She followed his orders when it suited her medical agenda to do so and blithely countermanded him whenever that suited her better. She was a pint-sized autocrat, a dictator in four-inch heels. She was the best damned doctor the base would ever have and she could countermand him every day of the week and twice on Sundays.
The trick was not letting her work that out.
With a last smirk he headed for the sick people, only to be stopped by her gentle voice. “Colonel… I’ll be in my office when you’re done, if you want to talk.”
Damn the woman. She always knew when he had a bug up his butt, she had some kind of radar, and it never failed. But he had no intention of talking to her about this one, about Cromwell or David Dixon or sleeping dogs stirring out of their dreams. So why in hell did he give her the chance to see something was bugging him?
Damned if he knew. And double-damned if he was going to let her ferret out the truth. And anyway, there was nothing to ferret out. David Dixon used to work with Frank Cromwell. Big deal. So what? A lot of people used to work with Frank Cromwell. He’d been in the military a whole lot of years.
What do you want? You want me to forgive you? Is that it?
Yeah. I guess I do.
He threw Fraiser a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I’m fine.”
Ariel Lee was pretty depressed, which was hardly surprising. He sat with her for a while remembering Jake Andrews, who’d been her friend since basic training.
“I was going to be a bridesmaid at his wedding,” she said, her eyes bright in the base’s harsh fluorescent lighting. “Me in baby-pink satin, there’s a laugh.” Her fingers twisted in the sheets. “I haven’t seen Mandy, yet. She was hysterical on the phone. I don’t know what to tell her when I do see her. God, Colonel. What do I tell her?”
“You tell her the truth,” he said softly. “That Jake was a hero. That he loved her. That a lot of people are sorry he’s dead.”
A tear slipped onto her cheek. “He hated lying to her. It really tore him up inside. He was even thinking of…” She sniffed. “You know.”
Oh, yeah. He knew. He remembered what it felt like, telling lies to his family. Keeping terrible secrets. Shutting them out of his life. Bad enough when the secrets were just about Earth. He could only imagine how hard it was for the Jakes of the base, who had to hide truths the size of galaxies.
Marriage and the Stargate: not a match made in heaven.
After Lee he visited with the other people stuck in the windowless concrete limbo that was the SGC infirmary: Mike Powell, Ed Mason, Sharon Roskovitch, Mick Coburn, Felicity Samson. They were all ridiculously pleased to see him, eager to know what was happening out there while they were stuck in here. He told them what he could, played the optimistic cheerleader, threatened them with dire repercussions if they didn’t get off their butts and back to work.
They made fun of his trick knee, and he let them.
“Thanks for stopping in,” said Janet, waylaying him as he took his leave of the infirmary. “It means a lot to them, that you take the time.”
She was always professional, always immaculate, even in the midst of a crisis. But he knew her well, now, as well as she knew him… and beneath the consummate professional was a sensitive woman in pain.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“I’ll tell the truth if you will,” she countered. “Has something happened?”
She was such a hard-ass. “I’m fine,” he said again.
The glint in her eyes said she heard the lie, but she didn’t challenge it. “Okay. Well, I’ve got work to do. I’ll catch you later.”
That was another thing about Janet Fraiser; she almost always knew when to push and when to back off. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said, pushing a little himself for a change.
“I’m sad,” she said, after a moment. “And I’m angry. And I know we did our best. And I know our best isn’t always good enough. Sometimes you lose. And I hate that.” She sighed. “I’m fine.”
He let her see his doubt. “Yeah?”
“I’m as fine as you are,” she said sharply.
Ouch. “Then we’re both hunky dory,” he replied, and kept on walking.
Break your ankle, Dixon. Crash your car. Get heatstroke. Anything. Just… don’t come.
Chapter Three
“So, Dixon,” said General Scott McCreary. “That’s the mission, in a nutshell.”
David Dixon, Colonel, Air Force Special Forces, Pentagon strike team leader, nodded slowly and hoped his face was suitably blank. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
He was being seconded to the SGC? Handed over like a piece of spare equipment? Surrendered to the tender mercies of one Colonel Jack O’Neill? Still…
I’m going through the Stargate? Okay. Breathe, Dave. Breathe.
“It’s not mandatory,” McCreary added. “You can turn this one down if you want to.”
That made him blink. “Ah — I can?”
His boss nodded. “I know the military’s not a democracy, and if this was a normal, ordinary kind of mission I’d put your butt on a transport and not lose a moment’s sleep. But this is different. I’m not going to order you — or your men, for that matter — to turn intergalactic traveler.” He snorted. “You know, just saying that makes me feel ridiculous.”
Dixon swallowed a smile. He had a lot of time for Scott McCreary. “Yes, sir.”
“It doesn’t make you feel ridiculous, Dixon?” McCreary’s ice-gray eyes squinted. “You don’t feel like an idiot, thinking of yourself as an intergalactic traveler?”
“Well… the thing is, sir, I don’t think of myself like that. I doubt I’ll think of myself like that if I do take the assignment.”
“You’re turning it down?”
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
“George Hammond needs you, Dave,” said McCreary, spatulate fingers drumming his Pentagon desktop. “You and your team. His people have taken one hell of a beating the last few weeks. They’re still standing but they’re rocky. Hammond’s a good man. One of the best. I want us to help him out if we can.”
Dixon knew as well as McCreary did the kind of beating the SGC had been taking lately. They both read the class
ified mission reports. It was… odd… experiencing the disasters from a distance. He’d never met the dead and injured SG team personnel but still… After reading about them and their fantastic exploits for so long it felt like he knew them. He grieved for them as though he had. As he’d grieved for Frank, lost to the voracious and unforgiving Stargate.
He nodded, cautiously. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Is it O’Neill?” McCreary asked abruptly. “Is the idea of working with him the problem?”
A simple question, with an answer so complicated he didn’t know where to begin. “No, sir. I have no problem with Colonel O’Neill.”
McCreary shifted in his chair to stare out of his office window at a bug-eyed helicopter whop-whop-whopping its way through the sky. Off to the White House, possibly. Or Arlington. Or Andrews. Somewhere. “O’Neill’s a maverick bastard but he’s a genius at what he does. And he didn’t get Frank killed, Dave. The investigation was clear on that.”
The investigation had been crystal clear. Frank Cromwell died in the line of duty, no ifs, ands or buts. He died a hero, saving the planet from a black hole. He died a victim of dumb bad luck. It could as easily have been O’Neill’s harness rope that was cut by the flying glass. It could’ve been Jack O’Neill who died. It nearly was. Frank’s death was random chance. It was one of those things.
“I know, sir,” he said. “O’Neill wasn’t responsible.”
McCreary sat back, his attention diverted from the normal world beyond the window. “But you still blame him.”
“No, sir, I do not.”
Unreasonable, passionately defended grudges are Jack O’Neill’s hobby, not mine.
“I understand it’s a big ask, Dave,” said McCreary. “If you wanted to be part of the Stargate program you’d have put your hand up for it long ago. God knows if you did they’d take you in a heartbeat. They’re crying out for people of your caliber.”
“Thank you, sir.”
