by Karen Miller
“Sounds fascinating,” said the colonel. “Have fun. I’m going now. Dixon? You want to join me?”
“Sure,” said Colonel Dixon, then glanced at the wall-clock. “So long as you don’t mind me bugging out on you in about an hour’s time. Logan’s due to ship out with SG-6 at 1530. I planned on wishing him bon voyage.”
“He’s going offworld already?” said Sam. “Gee, that’s fast.” She hadn’t even met the other men from the Pentagon strike team yet. She’d hardly set foot out of her lab or Research Central for over twenty-four hours.
Where did my life go? I’m sure I had one…
“SG-6’s mission’s been delayed twice already,” said Colonel O’Neill. “And the folks they’re slated to visit were getting offended.” He glanced at Dixon. “Your man’ll be fine, Dixon. He’s got a good track record.”
Colonel Dixon nodded. “Frank handpicked him. Chances are he’ll have my job one day.”
A short silence, then Colonel O’Neill turned for the door. “Okay kids, that’s enough gossiping. Let’s get to work.”
His expression noncommittal, Dixon followed the colonel out.
“Oh boy,” said Daniel, under his breath.
If they’d been alone she might have said something, but Harriman and Farrell were still in the control room. So she just stared through the door and watched Dixon disappearing down the spiral staircase behind O’Neill.
I like him. I really like him. Please God let there not be a second shoe waiting to drop.
In the three years Teal’c had lived on the base, Hammond had never once stepped foot in his quarters. The rest of SG-1 came and went as a matter of routine and friendship, but he’d always felt it was important to leave Teal’c one small space in his circumscribed life that was free of official presence and memory.
This time, with so much at stake, he was ready to make an exception.
“General Hammond,” said Teal’c, on opening his door. “How may I be of assistance?”
The room was full of candles, softly burning. “I’m sorry, Teal’c. Did I interrupt your kel’noreem?”
“No, General. I was about to commence when you knocked. It can wait. Please enter,” he said and stood aside to make room.
Always polite. Hammond crossed the threshold. “Thank you.”
“You wish to discuss Adjo?” said Teal’c, closing the door.
Hammond felt his lips purse. On a day-to-day basis it was easy to forget that the Jaffa was a man who’d lived for over a century. Who’d done the bidding of beings he’d regarded as gods. Who’d committed acts in their names that the most conservative of thinkers would label atrocities. Who, when you thought about it, considerably outranked him in the grand scheme of things. On a day-to-day basis it was easy to forget all that, because Teal’c looked like a young man barely into his fourth decade and he wore his mantle of authority lightly, like an invisible cloak.
“No, Teal’c, not Adjo,” he said, standing not quite at ease in the plain, candlelit room. “Not exactly. I want to discuss with you my reasons for discounting your advice on going there. I want to make sure you understand it has nothing to do with my professional or personal feelings for you and the daily contributions you make to my command. The sacrifices you’ve willingly embraced for a planet and a people to whom you owe no true loyalty.”
“No true loyalty?” said Teal’c, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Was it the candlelight, or did some other shadow skim his face? “General Hammond, you are mistaken. For three years you have sheltered me, supported me and aided me in my struggle to free the Jaffa from their slavery.” A muscle leapt along his jaw. “I can never repay my debt to your world.”
“If you’ve incurred debts, Teal’c,” he said, gently, “then trust me when I say they’ve been repaid tenfold already. If we’re going to talk of debts we’re the ones who owe you. I’m not following your recommendation to avoid Adjo because in my estimation, and in the estimation of my superiors, any risks far outweigh the potential benefits.”
“And because, like O’Neill, you suspect I am allowing myself to be — spooked — by Jaffa fairytales,” said Teal’c.
Slowly, Hammond nodded. “That’s a factor, I won’t deny it. When I take into account all the pre-mission data that’s been collected and analyzed by the best minds we have and weigh it against your evidence, then…”
“Then you have no choice but to proceed with the mission,” said Teal’c. “I understand.”
“I know you don’t give your warnings lightly, Teal’c. I don’t want my decision to imply I’ve lost any of my faith in you. I have not. But in this case I must use my best judgment. And I have to fight for the sustainability and independence of this base. Which is a longwinded way of saying: Yes. The mission’s a go.”
Gravely, Teal’c nodded. “I suspected that would be the case. I shall do all within my power to see that it succeeds, General Hammond. To that end I shall delay kel’no’reem until later this evening and join Colonel O’Neill in his mission preparations.”
Why it should matter so much to him that Teal’c understood and wasn’t hurt by his actions wasn’t entirely clear.
I’ve spent my entire adult life in the military. I’ve killed men who under different circumstances I might’ve called friend. I order good people to risk their lives every day of the week and sometimes I bury them when the risks don’t pay off. I’m not ruled by my emotions or unduly haunted by the decisions I’ve made. And yet… and yet…
“Thank you, Teal’c,” he said, profoundly relieved. “Your pre-mission physical is scheduled for 0900 tomorrow and the final pre-mission briefing is at 1400.”
Another nod. “I will attend both, General.”
And that, it seemed, was that.
Dixon took a back seat as O’Neill and Teal’c finished dissecting both UAVs’ aerial video and still-shots of Adjo. For one thing it seemed presumptuous of him to be offering up tactical opinions when he’d never set foot off Earth in his life, and for another it gave him a chance to gauge just how good Frank’s former second in command was and see in person how he and the Jaffa interacted.
Jack O’Neill can read terrain better than just about anyone I ever met, Frank had told him. He got busted up pretty bad once, a black ops mission went real sour real fast, and he found his way out alone and on foot through enemy territory without getting spotted. To this day I don’t know how he did it.
Watching O’Neill assess the video and photo footage of Adjo, Dixon could see what Frank was talking about. O’Neill had an uncanny ability to extrapolate potential scenarios from a single look at a stretch of ground. Finger pointing, eyebrows pulled low in a frown of concentration, time after time he unerringly highlighted lines of fire, likely ambush locations, the best defensive positions, most effective offensive plays. Broke down the elements of attack, counter-attack and strategic withdrawals with a minimalist and ruthless ease that spoke to years of hard-won experience.
Teal’c didn’t say much. He nodded a lot. ‘Indeed’ was a popular comment. He and O’Neill had this weird shorthand going: a look, a grunt, a raised eyebrow, a wry smile. Scattered exchanges. You remember when — Yes. It is the same. Or O’Neill, I think — No, three’s enough. Like Annikaris. Two brains, one wavelength.
In a way it was painful. He and Frank had been on a similarly exclusive wavelength. Not as tight as O’Neill and Teal’c, maybe, but then the circumstances were a little different. The SGC teams saw active duty once a week at least. Serious action several times a month, and had been doing so for years. That honed a soldier’s senses quick smart, no argument. Turned a team into a single bonded unit faster than you could say ‘group hug’. But give them more time, send them on a few more missions together, he and Frank would’ve been just as tight. Just as obscure.
“What do you think, Dixon?” said O’Neill.
“What?” he said, jerked out of melancholy. Then he shrugged. “I think I’ve got a lot to learn.” He glanced at the wall-clock. “But
school’s in recess. It’s 1500. I wanted a word with Logan before he ships out.”
“Yeah, go,” said O’Neill. “Wish your guy luck from me. He’s with a great team. SG-6’ll take good care of him.”
For the first time since he’d arrived at the SGC he felt something other than repressed hostility from Jack O’Neill. In the flat, dark brown eyes he saw more than impatience and resentment of his presence. O’Neill was a team leader. He knew what it was like to send his people into danger, never knowing if they’d return alive. He knew what it was like to get back dogtags instead of a man.
And so do I. We’ve got that in common too, as well as Frank Cromwell. Something to build on, maybe.
Assuming he wanted to build anything. He wasn’t sure of that yet.
“Thanks for the insights,” he said, sliding off his stool. “I’ll be back in a little while. Feel free to carry on without me.”
“We’ll do our best, Dixon,” said O’Neill. “Paltry as that may be.”
Yeah, right. Bastard just had to get in the last sarcastic word, didn’t he?
Give me strength, Frank. I wanna sock him in the jaw so bad…
He caught up with Ben Logan in his major’s temporary SGC quarters. A good man, Ben, quiet and unassuming like all the best Special Force operatives he knew. No flash, no dazzle, just a solid commitment to the task at hand. They were friends. Not like he and Frank had been friends… Frank had taken a bullet for him once in Afghanistan. Kabul. Moments like that tended to simplify things. They illuminated a man’s soul and revealed his true nature. Very little could be hidden in the heat of battle.
“Hey Dave,” Ben greeted him. “You cool?”
Dixon shoved the door shut behind him and sprawled in the armchair opposite the bed, where Ben sat with his disassembled sidearm spread before him on a towel. “As a cucumber. You?”
Ben grinned his impish grin and held out one hand. Rock steady. As usual. “Scared spitless.”
He snorted. “I can tell.”
Methodically, meticulously, Ben slotted together his Beretta. Joke was he’d sleep with his sidearm before a woman any day. He glanced up. “So. O’Neill.”
Dixon pulled a face. “What about him?”
“You know what. You gonna be okay?”
“Should be.”
“Heard he shot with you a zat. Sucker punched you, no warning.”
It wasn’t a criticism. At least not of him. There was anger beneath Ben’s careless façade. “News travels fast.”
Ben had come in here with Frank when the Pentagon thought there was an alien incursion. He’d been stuck topside when the crap hit the fan. Was a few months before Ben stopped hammering himself for that.
“The guy’s full of crap, Dave. Don’t take it.”
Ben had looked up to Frank Cromwell. A long way up. A year later and he still hadn’t forgiven O’Neill for the way the man had spoken to his C.O., that last mission.
Pentagon thought there was an alien incursion.
And they sent you?
Such contempt. Such naked dislike. Or so Ben had said, talking about it after.
Dixon sighed. “Let it go, Logan.”
“You watch your back, man,” Ben said, letting go of nothing. “O’Neill makes his own rules and the brass lets him, no questions asked.”
Which was true, but it wasn’t the whole story. “You don’t think he’s earned a little slack?” he asked reasonably. “After all he’s done? He’s saved Earth, Ben. He’s died for it. So he’ll never win the Miss Congeniality award. So what?”
Ben slipped the Beretta’s clip home with a satisfying metallic thunk. “You’re going to another planet with him, that’s so what. You’re putting your life in his hands, Dave. You really think he cares enough not to fumble it?”
He fumbled Frank’s. He could fumble yours too.
The unspoken words echoed loudly under Ben’s demand. Damn. He and his team might be unconventionally informal but this was getting perilously close to an insubordinate conversation. Time to change the subject before military protocols could no longer be ignored.
“Going to another planet,” he mused. “Yeah. About that. Be honest with me, Ben. Am I the only one tripping out?”
Again, the crooked zany grin. “Nuh-uh.”
“Didn’t think so. You ready?”
The rest of Ben’s gear was neatly stacked on the floor beside the bed. He was a neat-freak’s neat-freak, Ben Logan. A place for everything and nothing ever out of place. Probably why he shaved his head down to the scalp. No chance of a hair daring to slip untidily awry that way.
“As I’ll ever be, boss,” he said, and slid off the bed to start gearing up. Dixon watched him, counting every swift, economical move. When his offsider was finished he got out of the chair and checked all Ben’s clips and fasteners. It was their team’s pre-mission ritual. No brother was going down because of a loose strap or some hinky velcro or anything that meant the difference between life and death.
“All done,” he said, and slapped Ben’s shoulder. “Time to rock and roll.”
Ben eased his sidearm into its holster. “When are you shipping out?”
“1300 tomorrow, provided our bloodwork comes back clean.”
“Is it true Teal’c’s got cold feet?”
Damn, but this place was a hotbed of gossip. “Where did you hear that?”
Ben’s gaze didn’t waver. “I heard it. Is it true?”
He and Ben never pulled punches and they didn’t keep secrets. He could trust his second in command implicitly. “He’s got reservations. Hammond doesn’t agree.”
“And O’Neill?”
“He doesn’t care. Adjo’s prime real estate. If it pans out we’re laughing.”
“And if it doesn’t you’re toast?”
If Ben had a fault it was his too vivid imagination. “Logan, SG-1’s cool. They’ve seen some action, saved a galaxy or two. I’ll be as safe as a baby in its itty bitty crib.”
Ben nodded, unconvinced. “If you say so.”
“Come on,” he said and crossed to the door. Opened it. “Time to go.”
He walked Ben to the gate room. Watched him join SG-6 which was, as O’Neill had stated, a good team. Everything he’d read about their missions proclaimed them to be committed professionals — just like the other teams of the SGC. Tom Aikeman and Nick Chagall, the other members of the Pentagon strike team who’d jumped on board the SGC bus, joined him to wave Ben farewell as he stepped through the gate. Not standard procedure, maybe, but for them this wasn’t a standard day. Hammond, who came down to wish SG-6 Godspeed, didn’t comment or criticize.
Damn, but he was an exemplary C.O.
The wormhole opened, a thing of glory and terror. Light and power and energy punching like a giant’s fist. Incredible. Dixon, watching Ben follow SG-6 up the ramp, was aware of his heart beating twice as fast as normal. At least that’s what it felt like.
God, Ben, don’t do anything stupid out there. Don’t get yourself killed. Don’t make me sorry you followed my lead.
The wormhole swallowed him. The shimmering puddle disappeared. Tom and Nick laughed a little, pretending, nodded to him and went their own ways. They were both leaving on missions themselves within the next ten hours. All his guys getting scattered among the stars where he couldn’t keep an eye on them.
Hammond glanced at him. “Feeling left out, Colonel?”
“No, sir,” he said. Then smiled, as Hammond’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay. Yeah. A bit.”
“It’s a wrench, watching your people step into that damned wormhole,” said Hammond, his blue gaze now brooding on the once more quiescent Stargate. “I’ve been doing it for three years. It never gets any easier.”
Dixon nodded. “No, sir,” he murmured.
“It’s not that easy stepping through it yourself, the first time,” Hammond added. “I don’t mind admitting I was sweating a bit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammond considered him. “Are you sweat
ing, Dixon?”
I’m sweating buckets. “Yes, sir.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the general. “I’ll see you again in the pre-mission briefing.”
Dismissed, Dixon returned to the converted storeroom to continue the mission’s tactical analysis — but O’Neill and Teal’c had disappeared. Carter was there, doing her Cartery thang with incomprehensible scientific formulae and slide rules and honest-to-God genius level inspiration.
“What?” she said, feeling his intense regard and looking up. “Is something wrong, sir? Or did you need — ”
“No, no,” he said. “I was just… you know. Standing here feeling inadequate.”
A faint tinge of color touched her cheeks. “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I wish you wouldn’t.”
She meant it. She really was uncomfortable with being lauded. Admired. Her reports, what he could ever understand of them, had painted an accurate self-portrait. It was good to know. He wasn’t interested in trusting his life to a slick-talking gun-toting geek who looked down her nose at all the lesser mortals just because she had a few extra IQ points up her sleeve.
“Okay,” he said, and looked around the room. “Colonel O’Neill get called away?”
Just the faintest flicker in her gaze. “Well, he left. He didn’t say why. Or where to.”
“And Teal’c?”
“Teal’c’s not big on small talk either.”
He’d gathered that already. From the discomfort in Carter’s demeanor, clearly her difficult team leader had been taking one Dave Dixon’s name in vain behind his back. And now O’Neill was twisting his tail by disappearing without a forwarding location. In other words, avoiding him.
Hardly surprising. I’m kind of avoiding him too when I can. At some point we’re going to have to actually talk to each other, Jack O’Neill and me.
“Okay,” he said again. “Is it my imagination, Major, or is there a lot of ‘hurry up and wait’ in this game?”
She grinned. “Sometimes, sir. And I guess it’s worse when you’re — you know — ”
