The instant the words were out, a third detonation rattled his teeth. All he could do was duck his head, but at least this one was at a slightly more comfortable distance. On the far side of the highway the burned-out skeleton of the helicopter spiraled to the ground and impacted in a plume of dust, rotor turning droopily.
“Wow…” breathed Carter, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. “Bull’s-eye!”
“I repeat, Colonel. What the hell happened?”
“Uh…”
Oh damn, he knew that frown. She was about to techno-babble. Given the way his head felt, he probably wouldn’t survive that. “Twenty-five words or less, and no more than three syllables each, Carter!”
“Jack! Sam!” Daniel came climbing over the mounds of rubble, Teal’c in his wake. They looked a little singed around the edges, but otherwise seemed to be in full working order. “You guys okay?” gasped Daniel. “What the hell happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Carter!”
“When the missile struck the car, the blast took out the gas pumps and set off whatever fuel was left in the underground tanks. Twenty-four words, sir.” She grinned. “There was a chance that some of the shrapnel might hit the chopper, but I hadn’t actually dared count on it. I guess there was a little more gas in those tanks than I’d thought…”
“Indeed,” growled Teal’c and flicked a few scraps of wood off his jacket sleeve. Then he cast a long, pensive gaze at the crater in the ground where the car, the pumps, and a crap-load of high combustibles had sat. Beside the hole glinted a single hubcap, miraculously intact. “I trust the vehicle was adequately insured, Colonel Carter?”
Carter’s face suggested she’d bitten on a lemon. “Let’s just say the rental agency’s insurance won’t be too happy with me…”
“I’ll say.” Daniel eased himself down on a pile of sofa bowels. “You’re completely insane, you know that, don’t you?”
“It was either that or wait for those guys to get us.” Carter jerked her chin at the smoldering remains of the helicopter. “Besides, it worked,” she added brightly.
“Yeah. I think you mentioned that.” The worrying part was that Jack had missed this sort of stuff. Really missed it. Hell, he’d been at the point of phoning Bill Lee and asking for a few of those hyperactive plants of his, just to liven up the corridors of boredom around Washington a little. Admittedly, the odd explosion or three was even more satisfying. He absently plucked at a rent in his shirt, where a piece of shrapnel had peeled off fabric and skin on its way past.
Staring at it, Carter turned a bit pale. “Sorry, sir.”
“Minor sacrifice, seeing that this little escapade has brought you out of that funk of yours. By the way, next time I drive, Colonel.”
“Funk?”
“Funk.” Daniel confirmed a little too emphatically and dived for cover behind the nearest question. “So, anybody got any ideas on who these guys were?”
“It would appear that certain elements took exception to our inquiring into the whereabouts of Cassandra Fraiser.”
Teal’c had fallen back into old habits, too, perhaps without even realizing it. He stood like a rock amid the devastation, scanning their surroundings for any sign of danger. A subtle move of his right hand betrayed that he was subconsciously looking for a staff weapon that wasn’t there. And too damn bad about that. Could have solved their little helicopter problem a sight more tidily than Carter’s patented solution. They’d also have a car left. Probably.
“Exception, huh?” growled Jack, yanking the bill of his cap a little lower. The sun was brutal. “I’d hate to see what happens when certain elements get seriously pissed.”
“I agree with Teal’c.” Daniel had found a stick and was aimlessly poking the debris at his feet. “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense— unless they were throwing a target exercise out of Nellis and forgot to tell us about it.”
“The Air Force never forgets anything, Daniel.”
“Uhuh.”
“Anyone see any markings on that chopper?” Carter asked.
Headshakes all round.
There’d been nothing, no logo, no registration number. Jack was willing to bet that, if they put that smoldering pile of scrap metal across the highway under a microscope, they’d find that any and all serial numbers had been filed into oblivion.
“Call me paranoid, but this whole thing smacks of our friends from the Trust,” he said. “The subtlety kinda gives it away.”
“Supposing it’s them,” said Daniel, “what would they want with Cassie?”
“Leverage.”
That went down like a lead balloon. No surprise there. The possibilities were endless and ugly.
“Or…” Carter had gone from slightly pale to positively green.
“Or?”
“There was a reason why Cassie didn’t keep in touch.” She described the problem in that not-quite-succinct Carter way.
“You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Sorry, sir. What’s worse, according to Cassie, she has problems controlling it. If the kidnappers didn’t know when they took her, odds are they’ll find out very soon.”
This day just kept getting better and better and better. “Any other surprises you’ve got up your sleeve, Carter? Like, Anubis is still alive and volunteering for Habitat For Humanity?”
“No, sir.”
“O’Neill!” Teal’c cut in. He was pointing up the road and at a still tiny vane of dust approaching from the direction of Nellis and Area 51. “Perhaps it would be wise to disappear. Certain elements may wish to ascertain that we are, in fact, dead.”
Chapter 10
General Hank Landry roared down the access tunnel burrowing into Cheyenne Mountain and pulled up outside the enormous blast door that sealed NORAD from the outside world. It stood open now, though it would have been pushing the matter to say it looked inviting. Which figured, because Landry didn’t feel invited. He felt like a previously discarded cork, retrieved from the trashcan to plug an unexpected leak in the Hoover Dam. His mood was correspondingly foul.
He climbed out, grabbed his bag, tossed the car keys at a hovering airman, together with a glare that made the poor guy shrivel in his fatigues, and was timidly pointed in the direction of the elevators. On the way down to Level 11 he asked himself, not for the first time since receiving his somewhat hurried marching orders, why he hadn’t just told the Pentagon where exactly to shove this posting.
The Pentagon was knee-deep in a merry game of suck-up with the International Oversight Advisory, and that illustrious body was of the opinion that Stargate Command was best controlled by them. The Pentagon begged to differ, but was loath to say so out loud for fear of antagonizing a bunch of civilians any one of whom could, at any time, blow the whistle on the Stargate project. In other words, if you went to dine with the devil, you’d better bring a real long ladle.
The Pentagon’s ladle was deplorably short, which, in a roundabout way, had led to Hank Landry, whose assignment should have been confirmed weeks ago, being left to twist in the breeze. Not a position he appreciated or particularly enjoyed. It got drafty out there, and drafts tended to make him surly.
The elevator binged and spat him out into a concrete hallway, gray-in-gray brightened up by a couple of red-faced guards at a desk that was strategically positioned in front of a second elevator. The one that led down another seventeen levels.
“Sorry, sir,” said Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “You’re not authorized to proceed.”
Landry’s irritation reached critical mass.
The vehicle Teal’c had spotted was a primeval truck with bulging hood and wings and wooden sides, held together by spittle and baling wire, as O’Neill had observed under his breath. It was driven by a female whose age matched that of her vehicle.
White-haired, with a face that seemed to be carved from the desert landscape she inhabited, she could have taught Master Bra’tac a lesson or two
in stoicism. She also was uncommonly indifferent for a human. Unless she was all-knowing and therefore had no need to ask questions. When Daniel Jackson had waved from the roadside, she had brought her vehicle to a halt and, with a jerk of her thumb, indicated that they were to climb up onto the loading bed. As soon as everyone was aboard, she had driven off at considerable speed, without ever bothering to inquire into the cause of the recent devastation around the truck stop and gas station.
The speed had not diminished. They had held on for dear life as the truck, whose suspension system appeared to be in dire need of repair, hurtled over blacktop cracked and rutted by daytime heat and nighttime frost. Teal’c had nursed a naïve hope that their velocity would drop to a level more suited to traffic conditions and the age of the vehicle once they entered the city limits of Reno. This had proven futile.
She departed without another word after depositing them outside a motel, where they had checked into a run-down room. The air conditioning was defective and the beds, lumpy and smelling of countless previous occupants, lacked any kind of automated massage facility. The only amenity to recommend the establishment was the high-speed internet access all rooms boasted. That, and the fact that whoever had attempted to kill them would hardly search for them here.
Half an hour ago, Colonel Carter had returned from a hurried shopping expedition with a new laptop to replace the one that had been destroyed when the missile struck the rental car. Now she sat hunkered over the device in a corner of the room, impatiently muttering to herself. Evidently the computer did not quite meet her requirements. Every now and again her mutterings would get loud enough to attract O’Neill’s interest. He would slant a look at her, silently debate whether or not to inquire about progress, think better of it, and return his attention to the television set, which was tuned to a local news channel. So far there had been no report of a helicopter crash and explosion along the highway.
This was about to change.
“Hey, check this out!” Daniel Jackson called around the last slice of the pizza that had constituted their dinner.
The image on the television screen showed a young female reporter, who looked impossibly cool given her surroundings. In the background the shot captured the ruins of the truck stop and an assembly of police cruisers, lights flashing red and blue.
O’Neill snatched the remote control and increased the volume.
“… has occurred around mid-afternoon. Police on the scene have released few details so far, but it seems clear that the old gas station and diner were destroyed by a massive explosion, which involved a sedan and, in a bizarre twist, a sightseeing helicopter. The pilot and passenger of the helicopter, as well as the four occupants of the vehicle, two Air Force officers and two civilians, are said to have died in the accident. This is Michelle Carver for KXYT News. Back to—”
“My condolences, kids,” said O’Neill, muting the sound. “You’re dead.”
“As are you, O’Neill,” Teal’c pointed out.
Still looking at the TV screen, O’Neill patted around the pizza box on the bed behind him, coming up with nothing but a piece of uneaten crust. He turned around, stared at the box. “Who scarfed down that last slice? Daniel?”
“I asked if you wanted it!”
“Did not!”
“Did!”
“Didn—”
“O’Neill!” Teal’c cut in. For once his patience was wearing thin, and he wished he could give in to a need to pace. There was insufficient space for it, and besides it would have distracted Colonel Carter. Much as the habitual bickering between his team mates. “How did they determine who was in that car?”
“Pizza-snatcher!” O’Neill shot a last narrow glare at Daniel Jackson and looked up at Teal’c. “Easy. Somebody told them.”
“Last I heard our field trip was to be one of those tightly wrapped secrets they’re so fond of at Area 51,” Daniel Jackson observed.
“Oh yeah.” O’Neill seemed to find this amusing. “I’m thinking of sending a thank-you note to the leak.”
Forehead crinkling in a frown, Daniel Jackson considered this. “Air traffic control,” he murmured. “Somebody in ATC could have known who was onboard that flight. They also could have concealed the fact that there was a chopper getting in a bit of target practice one yard over from an Air Force base.”
“Maybe.” O’Neill shrugged. “But that would have left them hardly any time to set it up. As in scrambling a pilot, copilot, locating us… uh-uh. I’m guessing the source is more central. Pentagon, for instance.”
“Either way, we’re going after them, right?”
“Disguised as what? A gang of crispy critters? We’re dead, remember? So take that bloodthirsty gleam out of your eye. I’m not about to give up our little advantage here, especially after they so obligingly handed it to us.”
“Advantage?”
“I repeat: we’re dead. Until further notice. I doubt it’ll last, because whoever arranged this afternoon’s entertainment will start to wonder when forensics confirm that they’re four corpses short of a successful hit. But for the time being, nobody’s gonna come looking for us. Even better, nobody’s gonna expect us to keep looking for Cassie. Dead men don’t sleuth. Speaking of which…” He got up and wandered over to the small table where Colonel Carter had set up her new laptop. “How’s the cyber-sleuthing coming, Carter?”
“It’d be coming quicker if you didn’t ask me at ten minute intervals, sir.” She sighed and launched a longsuffering look up at O’Neill. “All the software that would have made this quick and painless went up in smoke, and for some weird reason those kinds of programs aren’t available for download, not even if I hack into the NSA’s mainframe.”
“You can do that?”
“What?”
“Hack into the NSA’s mainframe?”
“You don’t want to know, sir. Trust me. But take a look at this.” She turned the laptop, so they all could see the screen. “I managed to get it from the police department’s computer.”
The screen showed a page of a police report, written in the kind of stiff jargon that Tauri authorities appeared to deem necessary for any kind of official communication.
“They’re looking into flights out of Reno?” Daniel Jackson sounded dismayed. And with good reason.
“They got a call from a mechanic at General Aviation. The guy was aware of the APB and said there was a young woman being stretchered aboard a privately owned Gulfstream around oh one hundred this morning. The crew had filed a flight plan for Santorini, which is—”
“In Greece.” With a pensive frown, Daniel Jackson began fingering a newspaper clipping that peered from his pocket. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“And the private owner of the Gulfstream would be who exactly?” O’Neill and Daniel Jackson exchanged a glance.
“I already checked. The owner is Air Services International. They’re incorporated in Delaware.”
“Crap,” Daniel Jackson and O’Neill said in unison.
No doubt the answer would be embarrassingly obvious, but Teal’c needed to ask anyhow. “What is the problem with Delaware?”
“Problem is, T,” replied O’Neill, “they’ve got corporate laws that are hugely popular with anyone who wants to stay under the radar.”
This, Teal’c decided, was more cryptic than helpful. He glanced at Colonel Carter who seemed to understand his quandary.
“In most states,” she explained, “you have to be a US citizen and you have to disclose your identity if you want to register a company. Delaware doesn’t require either.”
“Meaning that whoever is behind Air Services International could be Mr. Alfred Anyone from Anywhere,” completed Daniel Jackson.
“Maybe not,” murmured Colonel Carter and pulled the laptop back toward her. “I’ve got an idea…”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to follow the money. Eventually. Go talk amongst yourselves. This is a few degrees south of legal.”
“Knock yourself out.” O’Neill sounded encouraging. “Dead colonels don’t get busted.”
Pursuant to General Landry blowing several gaskets (to great effect, if he said so himself), the guards started hopping. What followed was a flurry of phone calls— Yessir! Yessir! Yessir!— and a snowstorm of paperwork, and after a mere fifteen minutes he was issued with a visitor’s pass for Levels 12 through 28.
“That’s t-temporary, sir,” the guard stuttered, handing him a slip of paper tucked into a plastic envelope with a crocodile clip. “We’ll have the p-permanent ID to you by the end of the day.”
Landry promised himself not to hold his breath and finally stepped into the second elevator. There were good reasons for putting up with the indignity, he reminded himself. First and most obvious, Stargate Command was just about the sexiest posting imaginable— except, both George Hammond and Jack O’Neill had assured him he couldn’t possibly imagine even half of what would be coming his way.
Bring it on, Landry thought. He hadn’t exactly imagined this either.
The second reason wasn’t quite as sexy— well, not as far as he was concerned, anyway. Jack O’Neill. Who, according to a couple whiners from the IOA, had walked out of a highly important committee meeting after being unreasonably obstructive. Their words.
‘General O’Neill? Obstructive? Who’d have thunk it?’ Landry had replied, causing George Hammond, who’d been running interference on behalf of the Pentagon, to spit a mouthful of coffee halfway across the conference table. He’d excused it with a coughing fit. Landry knew better.
Anyway, Jack had not just walked out of that meeting. He’d been collected by two men, one of whom looked deceptively like an archeologist, while the other one, by all accounts, was a dead ringer for a Jaffa. The trio had then proceeded to drop off the face of the planet— via Nellis AFB, where they’d been picked up by Colonel Carter. Who’d also disappeared.
Next there was a report that the car they purportedly were traveling in had been blown to unusually itsy bits in a hitherto unexplained explosion. The vehicle’s occupants were presumed to have been killed.
STARGATE SG-1: Transitions Page 7
