Someone called his name. “Jack!
Jack
!”
And then the world tilted sideways, and the next thing he knew he was lying trussed up in the back of a jouncing, speeding truck, listening to the excited gabbling of Saddam’s Republican Guardsmen. Every third or fourth sentence one of them turned and hit with him with the butt of his weapon, right where one bullet had lodged near his collarbone. Crap. It really hurt.
And now he was here, in this little stone coffin. Naked. Bleeding. No bed. No blanket. No… amenities. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t weep with pain. Jesus. Good thing there was Charlie, because if the Iraqis had their way he’d be singing soprano before this was over.
Charlie. Sarah. Oh God. Did they know he’d been captured? Or did they think he was dead?
How can I be captured? Frank, you promised…
The sound of a key in the cell door’s lock whipped his head round. Oh, come
on
. They couldn’t be serious, they’d only dragged him back here a few hours ago.
The door opened, revealing two brand new inquisitors.
Jeez, where do they find them? Psycopaths R Us
? Smiling, predatory, they dragged him from his dungeon. Took him to their special room. Strung him up, and hurt him.
Sarah. Sara
h. Christ, Frank. I hate you.
And that was his life for a long, long time. Hurting. Hating. Staying alive.
At the end of April, Operation Desert Storm ended. Kuwait was free. The allies had won. Eventually, too slowly, the prisons of vanquished Baghdad vomited out their victims — broken and bloody, but some of them unbowed. Jack O’Neill was one of them.
The brass threw him in hospital. Fed him to the shrinks. Weeks passed. His body healed quickly. His mind took longer. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Cold sweats and hot rage.
Frank came to see him. He told his doctors:
Get rid of him. He’s persona non grata. You bastards keep Frank Cromwell away from me
.
It was Sarah and Charlie who healed him in the end. After he was discharged from hospital and sent home to convalesce. Loving her. Holding him. Playing catch in the back yard. Steaming up the sheets. She never asked what had happened in Baghdad. He never told her. He didn’t have the words.
After six months, Frank stopped calling.
He went back to active duty. Not a Major now, but a shiny brand new Lieutenant-Colonel. New base. New team. And a new reputation. He did good work. Got rewarded. Full bird colonel, how about that?
He made no attempt to contact Frank Cromwell. As far as he was concerned, the guy was dead.
O’Neill woke early after a restless night’s sleep. Bad dreams. Bad memories. Iraq. The prison in Baghdad. Abu Ghraib, it was called. He’d found that out afterwards. Did the name translate as hell hole? If it didn’t, it should.
He shifted in his sleeping bag, uncomfortable. The retreat’s wooden floor was hard as rock, waking splintery pain in his hips and lower back. Whispers of the mocking past. Teasing. Tormenting. Those long weeks of confinement brought close again, close enough to smell. To taste. To feel…
He sat up, abruptly.
Crap. I don’t need this.
Back then, safely home again, he’d had Sarah when the
nightmares came to play. She’d never asked, she’d just held him
until the shaking stopped. Nobody to hold him now. Nobody to cling to, lose himself in, to —
Yeah, yeah. Cue the violins, O’Neill.
He pressed a clenched fist to his forehead, rubbing. His damned headache still hadn’t surrendered to last night’s dessert of Tylenol. Still pounded, unwelcome as a neighbor’s leafblower on a Sunday morning. When was it going to let up? Fraiser had fixed his headaches, he hadn’t had one for months. Did she offer a money-back guarantee? He’d have to ask her when he saw her next.
Can that be soon, please? I want to g
o home.
On the other side of the dim room, lit by a single low-burning lamp, Dixon shifted and muttered. He flicked the bastard a sour glance.
Are you dreaming, Dixon? I hope so. Big, fat, juicy bad dreams. Last night is your fault. Stirring things up
…
He hadn’t dreamed of Iraq for nearly eight months. Before Frank died it’d been
years
. Then SG-10’s mission had gone to hell in a handbasket and before he’d had a chance to catch his breath there was Frank on his doorstep. In his face. Just the same. Big and bluff and taking charge, pushing and prodding and making him say things… pain and compassion, sorrow and guilt. Chris, the look on Frank’s face as the wormhole swallowed him…
The physics was crazy. Was Frank still alive, still dying, one micron at a time? Did he know it? Was he conscious? Could he feel his slow death? How much did it hurt?
Screw you, Frank. Get out of my head.
The others slept on, oblivious. Even Teal’c. He kicked back his sleeping bag, helped himself to more painkillers from the medkit, and left them to it.
Outside the retreat it was yet another beautiful morning on planet Adjo. A soft warm breeze teased at his stubbled face, carrying on it the rich scents of spring. The vista before him was silently serene. No villagers stirred. Not even the ubiquitous birds were singing. Was he the only living thing awake in Mennufer? And was it his imagination, or were there more flowers blooming now than there’d been this time yesterday?
He chewed the Tylenol, grimaced, swallowed… and sneezed. Sneezed again. Something warm and wet tickled his nose. Rubbing it, he stared as his fingers came away red. What the hell? A nosebleed? Not having a tissue on him he sniffed, hard, and tasted iron in the back of his throat.
Terrific
.
Behind him the retreat’s door creaked as someone else came out.
“Hey, Carter.”
He heard her sharp exhalation. “How come you always know when it’s me?”
“Magic,” he replied, allowing himself a tiny smile, and glanced at her as she came to stand beside him on the pathway. The smile faded. “Well, hello. You look like crap.”
She gave him a look. “Morning, Colonel Pot. Major Kettle reporting for duty.”
“
Carter
— ”
“Sir, I’m fine. Are you?”
“
Yes
.” Or he would be, once this mission was done and Dixon
had crawled back under his rock. But obviously she wasn’t. Dark circles marred the skin below her eyes, which were glazed in a way he didn’t like one bit. Her cheeks were barely touched with color, and there was a drawn look about her that suggested she was suffering a constant undercurrent of pain.
She frowned. “You had a nosebleed.”
“A little one. It’s nothing. Don’t change the subject.”
“I had one yesterday too. When I was sneezing. Right before I went head over heels down the side of the valley.”
“Probably you’ve got a cold on top of the concussion, and now you’ve given it to me,” he said. “Very generous. Thank you.”
“Sir — ” she began, then sneezed.
“See?” He took a prudent step away from her. “I think you should go back to the SGC, let Fraiser check you out.”
“I’m
fi
ne
,” she insisted. Then she sighed. “Okay. Maybe not
fine
. To be honest…”
“Yes?” he prompted, when she didn’t continue.
Scowling, she scuffed the heel of her boot against the hard-packed dirt path. “Maybe, just for today, I could help Daniel with his cultural research.”
He’d been hoping she could guide him back up to the naquadah mine, but clearly as plans went that had been way too optimistic. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “But if you’re not looking better tomorrow then you’re reporting to Fraiser. No arguments.”
She smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Marginally satisfied, he frowned at the scenery. “Okay. Is it just me or is Mennufer more
floral
?”
She considered the view. “No, sir, it’s not you. It seems a lot of flowers have bloomed overnight. But that’s spring for you. One minute everything’s dead and bare and the next it’s, like, where the hell did all these leaves and flowers come from? Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
He gave her a sidelong look. “Hello, have we met?”
She grinned. “Sorry.”
“Okay,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got you organized. Think I’ll go wake up the others and get them organized too, while I’m on a roll.”
She followed him back inside the retreat, where the rest of the team were finally stirring. Once they’d woken up properly and they’d all taken care of business — eating, shaving, calls of nature — he sat them down for a briefing.
“Teal’c,” he said, “I want you to take the naquadah samples back to the SGC for testing. Let’s make sure the stuff’s as good as you think it is before we get the Pentagon’s panties in a twist.”
Teal’c nodded. “An excellent idea.”
“I thought so. Daniel, you and Carter spend the day in Mennufer. Chat up the locals, get to the bottom of our little medical mystery and find out how religious they feel about naquadah, gold and the like. I want answers.”
“And so do I,” said Daniel, carefully. “But — ”
“Daniel, we could slowdance with these folks until next Christmas and be no better off than we are today. Time’s not on our side. I said twenty-four hours and I meant it. Now have you got these villagers’ trust or not?”
Sitting cross-legged, Daniel linked his fingers in his lap. “I’ve established a good basic rapport, but if we’re dealing with some kind of cultural taboos…”
“Then you’ll just have to find a way around them.”
“Jack — ” Daniel gritted his teeth. “I know you need results, but do you really want to get us sent home empty-handed? No. So you can bluster all you like, but when it comes to digging around these people’s cultural sensitivities I’ll handle things my way or not at all.”
O’Neill glared at him.
Y’know, it’s not that he’s wrong. He’s usually right. It’s the way that he’s right.
From the corner of his eye he could see Dixon smirking at the floor.
Thanks, Daniel. Thanks a bunch
.
Carter cleared her throat. “Sir, we’ll get as much intel as possible. We know what’s at stake.”
And there goes Carter, defending him again. Anyone’d think Daniel was her little brother.
“Just get it done. Dixon — ”
Dixon looked up. “Yo.”
“You’re taking me up to the naquadah mine. I can’t report on something I haven’t seen.”
“Okay,” said Dixon equably.
“It might be an idea to check with Khenti first,” said Daniel. “Make sure they’re still okay with us treating the place like our own backyard.”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Fair point. I’ll do that.” He stood. “We good to go? Then let’s go.”
He found Khenti and his merry men at breakfast in their official hall. Facing one side of the village square, it was a three-roomed building, impeccably neat and floored in the same decoratively laid hardwood as their retreat. One of the village women was serving them fresh bread, fruits and what looked like runny yoghurt swirled with honey or some kind of syrup.
Hey, it’s a tough life but someone has to be waited on hand and foot.
There was no door to the room where they were eating, so he rapped on the wall. “Excuse me, folks. Hope I’m not interrupting. Just wondered if I could have a quick word.”
Seated at a small, sturdy table, Khenti exchanged a look with his subordinates then dismissed the serving woman with an imperiously waved hand.
O’Neill smiled and nodded at her as she approached. “Morning.” She spared him a searching glance, waggled her fingers in acknowledgement then bolted like a startled rabbit.
Okay. Maybe I should’ve taken a bath last nig
ht after all.
“Jack,” said Khenti, and beckoned him in.
He entered. Pity about the lack of door, he’d have preferred this conversation to be less potentially public. But it was what it was. He’d just have to keep his voice low.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said, and looked for a spare chair. There wasn’t one. Khenti and the others sat on theirs like complacent cats, and considered him gravely from beneath half lowered eyelids.
Okay. You want to play it this way? I can do that.
Assuming a comfortable at ease stance, he waited for one of the Elders to speak.
“How is Sam this morning?” asked Khenti. “We hope she is feeling better. We hope your magic
medicines
have made her well again.”
“She’s fine. They don’t make ’em much tougher than Carter. And of course our medicines are top notch.”
Again, a swift exchange of glances. “There is something you wish to discuss with us, Jack?”