Stargate SG1 - Roswell (21 page)

“Those bodies have been exposed to the elements for several days,” Colonel Carter observed.

The image faded and in its place, the primary site reappeared. Indicating the Asgard signals, Daniel Jackson said, “If one of those is An, he may not survive for much longer.”

“Maybe, but we can't risk interfering with this timeline. Our best chance is to wait until the Army has removed everything to—” Colonel Carter looked around at Teal'c. “Where?”

“All reports agree that the wreckage was stored in Hangar P-3, which in our time is known as Hangar 84, at the Roswell Army Air Field.”

The HUD flickered. “Sir, we really need to land,” Colonel Carter advised. “The power relay—”

Teal'c felt an abrupt drop in height just as the HUD vanished. As demonstrated by their landing on Rhode Island, the mind reading capabilities of Ancient technology were of little value if O'Neill did not have power to the drive pods.

“We've got a hundred thousand feet and some forward momentum to play with,” O'Neill announced, pointing to a cluster of lights almost directly ahead of them. “Roswell Air Field is about thirty five miles southeast. All I need is for the Ancient computer to calculate an optimal unpowered glide path.”

“I distinctly recall you saying jumpers don't glide.” Daniel Jackson appeared unconvinced. “Something about them having the drag coefficient of a house brick?”

A few pink streaks lit the sky to the east. Descending rapidly, O'Neill reported, “I'm milking whatever residual power exists in all onboard systems, including life support, and redirecting it to the inertial dampeners.”

Colonel Carter was tapping the keyboard of her laptop. “Bringing up schematics for Roswell Army Air Field, now. The 509th Division was—is—stationed there along with the country's entire stockpile of nuclear bombs.”

“We had a
stockpile
of nukes in 1947?” Daniel Jackson sounded incredulous.

“Fifteen bombs, the only aircraft equipped to deploy them, the pilots and bombers trained to release them, and the largest landing strip in the world.”

“In other words, Jack, the most heavily guarded installation on Earth. And you're planning to
land
there?”

“Sure, Daniel, I'm just going to park the jumper outside Hangar P-3, flash my shiny general's stars to the guards on duty and demand they hand over the Asgard and the escape pod.” It was evident in his maneuvers that O'Neill was attempting to coax height from the jumper.

“Actually, sir, that's not a bad plan—at least the landing part.”

“It isn't?” O'Neill and Daniel Jackson spoke simultaneously.

“There's a long, narrow gully at the end of the main runway.” Colonel Carter pointed through the windscreen to a shadowy ditch parallel to a road leading from the base into town. “If you can land there, we might be able to camouflage the jumper with shrubs.”

It was difficult to be certain in the pre-dawn light if it was indeed a gully filled with vegetation, but they had run out of options. O'Neill was barely able to retain sufficient control to ensure they would not land out in the open.

“Sir, if you can, try and retract the drive pods just before we actually hit—”

“Hang on,” O'Neill warned.

Silhouetted against the dawn sky, the vegetation abruptly took on more angular dimensions. “Pull up!” Colonel Carter shouted.

The ground rushed up to meet them. “Oh...
crap!”
O'Neill declared before they went in.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Vala fell beside Howard directly into an open packing case filled with straw. Apparently bubble-wrap hadn't yet been invented which was probably fortunate because while straw was shockingly flammable when dry, it didn't burn well when saturated. Bubble wrap, so Vala had discovered one day in the SGC's kitchens, turned into a noxious, gooey mess in high temperatures, and clung to one's shoes when you tried to stomp it out.

A spray of water slapped her in the face. The plumbing in the storeroom beneath the staircase of the geochem building had not taken kindly to having a section of floor collapse on it. A thrashing hand came next, as Howard struggled to free himself from the box. Motivated by the flames, jets of water, and screech of collapsing timbers, the boy was oblivious to her presence and determined to escape through a gap in the wall only partially obscured by smoke.

Vala didn't waste any time following. By the time she was out in the open, her eyes were stinging and her throat and lungs felt like they'd been scoured by a sandstorm. With Howard presumably safe, she needed to orient herself in order to locate Mitchell. A hand roughly grabbed her from behind and she went to retaliate until she realized the owner was yelling at her to get back. A moment later, the far side of the building blew out in a deep-throated
whoomp
followed by a groan of collapsing ironwork. The upper sections of the structure fell inward with a hiss of sparks, scattering people and horses. Someone tripped and stumbled over a darker shadow protruding from the still standing wall on the lee side. People banged into her as they fled past, but she ignored their cries and urges to get back. Tugging the hand device from insider her vest, she pulled it on as she ran toward the shadow she hoped was Mitchell.

The stone wall offered some protection from the heat, but nothing was going to be able to hide what she was about to do. Too bad about Carter's admonishment not to interfere with the timeline, because she could sense that Mitchell's heart was failing. While the hand device could restore the worst of the damage and keep his heart going, the will to live was entirely up to the Colonel.

It was something that had frustrated Qetesh on several occasions. Pleasure and pain only worked so many times before your victim chose death as the preferable outcome, then nothing short of a sarcophagus was capable of restoring them. And Qetesh had never allowed another body other than the one she inhabited, to sully her precious piece of immortality.

Mitchell was made of considerably sturdier material, and even unconscious he fought death like a Jaffa warrior, as if allowing himself to die was a dishonorable failing. It was all that saved him, but given the tongues of flame licking what was left of the roof, it wouldn't be for long unless she could get him out of here—
now.

Help came from an unexpected quarter. Face streaked with soot and grime, Howard appeared, wordlessly helping as Vala hefted Mitchell to his feet. Groggy and barely responsive, the Colonel nevertheless managed to bear some of his own weight as they headed into the park. Vala would have voiced her encouragement, but her throat was raw. Her hands and face also felt parboiled but it was nothing compared to those moments of agony at the mercies of the Ori's pet worshippers.

And she had certainly not lost her sense of self-preservation when it came to members of authority. Steering away from a collection of brass-helmeted people running around with fat hoses leaking water everywhere, she guided Mitchell across the road, moving as much as possible in the patchwork of shadows, until they were well down a narrow if rather smelly alley.

Slumping to the ground behind a collection of refuse bins reeking of urine and rotting food, she took a few moments with the ribbon device to repair her own minor injuries before attending to Howard. The youth's bloodshot eyes were wide and frightened in the light, but the cessation of pain from several minor burns seemed to have a positive impact. “What... what are we going to do?”

“Absolutely nothing. I need a few minutes to recover before I can finish treating Cam's injuries.” By which time they should have been beamed aboard the jumper and be on their way. She glanced through the end of the alleyway, noting that the glow from the fire seemed less pronounced. “I think they're getting it under control.”

Despite the warmth of the mid-summer air, Howard shivered. Possibly he was wet from the broken plumbing, or more likely it was a reaction to events far beyond his ability to comprehend. Stumbling over the words, he asked, “Will... will your friends be back for you?”

“Of course.” Vala was surprised by the assuredness of that statement. She had become a member of SG-1, and for the first time in more lifetimes than was perhaps good for any human to remember, felt perhaps she really had found a home. Smiling and patting his hand, she added, “You were a huge help, Howard. Truly. Couldn't have done it without you.”

“The story... You began to tell me about where you came from. Can...will you tell me while we wait?”

Sam would have her head for this, but Howard really was deserving of an explanation. Vala glanced up. The night sky was fading to dawn. Any minute now, they'd be beamed aboard. “Well, it all started a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sam's warning had been a knee-jerk reaction; just as a passenger instinctively slams their foot on a non-existent brake peddle in a car that's going too fast. Pulling up is exactly what you
can't
do in an unpowered wingless, rudderless flying box. At least the pods had—surprisingly—retracted, which prevented them from being further damaged or the jumper from being tipped over as it tunneled into airframes and tires.

Their rapid deceleration was noisy and visually frightening, but there was no sense of impact even when they slammed to an abrupt halt against the wheel struts of an old B-52.

Okay, since the inertial dampers and shields were operational, that ruled out a power supply problem. “Sir, I think it might just be a matter of reconfiguring the connections to the power cell.”

The General turned and fixed her with a stern glare. “Shrubs in New Mexico in July? Carter, what
were
you thinking?”

Grimacing, Sam pushed herself out of her seat. “Sorry, sir, bad call.”

“Maybe not.” Daniel limped to the rear of the jumper and opened the hatch to a blast of warm desert air and the deafening grumble of massive, propeller driven aircraft engines. Something big and heavy had just taken off, which passed directly overhead, shaking the ground beneath them.

They had landed the jumper in a gully, but not one carved out by the ephemeral rivers that scoured the New Mexican landscape. Piled high behind them were old jeep bodies and cranes, truck and aircraft parts, and stacked bundles of Marsden Matting, the steel plating that the Seabees had used in WWII to construct temporary airstrips, all of which amounted to the best camouflage they could have hoped for. Waiting until the noise of the engines had abated, Sam declared. “We're in a garbage dump.”

Climbing stiffly out of his seat in a manner that spoke of injuries he wasn't willing to admit to, the General carefully walked out onto the ramp and looked around. “Excellent!”

Sam followed. The jumper had mostly buried itself beneath the
mangled remains of several P-38s. The shrapnel and bullet scarred blue star and red stripes on the fighters' aluminum fuselages were a poignant reminder of a war just ended. Through the frames and wing struts, she could see a few last stars clinging to the dawn sky. Security cameras had yet to be invented, but even supposing their ungainly arrival had gone unnoticed, the sound of the crash must have attracted attention.

Or not. Another loud rumble built to an earsplitting pitch. Sam covered her ears and reflexively cringed as the black underbelly of an aircraft only a few feet overhead briefly blot-ted out the sky. She immediately identified it as the lumbering giant Superfortress. The jumper had come to a halt in the section of ditch directly at the end of the runway.

When the aircraft had passed, O'Neill said, “Teal'c and I'll check
things out. Maybe we can use some of that matting as additional cover. Carter, you and Daniel see what you can do to get us operational again.”