Stargate SG1 - Roswell (23 page)

“Maybe,” the sergeant replied, edging closer. “But I've been out picking up their rockets before. Heck, just last month we got sent out to find that one they called a Hermes, that'd crashed outside Alamogordo. The stuff me and Brownie unloaded this morning weren't from no rocket.”

Teal'c reached for the mechanism controlling the rear hatch. Sam almost hissed a warning, but then she realized what he had in mind. If the sergeant kept coming, he'd walk straight inside the jumper, but if the hatch was closed, he'd encounter an invisible wall. The men were already on edge. Something that unusual should send them back to the base for reinforcements, by which time the cloaked jumper could be flown out of here.

When the hatch began to lift, a section of scrap metal fell, scraping loudly against the hull then crashing down. Someone from above yelled, “Get outta there, Brownie. The whole lot's about to come down!”

Teal'c paused. The hatch remained open just far enough for Sam to see the sergeant scrambling out of the pit. “There's nothing down there,” he reported. “You're right, Casey. These old gals have just shifted around some. Danged dangerous if you ask me. I'll report it to the Captain. Get him to post a warning to keep clear.”

The rest of the conversation was lost when the jeep engine started up again, and slowly faded into the distance.

Inside the jumper, they waited silently for several minutes, during which time Sam, her pulse pounding, ran another check on the systems. Finally, Teal'c opened the hatch fully, and went outside to make certain they were in the clear.

The General twisted in his seat to look behind him, letting out an involuntary grunt of pain.

“Jack, what's wrong with you?” Daniel sounded more annoyed than concerned.

Ignoring him, the General asked Sam, “What's the status of the time machine and Asgard transport?”

Her concerns about being discovered now eased, she could refocus on the larger problem. “Both are completely burned out, sir. I doubt I could even salvage spare parts.”

“Jack?” Daniel said, watching him wince as he rose to his feet.

“Maybe a little bruised around the ribs, that's all,” he begrudgingly allowed.

“Sir?”

The General silenced Sam with a look, but Daniel was not so easily dissuaded. “At the very least, they'll need strapping.” Refusing any argument to the contrary, he opened the medical kit.

The computer offered no easy answers, but Sam continued to stare at it while she considered their next move. In the sixty odd years since the 'Roswell incident', countless well-rendered sagas had evolved, all jam packed with elaborate details comprising mostly second and third-hand evidence. From Japanese Fu-Go balloons and Project Mogul high altitude balloons to detect anticipated Soviet missiles to the Operation Paperclip medical experiments using Progeria victims, each new premise was more fantastical than the last. Even those who subscribed to the UFO theory had never agreed on particulars. Where details were missing they had been filled in by speculation until the result was a compelling verisimilitude of crashed UFOs and secret government agendas. Enlarged and factualized in the retelling, it had filled countless books and web sites and formed the basis of a dozen movies and television shows.

While the general public was correct in assuming that Area 51 stored, experimented with and developed hybrid alien-human technology, it had been entirely Goa'uld or Ancient in origin. Absolutely none of it had been Asgard. And it was that fact which now worried Sam.

All that she had to go on was that sometime in her future she would go back in time to 2006 knowing that An liked the green food cubes but would need the red...

Which gave her an idea. Turning around, she asked, “Daniel, where did you get those jeans?”

Busy with bandaging the General's chest, which, Sam noted, was the subject of a very impressive, multicolored bruise, Daniel nodded in the direction of the cargo bay. “Urn, in one of the supply boxes. Black one, beside the carton of MREs.”

Sam eased past them, while the General asked Teal'c, “What was he talking about, crates of stuff to Fort Worth? I thought you said the second crash site wasn't reported for days?”

Teal'c took a few moments before replying. “Details of the Roswell incident have been greatly disputed, O'Neill.”

“Hell, Jack, the Air Force has always disputed the entire
incident,”
Daniel said. “Hold still, will you? One of these ribs feels like it's busted. You're lucky you didn't puncture a lung.”

“It's not busted,” he retorted. “Just a little bent.”

Sam looked up in time to see Teal'c's eyebrow hike up a notch. “While some claim that the recovery team from White Sands secured the intact pod and Asgard within hours,” he said, “others suggest it took several days.”

“Sir, the Asgard bodies we saw were days, maybe as much as a week old. Before Vala healed him, Loki was pretty banged around.”

“Stands to reason An would have been in equally bad shape,” Daniel Jackson said. “A delay in rescuing him might guarantee he doesn't make it.”

“I believe today is July 7.”

“What makes you certain of the date, Teal'c?” Sam asked.

“When Brazel informed Roswell's Sheriff Wilcox of the debris and bodies at the second site, Wilcox reported the matter to the commanding officer of the 509th Bomb Group at Roswell, Colonel William Blanchard. Unaware of the White Sands recovery effort already underway at the first site, Blanchard dispatched Major Marcel and Captain Cavitt with Brazel to the second Corona site. Marcel filled his vehicle, a Buick, and Cavitt, a Jeep Carryall with wreckage, and returned to Roswell in the early hours of July 7.”

Sam wasn't surprised by the depth of Teal'c's knowledge. She strongly suspected that, along with his interest in science fiction movies, the Jaffa's fascination with UFO cults stemmed from an innate curiosity that, ruthlessly suppressed by the Goa'uld, had been unleashed following his arrival on Earth.

Equally, she wasn't surprised to learn that the White Sands recovery operation had been undertaken without consultation with Roswell Air Force Base. It was normal for top-secret information to be compartmentalized.

“Marcel stopped briefly at his home, waking his wife and son to show them the unusual metal before returning to the base at approximately 0200,” Teal'c continued. “Cavitt returned an hour later. Wreckage from both men's vehicles was loaded into wooden crates. At approximately 0600, a pilot named Pappy Henderson, flying a B-29 named
Dave's Dream,
transported the crates to Colonel Blanchard's superior at Forth Worth, General Ramey.”

A B-29—a Superfortress—had taken off over the top of them, right on sunrise. Sam glanced at O'Neill, who was obviously thinking the same thing. “Sir, contrary to popular opinion and countless conspiracy theories, no Asgard wreckage or bodies ever made it to Area 51.
We would have known about it if it otherwise.”

“Here's a thought,” O'Neill said with a hopeful look. “Maybe that's because
we
took it instead?”

“Why would we? We only need the power module, and the transport system—if the one on board is functioning.”

“Do we know for certain if Marcel arrived at Fort Worth?” Daniel looked at Teal'c for confirmation.

Inclining his head in agreement, Teal'c said, “General Ramey ordered the crates flown from Fort Worth to Wright Field, and Major Marcel to pose for a newspaper photographer while holding a damaged weather balloon.”

While Teal'c talked, Daniel closed the medical kit and returned it to the cargo bay storage area. “The photograph on page one of the Roswell newspaper.”

“That is correct, Daniel Jackson. Colonel Blanchard issued a press release several hours earlier, in which he announced that the Army had captured a flying saucer. This alerted authorities in Washington DC, who, upon realizing that the two crash sites were related, ordered a disinformation campaign, and that all wreckage and bodies from both sites be brought to Roswell Army Air Field.”

“Okay, fine. We wait until dark, spring An, and Carter can grab the parts she needs from the pod.”

“I am uncertain if An will survive until then, O'Neill. The bodies were reportedly autopsied that afternoon, then flown to Wright Field at 0200 the morning of July 8.”

Sam digested that in silence. Wright Field—what, in their time, would be named Wright-Patterson Air Force Base—might have been the assigned destination for the crates, but the fact remained that nothing from the Asgard crash had ever arrived there, or been sent on to Area 51 or the Pentagon for that matter.

That nagged at Sam, and she was about to say so when Teal'c added, “If this is indeed the morning of July 7, and events unfold as I have described, then an opportunity exists for Colonel Carter to access An before evening.”

Sam finished rifling through the supply case. No sticky notes, no hints, just ranch-hands' clothing for her, Daniel and the General that wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a mid-western 1947 town. When Teal'c explained what he had in mind, it made a lot more sense than trying to sneak into the building in broad daylight, and it would give her a few hours now to make certain the jumper was fully operational. Except... “Teal'c, didn't you say there were several versions of events?”

“By remaining here I will be able to monitor air traffic, Colonel Carter. That will indicate the likelihood of events unfolding as I have described.”

“You memorized all of the flights into and out of Roswell?” O'Neill accepted the shirt from Sam and pulled it over his bandaged chest. “Never picked you for the train spotter type, T.”

As plans went, it was better than what they generally had to work with, but Sam couldn't shake her concerns over the eventual fate of the wreckage—and the Asgard bodies.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The sign on the diner said
coffee and ham and eggs breakfast for less than a dollar.
Nothing about aliens yet, and there wouldn't be until a generation had passed and a nuclear physicist with a penchant for conspiracies turned a quiet little mid-Western town into the UFO capital of the world.

Sizzling burgers and a clatter of china plates muffled the buzz of conversation and a radio playing, the announcer told them, selected music brought to you by Roswell's very own radio station, KGFL. Daniel and Carter made for the booth furthest from the door, while Jack positioned himself between a pair of blue vinyl stools and leaned on the counter. The decor was just like any one of a thousand greasy spoons that had mushroomed across America in the post-war prosperity, all Formica and chrome, faux-terrazzo floors and chintz curtains. Except for the absence of nose rings, iPods, and cell phones, the patrons were the same ubiquitous mix as their modern counterparts, with maybe a slight bias toward cowhands and enlisted men.

A pinstripe-uniformed waitress made change for a traveling salesman-type then turned to Jack with a disinterested, “What'll it be, honey?”

“Thanks, Dorothy.” The salesman jammed the butt of his cigarette into his coffee cup, stood, and, dropping his folded newspaper on the counter, exchanged a wave with the aproned cook. “See you next week, Casey.”

Jack ordered steaks for three and eyeing the newspaper added, “Can I take this?”

“Sure,” replied Dorothy, popping gum. “I'll be by with the coffee in a moment.”

Dodging a flypaper strip polka-dotted with corpses, Jack went to the booth, placed the newspaper on the checkerboard tablecloth, and, careful of his ribs, slid into the seat opposite Daniel. “Where's Carter?”