The meeting turned to more everyday matters of how to keep a large facility with thousands of employees and billions of dollars’ worth of equipment running smoothly and in a state of constant readiness. Systems and procedures were reviewed. Decisions were made. Scones were consumed. By the time they were finished, all three men were well satisfied that operations would continue uninterrupted for at least another week, without undue friction between the ostensible mission of the Complex and the black op that functioned in its shadow.
It was eleven-thirty when George Hammond left the CinC’s office, heading back to his own demesne. Time, he thought, for lunch, to be followed by the latest information review and preparation for his weekly update to the President. Which would definitely include a few comments about some interfering Senators and their sons.
Just another damned day at the office.
CHAPTER SIX
Frank Kinsey sat across a restaurant table from Lieutenant Colonel Bert Samuels and contemplated the massive hamburger and mountain of steak fries on the colonel’s plate. The cholesterol from the mayonnaise alone should be enough to hospitalize the man.
And maybe that would be a good thing. He was beginning to be actively annoyed at the self-satisfied smirk that had taken up permanent residence on the man’s face. He was very tired of the “I-know-some-thing-you-don’t know” attitude.
The restaurant was one of those down-home places with farm implements on the wall and red-checked tablecloths, just off the state highway leading south out of Colorado Springs. It specialized in “American food,” like hamburgers and fried chicken and meat loaf. Most of its clientele seemed to consist of service personnel from the nearby base and truckers handling semis across the Colorado Rockies. The food in the place actually smelled pretty good, if you liked grease.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” Samuels said, dolloping a large glop of catsup over his fries.
Kinsey smiled vaguely and dug into the big scoop of tuna on top of three kinds of lettuce, discreetly edging the slice of hard-boiled egg off to one side. He’d been surprised to find a whole section of “healthy alternatives” on the menu. Grease and tuna. Go figure.
“What are you, some kind of vegetarian?” Samuels said the word as if he wouldn’t be surprised in the least that the man across from him was such a reactionary.
Kinsey forked in a mouthful of fish and smiled. “Watching my weight.”
Samuels snorted and picked up a knife and fork and started cutting up the hamburger. Kinsey paused in mid-chew in surprise.
“Little trick I picked up in London,” Samuels said. “Nobody eats with their hands over there. It’s considered very rude.”
Kinsey, who had spent some time on the British beat himself, nodded. He had seen the British eating that way. It struck him as a bit pretentious to do such a thing in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Maybe Samuels was trying to impress him with how cosmopolitan he was. But then, Kinsey had also seen the Brits eating vinegar-soaked fish and chips out of a newspaper cone, so maybe Samuels wasn’t as cosmopolitan as he thought he was.
“You’re going to see some amazing things this afternoon,” Samuels promised, reaching for a soaked french fry—with his fingers, Kinsey noticed. So much for “British” decorum. “The things that go on in that mountain are just beyond belief.”
“North American Aerospace Defense? I still don’t see what’s new about that.” Kinsey pretended not to be interested. The Observer editor really did want a story; access to the actual interior of the complex had been shut down some time ago, all allegedly “for security reasons.” He supposed that was why he’d gotten saddled with Samuels, his father’s military liaison guy. It didn’t mean he had to like it. In his experience, military escorts meant making sure he didn’t see anything good. When he said so, the senator and the colonel had exchanged one of those I-know-something glances, as if they had a huge surprise waiting for him. “Let me guess. They brought one of the Roswell aliens to Cheyenne Mountain and they’re interrogating it even as we speak.”
Samuels coughed, spraying a fine mist of red condiment across the table. Kinsey could see red flecks across the beige tuna where there hadn’t been any red flecks before, and he pushed his salad away, deciding he wasn’t all that hungry anymore anyway. There weren’t any public dining facilities at CMAS, but he figured he could last until dinnertime. As long as he didn’t have to share dinner with this guy.
“Oh, no,” Samuels said as soon as he cleared his throat. “No, no no. Roswell. Ha ha. That’s funny. That was a weather balloon.”
The waitress came by and Kinsey shifted his plate at her, silently asking her to take it away.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just not hungry. I’ll have another cup of coffee, thanks.”
Samuels was deep into another bite of hamburger, trying to hold the bun and meat on an upside-down fork with his knife. He might have picked up the trick in England, Kinsey thought, but he certainly hadn’t practiced it much.
“You’ll get the regular briefing along with everybody else at the Visitors Center,” Samuels mumbled. “Then you’ll get to go inside. No cameras or tape recorders, of course. But you’ll see…” He swallowed, reached for a napkin to pat his lips. “You’ll see some really interesting things at Cheyenne Mountain Air Station. USSPACECOM is in there too. You’ll get to see the satellite tracking, Air Defense Ops, Satellite Warning, Combined Intelligence—”
“Space Control,” Kinsey interrupted in a bored voice. “I know all this stuff already. I know it’s important and ‘essential to the national security’. I just don’t see that it’s interesting. The Cold War is over. Unless you think the Chinese or the Serbs are going to launch missiles at us, who cares?”
The waitress brought his coffee, complete with a couple of miniature cream containers. He pried one open, only to find that it had gone beyond clotted and well into sour.
Black coffee. Wonderful. And it wasn’t decaf, either. Just what he needed at an altitude of more than a mile—he was going to have a case of the raving jitters before this day was through.
Samuels made a point of waiting until the waitress was out of earshot. “I don’t think you give us enough credit,” he said mysteriously. “More things in heaven and earth, you know. That’s Shakespeare.”
Kinsey sighed and shook his head. Dad—or maybe Mom, he couldn’t decide—owed him one for this, he thought. Even if he didn’t have any more interesting assignments on tap, he could have spent this time fishing or something. But no, he was going to be dragged into an Air Force public relations tour. He’d get paid for it. Big hairy deal.
The check came, and the two men paid their bill and made their way out into the bright mountain sunshine. Nice little town, Colorado Springs, Kinsey thought. Pretty. Peaceful. Home to the Air Force Academy, the Canadian Forces Support Unit (Colorado Springs), the hundreds or thousands of military personnel and all their dependents who served at Peterson and Falcon Air Force Bases and Fort Carson, and, of course, to Cheyenne Mountain Air Station. Pretty big responsibility for a pretty little town.
Well, maybe not that little. The metropolitan area, spread out under the benign, ever-snowcapped guardianship of Pikes Peak, was nearly half a million strong. There had to be something besides the military and unsolved murders keeping Colorado Springs thriving.
They got into the rental car and started the drive up to the mountain, leaving the pretty, peaceful little company city behind.
Teal’C had never been to Roswell, though O’Neill thought he might take the Jaffa there sometime, just for the hell of it. Then he could claim there really had been an alien in the little New Mexico town, at least once. It was the kind of in-joke that appealed to him. Maybe he’d suggest it to the whole team, though Carter would argue about it. Carter always argued. It was one of the delightful aspects of her personality.
He was getting a case of pre-mission nerves again, he could tell. It had been too lon
g since SG-1 had actually been through the Gate—at least two weeks. He wanted to get out and do something. Scrabbling in his desk, he found a cache of rubber bands and began firing them at the poster on the opposite wall.
Carter and Jackson might view the down time as a great opportunity to extend their studies in astrophysics and anthropology, respectively, but O’Neill was sure that Teal’C, at least, shared his need to be active, to actually accomplish something. Every day that went by was one more day his people, his family were held in slavery by the Goa’uld.
Stacked on his desk were volumes of reports, the printed version of several CDs’ worth of accumulated information on the Goa’uld, the Nox, the crystals of P3X-562, and all the other worlds, races, and entities they’d met so far. SG-1 was responsible for most of that information. O’Neill wanted to go get more information, and let the desk pilots like Randolph and Rusalka scrabble through it day in and day out.
From his point of view, the most fruitful mission would be one to the location he had mentally dubbed the “war world.” It held the possibility of finding new allies and new weapons they could use against the Goa’uld. The Goa’uld might be one side of the war, in fact, and if that was the case he wouldn’t mind joining in a firefight or two. Strictly in the course of achieving his mission’s primary goal, naturally.
Squinting, he incorporated a worn-down pencil into his artillery. It bounced harmlessly off Antares. He huffed out an exasperated breath. He wanted to move, dammit, and trying to push Rusalka into making a recommendation before she was ready was an exercise in futility.
Maybe he could pick up something from Morley. He’d buy the poor guy a drink in the canteen, pump him about the tactics the Jaffa had used to lure him in. He had a feeling that Morley knew more than he was telling—the report was curiously flat, without much substance to it. It was a little mystery, what had gone so thoroughly wrong on Etaa. Maybe Teal’C could get something out of the major—no, bringing the Jaffa along, with his forehead brand marking him as the property of Apophis, was probably a bad idea. Morley wouldn’t want to deal with him. In fact, it was his attitude toward the other man that had led to O’Neill’s negative recommendation in the first place.
Although, dammit, Teal’C was on their side, and he might have some valuable insights. Morley was going to have to learn to deal with the Jaffa eventually. Hammond had wanted to give Morley a chance, despite O’Neill’s views on the subject, and had allowed him to command SG-2 for the Etaa recovery. And look where that led.
Spilled milk buttered no parsnips. O’Neill bounced to his feet. This time of day Teal’C was probably in either the armory or the gym. He’d go find him and then they’d hunt down Morley, find out whatever it was he was holding back about Etaa. Maybe he could change the general’s mind about going back, and he could find out what really happened to the tall, gentle people who lived there.
It was a plan. More important, it was something to do.
The first stop, of course, was the research office again. Randolph didn’t even look up as he came in, and Rusalka gave him an annoyed glare and shake of the head when he demanded, “Either of you know where Dave Morley is?”
Outside the office, Dave Morley, on his way to Medical, heard his name mentioned and paused to eavesdrop, trying to hear what the infamous O’Neill had to say about him.
Shamelessly, the infamous O’Neill looked over Randolph’s shoulder at the pile of paper her printer was spitting out in a steady stream. “What’s this all about?”
He picked up the pile of paper and began shuffling through it. “Articles? Post. NewsWorld. LA Times. ‘Secrets and the Public’s Right to Know.’ Op-ed? They’re all by Frank Kinsey. That’s interesting…”
“That’s for General Hammond,” Randolph growled, still bending over a hot keyboard as she searched for more articles through an international library database.
“And why is General Hammond so interested in Frank Kinsey, modern journalist?” he wanted to know. “And what relation is he to our not-so-loved Senator Kinsey?”
“His son, and he’s coming out to the complex today. Not to visit us,” Rusalka forestalled the colonel’s reaction with a hastily raised hand. “Apparently just being a tourist.”
“Apparently just jerking our chain, more like it.” O’Neill growled. “Is he coming here?”
“Not supposed to,” Rusalka reiterated patiently. “If you don’t mind, Colonel, we’re putting together a background briefing, just in case. And no,” she added as he opened his mouth, “I haven’t the faintest idea where Major Morley is. It wasn’t my turn to watch him.”
Outside the office, Major Morley stood indecisively for a moment, and then turned away—away from the conversation in the staff office, which wasn’t about him after all, and away from Medical and his appointment with Janet Frasier.
A sudden emergency claimed Dr. Frasier’s attention. One of the survivors of the incident on Etaa went into full cardiac arrest, and it took all the skills she and Dr. Warner and a full complement of surgical staff could muster to get the man’s heart back into a steady rhythm. Then they had to determine how they’d missed the problem to begin with. The man was one of several who had injuries not consistent with Jaffa weaponry. She’d told Hammond—she’d told the airman—that they were all going to live, and they would if she had anything to say about it. So it was considerably more than twenty minutes later when she glanced up at the wall clock and realized that David Morley had never reported in as ordered.
She considered having him paged and decided against it. The man was under stress as it was, and he obviously felt that he had screwed up, that everyone in the complex was accusing him.
Time, perhaps, for her to take a break anyway and go looking for him. She peeled off the last set of gloves and untied her surgical mask, and then paused. She could at least ask Security if he’d left the complex, and if not, she could go enlist Sam to help her. He’d probably consider two women less threatening than one determined doctor by herself, and maybe they could just talk to him over lunch. Or listen to him over lunch. Whatever it took to get him to come down to Medical and get meds.
Samantha Carter was neck-deep in fifth-order mathematics and utterly happy. One of her duties, or perhaps her obsessions, was trying to figure out how the Stargate actually worked—what triggered the opening of the wormhole, why waves and photons could go both ways through it but nothing else could, the back-calculation of where worlds had been when the table of coordinates had been made up and where those worlds were now. She was hunched over her desk, a towel slung around her neck, dressed in T-shirt and fatigues, sharing the lab with half a dozen other scientists who were working on much the same problems. Most of them, of course, were in uniform, but the few civilians working on the project didn’t have a dress code and wouldn’t know what to do with it if they did. It made for a relaxed atmosphere. Carter wasn’t reporting anywhere today that she knew of, so she figured she might as well just be comfortable.
At one end of the lab was an electronic whiteboard covered in symbols at least as cryptic as the Goa’uld glyphs. A couple of civilians dressed in jeans and Birkenstocks were arguing in soft voices in front of the board, in an ongoing discussion about whether one particular sign should be positive, negative, or perhaps some third fuzzy state dependent on an earlier section of the equation. Carter was just as well pleased that her current problem dealt with an entirely different aspect of the wormhole. She was working on a method of predicting the next Gate location. If it worked, she hoped to be able eventually to extrapolate backward and perhaps, one day, find the homeworld of the aliens who had originally built the system of Gates.
Every once in a while a piece of the puzzle seemed to fall into place, leading one inch closer to solution. A private puzzle with a public solution, one day. Or at least so she hoped.
“Hey, Sam.”
She looked up to find Dr. Frasier looking around the doorjamb. “Yo?”
“Have you seen Major Morley?”
Carter blinked. “Uh. No.” She looked up at the clock on the wall, was startled to find that it was long after noon already. No wonder her stomach was rumbling.
Frasier looked concerned. Carter closed her laptop screen and got up, leaving the discussion and the lovely, ordered world of mathematics behind, and joined the doctor.
“He was supposed to report to me in Medical,” Frasier explained. “That was over an hour ago. I’m a bit worried about him.”
“He didn’t seem very happy this morning,” Sam agreed. “I only saw him briefly, though.”
“At least he hasn’t left the complex. Maybe he’s in his quarters.”
“Have you asked Security to find him for you?”
“I don’t want to make a fuss about it. I’m trying to convince him this is not that big a deal. I’m getting worried, though.”
“I’ll help you look.”
Having discovered Teal’C in the gymnasium as expected, O’Neill explained what he wanted to the Jaffa as they swept down the corridors to the last likely place an anguished officer might hide out. Teal’C was more interested in the gossip about the senator’s son than he was about interrogating Morley; his impression of the former commander of SG-2 was extremely low. Nonetheless, O’Neill was right; it was something to do. So the massive Jaffa went along. He could always return to the weight machines later.
The “Officers’ Club” buried in the heart of the mountain was pretty much like every other such club on every other military base: a bar, some small tables, and a few larger tables for civilized meals. The only difference was that this club was considerably smaller than the average, and thus, there was no regular Saturday bingo.
The place wasn’t even official. The real Officers’ Club was at Peterson in Colorado Springs.
[Stargate SG-1 03] - The First Amendment Page 6