It might not have worked for anyone else, but the airmen had obeyed that voice for years. To a man they lowered their weapons. For a second, Simmons was tempted to countermand the order, then he noticed the cheers behind him in the control room and below, among the SFs. Murder was all very well as long as nobody could prove it, but now there would be evidence as well as witnesses. Knowing that he was looking at the explanation for that bogus gate calibration test, he fumbled for an expression that might or might not pass for relief-in actual fact it felt like indigestion. He should have trusted his instincts. Down on the ramp, George Hammond picked himself up, clearing the way for whatever or whoever was to come. Simmons had a pretty good idea and damn near choked on it.
"Medical team to the gate room!" Hammond hollered.
"Ah, excuse me, sir!" That epic idiot Harriman pushed past Simmons and dived for the intercom-evidently he considered himself authorized again-to parrot his fearless leader. "Medical team to the gate room!"
With considerably more grace than Hammond, a cloaked, skullcapped figure appeared from the event horizon; a Jaffa, getting on in years. Close behind followed Major Carter in an outfit-or lack thereof-that left everymale in the embarkation room standing slackjawed in a puddle of drool. In her wake arrived Teal'c -walking confirmation that Simmons's Jaffa had failed on an unimaginable scale.
"I'd better go and see what's going on," Simmons announced.
It sounded lame even to his own ears, and he didn't wait for the sniggers to resurge. He left the control room, already trying to think past the acrid taste of failure in his mouth. Damage control was the main thing now. The exact magnitude of the disaster was difficult to assess as yet, because he had no idea what was happening or had happened on M3D 335 and how much SG-1 and Hammond really knew. Ultimately the goal would be for Colonel Frank Simmons to climb out of this manure pit smelling of roses. In order to do this he needed a bargaining chip weighty enough to offset anything Hammond might have to contribute to the matter.
George Hammond was reasonably certain that the metal grid of the ramp had left a tattoo on his six. Not that this was any kind of priority. Bracing his not inconsiderable bulk against the impact, he just about managed to catch Jack O'Neill who came flopping from the event horizon like a rag doll.
"I can walk," the Colonel muttered as his legs folded under him. "Sir."
"Sure you can." Dr. Jackson, looking only marginally more fit than his CO, had popped from the wormhole and threaded one of Jack's arms across his shoulders. "Let's get you to the infirmary so you can show Dr Warner."
Thankfully that didn't become necessary. Over by the blast door a crew of SFs flocked apart, allowing a couple of medics, a stretcher, and Dr Warner to pass. Though Warner's experience wasn't quite as comprehensive as Janet Fraiser's, he immediately zeroed in on the usual suspect. Inside a minute, Jack O'Neill was on his way to the infirmary, clucked over by the medics.
The rest of his team remained stranded on the ramp in front of an idle Stargate, looking lost and, above all, exhausted. On the floor, the SFs were still milling around, as was a bunch of bystanders who had no real business of being in the gate room. The SGC was a small command and close-knit; word traveled fast, and the return of a team missing in action, together with the base commander who nobody'd known was missing, presumably rated a degree of curiosity and excitement. Sergeant Harriman was peering down from the control room window, a little green around the gills and gesticulating frantically. Hammond tried not to think Now what? and failed. He nodded a brief acknowledgement in Harriman's direction, letting him know he'd get to him. Eventually.
"Sir?" Major Carter, he was relieved to see, had requisitioned a BDU jacket from one of the SFs. She still was clutching her grenade launcher as though she expected those boars to come charging through the closed iris. "Permission to go take a shower, sir?"
"Permission granted, Major. In fact, I-"
"I know, General." She smiled. "You insist."
"How did you guess?" Hammond grinned back at her, slowly surrendering to a sense of relief and the realization that he had, in fact, brought his people home. "Have that shower and then report to the infirmary for a full medical, Major. Same goes for Teal'c and Dr. Jackson. We'll debrief once things have quieted down a bit."
"Yessir."
Hammond watched her round up her team mates and herd them through the blast door. One by one, the audience trickled back to their posts, and the gate room returned to its normal state of quiet readiness. With one exception. An unpleasant one at that. So that was what Harriman had wanted him to know.
The man had been leaning against the wall beneath the control room window, observing, biding his time. Now he pushed himself off, started ambling over, a faint echo of his entrance after the exercise. As he came within smelling distance of Hammond an expression of distaste stole across his face. Apparently Colonel Simmons had issues with can de hog. Well, that was just too bad! George Hammond half wished he'd had the time or the foresight to roll around in a pile of boar dung. Not that it would have kept Simmons away.
"A word, General," the NID Colonel said, picking an imaginary speck of lint from a sleeve by Armani and trying to look genial. It lacked conviction. Close up, you could see droplets of sweat beading on the man's upper lip, a small muscle working nervously in his cheek. Simmons was scared, which made a refreshing change.
"Get out of my way," Hammond snapped. "Better yet, get the hell off my base and don't come back."
"When we've talked." He grabbed Hammond's arm.
A mistake. Behind him, Hammond heard the characteristic noise of a staff weapon being primed, and then Bra'tac announced, "I recommend you cede to the wishes of Hammond of Texas."
Simmons let go, frowned. "Who is he?"
"A witness." Hammond never took his eyes off Simmons's face, searching for even the smallest hint of insecurity, unease, perhaps even guilt, though that would imply the bastard was human. "Together with SG1, Dr. Fraiser, and thirteen Marines we're expecting back in, oh, about four hours. You're finished, Colonel." He hadn't mentioned the ten Marine `Jaffa', deciding it was smarter to keep that trump card up his sleeve. And he would need it, by the look of things. The reaction wasn't what he'd hoped for.
"Witnesses to what? The misconduct of a high-ranking USMC officer? You know, for a moment there I thought you might have something tangible. But alas, hearsay won't fly." Simmons actually contrived to sound concerned. "All I want is to talk to you."
Try as he might, Hammond couldn't suppress a snort. "Right. Keep it for someone who might believe you."
"You'd better believe me, General. I'm trying to stop you from making a mistake. Because, unlike you, I wasn't seen engaging in any potentially criminal activity. I've got three words for you-aiding and abetting."
"What?"
The question was purely rhetorical, nothing but a reflex that might or might not buy him some time. George Hammond knew only too well what-or rather, whom-Simmons was talking about.
I could get court-niartialed just for being seen with you.
The words, not an exaggeration but hard, cold fact, had come back to bite him on the ass. Maybe he shouldn't have said it out loud. He had been seen with Harry Maybourne. Not just by the NID agents, but by any number of independent witnesses; the waitress in the truck stop, airline personnel, the cabbie in Seattle, a goddamn state trooper, of all things. He never doubted that the NID would dig up all of them and more, up to and including the guy at the hot dog stand.
"Do you wish me to kill this man, Hammond of Texas?" Coal-chip eyes hard and unforgiving, Bra'tac had kept his bead on Simmons. If Hammond asked, he would fire, without hesitation, without even knowing his victim-all because he trusted one fallible general. It'd be easy. Unprovable, in fact: an alien ally misinterpreting an exchange between humans and committing a grievous error; Harriman and everybody else in the control room would unaccountably be struck deaf, dumb, and blind- and Simmons would cease to be a problem.
"Unfort
unately, at this moment what I wish and what is right are two very different things," Hammond said softly. "Thank you, Master Bra'tac. I'm afraid I'll have to deal with this on my own."
"I see." With a long, measuring gaze at Hammond, the old warrior closed and raised his staff weapon. Suddenly he grinned. "You are correct, Hammond of Texas. It shall be more satisfying to wait for an opportunity to disembowel him."
That last sentence had been directed at Simmons, who had the good sense of backing up a step or two. "He's kidding, right?"
"No," said Hammond and watched Bra'tac leave the gate room, likely as not in search of Teal'c to discuss Hammond of Texas's imprudent scruples. "I'm listening, Simmons."
"Not here."
"Fine. My office then."
Imprudent scruples, indeed. Hammond thought he could hear Jack O'Neill's voice.
One day I may ask you to buy back my soul.
One day Jack might just have to return the favor.
hat are you doing here, Colonel? I thought I'd sent you home."
Dr Warner had the look of a person whose carefully husbanded patience was about to snap into psychosis. You couldn't really blame him. Having both Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Fraiser as patients was enough to make Mother Teresa run amok. Rumor had it that Warner's esteemed colleague had attempted to assist in the debridement of her own wound. Rumor also had it that Warner had put said colleague under in a last-ditch effort to save his sanity.
"Morning, Doctor." Grinning, Jack pointed at the door Warner had just slammed behind him. "How's the patient?"
"Active." Loaded with a world of connotations, Warner's reply hung there for a moment. Then he said, "On the off-chance that you're here to visit Dr. Fraiser rather than add to my problems, you might want to try and impress on her the importance of rest."
"You want me to do what?"
"I want you to-"
"I heard you. It's just that..." Jack cleared his throat. "It's like inviting Ted Kennedy to lecture on the benefits of temperance."
"Consider it a challenge, Colonel." Warner was already heading down the corridor, mumbling something about needing a drink.
"As I was saying. Temperance," muttered Colonel O'Neill and opened the door to the infirmary.
"What are you doing here, Colonel?"
"Sweet." Jack slapped on his best insulted face. "You'd really think it'd kill people to try something along the lines of Hey, sir nice to see you up and about."
It didn't work. Janet still glared at him, past a nurse who'd just changed the dressing on Dr. Fraiser's wound and now cleared the battlefield at best possible speed. "Warner had no business releasing you without consulting me first." Even the doe's righteous indignation couldn't bring any color to her face. Her complexion rivaled the bed sheets, which didn't stop her from pushing herself up. Going by the wince, it was less than comfortable.
"Janet, I'm-"
"Peachy. Yeah."
Deja vu all over again. Jack didn't bother to swallow the sigh. "I know. I'm not peachy until you say I am."
She wasn't playing. "Warner didn't even show me your chart. He didn't tell me anything."
"That's because you're the patient, Doctor!"
"I'm still-"
"Look, Doc. They did a stress ECG on me yesterday afternoon. Twenty minutes on the treadmill, maximum pulse of a hundred and five, nice and steady. BP no higher than one-thirty over eighty, which, Warner informs me, is nothing short of spectacular for a guy my age. After that, he admitted he'd run out of stuff to examine me for."
As a matter of fact, in the two days since his return Jack O'Neill had undergone every single test modem medicine could throw at a patient while still leaving him alive, and the distinction between Nirrti's lab and the infirmary had become disconcertingly blurry.
Fraiser leaned back against the cushions, satisfied or exhausted, Jack couldn't tell. At last she said, "Do they know what caused it?"
"Nope." Shaking his head, he wandered closer to her bed. "She-Nirrti-was trying to get me to twirl chess pieces in thin air. Something was blocking the process, though Warner and his merry men can't say what or how, apart from the fact that it knocked me sideways when Nirrti kept insisting."
"You mean when I kept insisting?" Fraiser's fingers clenched in the bedspread, twisting it savagely.
"I don't remember that. What I do remember is the reason for this." He reached out, lightly brushing her shoulder. "Carter also told me about the epinephrine. Stupid, Doc. Real stupid, but thanks."
The bedspread was enjoying something of a respite. "Sam talks too much."
"Probably. But she did it all without techno-babble this time. Even I could understand it." Finally Jack saw what he'd been hoping to see. Fraiser smiled. A little. Then it vanished again, like an old memory, and he wondered if it'd ever been there or if he'd simply wanted to see it too much.
She looked distant, miles -light-years -away. "We watched it from the tel'tac," she whispered. "The fortress and the city just melted, sagged in on themselves. They're dead, aren't they, sir? Those I didn't kill before."
"As far as I can tell they weren't really alive to begin with," Jack offered. He knew exactly whom-or what-she was talking about, recalled the staring eyes and blank faces and refused to even consider this as a form of human life. If he did, all notions of individuality, of personality, would fly right out the window. Self-protection perhaps, but there it was, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit that he was glad they were dead. One less thing to worry about, and Fraiser was a priority. "Are we okay, Doc?" he said softly.
"I should be asking you that." The bedspread was in trouble again.
"Works both ways, Janet. So, are we okay?"
"We're okay, sir." The smile-definitely a smile-returned at last.
"Good. `Cos I've got something for you." Jack produced a parcel he'd been hiding behind his back up until now and put it in her lap. "Open it."
She graced him with one of those patented Fraiser looks. "If that's the ladies' model of Sergeant Siler's pajamas..."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Would I?"
"At the drop of a hat. Sir!"
"Daniel, that's not resting. Resting is lying on the couch at home, with the shades drawn and maybe a little quiet music playing."
It was a very polite way of saying Leave me the hell alone, I'm working! Sam didn't have the heart to put it bluntly. Besides, Daniel was concussed and should be at home. Unfortunately, he'd got fed up, knew that-with Janet in the infirmary-there would be no one to put him in restraints, and decided that his time would be best spent distracting Sam. She hoped to God he wasn't going to develop a taste for it. Normally this type of visitation was executed in fine style by Colonel O'Neill, usually when he was supposed to write reports. One hyperactive kid bouncing around her lab was plenty as far as she was concerned.
"Does this thing work?" Daniel was poking at an old TV set that vegetated at the back of Sam's lab.
"Turn it on, wiggle the antenna cable, and slap the top," recommended a voice from the door. "The Simpsons should be on in five minutes."
Speak of the devil!
"What are you doing here?"
Daniel had beaten her to it, so Sam confined herself to adding "Sir?"
By ways of an answer, the Colonel put on an A-grade sulk and headed for the TV set, leaving a trail of constant mutter. "Hi, Jack! We've missed you. How're you doing? You're looking great. Thanks. I'm peachy. Good to see you, kids. And by the way, what are you doing here?"
This last question was directed at Daniel, who grinned. "I got fed up at home."
"Ah," said the Colonel, implying it was perfectly reasonable that anyone suffering from boredom should converge on Major Carter's lab. Then he proceeded to turn on, wiggle, and slap the TV
Instead of The Simpson, the image established on a reporter in too much makeup and something that was a dead ringer for Donald Trump's toupee. Clutching a microphone and his own importance, he was posted outside the Pentagon. "And we have just received official con
firmation of the number of casualties. A total of ninety-seven Marines were killed yesterday, in what can only be described as the most devastating tragedy in the history of the US Marine Corps. No names have been released yet, as the commanding officers are going to personally inform victims' families." The image cut to an unspecified stretch of ocean, a swarm of SAR choppers, and three Navy frigates circling some floating debris. "Early reports indicate that the USS Kabul, a Tarawa class destroyer conducting exercises, sank after a massive explosion in the engine room. However, insiders speculate that there may be more to it. This morning a high-ranking Marine, Lieutenant General Philip Crowley, was detained pending a full investigation of the horrific accident. We will keep you informed as the situation develops. This is Dwayne Keller for-"
"I don't believe it," whispered Sam, half convinced she'd misheard. Her next thought was that, all things considered, this version of events would be a blessing for the relatives of Private Joe Gonzales.
"What exactly is it you don't believe, Major?" the Colonel asked dryly. "The guy's hairpiece or the cover-up?"
"Cover-up?" Daniel gasped it out, his eyes as wide as the bruises would allow.
"It's obvious, isn't it? They-"
The Colonel's explanation of the implausibly sordid was interrupted by two new arrivals, and Sam was beginning to consider getting an espresso machine and maybe setting up a couple of tables and chairs. She could also serve ice cream with little paper umbrellas in it.
For the time being she resorted to, "Morning, General. Teal'c."
"O'Neill, I am pleased to see you," Teal'c intoned solemnly. "And you-"
"See? Here's a man who knows how to make a guy feel welcome." Jack O'Neill grinned. "I missed you, too, I. How was Chulak?"
"Cold."
General Hammond was doing his best to ignore the exchange, peered at the TV set and finally at the Colonel and Daniel. "What are you doing here?" he enquired.
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 39