A Few of Those 48 Hours
Author: BadgerGater
Category: Missing Scenes/Sequel to 48 Hours, S5 ep
Summary: What went on behind the scenes of the episode 48 Hours
Warnings: None
Rating PG-13
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Can’t afford ‘em. Would take out a loan to get ‘em, though.
Author’s Notes: Just felt there were some important bits left out in this ep.
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‘I am going to have the words “Never trust the Tok’ra” tatooed on my forehead,’ thought Colonel Jack O’Neill as he sprinted toward the Stargate. ‘Simple little recon mission,’ they said. ‘Just help us out with a little favor,’ they said, ‘after all, we gave you guys a ride home from the asteroid.’ Why is it the Tok’ra never have an available operative when it comes to simple little missions that turn out to be oh so much more than simple little missions?’
And then O’Neill didn’t have the time to be thinking about anything but running, because a pair of death gliders had just cleared the tree line behind them. The whine of their engines, or whatever the hell you called those things that powered them, rose in pitch as the fighters dived to make another strafing run.
Run.
Now.
SG-1 was running for their lives, salvation in the form of the Stargate now in sight. Legs churning, lungs gulping for air, muscles burning with fatigue as they pushed their bodies to the limit. Four humans, okay, thought O’Neill, three humans and an almost human Jaffa, running like their lives depended on it because their lives *did* depend on it.
They’d done this enough times before to know what to do. No need to waste precious air on telling his teammates what they had to do. Daniel was headed straight for the DHD, bent on dialing, confident the others would provide covering fire.
Jackson reached the dialing device. Teal’c, still carrying that oversized laser cannon they’d picked up back on Tyler’s world, turned the weapon on the approaching death gliders. Carter and O’Neill both hit the dirt, their P-90s chattering. Jack knew his and the Major’s weapons were little more than noisemakers in this instance, only a lucky hit, and very lucky it would have to be, could make any sort of dent in the well armored death gliders. But he couldn’t sit there and do nothing, and maybe a bullet bouncing off the windshield would make the Jaffa pilot duck or something, anything that could help.
The gliders were approaching, their weapons spitting twin rows of energy bolts that kicked clouds of dust from the soil of P3X-116 as they raced overhead.
Behind him, O’Neill heard the welcome kawoosh of the wormhole blossoming into life. “Go!” he shouted at his team.
Carter and Daniel were closest and quickly disappeared into the churning blue of the wormhole. The gliders had already gone around and were coming back for another pass, their guns barking in a staccato counter rhythm to the chatter of O’Neill’s own gun and the deep boom of Teal’c’s cannon.
The death gliders were overhead again already. ‘Damn those things are fast,’ thought O’Neill as he hastily shoved a fresh magazine into his P-90. He felt the ground shake as an energy bolt hit nearby, and the second blast slammed into the dirt so close he felt the heat of its passing, felt the hair on his arm stand up like a lightning bolt had struck closeby. A split second, and then something hit him, a glancing blow off his skull that drove him to the ground. He knew it wasn’t a laser blast, he’d have been smoked if it had been, but a fist-sized chunk of rock ricocheted off his forehead.
Pain blossomed in his skull.
Stunned for a moment, the Colonel fought to stay conscious, knowing the gliders would be back, knowing they had to make a run for the gate. Now.
Teal’c raced to his commander’s side, gripping O’Neill’s shoulder, his shout drowned out by the roar of cannon fire and death glider engines.
Jack shook his head, trying to clear it, feeling the warmth of blood trickling down his forehead. He blinked, then realized the huge black spot wavering in front of his eyes wasn’t something produced by his rock-scrambled brain but Tanith’s ship, a big and honkin’ alkash, rising up out of the forest. ‘Now I remember why I hate trees, while on a mission at least,’ O’Neill thought distractedly in that instant of disorientation. ‘Great place to hide an ambush, hide a whole goddamn space ship.’
Shaking his head once more, his sense of self-preservation drove him to his feet despite the throbbing in his skull and the wobble in his knees. The sight of that big ship, piloted by a Goa’uld, was a motivating force, despite the shakiness coursing through him. Scared the bejesus right out of him, if he admitted it. What was a little headache compared to what that thing, and that thing he was riding in, could do to a mere human?
Even with a brain running on only three cylinders, Jack knew it was time to vamoose.
Now.
“Let’s go,” he shouted to Teal’c.
The big Jaffa’s gaze was fixed on the ship.
O’Neill pushed himself forward, forcing his unsteady legs to function, ignoring his stomach’s sudden lurch and the bile rising in his throat as the world shuddered and spun. ‘Now is not the time to lose your lunch, O’Neill,’ he sternly ordered himself. Fixing his gaze on the trio of Stargates in front of him, figuring the one in the middle for the real one, he ran.
Side by side, the human and his Jaffa teammate raced for the gate, dodging weapon’s fire from the Goa’uld ship as it cleared the treeline and started toward them.
Trusting the alien member of SG-1 was right behind him, Jack took the stairs two at a time and dove into the shimmering pool of blue. Even as he threw his body into the wormhole, he knew he was going to make one of his more spectacular arrivals in the gateroom.
The leader of SG-1 exited the wormhole airborne, hitting the ramp with a belly flop hard enough to knock the wind out of him as he landed on the P-90 buckled across his chest. Even as he fought for air, he managed an awkward tuck and roll, clearing the space for Teal’c’s arrival. He *really* didn’t want the big Jaffa landing on top of him.
O'Neill's glance raked across the gateroom, nothing with relief that Daniel and Carter were both standing, apparently okay.
The Colonel scrambled to his feet, lungs gulping desperately for air, bending over at the waist, hands on knees, turning expectantly back toward the gate. Teal’c had been right behind him. Teal’c would be arriving any second and SG-1 would have escaped by the skin of their teeth once again.
Nothing was happening. ‘C’mon big guy,’ O’Neill prayed silently as he straightened slowly, still breathing roughly, eyes fixed on the gate, worry knotting his stomach.
The pool of blue energy shimmied, shuddered and with a snap of dissipating energy, disappeared.
O’Neill looked around stunned, thinking even double vision wouldn’t have allowed him to miss the arrival of a 200 plus pound Jaffa carrying a big, honkin’ cannon sized gun. Where was Teal’c? He should be here. He should be here. How could he not be here?
General Hammond bustled into the gateroom, looking around for the missing member of SG-1. “Where’s Teal’c?”
Jack was still staring at the gate in disbelief. “I don’t know, Sir. He was right behind me.” O’Neill's gaze remained fixed on the gate, as if he could will the wormhole back into existence, will his friend to step safely out of the interstellar whats-it. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Teal’c had been right there, at his side. He didn’t leave people behind.
“Major?” Hammond waved at the now quiet Stargate.
“Sir,” I… I don’t know,” Carter admitted, stunned.
Without another word, the General turned and started for the stairs up to the control room.
Jack took a step to follow, staggered, caught himself because now was *not* the time to let a bump on the head and a bit of dizziness, okay, okay, a lot of dizziness, get in the way of what had to be done.
“Colonel,” a medic stood by the door next to the gurney loaded down with a first aid kit. The airman pulled out a bandage, ripping open the dressing, reaching out to press it to the bleeding gash on O’Neill’s forehead. “Sir, you’d better…”
“Not now,” the Colonel snapped, grabbing the bandage as he brushed passed the startled medic and followed the others toward the control room. Holding the dressing against the bleeding cut, O'Neill staggered as another wave of dizziness and nausea assailed him. He grabbed the railing, pausing only momentarily, but the vertigo passed quickly and he was up the stairs on Hammond’s heels.
The General had seen his second’s face go suddenly pale. “Colonel, are you okay?”
O’Neill ignored the question. “We have to go back, Sir,” he insisted.
“What was your situation?” Hammond demanded.
Carter jumped in. “We were being pursued by gliders and an alkash.”
“Teal’c was right behind me,” O’Neill repeated. “He could still be alive.”
Hammond nodded, turning to M/Sgt. Davis, seated at the computer console. “Dial up P3X-116. We’ll try to raise him on his radio.”
"Chevron one encoded," said Davis.
“Sir, we should have a MALP standing by just in case we need a visual,” Carter interjected.
O’Neill understood. Just in case there was no answer, in case Teal’c had been taken prisoner or in case they had to look for his body.
The gate spun, locking down on the first symbol of the planet’s address.
"Chevron two encoded." Davis spoke up quietly. “Sir, we’re getting an unknown error.”
The conversation flew past O’Neill. Part of it was the fact that he was suddenly feeling sick and dizzy, and it was taking most of his concentration just to keep his knees from buckling and dumping him unceremoniously on the floor. Part of it was the scientific mumbo-jumbo, words he wouldn’t have understood even if his brains weren’t scrambled like an omelet in the making. He caught something about feedback protocols and over-rides and dialing programs, not understanding any of it.
Sweat popped out on Jack’s face even as he pressed the bandage to his head, trying to stem the bleeding. He wasn’t sure if the now almost overwhelming urge to throw up was caused by the vertigo, or by the sudden realization that not even Carter knew what had happened to Teal’c.
Truth was, Carter’s confused look scared the hell out of O’Neill, because if Carter didn’t know what was going on, no one did.
No one.
Jack snapped back to attention when the Major turned, addressing her question to him. “Sir, what happened just before you jumped through?”
Concentrating hard, but still seeing a pair of Carters, both of whom looked worried, “The ship was coming right at us,” he answered.
“Do you think it could have impacted the Stargate on the other side?”
Visions of Edora’s gate, buried under tons of rubble, raced through his head. “And if it did?” He knew he wasn’t going to like the answer, but he had to ask.
Carter’s face looked grim. “Well I hate to say this, but if the wormhole was shut down while Teal’c was in route…” She didn’t need to finish the sentence, not even for the Colonel. Scientist or not, they all knew what that meant. Or thought they did.
It was the kind of thing they didn’t think about, much less ever talk about, because if you started to think about the insanity of what they did, what happened when they walked through the gate, no rational human being would go gallivanting across the universe using alien technology that they barely understood. Not even Carter *really* understood it. Which meant no one understood it.
No one.
Sgt. Davis spoke up. “Chevron 6 encoded. Still showing unknown error, Sir.”
Carter reached a decision. “Sir. Sir, we’d better abort…”
“Abort the dialing procedure,” Hammond snapped.
“Dialing sequence aborted, Sir,” Davis advised.
The control room got very, very quiet.
O’Neill looked at his CO, both of them, then back at the two Majors. “So where’s Teal’c?”
“Sir, I don’t…”
She didn’t finish. Or maybe she did, and he just didn’t hear her because this time, when the floor lurched and the walls buckled, everything spun and kept spinning. O’Neill threw out an arm to steady himself as his knees gave way.
Daniel jumped to his side, managing to get a shoulder under the outflung arm, catching Jack, slowing his descent long enough for Hammond to push a chair into place behind the Colonel's knees.
With a groan, O’Neill sat down and closed his eyes.
Hammond grabbed the phone. “I need Dr. Fraiser up here, stat.”
“I’m fine, Sir,” O’Neill protested.
“No, Colonel, you are *not* fine.” Turning from his second’s pasty gray face to Major Carter, the General added, “Major…”
“I’m already working on it, Sir,” she took the seat at the console Davis had just vacated, tossing a worried glance at her CO. “Colonel?”
He waved a hand in the direction of her voice, still unwilling to open his eyes in case the walls were still dancing the Macarena. “Don’t worry about me, Major. Find Teal’c.”
Carter nodded, turning back to her computer, her mind already focusing on the problem at hand.
Daniel stood with one reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder as the Colonel slumped in the chair.
Moments later, the sharp click of footsteps preceded the arrival of the SGC’s diminutive doctor. Janet Fraiser looked around the control room with a worried expression, immediately spotting O’Neill’s listless form on the chair, Daniel’s worried nod telling her she’d found her patient.
Hurrying to stand in front of O’Neill, she reached for his hand, which was still holding the bandage to his forehead. “Colonel?” she asked softly.
Gingerly, he opened one eye to glare at her. “I’m fine, Doc.”
“Nice to see you, too, Colonel,” she answered amiably, noting the bandage, the glazed look and the pale, clammy skin that belied his assertion. Gently, she pried his hand away from the bandage, and peeled it back to look at his forehead. The cut was near the hairline, approximately an inch long, deep enough it was going to require several stitches. “What happened?”
“Death glider was firing at us. One of the shots kicked up some rock.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“I’d know if I had, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes, Colonel, you would.”
"Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
Carefully, she probed around the cut.
“Ow!” he flinched, pulling his head back, his eyes popping open, then immediately slamming shut.
“Dizzy, Sir?”
He thought about denying it, realized Doc knew him far too well to believe a little white lie. “A little,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Nauseous?”
“Hmm mmm,” he agreed.
She took his right hand and placed it back against his forehead to once again hold the bandage in place. Taking his other wrist, lips pursed in concentration, she listened and counted. His pulse was a bit rapid, but she’d already heard about Teal’c, and knew he was worried and upset, injury or not. Letting his hand fall back into his lap, she held her hand up in front of his face. “Sir, how many fingers am I holding up?”
He opened one eye.
“No cheating, Colonel. Both eyes.”
She moved her hand, holding up two fingers.
He squinted, glazed brown eyes peering out from beneath furrowed brows. “I’d guess six, but then, I know you don’t have that many on one hand,” he muttered, frustrated.
“You’d guess right, then, Colonel. And I’d guess a probable concussion. And definitely stitches. Let’s get you down to the infirmary and get them taken care of,” she answered as cheerily as she could.
“No.” He had his eyes closed again.
“Colonel…”
The eyes opened, squinted. “I need to be here,” there was a tone of pleading in his voice. “In case…” he waved his free hand around.
“Sir, if there’s any news, *when* there’s news,” she quickly amended, “they’ll know where to find you. The sooner we get started, the sooner you’ll be done, Colonel,” she reminded him. Watching him rise unsteadily to his feet, “I could call a gurney,” she offered.
“No,” he waved her away. “I can walk.”
Daniel had been watching from the spot where he’d been standing behind Sam. Seeing O’Neill begin to rise, he started forward to help his friend.
Jack waved him away. “Stay. Help Carter. Do… whatever. Genius-ize together,” his voice was still unusually quiet, a sure sign he was feeling much worse than he was letting on, Daniel realized. Or maybe just upset. He remembered how silent Jack had been a few weeks ago on the mother ship when they’d thought Teal’c was dead back on Vorash.
“We won’t give up,” Daniel squeezed Jack’s shoulder, and turned back to help Carter.
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Unsure if letting him walk was the best thing to do, but knowing that to insist otherwise would lead to an argument neither one of them had the heart for, Dr. Fraiser settled for walking beside her patient, her steadying hand on the small of his back, his arm resting lightly on her shoulder.
The walk to the infirmary seemed to take forever, or so it felt to O’Neill. Every minute was agonizing as he worried about his friend. It had only been a few months ago, on that seemingly doomed death glider flight, when Teal’c had called him brother. He'd been touched that the Jaffa warrior had honored him with those words.
As he took a seat on an exam table in the infirmary, O’Neill realized that he was angry, too. Angry that Teal’c hadn’t followed him home. Okay, maybe the man had been hit in the last stride or two, but he didn’t think so. Damn it, he had the sneaking suspicion, no, the certainty that Teal’c had turned back to go after Tanith The Jaffa was better at holding a grudge than he himself was and that was saying something. The warrior from Chulak had vowed revenge against Tanith, and he’d been seething ever since SG-1 had encountered the Goa’uld and his forces on P3X-who-cared about the rest of the numbers.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Sorry, Sir,” Doc answered.
O’Neill eyed her sheepishly. He hadn’t been swearing at her, hadn’t even been aware of her working to clean the area around the wound, he’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts.
Her hands were gentle as she sponged away the blood and dirt, then injected the local anesthetic to numb the skin. "We’ll get those stitches in, in a few moments, Colonel, just as soon as that anesthetic takes effect.”
“Fine,” he agreed, letting his mind wander back to the planet, and the last few minutes, his last glimpse of Teal’c. Was there something he could have done? No, trying to dissuade a Jaffa from seeking revenge was like trying to empty the Pacific with a teaspoon. Some things were just beyond mortal men, he thought sadly.
“Colonel?”
Doc’s question brought him back to the present. He looked up at her with glassy eyes. She looked worried.
“We’re ready to start, Colonel,” she said softly. “I need you to lie down and keep still.”
He complied, lying back on the treatment table, closing his eyes, trusting her sure hands. In a couple of minutes she was done, and he was sitting up again. She finished by applying several small bandages over the neatly tied sutures. “Now, why don’t you get changed and we’ll find you a bed…”
He slipped off the table, caught his balance, and eyed her from his foot plus height advantage. “Doc, I’m gonna get cleaned up and put on some clean clothes and then I’m going to go check…”
“No, Sir, you need…”
“I *need* to know what’s happening…” he insisted.
“Colonel, please…”
“Doc,” he was concentrating hard to keep everything in focus, and it was working, well, mostly working, if he kept focused. “Doc, it’s a little bash on the head. I’ve been bashed on the head before, and I’ll probably be bashed on the head again, but right now I have a missing team member and I can’t do a damn thing for him from here.”
“And what can you do for him from up there?” she inclined her chin in the direction of the gateroom.
“I don’t know,” he answered in a tightly controlled voice. “But I need to be there.” His voice softened. “Doc, really, I promise, I’ll behave. I’ll come back if I feel worse,” he cringed inwardly at the white lie, but gamely kept on. “There must be something I can do. Maybe, I don’t know, I can sharpen Carter’s pencils or, or, something…. Just, don’t make me stay here.”
His ‘please’ was unspoken. Eyeing him closely, seeing the determination in his face, and knowing that really there wasn’t anything she could do to treat a concussion anyway, she relented. “Okay, compromise, Colonel. I’ll talk to the General and see if anything has changed. If not, you’ll lie down and rest two hours, then you can go and check on Sam yourself. Deal?”
He nodded. Doc pointed at the clean BDUs an aide had brought in and placed on the chair. “Get into those and lie down.”
Dr. Fraiser pulled the curtain closed to give O’Neill privacy to change, heading for her office, thinking about the Colonel. Stubborn, bullheaded, dedicated as they came. She knew she couldn’t change him, and realized with a start that she wouldn’t if she could. He was who he was, and as demanding and exasperating as he could be, he also cared for his team and his people far more than anyone else she knew.
She was three steps from her office door when brisk footsteps sounded behind her.
“Dr. Fraiser?” General Hammond’s crisp tones sounded worried, and tired. “How’s Colonel O’Neill?”
Janet turned to face the head of the SGC. “He needed several stitches but the X-rays were negative. Minor concussion. He’s still not feeling his best, and I’ve persuaded him to rest for a bit, but he’ll be back snapping at your heels soon, Sir.”
Hammond nodded, a sad grin crossing his face. “Well, that’s good news at least.”
“No news about Teal’c, then, Sir?”
“No. None. Major Carter is working on it, but this is unprecedented. It’s nothing but WAGS…”’
“Wags, Sir?”
“Wild Assed Guesses, Doctor. That’s most of what the SGC does these days, or so it seems,” he said, tiredly. “Tell Jack to get some rest. There’s nothing he can do at the moment.”
“I’ve told him that already, Sir, but you know the Colonel, listening is *not* one of his strong points.”
Hammond snorted softly. “Yes, Doctor, I know.” He looked over toward the curtain that hid his 2IC. “Keep him here as long as you can.”
“Yes, Sir,” Fraiser nodded.
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It didn’t last long.
Jack couldn’t sleep. Despite the Tylenol, his head was pounding. Closing his eyes helped, at least that head spinning nauseous feeling went away when he laid back, but that was the best he could manage. His mind wouldn’t shut down long enough to let him rest, however. It kept on endlessly going over and over those last few minutes on the planet, looking for something he might have missed, some sign, some clue, some answer to what had happened to Teal’c.
Had the big guy’s luck run out at last?
Had his thirst for revenge been his undoing?
Had Tanith won in the end?
Was Teal’c dead, or worse, a prisoner at the hands of his bitter enemy? T-man had never talked about the torture he’d endured before, on that ship in the Toban System when Sokar had planned to trade him to Apophis, but O’Neill had recognized the signs. Sure, Junior had quickly healed the physical wounds, but Jack knew all too well that nothing ever completely healed the emotional trauma of treatment like that. Memories were there, stuck in your head forever, whether you liked it or not, and you’d have to be pretty damn sick to like it.
Teal’c.
Jack remembered the first time he’d seen the man, back on Chulak. Remembered his elation when Teal’c had helped them escape, the man’s sudden despair when he’d helped the Tau’ri and then realized he was alone. O’Neill thought of the big guy’s grateful acceptance of Jack’s invitation to come back to Earth, his disappointment at the way his new ‘friends’ had treated him, his glad acceptance of a place on SG-1.
How many times had Teal’c’s strength, courage and knowledge saved SG-1 and Earth, Jack wondered?
O’Neill rolled onto his side, curling his long legs, trying to get comfortable. Considering the eight billion dollar budget of the SGC, why, he wondered for the hundredth time, couldn’t the infirmary get beds made for anyone more than midget height? Or decent pillows. Or lump-less mattresses. Or rooms, real rooms that would give a man privacy to think and worry.
He honestly tried to sleep.
After an hour, he gave up.
Hoping Fraiser wasn’t around, Jack shrugged into his long sleeved shirt over the clean black t-shirt, slid his feet into his boots, closing one eye to concentrate so he could tie the laces, and slipped out of the infirmary.
He walked with exaggerated care, conscious of each footstep, but arrived at last at the control room. Carter was where he’d expected her to be, seated in front of a computer, the monitor filled with an incomprehensible diagram that looked like silly string squirted across the screen.
O’Neill cautiously reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. “Carter?” he asked softly.
She turned swiftly, surprised to see him. “Sir, are you okay?” He didn’t look or sound okay, too quiet, moving carefully and slowly, still quite pale and the normally intense brown eyes looking glassy.
“Ohhh, couple stitches, concussion, nausea, dizziness, the usual,” he waved away her concern, standing uncertainly. “Why is Teal’c still in the gate?” he asked, taking a seat next to her.
She was relieved when he sat down. He’d looked frail and unstable on his feet, not at all the strong and capable person she was used to.
“Well, Sir, it’s very complicated…”
“Can I help?”
Lost, he looked lost. And uncertain. He never looked either, not when he truly was okay. “Well, Sir…”
It took maybe three seconds for him to get lost in the technobabble. Completely, utterly baffled, in over his head and not a damn thing he could do about it.
“Can I get you some coffee?” he asked.
She caught the hint. Cut to the chase, Sam, she chided herself. “Sir, the truth is the gate may not even be capable of doing what we need it to do.”
“Which is what?” he was trying hard to follow her.
“Resume a reintegration process that was cut off prematurely…”
“Carter, my head,” he gave in at last.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but the more we go through this, the more I’m becoming concerned that we may not even be able to get Teal’c back.”
“Oh.” The disappointment on his face was palpable.
God, she was so frustrated, but at least she had something to do. The Colonel was used to being in charge, to having something active to do to help in a crisis, and here, he was helpless, reduced to watching and waiting. “Sir, I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know that, Carter. Just keep doing it, okay?” he suggested. “I’ll get us that coffee. You, you just,” he waved a hand at her computer screen, “you just do, you know, what you do…”
“I know, Sir, and you don’t need to get me the coffee. Really.”
“It’s okay.”
He needed to do something, feel like he was helping out, even if it was only getting coffee for the SGC’s resident scientific genius.
So yeah, he took her for granted. They probably all did. They expected Carter to pull a rabbit out of the hat, time after time. Except he had the awful feeling the rabbit population had taken a nosedive and there was most likely not a rabbit left to find. Damn it. Damn the stinkin’ Goa’uld and damn the less than forthright Tok’ra and damn all revenge minded Jaffa who disobeyed orders. He was so going to kill Teal’c, if they got him back alive.
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Reaching the cafeteria, O’Neill grabbed a chair and sat down, suddenly so tired he couldn’t stay on his feet a moment longer. How long had it been since he’d slept? They’d gone to P3X-somewhere yesterday, or was it the day before? They’d been expecting maybe a few Jaffa, a small scouting party according to the Tok’ra, and instead found a whole nest of bristling snakeheads … Tanith and a ship plus death gliders, who’d chased them mile after mile back to the gate.
Exhausted, O’Neill let his head sink down on his folded arms, and at last, fell asleep.
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General Hammond was in search of coffee. He’d been up for how many days and nights now? Coffee was a poor substitute for sleep, but he’d made do before and he’d make do again. Besides, walking down to the cafeteria gave him a chance to stretch his legs, move around, get the blood pumping. What a mess, and the Tok’ra were in the middle of it again. O’Neill was going to have a fit next time he came face to face with the Tok’ra. Jack didn’t trust them to begin with, and if they’d gotten Teal’c killed, hell, he’d probably have to put the Colonel in a straight jacket before he could let the man in the same room with one of their alien allies again.
Sometimes, O’Neill bordered on being more trouble than he was worth.
Then again, he *was* worth a hell of a lot.
Entering the cafeteria, Hammond almost walked right on past the still figure at the table, but he did a double take at the gray haired head and recognized his errant second.
“Colonel?" Hammond took a seat across from O'Neill, and tapped the sleeping officer on the arm. "Colonel. Go home.”
O’Neill raised his head, fighting to focus bleary eyes in surprise. “I’m all right, Sir. I just got five minutes of quality sleep.”
“Everything that can be done is being done,” the General reminded his number one team leader.
“You know this wouldn’t be happening if he had followed orders,” O’Neill said softly. “That damned Jaffa revenge thing.”
“Get some rest, Colonel, *That’s* an order.”
Hammond stood, knowing he’d done what he could, and hoping Jack would listen, but knowing full well the odds were that his bullheaded 2IC would do whatever he damned well pleased despite his orders.
Jack watched his CO walk away, contemplating following the order, then let his forehead slip down to rest on his fist. ‘Okay, airman, on your feet, get your keys from your office, and go home. Rest. Sleep. Recuperate.’
In a minute.
Hammond filled a styrofoam cup with steaming coffee, adding cream, and turned back for the door. O’Neill was once again sitting head down at the table. Damn. Walking out past the exhausted officer, Hammond strode to his office, picking up the phone, and ordered an airman to find Colonel O’Neill and give him a ride home.
----------------------------------
Jack had slept well enough. His headache had retreated to a persistent dull yet annoying buzzing at the back of his head, but he was functional, at least. He’d called in to the base even before he’d brushed his teeth or showered, but there was no news. Hammond had suggested he take another few hours off, sleep some more, but Jack was awake, and too worried to sleep. Sure, it was unlikely there was anything he could do to help, but still, he needed to be there, just in case.
Showering, shaving and dressing quickly, the Colonel headed his truck back toward Cheyenne Mountain, stopping only to fill the gas tank.
Jack paid the cashier and stepped out of the Quick Mart. The last person on Earth that O’Neill had expected to find standing next to his pick-up stood smiling that shit-eating grin at him.
“Hi, Jaaack.” The whiney voice was unmistakable.
Smiling. How dare Harry Maybourne be smiling, standing right there in public and smiling like a...a... citizen, not a traitor, a traitor who'd shot him. Just looking at the little weasel made Jack’s arm ache with remembered pain. “You rat bastard!
Harry retreated around the back of the truck. "Hey hey hey. Take it easy."
"I’m *so* gonna kick your ass!" O'Neill threatened, no, promised.
Maybourne, keeping the width of Jack's big Ford between them, talked. Jack surprised himself, and listened.
O'Neill knew he should be calling the cops, the MPs, the National Guard, the Secret Service, the ATF, the Army, the Navy, the Marines and the Coast Guard, and telling all of them where Harry was. The man was a convicted traitor and belonged in jail.
But Jack couldn’t do it. Reluctantly, he had to admit, he believed Harry. Not that he wanted to, but the man’s words, God help him, *had* carried the ring of truth. At least when he’d claimed he hadn’t been the one who’d shot O’Neill. And, well, his offer to help seemed genuine, too.
In the end, Jack just stood and watched the man drive away, mentally reprimanding himself for once again falling for Maybourne’s line of bull.
----------------
As he drove toward Cheyenne Mountain, O’Neill mentally reviewed his knowledge of Maybourne. Having anything to do with the former NID colonel always made Jack feel unclean. Dirty. Guilty. Slimy. Like he’d just crawled through a sewer. Maybourne just oozed sleaze, the little rat bastard.
But he was Jack’s only available option.
Daniel was busy playing diplomat.
Carter was busy playing scientist.
That left him to do what he did best, which was get down and dirty.
Well, he’d get the downest and the dirtiest if he could help Teal’c.
And how much dirtier could he get than plotting with Harry, huh?
The General hadn’t been too pleased with Jack when O’Neill had shown up and told him about his encounter with Maybourne. Hammond had been even more unhappy when Jack had outlined his plan to use the little weasel to help him backtrack Simmons. But O’Neill knew Hammond was caught between a rock and a hard place, and it wasn’t the first time the General had been willing to let Jack use his covert ops skills to, well, operate covertly.
George Hammond was a damn good man.
Officially on a couple days medical leave, and unofficially carrying Hammond’s okay, if not his blessing, Jack drove toward the motel. He somehow managed to refrain from humming the Mission Impossible theme as he negotiated the busy streets of Colorado Springs. He was feeling a lot better. Sure, his head still ached, and the world still got a little wobbly when he moved too fast, but hey, he’d had concussions before and he’d survived and this one was just a minor annoyance.
Now Harry, Harry was a major annoyance.
Taking a deep breath and reminding himself he was doing this for Teal’c’s sake, O’Neill knocked on Harry’s door, and entered the room, trying not to touch anything.
Jack didn’t understand Maybourne. He still wasn’t sure that it hadn’t been Harry who’d shot him, though the suggestion that it had been Simmons wasn’t a bad one. What motivated Maybourne? The answer to that question eluded him, and O’Neill just couldn’t trust a man whose purposes he couldn’t divine. Was Harry a patriot, a misguided zealot? The more he saw of the man, the less likely that seemed. Was it money? Greed? He’s thought that once, but no, that didn’t seem to be true. A man in search of vindication? Maybe. A need to be back in the middle of the action? Probably.
Truth was, there was a part of Harry Maybourne that was far too close to a side of Jack O’Neill, a side Jack didn’t want to admit to having, a part of his life he’d sooner forget. Harry kept reminding him of some things he’d done for his country, things he wasn’t too proud of in hindsight.
Harry Maybourne cut just a little too close to the mark for Jack’s own sometimes shaky conscience.
Well, whatever he thought about the man, the truth was, the little rat was good at what he did, O’Neill realized, manipulating all this computer mumbo-jumbo, code words and cryptic messages and hacking into places he wasn’t supposed to be.
Harry Maybourne had his uses.
And Jack O’Neill wasn’t above using him.
If that made them birds of a feather, then so be it. Teal’c’s life was at stake here, and there wasn’t much Jack wouldn’t do to save the life of a man who’d called him brother.
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Destination discovered, the unlikely allies rented a small plane and flown to Minot. Harry piloted efficiently enough in the first half an hour that Jack, his headache spiking with fatigue, allowed himself to fall asleep, waking refreshed when they’d landed at a small private airfield in the flat lands of North Dakota.
At the safe house, Jack had felt useful at last. This was something he could do, something he could accomplish, action that could be taken. Besides, that damn Goa’uld was here, the one that had taken over Conrad. Retrieving the Goa'uld and saving Teal’c, he could kill two birds with one stone on this trip, Jack thought with satisfaction.
Sad, really, how easy it had been for two experienced special ops soldiers to take out a supposed ‘safe house.’ Guess the NID was having as much trouble finding good recruits as the Air Force did these days, O’Neill thought with a certain amount of smug satisfaction.
Conrad was locked in a cell, electrified steel bars made up the cage. The man’s, no, the beast’s, eyes flashed as O’Neill confronted him. And accomplished nothing.
But he found what they needed. Count on the spies to keep video tapes of everything, because if there was one thing Jack knew about spooks, it was that not a one of them ever trusted another. They always had to keep the evidence. Predictable. And stupid. O’Neill wasn’t sure if that was comforting or scary, but if it saved Teal’c, he really didn’t give a damn.
Besides, they now knew the whereabouts of the snake. Before they’d left, the Colonel had called a phone number Hammond had given him, an 800-number, and left the required cryptic message. He assumed that meant that someone the General knew was going to make sure the snaky Mr. C was safely in the proper hands.
An hour later, Jack and Harry were once again in the cockpit of the little Piper Cherokee, winging their way back to Colorado Springs. They had the information. Now, if Daniel and Major Davis had been as successful in dealing with the Russians, they would have a chance to rescue Teal’c, because they needed a DHD.
--------------
Teal’c stepped out of the gate.
He looks okay, thought O’Neill, he looks damned good in fact. Striding past a stunned Sergeant Siler with a “Shake it off, Sparky,” the Colonel hurried into the gateroom and up to the ramp, dodging the blackened DHD and the tendrils of smoke rising from it. The Russians were going to be pissed about that, he thought with a grin. “Teal’c, buddy, you all right?”
“Indeed,” answered the Jaffa, looking around in confusion, wondering what had happened in the control room during their absence on the planet. Puzzling. They had not been gone long and yet somehow the SGC had acquired a DHD…
Carter was staring strangely at the man from Chulak. “Teal’c, as far as you know, what just happened?”
An unusual question, he thought. “I have my revenge. Tanith is dead.”
There was an edge to O’Neill’s voice. “That’s nice. I’m happy for ya’.”
Strange, thought Teal’c, O’Neill did not appear happy. And how had he managed to get his injury bandaged in the few seconds between their back to back arrivals at the SGC? Something was odd, thought Teal’c.
“It’s good to see you in one piece, Teal’c,” Carter added.
O’Neill was patting the Jaffa’s shoulder. “Yes, we thought we lost you, again.”
“You sure you’re feeling perfectly normal?” she queried.
“Yes. What has transpired here?”
The odd look had returned to O’Neill’s face as they began walking toward the gateroom exit. “Oh, believe it or not, you owe your life to a Goa’uld.”
Some things are just not possible, Teal’c knew with a certainty. “Never.”
“Oh, yes,” said O’Neill, with that smirk that meant somehow Teal’c was going to be the butt of one of the Colonel’s immeasurable store of bad jokes. “In fact, you owe your life to a Goa’uld, the Russians and Harry Maybourne. You know big guy, I think you’ve just hit the trifecta… my least favorite aliens, my least favorite country and my least favorite American…” O’Neill opined as they walked out of the gateroom. “And later, Teal’c my good man, you and I need to have a little talk about this Jaffa revenge thing…”
“It is over, O’Neill.”
“Are you sure? No more surprises lurking from your past? No more bad guys you’re bent on destroying? No more blood feuds?”
“None.”
“None at all?”
“None, O’Neill.”
“Well, now that would be a good thing, T-man.” But a very unlikely one, thought Jack O’Neill. Very unlikely.
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--Finish--