Gone Missing

Author: Badgergater

E-mail: [email protected]

Season: 8

Episode: About mid-Season 8, a ways after New Order 2

Warnings: None

Pairing: None

Spoilers: New Order

Category: Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG

Summary: Someone wants answers General O’Neill can’t provide

Sequel/Series: None

Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to much more important folks than me, though I'd gladly accept it as a gift, or even willingly pay my entire life savings of $2.98, maybe $3.98 if I go all out and break the piggy-bank; the story is mine and may not be posted elsewhere without permission

Author's note: Thanks to Margo (this whumper’s for you, kid<G>, happy birthday!), Sis, Sid, and all those who feedback; Oh, and I think the mighty mistress of Kent will like this one….<G>

/-----/-----\-------/-----\----------/-----\--------/-----\------\

I awoke to a pounding headache, darkness, and confinement.

Instinctually, I struggled, but whoever had tied me up had done so very efficiently. My wrists were bound closely together behind my back. A blindfold of heavy cloth covered my face and a thick wad of soggy material filled my mouth. I had to fight to hold back the urge to retch.

My body felt like it was a pretzel, one of those twisted and knotted ones. I was jammed in somewhere small and tight, mostly on my side, lying across something that was making every breath uncomfortable. When I cautiously reached out with my feet, they only moved a few inches before hitting something solid and hard.

Whatever it was I was in, it wasn’t stationary. I could feel the vibrations of movement.

A car then.

It wasn’t my truck, I was pretty sure of that. Which meant it must have been his car. I was on the floor of the backseat, on my left side, wedged between the front bucket seats and the back bench, and my legs sort of folded up. I had no idea how long I’d been there, but it was long enough for my hands to have gone numb and for my back to be screaming in protest at the awkward, muscle spasm-inducing position I found myself in.

Needing relief, I tried to roll off my side and up onto my knees.

"Lie still," a harsh voice ordered.

I needed to breathe, I needed to move, and, willfully, I disobeyed.

Out of the pure darkness that surrounded me something smacked me hard in the head, and I groaned and fell back down, afraid I’d black out again. Funny how, when you can’t see a single blessed thing, you can still get that black, wavery, shimmery feeling inside your head.

Think, Jack, I ordered myself, trying to remember what had happened. Sorting through the jumbled bits of memory floating around inside my pounding skull, I began to pull my thoughts together, and recall how it was I’d gotten myself into this mess…

/-------------\

I had been on my way home; I'd gotten home. In fact, because I remembered parking my truck in the driveway. It had been late, well, no later than the usual time I got home these days-- when I actually managed to get home-- now that I was the commander of the SGC. Daylight was long gone, and my front yard seemed especially dark because I noticed that the streetlight nearest my house was out again. It had been about 11 p.m., maybe even closer to midnight, when I’d started wearily up the sidewalk to my front door. Too tired to even be thinking about food, I was looking forward to crashing in the comfort of my own bed for all of nearly five hours until it was time to head back to work.

Except for the front porch light, which came on automatically at dusk and went off at dawn, the house was dark. I never got inside it, though, because, just as I stepped up onto the porch, someone stepped out of the shadows. I really must have been tired that I didn’t hear him, because suddenly, like a wraith out of the darkness, he was just there.

Now that he’d stepped forward, the porch light provided enough illumination that I could see him. He didn’t look like trouble, just an everyday kinda guy, mid-30’s maybe, not as tall as me, but hefty and starting to develop a paunch. He was dressed in an ordinary casual way, blue jeans and a well-worn work shirt, heavy work shoes, and one of those bulky nylon jackets, blue and orange with a Denver Broncos logo, unzipped.

I think I relaxed, because he was so obviously not NID or Trust or one of Kinsey’s henchmen. He was ordinary.

I should have known better.

Ordinary can be big trouble, too.

"General O’Neill?" he asked.

"Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?" I was digging in my pocket for the house key, hoping he wasn’t a panhandler, but then, we rarely had those in my neighborhood. It’s a nice neighborhood. Which makes it surprising that they haven’t thrown me out yet, come to think of it.

He shook his head. "I don’t think so. But you know my brother."

"Your brother?"

"I’m Phil Lotterman. My brother is Mike Lotterman."

"Letterman? Mike Letterman? I’m sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell."

"The name is Lotterman. Sergeant Mike Lotterman. And you should know the name. You’re his CO. You know him."

"Look, Mister... Lotterman, there are a lot of personnel on the base. If you call my office, I’m sure we can straighten…"

The man took a step closer. "I’ve been calling. Over and over, I’ve been trying to call you, to find out about Mike. You should know him. He knows you, he talks about you all the time. About what a good commander you are. About how he wanted to be on your team. About how great it was when you got promoted…"

I was wracking my brain trying to recall this man’s brother. But the sad truth is, there are an awful lot of people in the SGC these days, and I *was* still new at my job. I didn’t know everyone by name, not even close. Sad to say, I’m not good at names. I could think of a couple of Mikes and a guy with the nickname of Lotto. I shook my head. "Look, Mr. Lotterman, how can I help you?"

"I want the truth."

Oh-oh. "The truth…" I said slowly, stalling for time.

His voice was still quiet, but intense. "The truth about my brother. About where Mike is. Why he can’t come home. Why he can’t even call. Why he can’t get a hardship discharge or at least an emergency leave." The voice sounded more desperate now.

"Look, Mister, I…"

"Tell me!"

Too many hours behind a desk had slowed my reflexes for sure because the next thing I knew, Lotterman had a gun in his hand, aimed right at my head.

I threw my hands up in the air.

"Tell me where Mike is," he demanded.

I spread my hands wide in a gesture I hoped was calming. "Look, Phil, did I get that right, you’re Phil? Can I call you Phil? Let’s just relax a bit here and talk about…" I let my hands slide downward.

"Get you hands back up!" He kept the gun pointed at me.

Carefully, I raised my arms. He was looking a lot more agitated and a lot less harmless, but maybe that was due to the fact that I was now looking down the barrel of the gun, which seemed to be aimed right at the bridge of my nose. "Hey, just take it easy with that thing. It could go off you know."

"Yes, it could." His voice suddenly sounded threatening.

I think I underestimated the guy. And I really ought to cut all the bushes and trees around my house, because they provided way too much cover for this fella to hide in wait for me. On top of that, they blocked the neighbors’ view, which meant it was highly unlikely anyone was going to notice anything, much less intervene. Keeping my tone light, I tried to calm him down. "Now Phil, come on…"

"Cut the crap!" he hissed. "The only thing I want to know is, where is my brother?"

"If there’s some kind of family problem, maybe we can work things out."

His laugh was bitter. "Family problem? My Dad is dying. Cancer. He’s only got days left, just days. The doctors told him to get his affairs in order, to say his goodbyes. But he can’t, because Mike’s not here."

"I’m sorry about…"

"I don’t want your phony sympathy, General. I want to know where my brother is!"

"Phil," I said carefully, "I can’t tell you if you won’t let me talk."

"Then tell me."

"I have a lot of men and women under my command. Hundreds. I don’t know all their assignments. Let’s go inside, I’ll get on the phone…"

"No!" He took a step closer, and I could see his face clearly for the first time.

He looked pissed.

I was getting worried. "Phil, now let’s not make any mistakes here…"

"Hands on your head. Turn around and get down on you knees."

"What?"

"Hands on your head. Get on your knees. Now!"

He was inching closer, maybe I could make a move for the gun, but he stopped, as if he was aware of what I was thinking. "I know you used to be Special Forces."

"That was a long time ago," I stated honestly.

"I’m not stupid. Get down or I’ll shoot you."

"If you shoot me, I can’t tell you anything about your brother," I reminded him logically.

"A bullet in the leg won’t kill you, but it might start your tongue working."

"You really don’t want to shoot me," I insisted, hopefully.

"Down on your knees."

"I can’t do that."

"Do it!" He was making me nervous, the way he was waving the gun around.

"Really, I can’t. My knees…"

"Turn around."

If he wanted information, he wasn’t going to kill me. If I played along, I could find a way out of this.

Or so I thought at the time.

So, joints creaking, and adding a theatrical groan in hopes of convincing him that I was a lot less mobile than I actually am, I eased carefully down on to my knees, gratefully making use of the cushioning effect of the doormat.

Apparently, ol’ Phil wasn’t nearly as harmless as I’d once thought. As soon as I was on the ground, he grabbed my right wrist, and I heard the metallic click of a handcuff being locked around it. Before I could do anything to prevent it, he pulled my left arm down and around behind my back as well, moving to snap the second cuff in place.

"Now wait a…" I started to object, pushing upward, trying to spin away from him.

And that’s when I learned that good ol’ Phil was serious, and not a bit harmless.

He clubbed me along side the head with something that felt like a lead weight but was in fact the barrel of his gun. The blow knocked me to the ground, everything going swirling gray and shimmering, my ears ringing. I could feel the warm trickle of blood from near my ear, fat wet drops sliding thickly down my neck.

Phil quickly finished locking the cuffs in place.

The guy who was groaning, I suddenly realized, was me. I shut up and lay still.

"Get up!"

Knock me down, then order me to get up. Damn, I wished he’d make up his mind. I said something brilliant like "arrrgghhh," and tried to push up on my knees but my motor skills weren’t operating very well. I pretty much flopped around uselessly until Phil slipped a hand under my arm and pulled me upward. I got my legs under me then but still being dizzy, I was sort of weaving around on my feet, in danger of crashing until I leaned against the wall of the house. Closing my eyes helped a little, and I swallowed hard, holding down the surging contents of my stomach, thankful I’d never really had supper or it would have reappeared all over my porch by now. Breathing carefully through my nose, trying to clear my head, trying to think of something to do or say, I heard a clinking noise.

Opening my eyes carefully, I saw Phil with my keys in his hand, the keys I must have dropped somewhere in the midst of all this. He was looking at them, and then at me, and I saw him make up his mind to something, and I had the feeling it wasn’t gonna be good. Phil took the keys and stuffed them into his pocket, and then he grabbed my arm and started pulling me away from the house. I resisted, acting more hurt than I was, stumbling, falling once on the lawn as he towed me along toward a car that was parked in the shadows.

I was not letting this nut case take me anywhere.

I planted my feet and stopped, and opened my mouth to yell.

Bad move.

Phil, who wasn’t a tall guy but was hefty enough to pack some power behind his punches, swung the gun at my head once more. I tried to duck and staggered, slipping on the wet grass, and the blow grazed the side of my head.

If I hadn’t already been dazed, I might have evaded the punch completely. And it most likely wouldn’t have done as much damage. But still stunned from the last hit, this one sent me slumping bonelessly to the ground.

I wasn’t out, not quite anyway. I could still hear and though I was too woozy to see clearly, I could feel myself being dragged along the ground, toward the car. I heard the door open.

"Hey, stop," I mumbled, trying to raise my voice louder, but this time he kicked me in the chest, which pretty effectively shut me up since I was gasping for air, making those stupid, ineffective little whooping noises as I tried to force breath back into my lungs.

And then I got sort of frantic because Phil shoved something into my mouth, cutting off what little air I was getting, and something was being pulled over my head. I stumbled toward my feet, getting partly upright and then he kicked my legs out from under me and I was falling, his hands on my arms, aiming my body into the damn car. I hit the edge of the seat and then he was shoving harder and my head impacted on something and it all went blank…

/---------------\

So here I was, tied up, blindfolded and gagged, on the floor of a car, being taken away by a madman who was pissed at me because I couldn’t tell him what had happened to someone I didn’t even know.

Though it was quite likely someone maybe I should know.

Since I had nothing else to do, for the moment at least, I tried to remember.

Lotterman. Lotterman. Lotterman.

Nothing.

But wait, the guy I’d heard some of the SFs call Lotto, he did look sort of like Phil. If that was his brother… crap and double crap and triple crapola.

I did know where Lotto was.

Lotto had gone with Dr. Weir and the Atlantis expedition.

With whom we had no way to communicate.

From whom we’d heard nothing for weeks.

All of whom were now considered to be missing in action.

Sure, we knew they’d gotten there to the Pegasus galaxy and the lost city of Atlantis. What had happened after they shut down the gate, there was no way to know.

And we might never know.

And I couldn’t tell Phil that, and most likely, even if I did, he wouldn’t believe me.

Oiy.

/---------------\

Finally, a long time later, I felt the car slow, and we turned. This road was bumpy and rough, obviously an unpaved surface, the motion jostling me around, adding more bruises to the ones Phil had already inflicted.

We went on for another long, long ride, and finally, we stopped.

The engine was shut off.

I heard Phil open up the door, the jingling sound of the keys being pulled from the ignition, and then the door nearest my head was opened.

It was very quiet, the air was chill on my bare arms, and I could smell pine. Great. That told me a lot. I could be just about anywhere in, oh about five or six or ten states.

Phil still sounded pissed. "Get out," he ordered.

And he was asking the impossible. I’d been cramped up in that car for hours and he was expecting me to just climb out?

Hands grabbed my shoulders, dragging me forward. I tensed, worried that I was going to hit the ground head first, but Phil kept hold of my upper body. I hit knees first instead, the gag muffling the sharp gasp of pain as my bony kneecaps took the brunt of the rough landing. He let go then and I rolled onto my back, straightening my legs ever so slowly.

Muscles are made to move. They don’t take kindly to being held immobile and unmoving for hours at a time, they get stiff and seize up.

The only thing worse than being held motionless for hours was what happened when you finally got to move.

It was agonizing.

Honestly, I’ve been through torture that hurt less.

Cramps raced up my legs, my calves started shaking and I wanted to curl up and moan.

All I actually managed was the moan, and even that was effectively stifled by the gag.

"Quit whining and get up." Phil was pulling on me again, dragging me upwards.

My legs were quivering, refusing to hold me up, muscles screaming in protest at being moved after the long hours of tightly confined inactivity.

Phil pushed me along 25 or 30 steps before we stopped. "Maybe you’ll be more cooperative in the morning."

A hard shove in the middle of my back sent me sprawling. I had no idea of what was in front of me, if I was going to fall two feet or ten or a thousand; if I was going to land on rock or dirt or water or alligators. In midair, I twisted so I wouldn’t land face first, and crashed down on my left shoulder, the wind knocked out of me again.

I thought I would suffocate. It’s really, really hard to get your breath back when you can only breathe through your nose.

Ol’ Phil must have been standing and watching me struggle for air, because, after eons had passed and I finally could breathe again, I heard a door slam shut and the sound of a lock being locked.

Silently, I cursed the son of a bitch for throwing me in here still all trussed up. I cursed my job for getting me into this position. I cursed my own stupidity at letting down my guard and letting myself get taken by an amateur.

Finally, knowing it was futile but my stubborn nature demanding I do something, I got up on my knees, and then, very carefully, unsure if I’d bump my head or not, I slowly stood.

Whatever sort of building I was in was probably no more than six feet tall because I couldn’t quite stand fully upright. Even hunched over, my head brushed the ceiling. Walking sideways so I could lead with my shoulder, two steps carried me to a wall. Keeping the shoulder against that wall, reaching carefully forward with one foot, I checked out my surroundings. A couple of steps and I felt a support post sticking out from the wall. Edging past it, I moved on further. Another step and my foot crashed painfully into something. Turning so I could feel with numbed fingers, I touched a stack of round, rough things. Wood. Working my way past the wood, I found nothing more than five more posts and the door frame.

That’s all there was. A mostly empty woodshed and me inside it.

Knowing there was nothing else I could do, exhausted, I set my back against the wall and carefully slid down until I was seated.

/---------------\

It was a long and miserable night.

Cold. Bruised. Aching. Shivering. Empty stomach growling. Every once in a while I’d get more cramps, in my legs and worst of all, in my shoulders. I tried to roll them, but movement was severely limited by my still-cuffed hands. I didn’t even want to think about them, about what damage might be happening to them. I’d pretty much lost the feeling in my fingers an awfully long time ago. Whether they were getting adequate blood flow or not, I had no way to tell.

Trying to find a comfortable, or at best, the least uncomfortable position, I leaned back against the wall and dozed.

/---------------\

A long time later, I heard the sound of footsteps and then the creaking of the door to my prison opening.

I sat up straighter.

He came closer, saying nothing. I could hear him breathing.

For a long time nothing happened, and then he kicked me in the thigh. It had been one of the few places where I didn’t have bruises. I would have them now.

He kicked me again.

I grunted. Hell, there wasn’t much else I could do, though there was plenty I wanted to do, plenty I would do to him if I ever got the opportunity.

Yeah, I was mad, at me, and even more so, at him.

I really, really wanted a shot at the SOB.

But I knew I had to bide my time, wait for an opportunity. Hope that people were by now looking for me. Hope I’d get lucky and someone would have seen something, or maybe remember this guy, if he’d called for me a bunch of times. Daniel and Carter were smart and they were dedicated, and they would find me.

Eventually.

I just had to summon up the O’Neill bravado and hold on and hold out.

I could feel him standing above me, sense his looming presence. Finally, he spoke. "I’m going to remove the gag. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll make things more comfortable for you. Refuse to cooperate, and you’ll regret it. " He paused. "Nod if you understand."

I nodded slowly.

I felt him bend over me, and then he pushed my head forward, away from the wall. Something tugged at my hair as the gag was untied from behind my head, and the wet wad of cloth yanked out of my mouth.

I leaned forward, twisting my aching jaw and immediately started coughing and retching. My jaw felt broken, my mouth tasted like something old and gross had died in it.

"Water," I finally rasped.

"After you tell me what I want to know," he demanded.

Freakin’ sadist. I coughed again, and cleared my throat, my voice coming out rough and raw. "Your brother is on a mission, but I honestly don’t know just where he is." At least that was the truth. I didn’t know for a certainty. Most likely they were still in Atlantis, but maybe they’d had to leave, or had moved on of their own accord. Maybe they were all captives of some Gould or other alien. Maybe they were all dead.

We didn’t know, and with every passing day, it became more and more likely that we’d never know.

"Oh, so you *do* remember him now?"

"I had a lot of time to think," I snapped. "And I remember him being sent on an assignment."

"His assignment was to your command at Cheyenne Mountain."

"We send people out to places where they’re needed, bases all over the country, and," I hesitated, searching for the right word, "elsewhere."

"Where is he?"

"I can’t tell you that."

"Why won’t you let him call?"

"He’s on a mission… where he can’t call."

"Where’s that? The Moon? Guys call home from Afghanistan and Iraq every day. They send mail and e-mails. We’ve gotten nothing, nothing at all."

I coughed and licked my dry lips and tried to quiet the pounding in my head. "Your brother is on a top secret mission…"

He grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head back, his hand slipping on the short cut strands. "Stop! Stop lying to me! He’s just a regular airman, not Special Ops!"

"Sometimes we need…" I didn’t finish the sentence because Phil kicked me. In the most delicate of places. A hard and accurate kick, right on the most sensitive and unprotected vital appendages a man has. If you’ve never been hammered right there, be glad, be very glad. You have no idea how much it hurts, and take my word for it, you really don’t want to know.

I went down, rolling on my side, my legs pulled up in a too-late attempt to protect the family jewels. I really did throw up, or tried to, but since I hadn’t eaten in I don’t know how long, it was nothing but an endless series of wracking, pain-inducing dry heaves.

Right about then, miserable could have been spelled O-N-E-I-L-L.

Sometime later, when I got my breath back and my brain was no longer totally consumed by the pain, I realized I was once again alone.

My situation hadn’t improved much. I was no longer wearing the gag, and that was a blessing. But my hands were still cuffed behind my back and my eyes were still blindfolded. I had bruises on considerably more parts of my already heavily-battered anatomy. I hurt from my head to my toes and pretty much everywhere in between. To top it all off, I was still locked in a shed without food or water, and had no idea where I was. Phil was still not accepting the only answers I had, and it didn’t appear likely that he’d change his mind, either.

I spent a quite a while working at removing the blindfold. Sitting on the floor, leaning my head back against the wall, I pushed against the post, trying to slide the cloth upward. When that didn't work, I attempted to push the blindfold downward.

It worked.

The cloth started to slide down. For a moment, it caught around my nose and mouth, but I pushed my chin against the rough edge of the post forcing the cloth down to hang around my neck.

I could see now, though there wasn’t much to see. Damp dirt floor. Wood posts propping up the roof. A stack of firewood near the door. Cobwebs. A door with no inside knob or latch. No windows. No food. No water. No P-90. No escape tunnels. No big red EXIT sign.

I forced myself to my feet, weak-kneed and a bit wobbly, and definitely walking hunched over and bowlegged. I staggered around the inside, searching for a way out, for a loose board or even a gap so I could see out. I looked for anything that could be a weapon, and found nothing.

Finally, I sat down again, groaning.

/-----\

The day passed slowly.

Phil didn’t come back, in fact, I didn’t hear anything at all. No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner.

I was thirsty and hurting and thoroughly pissed.

I knew when it was dusk because I felt the air begin to cool.

I began to shiver.

/-----\

Phil returned at dawn.

The bright light, when he opened the door, nearly blinded me, forcing me to squint and turn away.

Phil was not pleased to discover I’d removed the blindfold, but he seemed very happy when, after dragging me upright, he saw the stiff and awkward way I was walking, more like stumbling.

"You’re not so high and mighty now, are you, General?"

Talking past my sandpaper dry throat was hard. "I need water."

"Tough."

"Look Phil," I was still squinting against the too bright light, fighting to keep my balance. "I’d like to help. I would. If I could."

"Yeah right."

"I would."

"Then do it."

"This isn’t going to help your Dad," I told him.

"He can’t die without seeing Mike!"

"Mike knew the risk he was taking."

Phil stepped forward, grabbing hold of my shirt, dragging my face inches from his. "What risk? What did you make him do?"

"I didn’t make him do anything. He volunteered."

"He wouldn’t leave without telling us."

"I don’t know what he did. All I know is, he went on a highly secret mission with a team, an all-volunteer team, that hasn’t completed its mission, and can’t be contacted until they do." That was the truth, without revealing too much.

Phil didn’t buy it.

He slammed the door and locked me back in the shed.

/---------------\

I was in a bad way, and I knew it, after more than 48-hours without any water. A man can go a long time without food but not nearly so long without liquid. Dehydration is a nasty way to go: hallucinations, cramps, confusion.

When Phil came back, I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t a hallucination, and within a few minutes, I was wishing he was.

He jerked open the door. Despite the trouble I was having seeing, he obviously looked pissed. "Tell me where my brother is," he demanded without preamble.

"Can’t," I mumbled.

He grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me to my feet. "This is your last chance. Tell me."

"Can’t," I repeated.

He shoved me toward the doorway, hard, and somehow I managed to keep my feet, stumbling and lurching along a half dozen steps. I fell, landing on my knees with bruising force. "Get up," he ordered.

It seemed like it was the only word I could find to say. "Can’t."

Enraged, he started dragging me by the arms across the rough ground, across the small clearing that was between the shed I’d been locked in and the cabin where he must have spent the last couple of nights. No longer even giving me the chance to try to get my legs under me, he pulled me down a faint path into the trees. The forest was dim and quiet, the only noise the rasping of my labored breathing. Finally, he just sort of dropped me, and I landed hard on my back, my shoulders screaming at the abuse. Groaning, I rolled up onto my knees, unable to get any further. I was getting way too old for this kind of rough treatment.

But then again, it suddenly seemed like I wasn’t going to be getting any older.

Phil grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him. "Since you won’t talk, you’ve left me no choice but to kill you."

"Don’t." Don’t want to tell, don’t want to die, don’t want to be sitting here in the dirt, hurting.

He moved around behind me, one hand pulling my head back by my hair. I couldn’t see what he had in his other hand, but I didn’t need to. The feel of cold steel against my throat was unmistakable.

"Do not harm him!"

Oh, God, I knew that voice.

Phil spun, dragging me with him, the knife tight against my throat.

A familiar figure walked slowly out of the trees, a gun held in his outstretched hand.

Teal’c.

"Stay back or I’ll kill him," Phil shouted.

"That would be unwise," Teal’c’s calm, always unruffled voice was a heavenly sound.

"I’ll kill him!"

I felt the sharp sting as the knife blade bit slowly into my skin, followed by the warm crawl of blood drops sliding down my neck.

"There is no need to harm O’Neill." Teal’c stepped forward.

Phil moved back, dragging me with him. The knife sliced deeper as, too slow, I jerked my head back and away.

‘Shoot him, Teal’c,’ I implored silently.

But it wasn’t Teal’c who shot him, and me.

The sound came somewhere from behind, the distinctive click and buzz, and as much as it hurt, I welcomed it.

/---------------\

I don’t think I was out very long.

Groaning, I realized I was once again on my side in the dirt and pine needles, every muscle and nerve quivering agonizingly in an all-too familiar way.

"Take it easy," somebody told me.

Oh God. This time, it wasn’t an order delivered with malice, but quiet and soothing.

I got my eyes open just enough to see it was Daniel kneeling beside me, lifting my shoulders, helping me up to a sitting position. His face looked worried, frightened even. Not surprising, since I was a bit of a mess, dirty and bruised with blood caked in my hair and down my neck.

"Jack?" he asked softly.

First things first. "Water," I croaked.

Daniel turned and said something to someone I couldn’t see and I heard footsteps. "Grogan is going back to the cabin for some."

"Phil?" I needed to know.

"Teal’c zatted him and you. We’ve got him."

"Good." I swallowed painfully. Talking was hard. One word at a time was all I could manage. "Keys?"

"I have them, O’Neill." Teal’c was there now, too, bending down. I felt his hands touch mine, then a quiet click/snap sound as the cuffs opened. I wiggled my wrists and hands, feeling the nasty tingling start, then carefully inched my arms forward. Instantly, my shoulders objected, cramping and spasming. With a groan, I turned my face into Daniel’s supporting shoulder because I was afraid I’d start bawling like a baby any second.

"Jack?" he asked again.

"M’ fine."

"No, you’re not."

"Am." I just can’t help arguing with him. It’s just so, so very natural. When he says yes, I have to say no; when he says no, I have to say yes.

"You’re not fine."

"M’ alive."

Okay, that he couldn’t argue with.

"True."

I raised a hand to pat his shoulder, the movement awkward and stiff, the still-tingling hand only semi under control, more flopping than patting. "Thanks." He couldn’t argue with that either. "How?"

"When you didn’t show up for work, we went to your house. Your truck was there but you weren’t. We were stumped, but then we found a few drops of blood on the porch, so we knew something had happened to you."

Grogan arrived then with the water, and with Daniel holding the mug, I sipped slowly. I was pretty sure just drinking wasn’t going to be enough. I was going to need IVs and oh yes, some heavy duty muscle relaxants would be really, really nice, too. And real soon. Like now.

"So?" I asked, wanting the rest of the story.

"Right. So, we were stumped. Started checking the usual suspects, you know, the NID, the Trust, Thor, Kinsey, Maybourne. Nothing turned up. Sam got the idea to start checking phone records and we found dozens of phone calls from some guy named Phil Lotterman…"

"Good ol’ Phil," I interjected.

"Yes. Phil had been making calls, asking for you, demanding to know about his missing brother Michael…"

"Went to ‘lantis," talking *was* easier now that I’d gotten some water.

"Right. We found Phil had a dishonorable discharge from the Navy about a decade ago. He’d been shore patrol…"

Well, that explained his know-how with the cuffs, I thought…

"Sam called Pete to check for a civilian record, and we found out he’s got a criminal record, mostly petty stuff."

"Not petty anymore," I mumbled.

"No. Although…" Daniel paused.

I sighed, realizing the inevitable. "Can’t let press catch on…"

"Right."

"Anyway, what took the longest was figuring out where you were. We searched Phil’s apartment, his Dad’s home, canvassed the neighborhood, then finally talked to the guys he worked with. This cabin belongs to one of them. He’d loaned it out to Lotterman last fall at hunting season. It took us a while to find the connection."

"Sss okay. Found it in time." I was feeling tired, really tired, the effects of being cold, hungry, thirsty, bruised and, to top it all off, zatted, were beginning to catch up to me. "Daniel?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"Let’s talk about this later, huh." I closed my eyes.

"Jack?" the worry was back in his voice.

"I’ll be okay. In a bit."

I was about half awake when I felt Teal’c pick me up and carry me out of the forest, back to the clearing by the cabin, and put me into the back of the just-arrived ambulance.

/-----\

Right.

As if I couldn’t guess that.

The really odd thing was how good it actually felt to be back in my office doing the routine stuff of generalship. I didn’t even mind the paperwork. Yet.

Walter knocked, then stepped in, setting a fresh cup of coffee on my desk. "Thought you’d want to see this right away, Sir."

"Thanks, Sergeant." I took the papers he handed me, and skimmed quickly through the report.

Edward Lotterman, father of Michael and Phillip, had slipped into a coma five days previously, and died during the time Phil had me locked in that shed. Ironically, even if I’d been able to tell him what had happened to Michael, his father would never have known.

Phillip Lotterman was now in a military jail, charged with kidnapping and assaulting an officer, with promises he wouldn’t get out for a very long time. There was some hazy, shadowy behind the scenes stuff going on there that I didn’t want to know about.

And Michael Lotterman, like all of the other members of the Atlantis team, was still missing.

I sipped my coffee and thought about the futility of it all, and felt sorry for Edward Lotterman. Though the circumstances were different, I knew what it was like. I’d never gotten to say goodbye to my son, either.

----------The End-----------