Meeting O’Neill

By BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Category: Missing scenes

Season: One

Episode: Children of the Gods

Pairing: None

Spoilers: None after COTG

Rating: PG

Warnings: None, really, though there’s a four letter word or two, but nothing untoward

Summary: Sometimes, General Hammond knows, people aren’t at all what you expect them to be

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Wish I did.

----------------------------

George Hammond was not having a good day… people under his command, good people were dead. One was missing. And no one could explain who, or what, those dead bodies were in the morgue. Or where those… those *things* had come from.

The Stargate.

He’d thought of it as nothing more than a big, huge, stationary boat anchor, sitting in the middle of the old missile silo, looming over his office. He’d been told some pretty amazing things about the gigantic wheel, about what it did and where it went. The were hard to believe, at the time. Before today, at least, when he’d seen it, and seen those creatures, depart through it.

He was a thorough man. When he’d taken this assignment, Hammond had read the top-secret reports, the one from General West, and the other one from the mission commander. He’d studied them. Found them hard to believe.

O’Neill’s especially.

The now-retired officer had told the incredible story in forthright, terse language: Stepping through the blue pool that formed when the gate was activated. Arriving on another world, a desert planet. Finding an alien creature that hijacked a human body, masqueraded as human but most definitely was not. Enslaved a group of people, probably humans taken from Earth centuries ago.

O’Neill had blown the place to hell.

Destroyed the alien.

Ended the threat.

So then what had come though the Stargate just hours ago, wreaking havoc on his command? Who was it? From where? And how?

It was an alien, Hammond knew that, he had seen it with his own eyes.

He’d seen that thing’s eyes glow before it had retreated through the gate, taking one of his people away to God only knew what fate.

George sat at his desk and re-examined the day’s events, over and over, his anger building.

Anger toward whoever was responsible.

And, as his brain worked through the impossible events of the day, he came to a surprising conclusion.

That *bastard*…

He’d done it, well, okay, he’d done *something*, though he wasn’t sure exactly what. Yet. But George suddenly had the pretty damn certain idea that all the answers to what had just happened here in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain could be found in the head of one Colonel (retired) John J. O’Neill.

Now if he could only find the son of a bitch.

And find him he would, if he had to use the entire intelligence network of every government agency on the planet.

O’Neill was a marked man. He’d be found. When he was, Hammond would send someone to fetch the man, and if he didn’t come, why, he’d send a whole squad of SFs, if that’s what it took. Because George Hammond was *not* about to be bested by some smart-ass bird Colonel who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow orders.

Or tell the truth.

O’Neill.

Who the hell was this guy?

Who did he think he was?

George *knew*, as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the East in a few hours, that O’Neill had disobeyed orders. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about that. Maybe General West had been naïve enough to believe O’Neill’s report on the mission to Abydos. But there were tiny little inconsistencies, small things that didn’t quite add up, if you looked at it with a critical eye and didn’t miss a thing. Yes, George had read that mission report so many times he’d damn near memorized every word. He’s noticed a thing here, a thing there, and adding them all up, plain as day they spelled d-e-c-e-p-t-i-o-n.

Deception that hadn’t been his business, until today.

It was only a few months ago that George Hammond had taken this assignment as his last job before retirement. A simple thing, he’d been promised, preside over the shutdown of a top-secret program, a program whose task was completed. Good closeout post for a man ready to call it a career. Quiet. Simple. Easy. Great opportunity to start organizing his memoirs. Spend more time with his grandkids. Wind down toward retirement.

Sheesh.

Damn the Air Force for getting him messed up in this, because he couldn’t just walk away now. Not when there was that gut feeling, growing steadily, that the shit had just hit the fan and nothing was going to be easy, simple or quiet here for a *very * long time to come.

He had to know the truth.

What had O’Neill really done?

Obviously, not what he’d been ordered to do.

__________

George had already interviewed the other two officers involved in the Abydos mission, the last two of the survivors who were still stationed within his reach, Majors Ferretti and Kawalsky, both good officers, good men.

And lying through their teeth.

Protecting themselves?

That he doubted.

Protecting O’Neill?

Abso-damn-lutely.

The ringing of his phone interrupted Hammond’s thoughts.

He tabbed the speaker button for the phone on the neat desk. “Yes?”

“General, those files you ordered have arrived. Shall I bring them in now, Sir?” came the voice of his aide through the phone.

“Yes, lieutenant.”

George was surprised as the young aide walked in, juggling a thick stack of documents. “All those are O’Neill’s?”

“Yes, Sir. This is what came through for your search. And you need to sign these, Sir.” The aide produced several papers and slid them across the desk.

Hammond looked at them with surprise. Signatures required for accessing top secret documents. Okay, he’d already signed every waiver, oath and bond ever associated with the Stargate program; O’Neill must have been involved in other ‘eyes only’ programs in the past.

The aide placed all the folders on the General’s desk, saluted smartly, and executed a precise about face on his way out the door.

Damn, George lamented silently as he watched the young officer leave, kids these days, all spit and polish and no substance.

Sighing, the General pulled the first file off the top of the stack, the words ‘classified’ splashed in red ink across the cover.

Personnel record for one John J. O’Neill, Colonel. Graduated Air Force Academy, not at the top of his class, but not at the bottom either. Rapid advancement. Flew F-16s, distinguished record although marred by several run-ins with authority. Notations of initiative, too much at times, it seemed.

Hmmm.

The next folder had even more red lettering on the cover... O’Neill’s service record in his next assignment, Special Operations.

Hammond swallowed, and started to skim through the file, his gaze lingering on all-too familiar names and places… hot spots of the Cold War like East Germany, Finland, Norway; and then the Gulf War…

Finished with the first folder, he opened the second, this one the thickest of the lot. Medical records. George started to close the folder and then the wording caught his eye… MIA… reported KIA… POW… Beaten, starved, tortured… four months…

His hand moved, flipping the page over, and he recoiled from the vivid, horrifying pictures… a face cadaverously thin, dirt smudges half-covering bruises in a variety of colors, burns and other marks on the torso. A creature regressed to something barely human, but the eyes, the eyes were burning brightly, defiant, undefeated.

The man had been through hell.

And he hadn’t quit.

Paging back even further, to his surprise he found another thick bundle of medical records, referring to a parachuting accident in a classified location; subject effected own rescue; months of medical treatment following for the severe injuries. Recommendations from doctors that he be invalided out…

But he hadn’t left.

And he hadn’t left after the Gulf War either.

So what *had* finally caused him to retire? Sticking with the Air Force after those two horrendous experiences meant O’Neill wasn’t a man to give up easily. And hell, he was only a bit over 40 years old.

Yet, he’d been retired when West recalled him to duty with the Stargate program, only to retire again after the trip through the Stargate to Abydos.

Aha. Medical record, dated just over a year ago. Severe depression.

Depression? Didn’t seem to fit with this guy. George looked again at the picture on the cover, the officer precisely dressed in his Class As, the cocky smile, the belligerent set to the chin, the deep intense eyes, the laugh lines, the jaunty angle of the shoulders. George suddenly thought that there was something vaguely familiar about the face, but he was sure he’d never met the man. Positive, in fact.

Shaking his head, he went back to reading the folder.

‘Depressed. Suicidal,’ he read.

Couldn’t fathom it.

And then he read on.

‘Guilt-ridden over death of young son.’

Damn.

George paused, blinked. He knew all about loss, about how deeply the death of a loved one could tear into a man, even a battle-hardened military man. Nothing prepared you for a blow like that, to lose someone so close.

So young.

A boy, just 10.

O’Neill’s signature on his retirement papers, unlike those on other documents, was so sloppy as to be unreadable.

Apparently, he hadn’t much cared about anything.

So, what had brought him back?

Hammond read more. Hmm, no dependents listed other than a wife. So the son had been an only child.

Why had O’Neill accepted West’s Stargate mission?

And then George knew.

An honorable death.

O’Neill had gone to Abydos intending to die.

And West had been party to it. That son of a bitch.

But O’Neill hadn’t died. Dr. Jackson had.

Or had he?

George tapped a finger on the polished top of his desk, his mind whirling.

Could O’Neill have really set off that bomb?

Suddenly, George Hammond didn’t think so.

Damn, he knew it wasn’t so.

He remembered every detail of O’Neill’s report, including the fact that the Abydonians who had assisted the American team had been young men, little more than boys.

Boys that even a suicidal grieving man couldn’t kill. Boys that a grieving father especially couldn’t kill.

Maybe O’Neill had killed Ra, or at least thought he did.

But set off a bomb that killed thousands, including children?

No way.

He *really* had to talk to this O’Neill.

Tapping his phone once more, George Hammond began issuing orders.

-------------------

As it turned out, O’Neill, surprisingly, hadn’t been that hard to find. He was right there in Colorado Springs. The rest had taken only a little strategic planning.

The intercom beeped, and his aide’s tinny voice reported, “General, Lieutenant Colonel Samuels called. They’ve checked in with our guest up at Norad, and will be here in a couple of minutes.”

George nodded. His plan was in place. Nothing was left to chance. Ferretti and Kawalsky were waiting and would be moved to the briefing room precisely as O’Neill walked past. He’d get the hint. They were in deep shit, and he was the only one who could save them.

Hammond knew the two officers wouldn’t change their story. They seemed to have a great deal of respect for O’Neill, appeared totally prepared to maintain the lie to protect him. Why? He must be one hell of an officer to earn that sort of respect.

______________

Though he didn’t let it show, Hammond was curious as he watched Jack O’Neill slouch into his office. The man didn’t look very military. Needed a shave, and a haircut. Baggy clothes. Glib, smart-ass attitude. But the eyes weren’t laughing. They were assessing, questioning, taking in the room, never missing a thing. Sure, he might seem laconic and disinterested on the outside, but inside, oh yeah, inside, this guy was wound tight as a spring.

He was hiding something.

And George Hammond was going to find out what.

__________

It had, in the end, proven surprisingly easy.

Confront O’Neill with his men, then the threat of sending through the bomb.

Well, actually it hadn’t been a bluff. George did have the authority, and the will, to send through the bomb if O’Neill hadn’t come through with adequate answers.

The man’s emotion had been genuine. The Colonel was good, George gave him that. He’d held out longer than Hammond had expected, but O’Neill had finally, reluctantly, spilled the goods.

Ratted out himself.

Took the blame, to spare the others, to protect his men, and the people on that planet, like he’d protected Jackson.

Clever, what he’d done, and how he’d hidden the truth, never outright telling the lie, just leaving the implications so obvious you had to be looking, and looking hard, to see the tiny little cracks in the story.

~~~~~~~~~~

His command wasn’t a shut-down, close out, going-out-of-business operation anymore.

He could feel his pulse quickening even as he waited for the explosion he figured would be forthcoming from the man thousands of miles away on the other end of the phone line.

“You want *who*?”

“I want Colonel John O’Neill.”

“George, have you lost your mind? The man’s retired. Twice.”

“I know that, General.”

“We’ve got lots of officers with special ops experience…”

“Not like his.”

“He’s insubordinate…”

“I’ve met him, Sir. I know that, too.”

“West judged him unfit…”

“West also sent him on that suicide mission. Used him.”

“And that’s what you intend to do? Use him, too?”

“Yes. But not like West did. This man isn’t ready to retire…”

At the far end of the phone line, General Ryan snorted. “He’s *not*?”

“No, Sir, he’s not. I’ve talked to him. He’s still got the fire, the passion for this job. He had his reasons for retiring before, personal ones, but times have changed.”

The voice over the phone line was softer, thoughtful now. “Why do you want him so badly, George?”

“I’ve just got a gut feeling about him, General. He’s a maverick, a rebel, a man with initiative, who can make a decision on the fly. And while in most assignments, that’s not who or what I’d want, in this venture, it’s what I need. When he’s out there,” George waved a hand at the Stargate, even though Ryan, half a continent away in Washington, couldn’t see it, “he won’t be able to call home for help or advice or a change of orders. He has to operate on his own, think on his feet, keep his head. O’Neill is the right man for this job.”

“You think.”

“I’d bet on it.”

“Bet your career?”

“Yes.”

“Bet the fate of the planet on him?”

“Yes.”

“On a man you know is a liar?” Ryan sounded skeptical now.

“Harsh word, General. He didn’t lie, not exactly. Fibbed on a few of the details, but he did blow the nuke, he did kill Ra…”

“Dr. Jackson wasn’t dead…”

“Granted. But that was not the point of the mission… the purpose of the mission was to end the threat from Ra, and while it’s true that O’Neill rather, ah, ‘creatively’ interpreted his orders, he did accomplish that mission. I believe him on that.” Hammond waited for word from the other end of the line, holding his breath. The silence stretched.

“Okay, George. You have the authorization to recall him to active duty, if that’s what you really want. But let me tell you, I’ll have to call in a few favors to grant this request. He’d better be worth it.”

“He will be.”

General George Hammond hung up the phone. He was a good judge of character, he prided himself on that skill, one that had served him well on his way to the rank of Major General. He ought to be nervous, he’d just bet his career, his hard-won stars, on a burned out retired Colonel that the Air Force had written off. He doubted anyone else he knew would have bet on Jack O’Neill for anything except trouble. But gut deep, George knew it was a good bet.

Unorthodox man for an unorthodox job.

George Hammond smiled. He loved a challenge, a good fight, a new horizon.

He had a sudden feeling that his new command was going to be one hell of a lot more interesting than retirement would ever be.

***The End*** (Well, actually, the beginning <G>)