Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Category: Drama, adventure

Rating: PG, language

Pairing: None

Season: Written during three

Summary: Jack gets an unexpected visit from an old friend

Warnings: None, except a little language maybe

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Authors Notes: I remember reading once that Jack, to have made Colonel despite the enemies he seems good at making, must have, somewhere along the way, also made a few friends, important friends, who were his mentor/sponsors/supporters.

As always, good betas make good fic: TK, Corine & Carol-- you keep me on my toes. Thanks!

"So, hey who's the big important visitor, Sir?" Major Samantha Carter asked her commanding officer as they met in the hallway outside the SGC briefing room.

"Don't know, Carter. I only just got the word to put on the suit," Colonel Jack O'Neill replied. He was not at all happy about having his day interrupted to put on a show for some Washington flunky, he thought grumpily as he struggled with his collar.

"Sir, stop," said Carter, fixing his lapel and tie before he strangled himself with it. "There."

"Thanks, Major," he said, sincerely. "Ah, there he is," O'Neill added, pointing ahead to the lone civilian in the ranks of SG-1. "You know, Carter, it's not fair. *He* doesn't have to dress up for these political guys," Jack said, pointing at Daniel.

"Oh yes I did dress up, I put on a sport coat," retorted Dr. Jackson.

Jack smiled grimly. "Right. Just buttoned it up over the clean shirt. Spit polished the shoes, too, I see," he added, indicating the shineless leather coverings on Daniel's feet.

Carter grinned, used to her CO's smart remarks. He didn't much like politicians, she remembered, hoping he'd keep his opinions to himself and keep himself out of trouble. Never easy for her team leader, she knew.

At the door to the briefing room, Teal'c, the fourth member of SG-1, waited. He too was dressed informally in fresh BDUs, but as he wasn't actually military, well, not Earth military anyway, he was spared the monkey suit, too, Jack thought enviously, sighing. "You know, maybe I should just join the Chulak Air Force, then I wouldn't have to dress up like this."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "Chulak does not have an Air Force, O'Neill."

"Then we could start one," the Colonel suggested, "one without silly dress uniforms."

"But it looks so nice on you, Jack. Maybe the Senator or the Prime Minister or whoever this is will have some lovely lady politician along that you can impress," said Daniel with a snicker.

Jack beamed. "Now there's an idea," he muttered, giving his team a final once-over before opening the door to the briefing room. "Lovely--"

O'Neill went silent in mid-sentence, stopping dead in his tracks in the doorway, Carter nearly crashing into his back.

"Sir?" she asked, surprised.

"Bill?" A genuine smile split the Colonel's face.

"Whoa," muttered Carter, wondering what this was all about, watching O'Neill bound across the room to not just shake hands, but bear-hug the middle-aged man who stood among the group of suits beside General Hammond. Turning to Jackson she whispered, "Isn't that William Burdine, *Senator* William Burdine, former astronaut, presidential confidante and rumored vice-presidential candidate?"

"Whoa is right," added Daniel Jackson, watching, equally stunned, as O'Neill and 'Bill' were busily backslapping like high school best buddies who hadn't seen each other for years. The Colonel suddenly realized what he was doing and turned back to General Hammond, straightening his jacket with a tug on the hem, still grinning. "Ah, sorry General, haven't seen the man, since, well, in a while. Sir."

Hammond smiled. "I take it you and Senator Burdine know each other, Colonel?"

The Senator stepped forward with a grin equal to O'Neill's. "Yes, we do, General. Thanks for keeping this a surprise visit."

"Surprise?" O'Neill looked from the Senator to Hammond. "Sir, you sly dog, Sir. But thanks."

"You're welcome, Son," Hammond smiled. "I thought you might enjoy giving the Senator the ten dollar tour, rather than my assigning Lt. Simmons to do it."

Jack was still beaming. "Right, Sir. Love to."

Carter, Teal'c and Daniel, forgotten in the back corner of the room, watched in disbelief as their team leader bounced out of the room, talking animatedly with the Senator.

"I don't believe it," Carter whispered.

"I saw it and I don't believe it," Daniel agreed.

"I mean, those two, they don't just know each other. Wow. Senator Burdine. I mean, I always knew the Colonel must have a friend in high places, sort of a patron, you know, but Holy Hannah, that guy. He's one of the most powerful men in the country, in the world. And the Colonel just, just..."

"Yeah, just..." Daniel, the man of words, didn't know what to say.

Teal'c was confused. "I do not understand. Were O'Neill's actions not inappropriate for military personnel when greeting a highly placed politician?"

"Normally, yeah, Teal'c," Carter explained, "but obviously they're old friends."

"That's for sure. I can't wait to hear the story behind this."

"Think he'll tell us?" Carter asked eagerly.

Jackson's smile faded. "He'd better. This I have *got* to hear."

+++++++++++++++++++++

At breakfast two days later, Daniel Jackson sought out O'Neill's table. "Hi, Jack. Didn't see you around here yesterday."

Between mouthfuls of cereal, O'Neill nodded. "Busy. Showing the Senator around."

"So, you know the guy pretty well, huh?"

O'Neill raised an eyebrow, nodded, kept on eating.

"So, how do you know him? I mean, he's pretty famous and just about the richest guy in the world."

"Third richest," the officer corrected.

"Okay, third richest. But how do you know him?"

"Ah, we kind of go way back."

"Kind of? All right, Jack, confess. I've got to know."

O'Neill stopped eating. "Oh for crying out loud, between you and Carter, my cereal's gone all soggy. First she was in here giving me the third degree and now it's you."

"Well, Jack, you do have to admit, this is a pretty surprising thing. I mean, I know what you think of politicians..."

"Crooks, whiners, weasels, incompetents...."

"Yeah, now don't pull any punches..."

"...self centered, power hungry egotists with delusions of grandeur...."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But this guy..."

"He was in the Air Force."

"Oh," Daniel nodded, "and..."

"We, ah, served together once."

"Oh really. He looks, a, ahh, little older than you."

"He does?" Jack said brightly, having noticed the Senator's dark hair. "I suppose he uses Grecian formula. TV and all that."

"Yeah, wasn't he an ace in Vietnam or something?"

"Yup." O'Neill was draining his coffee cup, picking up his tray and heading for the exit.

Hastily, Daniel followed. "So..."

"So what?" Jack asked, striding out of the cafeteria and down the hallway toward his office, hands in his pockets.

"So aren't you going to tell us, me, about it? How you know him?"

O'Neill stopped. "No."

"Jack..."

"No, I said No. N-O. Plain enough for you?"

"Jack," Daniel followed him down the hall, to the Colonel's office.

Carter and Teal'c were already there, the Major picking up the questioning where Daniel had left off. "So Sir, how do you know Colonel Burdine?"

O'Neill looked from one to the other, annoyance on his face. "We served together once. Long time ago. That's it."

"Oh, right, that greeting, that's one you give all your old friends," Daniel commented.

O'Neill glared at Jackson. "Yes, actually."

Jackson laughed.

O'Neill raised an eyebrow. "Now, if you kids are done, I have work to do. Reports to write. Team evaluations to fill out," he stated pointedly.

His team ignored him.

"Sir, I didn't know you knew Colonel "Wild Bill" Burdine. He's been one of my idols, well, since I was a kid," Carter persisted.

"Oh God, since you were a kid? Thanks, Carter, that's just what I needed to hear."

Suddenly, another voice was heard from the hallway.

"You could just tell them, Jack," said the famous voice of William Burdine.

"Colonel Burdine, Sir," said Carter, eyes wide, jumping to her feet.

"Senator," said Daniel, also standing.

"Oh for crying out loud, kids...."

Burdine laughed. "At ease, people. Jack, introduce me, will you?"

O'Neill did, briefly, pointing from one to the next. "Dr. Daniel Jackson. Major Samantha Carter. Teal'c."

Burdine shook hands with each one. "Ah, the famous SG-1. I've heard good things about you, from your boss here."

Jack looked away. "He means General Hammond."

The Senator laughed. "Always a kidder, you are, Jack."

"So," asked Jackson, never easily dissuaded from a quest for information, "how *do* you know Jack?"

Burdine raised an eyebrow, looked over at O'Neill. "You haven't told them?"

O'Neill grimaced and shook his head.

The Senator continued, "Should I tell them, then, or you?"

"You're a much better story-teller," O'Neill answered sourly.

"Well, actually, I only know part of the story, Jack, so why don't you start, and I'll fill in as needed."

Jack looked helplessly at the room full of people, hating to be talking about himself, as he always did. "Bill..., ah, why don't we tell them some of your stories? They're much more interesting than mine. Aerial combat. Space missions. Real Air Force stuff. Or maybe we should just stick to cards. Poker. Even Teal'c knows poker."

"Whatever," Burdine relented, at least outwardly. "We'll find something to talk about. So, okay, wait, let's find a more comfortable place, get some pizza and beer, maybe?" offered the Senator.

Carter gasped. Pizza, beer, and war stories with *the* Wild Bill Burdine? Holy Hannah.

"Ah, Bill, we're on duty," O'Neill reminded.

"Let me take care of that, Jack. Say later this afternoon, your place? I'll get the food and drinks."

O'Neill reluctantly shook his head in agreement. "Okay, Sir," he said, emphasizing the 'sir.'

Burdine laughed.

Carter was still grinning as she hurried down the hall with Jackson, Teal'c following silently behind. "Wow, Daniel, I can't believe this. The Colonel knows Wild Bill Burdine. Man, he was my hero, when I was growing up."

"What I want to hear is Jack talk about his past. I mean, we've known him for years and Jack has never said more than what, ten words, about anything that happened before we met him?"

"Yeah, this should be an interesting afternoon."

"Got that right."

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

A couple hours later they were all gathered in Jack O'Neill's living room, pizza boxes and beer bottles, good imported beer, Jack noted, scattered on the table. One thing about hanging around Bill Burdine, you always went first class. Even the pizza was gourmet pizza.

"So, Jack, want to get started? I don't have forever, and it *is* a long story," the Senator suggested.

"Look, it was no big deal..."

"Right, saving my life was no big deal, to you maybe..."

Sam was looking from one Colonel to the other. "Colonel O'Neill saved your life, Sir? Wow. I never heard this story. It wasn't in your book, Sir."

Burdine raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You read my book?"

"Every word, Sir, practically memorized it. I would remember if Col. O'Neill was mentioned."

"Well, he wasn't a Colonel then, of course." The Senator grinned. "What where you then, Jack? A Captain?"

"Lieutenant." the silver haired officer answered quietly. "Second Lieutenant."

Carter had a hard time imagining her CO as an eager young lieutenant.

O'Neill was still looking uncomfortable. "Look no one wants to hear this..."

"Oh, yes we do," piped up Daniel.

"On Chulak, it is a great tradition among the most celebrated warriors to tell tales of their greatest missions, to encourage the young warriors," added Teal'c.

"This was no great mission, really," said O'Neill, squirming.

"Do I have to order you, Colonel?" Burdine threatened.

"You're not a Colonel anymore, Bill. Can't order me to do anything." Jack reminded him, waving his nearly empty beer bottle in the air for emphasis.

"No, now I'm a Senator. Friend of your friend, the president," Burdine sipped more of his beer. "Besides, this will be educational for your team."

"Bill..."

"Jack, just tell it. Or I will. And I'll make it even worse."

Jack glared at Burdine. "And it was actually nothing we need to talk about..." he insisted.

"Jack, you can tell it your way, or let me tell it my way, but it's gonna get told," said the Senator. He shrugged, and started. "It was in the Baltic States, along the border not far from Czechoslovakia, actually."

"Didn't know you were ever stationed, there, Sir," said Carter, referring to the famous astronaut.

"We've kept it pretty quiet, Major..." Burdine continued.

"At least I have," O'Neill mumbled.

Burdine laughed. "Jack didn't talk about himself much even then."

"Which was?"

"Eighty-something."

"More like the late '70s." Maybe the beers had loosened his tongue, maybe it was just the ease he felt with this man, but O'Neill finally spoke up. "Yeah, and it looked like Jack O'Neill was going to have a pretty short career as an Air Force officer. Barely got my commission."

"Didn't have anything to do with that smart mouth, did it, Jack?" laughed Burdine.

"Maybe," Jack chuckled. "Anyway, I had just been assigned to a new job. I guess they thought I was expendable, or maybe crazy, because not many men were willing to volunteer for a mission as risky as that-- jumping in behind enemy lines to pick up a downed flyer and his RIO."

"RIO?" asked Teal'c.

"Second man in the cockpit, Teal'c. Radio Intercept Officer. Runs the weapons systems. Kind of like the rear seat guy in one of your two man gliders."

"I see," Teal'c nodded.

Jack paused, thinking back, remembering how he'd loved his job, loved being in the Air Force, being paid to jump out of airplanes, but quickly discovering that the Air Force was not equally enamored with him. Oh, sure, he'd had Commanding Officers who liked his work, well, one anyway, who admired his courage and loved the O'Neill bravado. The rest didn't like his mouth, his questions, his stubborn insistence that there might be another way, and his unorthodox methods that managed to accomplish the task but didn't fit the Air Force's rigid set of Standard Operating Procedures. More than one senior officer had already told the gung ho young man that he wasn't Air Force material, but Jack was desperate to prove them wrong.

Truthfully, when that rescue mission had come along, young Lt. Jonathan O'Neill had seen it as much of a chance to rescue his faltering career as to rescue a downed air crew.

A dark look crossed O'Neill's face as he remembered that time. He'd quite frankly been really worried about an abrupt end to his Air Force days, so he'd taken a dirty, dangerous job, because it was the only way he could think of to impress anyone with his value to the USAF.

"So, this was oh about, what, late 1970s-something?" O'Neill turned to Burdine for corroboration, got a nod. "Back in the days of the Cold War, eons ago, before you were born," he said, looking at Sam.

"Ah, I remember, Sir. I'm not that young."

"Ah, right, Major. You were a precocious and prodigious reader, even in kindergarten, I take it?" He smiled.

She grinned.

"Cold War?" Teal'c had to ask.

"Cold War, icy relations, between the good guys and the bad guys, the east and the west..." O'Neill waved a hand in the air.

"Is not cold more of a north versus south weather event, O'Neill?"

Jack grinned. "Okay, Teal'c, you know, communist versus non-communist. Free versus not so free."

The big Jaffa had one eyebrow tilted in a querying look.

"Okay, just take my word for it. They didn't like us, we didn't like them. We spied on each other, across the Iron Curtain."

"I was not aware that curtains were constructed of iron, O'Neill. Those I have seen are usually made of a light cloth material..."

"Okay, Teal'c, now you're pulling my leg...." O'Neill saw the eyebrow tilt again, raised his index finger and waggled it in warning. "Ah. Ah. No more questions."

In the background, Burdine was trying his best to suppress a chuckle. "You know, Jack, I like this guy from Chulak. He certainly has your number."

"Watch out Bill, or he'll have yours, too," Jack muttered with a grin.

"So, back to the story, Sir. Nineteen-seventy something, middle of the cold war," prompted Carter.

"Yeah, well, I was on a ready response rescue team, guys who 'chuted in for whatever purpose was needed on the Q-T, gathering intel, hit and run demolition, rescues. The team was Major Steiglein my CO, Captain Harold the 2IC, Sergeant Willington, and me. The brass called all the teams in to base one night, all the big wigs had their undies in a bundle over some pilot who'd gotten himself in trouble, disappeared over enemy territory, behind the Iron Curtain. His plane went down in one of those Communist satellite countries with the unpronounceable names. Kozar-something," O'Neill waved a hand in the air. "We didn't know what was up, why the brass were so hot to get these guys out. I mean, we'd had other, ah..."

"accidental incursions..." offered Burdine, tipping his beer at O'Neill.

"Right, *accidental incursions* had happened often enough before, usually no big deal, half the time the Soviets were willing to trade our guys for a truckload of wheat or a boxcar full of truck parts-- anything, they were so desperate. No one outside the military knew how often it happened, or the little deals we made. So we didn't know what was up. They told us you guys were carrying some top secret spy equipment. Didn't make sense. I knew if that was the case all you had to do was smash it, burn it, hell, bury it, and no one would know, but the brass, they were sweating."

Jack took another swallow of his beer. "So, when they id'd the crash site..."

"Shoot down site, Jack, shoot down. I didn't crash. I was shot down."

O'Neill chuckled. "Yeah, sure, anything you say. Once the *shoot down* site was calculated, they sent us in to retrieve you and...." the Colonel looked over at the Senator.

"Warren, Bobby Warren."

O'Neill nodded, took another sip of his beer. "We flew out of one of our European bases, one of those top secret places. I imagine it's shut down now."

"Or not..." said Burdine cryptically.

"So we made the high altitude jump into hostile territory, over some pretty rugged mountains. We were supposed to find the 'cargo' and call in a pick-up team. Fast and simple."

"Isn't jumping at night a little dangerous?" Daniel asked, innocently.

"Yeah right. Jumping at night. Over hostile territory. During the cold war."

"Piece of cake," both veteran soldiers muttered together, and laughed.

"Started real good, too," O'Neill continued. "First, there were weird air currents over those mountains, scattered the team all over the countryside. We spent the whole first night rounding each other up. Captain Harold must have been five miles away from the rest of us."

Jack went silent a moment, remembering.....floating down over the quiet mountains, the countryside dotted only by the rare lights of distant cities. Hanging on the air, the only sound the wind and the snap of his parachute lines, and the thundering of his heart as adrenaline surged through his veins. And then, even in the darkness, he could see the ground rushing up to meet him-- hit, roll, gather your 'chute, bury it. Head to the rendezvous.

Sit and wait. And wait and wait. No one came. His concern was beginning to grow into panic, because no one else had arrived. He didn't dare break radio silence because he was the newbie on the team, the body at the bottom of the food chain.

O'Neill roused himself from his reverie and continued the tale....

Finally, a quiet voice on the radio. "O'Neill, you there?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Where are you, Lieutenant?"

"At the rendezvous."

Quiet disgust on the other end. "Figures. Fuck up O'Neill would be the one to land right on the drop zone." The voice was back to normal. "O'Neill, stay put, we'll meet you there."

Instead of going away, relieved that his teammates were found, the knot in the young airman's stomach got bigger.

It was nearly dawn before the team was assembled, too late to begin their search.

They hid during the day, staying quiet, taking turns on watch between naps, watching the sky and the roads for signs of activity, for the Commies looking for them or for their quarry. They didn't see much of either, a few trucks on a distant highway, a couple of planes cruising high overhead, probably American. Finally, just before dusk, Steiglein called his team together. "Okay, boys," said the Major, drawing a map in the dust. "Our cargo went down over here, and latest intel was that they were to meet us over here, near that hill. Map grid G8, K4, that's our rally point. You all got that?" He looked around, most pointedly at O'Neill. The young man nodded. "Stay quiet, stay alert, stay together. Keep off the radio until we're at the rally point."

After dark, they began hiking toward the mountain peak, now only a shadow against the darker night sky. It was quiet in the sparsely settled countryside as Jack walked alongside Captain Harold. "So Jack, who do you think this fancy flyboy is, huh?"

"Captain?"

"Well, this is so damned hush-hush they have to be covering up something. Figure it's probably some Senator's kid on holiday taking a lark with one of our planes or something. Otherwise, why don't we even have a name? We've never gone looking for guys without knowing a name, seeing a picture, something. Must figure we'll know this guy when we see him. You ever gone looking for somebody without even knowing the guy's name?" Harold asked, disbelieving.

Jack didn't tell him he'd never actually gone looking for anybody, for real, before. Figured this was a good time to clam up and pretend to know something. "Uh, no Sir."

Harold looked at him strangely. "You're almighty quiet tonight, Kid."

"Uh, yes, Sir." Boy, didn't that sound intelligent, Jack. Great way to impress these guys and save your career.

They walked on in silence, finally reaching the hill. Jack stood on watch listening as his CO and 2IC sent out a coded transmission, a series of clicks. Silence. Long minutes of silence followed before Steiglein's radio came to life with a string of answering clicks. O'Neill heard the Major sigh. "Right code." Quietly, he whispered into the radio, "Bravo Two Eight Niner, this is Sierra Robert One Niner Four."

Clicks in acknowledgement. "So far so good," whispered Steiglein.

"Yeah, well that's only one answer," worried Harold.

"Maybe they're together."

"Doubt it. They're used to riding in planes, not jumping out of them. And look at how we ended up. Air flow over these mountains is a bitch, swirling all over hell. I'd bet they're separate and lying low. Or so I hope." In a moment, more clicks.

O'Neill concentrated on keeping watch, letting the senior officers behind him make the decisions. He could hear their whispered conversation as they made plans, until finally Harold came looking for him. "Come on, we're off. Got a pick-up to make before daylight."

Willington was on point, Steiglein navigating from just a step behind, O'Neill and Harold bringing up the rear. They'd cautiously covered several more miles, moving toward a series of low hills to the south before pausing. "Road ahead, Sir," said a breathless Willie. "Looks pretty busy."

They moved carefully into position, then crossed in a rush, and continued moving quietly through the still forest.

Steiglein was back on the radio, exchanging code as they zeroed in on their guy.

And then O'Neill heard it.

Jack was walking about 20 yards behind Harold when he heard something in the brush behind him. He stopped, and the Captain turned to look. The young Lieutenant waved at the brush behind him, and the Captain went back to him. "What?" Harold whispered.

"Thought I heard something, Sir."

"Relax, O'Neill, nobody else heard a thing. Be cool, Kid."

Damn. He had heard something, he knew he'd heard something. It wasn't much but it didn't belong out there in the night anymore than he did.

Up ahead, Steiglein was working the radio, and Jack heard it again. A radio, behind him, someone was listening in. "Captain!" O'Neill hissed.

"Quiet," he ordered, and then he heard Steiglein talking to someone, the missing RIO it turned out.

"Captain Warren?"

"Boy am I glad to see you guys," said the flyer, who was huddled under the spreading branches of a heavy pine. "I haven't seen Bill..."

"Enough, Captain. No names, please," ordered Steiglein, leaving O'Neill wondering what the hell was going on, what he and the others hadn't been told.

"Major," Jack spoke up, ignoring Harold's last-ditch attempt to stop him from speaking up. "Sir, I heard something back there. Sounded like a radio, like someone might be picking up our signals."

Steiglein shook his head. "Kid, we're on a secure frequency. No one else is on it. Probably just heard an echo."

"No echo, Sir," even now, more than 20 years later, Jack could remember the feeling of desperation that his information was being ignored. He had heard what he'd heard, he *did* know what he was talking about. He might not be much of a by-the-book, follow-orders soldier, but he was good out in the field. He'd learned all about the woods, tracking and the outdoors from his Granddad up in Minnesota during his childhood summers. "Sir, I know what I heard. There's someone else out here."

Even Harold, who so far had seemed to be on O'Neill's side, had heard enough. "Listen, Kid, it's easy to get confused out here. It's quiet and the sound moves oddly, echoes."

"Damn it, Sir," Jack couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice. "I heard a radio from behind us. I've been in the woods at night before, Major..."

"Right. From Chicago, aren't you, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Sir, but my grand--"

"O'Neill, that's enough. You help Warren here, he's hurt. Willie, keep point and Harold, pick up the six. We're going to move to our designated LZ, get the Captain out of here, look for his partner next."

"Sir," O'Neill began to object.

"Enough, Lieutenant."

Jack had no choice. He slipped a shoulder under the wounded RIO's left arm, taking most of the man's weight on his own slender frame, and helped the man through the woods. They walked for an hour before taking a break.

"You hear anything back there, Deke?" the Major asked his Second in Command.

"Naw, nothing," Harold answered, looking pointedly at O'Neill. "Quiet as a tomb."

O'Neill shivered, not liking the choice of words.

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

Jack was standing next to his CO at their next break when he finally got an answer to his clicking radio call. "Hey, boys, we got him." More coded clicks were exchanged, before Steiglein quietly spoke into the radio, "Bravo One Eight Niner, this is Sierra Robert One Niner Four. Give us a spot. Over."

A soft voice on the radio. "This is Bravo One Eight Niner, at Gulf Four Sierra Six."

"Jesus, this guy is halfway across the country," Jack heard his CO mumble before answering. "Read you 5x5 Bravo One. We..."

Just then, O'Neill heard a mumbled curse. "No," Harold grabbed for the radio. "I heard it, I heard it too. O'Neill was right. There is someone back there," there was fear in the Second's voice, now, "someone *is* on the radio with us."

Steiglein was on his feet. "Keep cool, don't change the attitude, but we break off for the LZ, now. O'Neill, get this guy on that chopper. We'll cover. Keep quiet, keep cool."

Steiglein's radio crackled to life, the worried pilot on the other end, O'Neill realized. "Sierra Robert, I was unable to copy."

Steiglein clicked his radio twice, then shut it off, motioning to his team to move. Quickly, they were on their feet, heading for the pick-up, O'Neill half carrying the wounded RIO.

Warren stopped. "Hey, wait, we can't leave the Col--- we can't leave my pilot behind. No way."

"Sir, come on," O'Neill urged. "We can send another pick up team later."

"No way, boys. No one gets left behind."

"We'll all be left behind if we don't hurry. That's not going to help your buddy," hissed Harold.

"We get you to the pick-up, we'll go after your guy, okay?" promised Steiglein.

Reluctantly, the injured second seater agreed.

+++++++++++++++++

They hurried through the forest for another hour, Willington spelling O'Neill helping the wounded Captain Warren, until they neared their first rendezvous point. Harold scouted ahead while the others rested, the Sergeant checking Warren's bandaged leg.

Finally, Harold came back. "Looks clear. I think we lost 'em. Call it."

Steiglein hit his radio send button three times, paused, then clicked it twice. Turning to his team, he whispered, "okay, when the chopper clears the hill, O'Neill, you get that guy on board. We'll be right behind you."

"Sir, what about the pilot?" the young Lieutenant asked.

"O'Neill, we've got one man. We'll have to send another team..."

"No," hissed Warren. "I'm not about to leave Bill behind."

"We are all going back on this chopper. Now." ordered Steiglein.

"Sir, we can't..."

"O'Neill, can it. We've got one. They've probably got another team on the way to the other guy."

O'Neill didn't believe it, stared stubbornly and angrily at his CO, finally snapping, "Yes, Sir."

They heard the choppers come in, the team standing poised at the edge of the woods watching as one broke off from the flight of three, rotors whipping the tree branches as it sank toward the meadow grass. Steiglein turned to his team, "Okay, men...."

And then all hell broke loose. O'Neill heard the first bullet, the distinctive whine as a slug whipped past his head, and he ducked instinctively, taking Warren down with him. He saw Steiglein go down, wounded, and Harold grab for his injured CO.

"Go, go," shouted Harold, pushing O'Neill, who grabbed Warren again and began running, adrenaline fueling his muscles as he all but carried the injured RIO. To the young Lieutenant, it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. More bullets whipped overhead, the heavy machine guns on the chopper answering, an airman waving frantically from the open chopper doorway, encouraging the running search and rescue squad. Harold was dragging Steiglein, and then O'Neill saw the Captain jerk and go limp, crashing to the ground, blood spurting.

Jack left Willington with Warren, the Sergeant screaming, "O'Neill what the hell are you doing?"

"Get him in the chopper," Jack shouted to the NCO, then turned back to his CO and 2IC. Grabbing Harold, dead or unconscious he wasn't sure, he threw the man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and ran toward the chopper, Steiglein staggering alongside.

The chopper crewman was screaming above the noise of the rotors. "Hurry, damn it," and Jack heard the 'ping' of slugs skipping off the chopper's armor plating. Shit! he thought, that was close, and then it was more than close, and once again he ducked, hitting the ground. Pushing himself quickly to his feet and grabbing Harold, with the help of the chopper crewman he threw his 2IC into the bird. The crew chief grabbed O'Neill's arm, but the young Lieutenant shrugged it off, instead reaching in and unbuckling Steiglein's radio.

"In, now!" shouted the chopper crewman.

"No, I'm going back for the pilot." Jack could see Warren's grim face. "No one gets left behind, Sir."

Steiglein was shouting, O'Neill ignored the words. "Lt, get in here. Now. That's an order."

"Major, we left the pilot back there, Sir."

The crewman. "We have to go Lieutenant. Now. Can't wait."

"Then go." O'Neill shouted.

"O'Neill, get your ass in here," his CO's face was red with fury, replacing the pain. "That's an order, airman. What can you do by yourself..."

Suddenly, Jack realized Willington was also shoving his way back toward the door, a grim smile on his face. "I'll keep an eye on him, Sir," shouted the Sergeant, jumping back on the ground beside O'Neill.

Jack grinned. "Okay, come on. There's a pilot waiting."

They turned and ran, diving into the tall grass, crawling slowly back into the trees as the helicopter took off and the meadow swarmed with searching government troops.

+++++++++++++++

Silently, the two Americans worked their way through the forest, until the sounds of the frantic searchers faded in the distance behind them. The forest was once again quiet. O'Neill stopped, needing a break, needing to draw a breath and think. Willington following at his heels. Jack found a well-concealed spot behind a broken over tree and sat down.

"So, what's the plan, Sir?" asked the NCO.

"Ah, the plan. Ah, the plan is, ah, get the pilot."

Willington was baffled. "That's the plan? Get the pilot? Lieutenant?"

"Okay, okay, I haven't had time to plan. Yet. I'll think of something. We've got the radio, and I overheard the guy tell the Major his map coordinates."

"So did those guys," said Willington, pointing a thumb back at the clearing still full of angry communist soldiers.

"Right, well, first, they may have heard those coordinates, but unless they have one of our maps, they don't know the references, so they don't know where that is. Second, SOP says he moves one klick north and west after an unanswered report. So we head for his original location, move from there." O'Neill grinned. "Piece of cake."

Willington, who was a fourteen year veteran of the USAF sat, shaking his head. "What the hell am I doing out here with a goddamned rookie lieutenant?" Suddenly realizing what he'd just said, he hastily added, "No disrespect meant, Sir."

"Look Willington, I don't expect you to figure anything else. You don't know me and I don't know you. But I'll tell you, I'll be damned if I'm going to leave some poor SOB behind. No one gets left behind, that's the most important thing anybody ever taught me since I joined this man's Air Force, and I don't intend to forget it. And it's obvious it means something to you, or you wouldn't have jumped back out of that chopper either. So, simple. We find that pilot, make a new rendezvous and go home."

"Think they're still looking?"

"Oh yeah," said the young Lieutenant. "They're back there, looking, but they don't know how many people were on that chopper. In all that confusion, I'm pretty sure we made a clean get away, nobody followed us." O'Neill checked his compass, consulted his internal map to recall the coordinates the pilot had given, then pointed ahead. "That way. Let's go."

Before dawn, still maintaining radio silence, they found a spot to hide during the day, a rocky outcropping on a hillside where they could remain hidden yet watch the surrounding countryside. Jack took first watch. Willington, veteran soldier that he was, curled up in his jacket and was asleep within minutes.

+++++++++++++

The two traded watches during the day while the other slept, or in the young Lieutenant's case, tried to sleep. At his next watch, O'Neill studied the countryside, mind whirling, hoping to come up with some plan that was more original than just 'find the pilot and call in a chopper.' Hell, he didn't even know if they'd come back for another pickup. It was entirely possible they wouldn't, since one incursion across the border could be explained away as an accident, another within 24 hours could be interpreted as hostile. Hell, it could start a whole war, touchy as US-Soviet Block relations were. It all depended on how important this pilot, or what he was carrying, really was. Maybe, depending on where the pilot was, they could even use the second pick-up plan, the boat far to the north. That was a more likely possibility, he figured.

So okay, Jack finally decided, subtlety wasn't his strong suit. Stick with the obvious. Find the pilot. Find a way home. Do one thing at a time. Had to find the flyer and make contact first. Worry about the rest after that.

At dusk, after a cold meal and not enough sleep, the two prepared to move toward the pilot's last known whereabouts. O'Neill noticed Willington watching him strangely. "Spit it out, sergeant."

"Are you okay, Sir?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you don't look so okay."

"What, I look nervous? We're all alone behind enemy lines looking for a lost pilot with no real plan on how to get home. And *if* I get home, the Major will probably court martial me for disobeying his order to get into that chopper. So, no, I don't expect I should look happy right at this moment. Yup."

"Sorry Sir," said Willington.

Jack tried to smile reassuringly. "Don't worry, Willie. They'll only court-martial me. I'll tell 'em I ordered you to come along." If I live that long, O'Neill thought, suddenly realizing that court martial and Leavenworth was a lot better alternative than some Iron Curtain Kozarstan dungeon-prison-labor camp. Jesus, what had that impetuous act first, think later, don't-get-on-the-chopper brain-dead decision gotten him into???

"Thanks," the Sergeant added dryly.

"Welcome."

They walked for several hours, having to pause often, as there were more patrols out, many more than they'd seen the first night. "I believe they're suspicious, Sir," suggested the Sergeant.

"Oh really? Well, they know the pilot's still here. They heard him on the radio. So they probably figure we'll have a second team come in after him."

"Hope not. Poor bastards will walk into a trap."

"I know," agreed O'Neill.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Nearly to the grid co-ordinates, the young Lieutenant pulled out the radio he'd taken from his CO. He clicked it twice, and waited. No answer. Clicked twice again. Waited. Jack wracked his brain, trying to remember the codes. Why hadn't he paid more attention during the briefing? Why hadn't he *listened* when his CO and 2IC were talking to the pilot? Because, Jack, no way in hell you figured you were going to end up running this show, you, Lt. Smartmouth Screw-up.

O'Neill tried again, sent three clicks, paused, two clicks, paused. Jack almost jumped out of his skin when the radio suddenly spit the same code back at him, then it changed. Jack answered. Two clicks.

"Bravo One Eight Niner, this is Sierra Robert Three Niner Four."

"Sierra Robert Three? What happened to One?" came the quiet but worried reply.

"Bravo One, Three is now team leader. We need a rendezvous."

"Okay, Three, that's original plus deuces."

"Read that. Deuces. Over."

O'Neill clicked the radio off. "Deuces. Our first map coordinates plus two, that's two klicks north and two west." He thought a moment, envisioning the map. "Okay, Willie, let's go."

Setting off again through the tangle of forest, they traveled another hour before coming within sight of where O'Neill expected to rendezvous with the missing pilot. He pulled out his field glasses, scanning the scene before him, quiet countryside, a farm in the distance, cattle in a nearby pasture grazing quietly. This was where the pick-up would be tricky, because the map coordinates could lead him to an area, but actually finding one man who was hidden was tough. They needed to zero in on each other carefully. Both sides wary of walking into a trap, especially after all the commotion the day before. So....

"Bravo One, Sierra Robert Three needs an invite."

"Three, I need you to find home plate."

O'Neill's brain buzzed. Some damn otherwise bored guy who'd never been on a field mission in his whole life must spend an entire career locked in the basement of the Pentagon thinking up these stupid code names. Code names for everything. Home plate. Home plate, home plate was code for a house, okay, only one house in sight.

O'Neill clicked the radio twice, meaning he'd recognized home plate. "We're southeast of home plate," he whispered into the radio.

The quiet voice was back. "You know the 6-3-1 grounder? That's where I am."

O'Neill clicked his radio twice in acknowledgement.

Willington raised an eyebrow.

"Six three one, double play. Shortstop to second to the pitcher covering at first for the double play. Pitcher's our pilot, we meet him at first, which would be..." O'Neill looked again at the quiet farmhouse, "I figure that clump of trees right about there."

+++++++++++++++++

Again, the two remaining members of Sierra Robert made a quiet trek through the dark woods, carefully crossing two open pastures and a road before reaching the little patch of woods. Just before entering the quiet trees, O'Neill whispered to Willington. "Sergeant, I'll go straight in. You wait for a twenty count, then circle in from the right. Got it?" The Sergeant nodded. O'Neill clapped him on the shoulder and began to crawl across the last bit of open ground and into the woods.

Once safely in the trees, Jack climbed to his feet, then straightened and moved carefully through the thick brush. He placed each foot cautiously, took a step, studied his surroundings, took another, gun up, ready.

Even then, Jack never knew the man was there until it was too late. Something cold and hard and round was shoved tightly against his neck.

"Halt," a voice hissed in his ear. "Hands up."

Hardly daring to breathe, O'Neill stopped, raised his arms. "Sir, it's.."

The gun ground into his neck. "I said quiet." A hand checked him quickly for further weapons.

"We're here for the package," O'Neill started.

"Shut up," said the voice, hand still checking, finding the Lieutenant's radio, taking it and turning it off. A small flashlight was clicked on, the beam directed straight at his eyes. O'Neill, eyes accustomed to the darkness, squinted, immediately blinded by the bright line.

"Who are you?" whispered the unseen face.

"Sierra Robert Three."

He felt the man behind him relax. "Bravo One, and I'm glad to see you. But son, you should be a little more careful. If I *wasn't* Bravo One, you'd be dead."

"Not hardly," spoke up another voice, the pilot spinning to look to his left, where the voice had come from, accompanied by the unmistakable click of a weapon's safety being disengaged.

"Sierra Gulf Four," said Willington. "Sgt. Willington."

Jack, feeling like he'd heard the pilot's voice somewhere before, spoke up. "Lieutenant Jack O'Neill, Sir."

The man behind the flashlight, face still shadowed, looked from one to the other in disbelief. "A Lieutenant and a Sergeant?"

"Yes, Sir," answered O'Neill.

"Oh this is rich," chuckled the familiar voice. "I know they didn't want to give anything away, but this is a bit much."

"Sir?" asked a confused O'Neill.

And then the man switched off the flashlight. As O'Neill's eyes re-adjusted to the darkness, he turned and got his first glimpse of the man he was there to rescue.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"And there I was, staring straight into one of the most famous faces in America," added Colonel Jack O'Neill, pausing for a swallow of his third beer. "Lt. Col. Wild Bill Burdine, ace aviator, astronaut, Air Force public relations specialist."

Burdine laughed. "You think you were surprised? Here I was looking into the face of a wet behind the ears scared kid..."

"Wasn't scared," O'Neill answered defensively. "Just surprised."

Burdine chuckled. "Yeah, that you were." A frown crossed the famous face. "It didn't change the fact that I was glad to see you. I mean, there I'd been for three days, alone, hurt. Didn't even know how my RIO was, then I'd heard a rescue team on the radio, and then everyone disappeared. I'd heard all that shooting, heard the choppers, figured my goose was cooked. Would have been, too, if it hadn't been for this guy," Burdine waved his beer at O'Neill.

"Yeah, well," muttered the Colonel, looking embarrassed.

"My God, Sirs, it would have been a complete disaster for the U.S. if the Russians had managed to take you into custody, Colonel," said Carter. "The propaganda value of it..."

"They very nearly did." Burdine's eyes drifted to the view outside O'Neill's picture window, the spectacular vista of snow capped mountains.

"Now that's an understatement," added O'Neill, eyes meeting Burdine's for a moment, then sliding away to view the same scene, recalling another mountain range, not as high as the Rockies, but high enough.

"So," prompted Daniel.

O'Neill and Burdine looked at one another, Burdine picking up the tale.

"Well, I was pretty surprised at who my rescue party was, I mean, I knew there was some sort of screw up to have these guys picking me up." O'Neill rolled his eyes. Burdine chuckled. "So he," Bill nodded at O'Neill, "explained about the chopper and sending my RIO home, and promising no one gets left behind. He was still green, but I had to admire his chutzpah, even while I wondered about his brains."

O'Neill tilted his head at his old friend. "Yeah, well, some still do."

Burdine snorted. "I bet." The Senator paused for another sip of beer. "So, there we were, miles behind enemy lines, God only knew how far from any rendezvous point, and half the Kozarstan army looking for us. We were in trouble."

The two Colonels looked at each other and grinned. "Ya think?"

++++++++++++++++++

O'Neill explained to Lt. Col Burdine that there was a second rendezvous location set, if they could get there. The three Americans set out again, across the mountains, avoiding air searches and foot patrols.

They had been walking for hours, O'Neill and Willington taking turns helping Burdine, who had a likely sprained ankle. Stopping at last for another rest on a hill high above a winding river, Burdine finally asked the question O'Neill had been dreading. "So, Lieutenant, how are we getting out of here?"

"Well..." Jack looked up. "I suppose we could click the heels of our ruby slippers and chant there's no place like home, there's no place like home...."

"Ruby slippers?" Burdine was puzzled.

"Wizard of Oz, Sir," said O'Neill.

Burdine started to chuckle, then laugh. "You don't have a plan, do you? Oh God, I've been rescued by Dorothy."

"Actually, Sir...."

"O'Neill, really, kid, I don't want to hear it. Wizard of Oz. How old are you? Twelve?"

Jack didn't know whether to laugh or feel insulted.

"Not as young as I look, Colonel. And I will come up with a plan. I do know our alternate pick-up site was near the harbor at Kurash. There's a boat there that will take us out to international waters and a pick-up by the Navy."

"Okay, so if we want the boat instead of the ruby slippers, how do we get to Kurash?"

"Still working on that, Sir."

"Great," muttered the Colonel, all the laughter gone out of his face. "My life is in the hands of a clueless rookie."

O'Neill bristled. He might be new at this, but by God he knew a few things. "Colonel, I will get you out of here, Sir," he pledged, fiercely.

Looking into the serious brown eyes, Bill Burdine had the inexplicable feeling that somehow, rookie or not, this young man would manage to find a yellow brick road somewhere.

++++++++++++++++

After they'd all rested and shared their meager rations. O'Neill presented his plan. "Sir, I've been observing their actions," he stated, pointing to the troops camped in the valley below. "They've got quite a few troops there, watching the bridge. They must know we're on this side of the river and assume our plan is to go west, across the river and back toward the border. They're not looking for us to head north, to the sea. So, we give them what they expect, a move to the west, a diversion to keep them convinced we're headed that way," he pointed west, "while in fact we go that way," he nodded to the north.

"Sounds good, Lieutenant. Go on," Burdine nodded. "How do you plan to do this?"

"You, Sir, and the Sergeant here, you'll keep heading north tonight. I'm going to give you several hours head start, and then I'm going to sneak down there. They've been pretty relaxed, leaving their vehicles sit there. I've only seen just the one guard. I'm going to, um, borrow one of their trucks, and make a break for the river, lead the search to the west. That should keep them off your tails long enough for you to get to Kurash."

Burdine's eyebrows rose. It was a gutsy plan, but a good one. "So that should buy us time to get to the boat, but what about you, Lieutenant?"

"My job is to get your out of the country, Sir. I'll fend for myself."

The Colonel gave the young airman a long, hard stare. O'Neill did not flinch. "I am not going to let you sacrifice yourself for me," stated Burdine.

"Sir, I don't intend to sacrifice myself. I'd just as soon not rely on the hospitality of the Kozarstan government. I've heard the cuisine here stinks, and the food's not so good either," O'Neill grinned. "So I'm going to get across the river, lead the troops astray, then ditch the truck, swim the river and meet you guys at the boat." O'Neill grinned again. "No trouble at all."

Burdine snorted. "You may be young, O'Neill, but you are not that stupid."

The young Lieutenant turned serious. "Do *you* have a better plan, Sir?"

"Yes. We stay together."

"With all due respect, no Sir. You'll never make it to Kurash if they're still looking for you on this side of the river."

"I will not let you do this, Lieutenant. That's an order."

"Sorry, Colonel, but technically you can't order me. I'm not under your command. And besides, you're, ah, wounded. Incapacitated. Unable to make a sound decision. Sir."

Burdine once again stared at the young man. "Look, O'Neill..."

"Sir, we have to get you out of here. If these guys get their hands on you, it's a major diplomatic disaster. If they catch me, I'm just another stray American. They can swap me for some spy or something," he said glibly. "Besides, I can really rabbit, Sir. They'll have a hell of a time catching me."

"That's a big river, Lieutenant. Current looks pretty fast."

"I was on the swim team in high school, Colonel. Distance swimmer. I can make it."

Burdine considered the plan for several more minutes, and reluctantly told O'Neill. "Okay, Lieutenant. Take the truck, but I've got an idea that I think will help."

In mid-afternoon, they split up, Willington helping the injured Burdine off the hill, and starting north.

"Don't forget, Sir. The boat is docked five miles south of Kurash on the Skonandar River. Her name is the Yenina. Ask for Captain Karolya. Tell him you need passage to Hoadar."

Burdine didn't want to leave the young man behind. "We'll wait for you, O'Neill. Get there before dawn day after tomorrow."

The young Lieutenant nodded. "Don't wait too long, Colonel. Go if you need to. You're the important cargo here, Sir."

Burdine nodded reluctantly.

"Good luck, Sir," O'Neill saluted.

Burdine saluted back. "Godspeed, Lieutenant."

+++++++++++++++

O'Neill watched as his only friends and countrymen within hundreds of miles left him behind, heading north toward rescue. He waited alone for long hours through the chill night, watching the troops. He had his eye on a truck that was parked alongside the road, farthest back in the group of vehicles. There seemed to be only one guard, one sleepy looking guard, Jack thought.

After moonset, he began working his way silently through the brush toward the truck, crawling the last several hundred yards on hands and knees, knife gripped in his teeth. He moved stealthily, using every bit of survival training he'd ever received. Move, pause, listen, watch; move, pause, listen, watch.

It was nearly disaster before he even got near the truck. O'Neill almost ran right into the first man, the sentry he hadn't expected to find 100 yards back in the woods. Only the shift in the wind saved him, the breeze carrying the scent of a strong Russian cigarette. In mid-movement, the American froze, heart hammering, staring ahead into the darkness. Carefully scanning side to side, he methodically searched for the telltale glow of the cigarette's tip. Finally, he saw the man, silhouetted briefly against the slightly less dense darkness of the night sky. Crawling closer, Jack moved behind his quarry, feeling each step, each movement, knowing if he made a mistake the game was up. Closer and closer, until he could hear the man breathing.

Taking a deep breath, in one swift movement O'Neill was on his feet. Two running steps, then his left hand cupped the man's mouth to prevent any outcry, the right hand wielding the knife slashing upward, burying the weapon into the man's torso. Even now, 20 years later, Jack could still remember the frantic movements as the doomed soldier shuddered beneath his hands, feel something warm running down his arm, the stench of blood and death. The man's struggles weakened, slowed, long, long moments dragging by while O'Neill held the man tightly, and then the movements ceased and the body in his arms went limp.

Jack dropped the lifeless bundle, turned away and heaved silently into the bushes. He'd never killed a man with his bare hands before, up close, so close he could see the man's terrified eyes as they glazed over and died. It was a sight and a feeling he would never forget, that nameless face, dying in the darkness, blood on his hands, literally and figuratively. Twenty years later, the visage still haunted his nightmares.

Stomach emptied, mouth burning at the bitter taste, O'Neill forced himself to move. You've got no time, Jack, no time for this, no time. He hadn't figured on finding this second guard, and now he had to hurry to get to the truck before the guard there might awaken.

Again, he crept toward an unsuspecting enemy, fighting his impatience and the sudden sense of urgency that gripped him. He needed to hurry, to get to the vehicle before it got too light, but he needed to do it right. Take a deep breath, steady your hand, and get your breathing under control, he reminded himself.

A faint glow of false dawn was already painting a rosy glow on the eastern horizon. The light would be growing soon. Hurry, instinct urged him to hurry. Training told him the opposite: don't hurry, hurry kills. A DI had taught him that. Hurry kills, don't hurry. Within seconds, the second sentry died as silently as the first.

Jack slipped cautiously up to the big truck, opened the door, the click of the latch startlingly loud in the stillness. He froze, watching and listening for long moments, but no one seemed to have noticed. He eased the door open, climbed inside, felt for the gear shift, the clutch and the brake, and then reached for the key.

No key. Damn. Grinning ferally, O'Neill pulled out his knife and hotwired the vehicle. You just never know when those youthful street skills might come in handy, he thought idly. Finally, with a silent prayer "here goes nothing," Jack pushed in the clutch, slipped the gearshift into first, and touched the wires together.

The truck roared into life. The young American gunned the gas, pulling the heavy steering wheel around and aiming the unwieldy vehicle up the road, shifting into second, then up to third as he heard shouts all around. He flipped on the lights, hoping that might blind some of the soldiers and provide him a momentary advantage. He aimed straight at the primitive roadblock as he heard the first bullets spanging off the heavy duty truck body. "Hope they built this thing better than most of that commie junk," O'Neill muttered as the unwieldy vehicle smashed through the barricade blocking the bridge. He hoped that second thump hadn't been another body, another dead man on his conscience, but he didn't have time to worry about that now.

It was hard to duck and drive at the same time, difficult to see the road as bullets found first one headlight and then the other and he was plunged again into darkness. The night was chaotic, the sound of yelled orders, bullets flying, the truck's screaming engine, and his own triumphant shout as he felt the vehicle climbing the approach to the bridge and passing the last group of soldiers.

Jack had to look up to see where he was going. A bullet hit the windshield, crazing the glass, and then, as he leaned out the window to watch the roadway, something punched him in the shoulder. O'Neill drove on, wheels bumping onto the bridge, and he floored the lumbering truck. Not much pickup, not like his big Chevy back home, but it was a tough machine. Hard to steer, though, as he crossed the bridge, the sound of gunfire echoing behind him. He turned right, following the river, west and north, fighting the wheel, finding it harder to steer. Something in the truck might be damaged, he thought. He knew something in his shoulder certainly was, because it was numb, numb and cold and all but useless.

This looked like as good a spot as any. He had to reach around with his right hand to open the door. O'Neill aimed the truck off the road and directly at the rapidly approaching trees, awkwardly managing to flick on his lighter to start the rags on the seat smoldering. Then, with the truck all but stopped yet still aimed head on at a pair of solid looking pines, he rolled out the door, scrambled to his feet and dashed back to the east. No one was within sight, yet, he thought gratefully as he crossed the road and disappeared into the darkness under the trees.

He ran, ran as hard and as fast as he could, adrenaline flowing, his legs pumping and his lungs heaving, breath coming in ever shorter gasps until he had to stop, head hanging. He was still trying to catch his breath when behind him he heard a mighty "whump" and a fireball rose into the sky. Far away as he was, he still felt the power of the explosion. Good idea for a Colonel, O'Neill thought, starting the thing on fire with an old fashioned Molotov cocktail. Hopefully, those Kozarstan troops were going to believe that the American was dead, burned to a crisp in the cab of the flaming truck, and by the time they found out any different, the three Americans would all be safely in the hands of the U.S. Navy.

Finally able to draw a breath, Jack straightened, and groaned. Tentatively, he reached his right hand around to his left shoulder. At the light touch, pain arced through his shoulder and he sagged to his knees, moaning. "Oh, shit," he muttered over and over, rocking, feeling the warm blood soaking his shirt.

'Get up, O'Neill, no time to be lollygagging around here with a whole commie army looking for you. Move or they'll find you. One little bullet hole in your shoulder will be nothing compared to what they'll do to you if they find you.'

Somehow, from somewhere, Jack dredged up the strength to push himself to his feet. Swaying, he straightened slowly and started walking toward the river, knowing he had to get there before full light.

O'Neill struggled on, finally reaching the sloping shore of the wide waterway. Oh God, it was a long way across, a long way for a healthy man to swim. How the hell was he going to swim it one-armed? His arm wasn't numb anymore, nope, it was a constant heavy ache that seemed to be robbing him of strength and will. Damn.

He stared down at the water, knowing he couldn't swim it in the condition he was in, so he started walking again, north, along the bank, searching for something that could help him cross the water.

After a few minutes, Jack found what he was looking for. Not the perfect thing, but he thought it would be enough, it would have to be. Working his way carefully down to the water's edge, and wading out into the river, the cold water lapped at his ankles and up to his knees. Caught here, along the bank, was a log, about eight feet long and more than a foot in diameter. The Lieutenant pushed it out into the water ahead of him, then wrapping his good arm around it, he propelled himself with his feet, out into the waterway. Hopefully, the log would keep him afloat long enough to get to the other side of the river.

O'Neill shivered as he immersed himself in the chilly water, pushing away from the bank. There was just enough mist hanging above the water that he hoped it would conceal him from any hostile watching eyes. In a few strides, he felt the bottom drop away and he was swimming. Soon, the current grabbed hold of him, carrying him north as he pushed out into the middle of the swiftly flowing river.

It didn't take him long to tire, weakened by his wound and exhaustion. O'Neill had no idea how far it was to shore, the land obscured by the morning mist. All he could hear were the lapping waves, the noise of his own paddling, and the harsh rasp of his breathing. Peering ahead into the fog, unable to see the shore, he didn't think he was going to make it.

+++++++++++++

Burdine and Willington had been traveling for hours when they heard the explosion from the far side of the river. They stopped, looking at each other. "Was that...? asked the Colonel.

"I'm sure, Sir."

"Hope he made it."

Willington shrugged. "I know he's just a kid, but there's something about him. I mean, I jumped back off that damn helicopter because of the look on his face, the disbelief that we'd leave anyone behind. He just wasn't willing to give up on you, Sir."

Burdine nodded grimly. "Well, Sergeant, then we damn well won't give up on him."

++++++++++++++++

Exhaustion.

Jack O'Neill was tired, so tired, and cold. His shoulder throbbed and his legs were leaden but he pushed on, blindly, until he felt his feet hit something. Surprised, he opened his eyes, and he could see the shore, trees and rocks and a steep embankment, just ahead.

Pushing the log in front of him, the young Lieutenant stumbled into the shallows, then staggered to his feet, groaning with the effort. He knew he had to get quickly out of the water and into the cover of the trees. Somehow, he found the strength to stumble forward and claw his way part way up the bank into a clump of low growing bushes. There he collapsed and let his exhaustion drag him down into the darkness.

O'Neill woke to bright sunlight and the sounds of traffic on the river. He lay still, assessing the situation and his condition. He didn't know how far downstream the river might have carried him, but at least it flowed northward, in the direction he needed to go. Certainly, he still had miles more to walk, an unknown number of patrols to face, and only a hazy knowledge of where he was and where his pickup point was. He would have to stay hidden until dark before resuming his journey.

His physical situation was no better. O'Neill hurt all over. His legs ached from the long swim, his shoulder was a steady dull agony, and he had one major league sized headache. He was very, very thirsty, but he'd swallowed enough water during his swim not to want more of the dirty river water.

He didn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but food had no appeal.

O'Neill dozed.

+++++++++++++++

It was late afternoon, the sun sinking now into the west, when O'Neill woke again. He tried to sit up, the movement tearing a groan from him as pain flared in his shoulder and his head spun dizzily. Closing his eyes, using his one good arm, he pushed himself to a sitting position, then carefully opened his eyes to peer around him.

It was quiet along the river. The growl of a boat engine far out toward the center of the waterway was the only sound that broke the stillness. Jack sat quietly for a while, leaning back against a small tree, waiting for darkness to fall, wishing for a drink to soothe his dry throat, willing his shoulder to stop hurting. Finally he decided it was dark enough to mask his movements, and he turned to the daunting task of climbing out of the riverbed and up the bank.

It was steeper than it looked, or maybe he was weaker than he'd imagined. He started up, then slid backward, two steps back for every one forward or so it seemed. Using his good arm to grasp onto roots and bushes, he finally succeeded in scaling the embankment, rolling onto the flat ground at the top. The river, the Skon-whatever where the Yenina waited, it emptied into this bigger river. All he had to do was follow the banks of the wide waterway, and it would lead him to his destination. Piece of cake.

Easier said than done.

+++++++++++++

Shortly after dark, Willington and Burdine had reached the river and the wharf. Carefully, they made their way to the boat O'Neill had named. Willington climbed cautiously aboard the seemingly deserted vessel, while Burdine nervously covered him from behind a fishbox on the dock.

The Sergeant stalked across the deck, knocking softly on the closed cabin door. No light came on, but he heard rustling and movement within.

A gruff, quiet voice said something in a language the American NCO didn't understand. Willington turned to look at Burdine, wondering what to do. The Colonel shrugged.

The voice spoke again, louder, obvious question in the words.

God, what where those names, Willington wracked his brain to remember. "Karolya. Hoadar."

The cabin door opened quickly, and a burly, broad shouldered man eased out onto the deck. More rapid-fire questions not understood by the American.

"Karolya?"

"Ja," was the cautious answer from the fisherman.

"Hoadar. We need to get to Hoadar."

Suddenly, the man's expression changed. "Who are you?" he asked very quietly in heavily accented English.

"We need a ride to Hoadar," Willington repeated.

"Shhh. No English out here," the man glanced around furtively. "Quickly then, you come, get in here." he ordered, grabbing Willington by the shirt.

"Wait," the Sergeant whispered. "I'm not alone..."

Burdine limped out from behind the box.

They scurried into the dark cabin. Karolya, if that was his name, latched the door behind them, checked each curtain before turning on a tiny light. "Who are you?"

"Friends. In need of help. A little boat trip to a neutral area is all we need," said Burdine.

The fisherman squinted at the Colonel, recognition lighting his eyes. "You, you, I know you. You are the astronaut, the famous American astronaut. I have seen you on the news."

"Not an astronaut at the moment. Just an inadvertent visitor to your country who needs a ride home."

"Did anyone see you come here?" asked the worried fisherman.

"No. We were careful, waited until after dark and everyone had cleared off the docks, kept our faces hidden."

"Good, good, then we can sail on the hour, when the tide changes. Some of the fleet will leave that early."

"No we can't," said Burdine, not about to break his vow.

"We must go, and go quickly. The Army is searching for a downed flyer. They know someone is in our country. All our lives are at stake if you stay here. Why?"

"We can't go. There's one more man coming."

"Ah?"

"Lt. O'Neill created a diversion, led the soldiers away, and gave the two of us a head start to get here."

"We cannot wait," Karolya protested. "It is not safe. The army will search all the boats if they suspect you are here."

"They don't," insisted Burdine. "And we have to wait. I'm not leaving without at least giving him a chance."

The captain looked nervously at his passengers, noting the determination on Burdine's face. "We cannot stay past dawn. That is as long as I can wait. All of the fleet must go out with the dawn, or they will be suspicious."

"Okay, dawn it is," agreed Burdine, with the sinking feeling that if O'Neill didn't arrive by then, he wouldn't be coming at all.

+++++++++++

Jack stumbled northward, pushing his weary body into motion. He was trying to keep away from the open, using the brush covered riverbank for concealment, but three times he was forced to venture far inland to skirt farmsteads. Finally, hours into the night, he came upon a small village, and his heart sank. This was Ressarba, the sign said. Jack dropped to the ground, exhausted and defeated. Ressarba was miles from where the boat waited, that much he remembered from the map he'd studied, was it just days ago. There was no way he could make it that far before daylight.

And then he spotted the old car, sitting behind the ramshackle house. It didn't look like much of a vehicle, one of those small, boxy little cars Europeans drove, looked old and rusted and worn out, but it was a chance.

As carefully as his exhausted body would allow, he stealthily worked his way into the silent yard, and stopped when he spied movement. It was a dog, standing beside the shed, it's hackles rising, and a low growl rolling from its throat. "Nice pup," Jack whispered. "Easy boy, I'm a friend. I won't hurt you. Easy fellah."

The dog sniffed the air, stepped closer, still wary but seeming to relax at O'Neill's quiet tones.

"Good boy, good boy," he said soothingly, and the dog stepped closer, leaning into his hand. Still muttering soft encouraging words, Jack patted the mutt, rubbing the dog's ears, sidling closer to the old automobile. "I love dogs, you know that, pup?" asked O'Neill, as he stepped toward the car.

The keys were in it. Swiftly, he opened the door, turned the key. The motor ground and coughed, backfiring. With dismay, Jack saw lights come on in the house. Damn. "Come on, come on, come on," he chanted as the vehicle coughed once more, sputtered and then the engine caught. The old car lurched forward, tires spinning as Jack steered it out of the driveway and headed toward Kurash.

Five miles south of the city, along the river, that was his destination.

The old car almost made it.

Somewhere south of the pick-up point, the engine sputtered one last time and died, whether from lack of fuel or just plain old age, O'Neill wasn't sure. God, he was running out of time. Had they even waited? They had to leave by dawn, that much he knew, on the morning tide to blend with the other fishing boats, common sense told him that, and already he could see lights moving on the water. After all this, was he already too late?

Jack climbed stiffly from the car, his body protesting every move. Abandoning the vehicle, the Lieutenant walked onward. He crested the first hill and looked down into a valley, saw a winding small river and a small port. This was the Skonandar. God, maybe he did still have a chance.

Trying his best to hurry, forcing his weary, aching body to move, Jack forged on. There, there, that was the old church, he remembered that landmark, and that meant he had to turn right, turn here, and go down the old lane, avoiding the center of the village.

It was dark on the wharf, but here and there men were stirring, preparing their boats for the days work. He hunched into the old coat he'd taken from the car, hoping no one would pay attention to a man walking purposefully in the darkness, hoping no one would notice the stumbling weariness of his steps. The names were painted on the stern of each boat. The Yolena, the Ruashta. Malagua. Gultreama. Antonia. Palaba.

Oh God, were they gone already? Some of the slips were empty, and he had no way to know. Maybe they'd already sailed, maybe he was too late.

Staggering with weariness, he stumbled down the dock, and then he saw it. The Yenina. O'Neill could hear the engines rumbling, see the white water foaming at the stern. No No No No. She was pulling away from the dock, leaving him behind. Nooooo.

With the last ounce of his energy, Jack tried to run, slipped and fell to his knees, the shock sending waves of agony through his shoulder. Biting his lip to hold back a moan, he raised his eyes to see his last chance for safety leaving without him. His head drooped, and he sagged toward the wharf, too tired to do anything but watch.

And then O'Neill saw a figure in the cabin window, a sudden motion as someone climbed out of the cabin and up onto the bridge, waving at the captain. The boat's engine slowed, idled, reversed as Jack reached deep and found the energy to climb to his feet and walk the last few steps down the dock, toward safety.

A body bundled into an oversized heavy hooded coat grabbed him, dragged him over the gunwales and he fell face down onto the deck, too spent to do any more. The man above him made a frantic wave at the captain, and Jack felt the boat go into motion once more, pulling away from the dock, out into the channel.

There was a hand on his shoulder and a familiar voice, Sgt. Willington, said, "I thought you weren't going to make it, Lieutenant."

"Piece of cake, Willie," mumbled O'Neill, staggering across the deck and into the cramped cabin.

The young Lieutenant was too distracted to notice the look of sheer relief that crossed the famous face. "Glad to see you, Kid," said Burdine, smiling, and then he noticed the dark stain appearing through the jacket. "Damn, you're hurt," he stated, pulling back the coat to reveal the blood soaked shirt of the gray faced airman in front of him.

O'Neill sagged, and Burdine caught him, helping him to a bunk. The brown eyes flickered, looking up into the senior officer's face. "Glad you made it, Sir," he mumbled.

Willington had appeared with the first aid kit. "Not much here, Sir, just some bandages, a couple of aspirin. No disinfectant, but I found a bottle of whiskey."

Burdine eyed the bottle. "Well, I suppose it's better than nothing." He looked down at the wounded Lieutenant. "Kid, this is going to hurt."

"Rather drink it than let you do that, Sir," O'Neill mumbled.

"Sorry, O'Neill," said Burdine, and poured the alcohol onto the raw wound.

"Oh, God," Jack moaned, his face gone starkly white, and he writhed on the bunk, pounding his right fist into the meager blankets. "That hurts."

"Hey, yeah, I know. Sorry. But it had to be done," said the Colonel.

"Easy for you to say, Sir," O'Neill mumbled, "piece of cake."

+++++++++++++++++++++

Wild Bill Burdine stopped, looked across the room at O'Neill, who was busily studying the pattern on the carpet, then around the room at the other members of SG-1, who'd been listening raptly for hours. "Jack was so sick on that boat, I never did figure out if it was the wound or if he just gets seasick," Burdine tried to lighten the moment."

"I'm Air Force, not a damn sailor," said O'Neill, "so I get seasick. Sue me."

Burdine laughed. "Yeah, that you did. Took us what, 24 hours to make contact with the Navy, and it was rougher than a cob. We were all sick, actually. Thought he was gonna die," Burdine's voice had gotten quiet. "Of course I didn't know then what a stubborn SOB he was."

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

Jack had very little recollection of had happened over the next several days, but Bill Burdine remembered them well. He could never forget the endless hours, sitting beside the bunk of the young airman who'd saved his life, watching O'Neill writhe in pain as the boat rocked on the rough seas, unable to help him except to offer water and wipe the sweat soaked face.

By the time the Yenina had rendezvoused with the American ship USS Forester, Burdine had been convinced his rescuer was dying. O'Neill was running a fever of 104, incoherent, unable to keep even water down. Transferring him from the fishing boat, rolling in the huge swells, onto the deck of the Navy vessel had been nearly impossible, but somehow they'd managed. The dousing in the cold sea spray couldn't have helped the injured man, either.

The Forester, thankfully, had a well equipped sickbay and an even better trained medic. The ship wasn't even fully underway before O'Neill was safely stowed in a warm, comfortable bunk, IV's feeding antibiotics and vital fluids straight into his veins, oxygen assisting his labored breathing.

Burdine never left O'Neill's side for the three days the ship had steamed out of the frigid northern waters until they were close enough for a chopper to transfer the wounded man to a better equipped carrier with a doctor and a complete medical center. Burdine stayed with him all the way, refusing to leave. He was not about to abandon the young man who had risked his life for the code of honor that said no one gets left behind.

Bill looked over at O'Neill, wondering if Jack even remembered those long days and nights, hoping his friend didn't, that he wouldn't remember the fever and the pain. The eyes of the two warriors met, and Bill shivered, realizing yes, Jack did remember; O'Neill would never forget, anymore than Burdine would.

Jack raised his beer to Burdine in silent salute. "Yup, stubborn SOB, that's me. Still."

++++++++++++++

Carter had gone to the kitchen in search of more coffee. Hearing footsteps follow her in, she turned. "Just looking for the coffee, Sir..." then paused, realizing this was Burdine, not O'Neill. "Coffee, Senator?"

"Yes." Burdine took the cup, sipping as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Don't be nervous, Major. I don't walk on water."

"Well, Sir, it isn't everyday that I meet someone, well, like you, Sir, a genuine American hero."

"Now, Major, that's definitely not true."

Carter looked flustered. "Sorry, Sir, I didn't mean..."

Burdine stood up straight, looking directly into Carter's eyes. "Major, if you want to hero worship anyone in this house, you picked the wrong Colonel. That man in there is the one you ought to be proud to serve with. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him, and I can verify there are more than a few others who owe their lives to him. He'll never say a word about it, but he's done things...." Burdine shook his head. "Jack O'Neill is the man people should look up to. Me? I had the lucky breaks, was in the right place at the right time to get all that TV exposure. Being an astronaut is easy, Major. You've got a thousand people looking after you, taking care of you, covering your tail, making you look good. That man? He just does his job, and to hell with the consequences."

"I don't know much about his previous work, Sir," Carter admitted with a shake of her head. "It's all highly classified and he never talks about it."

"I imagine he wouldn't." Burdine looked down a moment, then up at Carter. "It's good to see him like this again, back doing what he ought to be doing. Having people in his life he cares about, and who obviously care about him." Burdine's face got serious, his voice softer. "I haven't seen him since his son's funeral. I don't think he even remembers I was there. I'd never seen anyone look so, so devastated. When I left, I really didn't think I'd ever see him alive again. I thought if he didn't kill himself, he'd find a way to let the Air Force do it for him."

Carter nodded. "He tried, Sir. His first Stargate mission was a suicide mission."

Burdine nodded. "I know. Heard about it afterward. I've, ah, well, always kept track of his career. Helped him out where I could, got him out of a few jams that smart mouth of his got him into, because I know that he's the sort of real soldier this country needs. I know he's the man I'd want guarding my back in a fight, any kind of a fight." Burdine paused again. "He thinks highly of you, his team..."

"And we think highly of him." Carter grinned. "Most of the time at least."

"Annoying bastard sometimes, though isn't he?" Burdine smiled. From the living room, he heard Teal'c's solemn tones, then O'Neill's laughter. "It's good to hear him laugh again. You know, before his son died, Jack O'Neill was one of the happiest men I'd ever met. Loved his work, loved his family, loved his life. He told me once how perfect his life was. And then his son... Charlie died and I thought Jack was the most lost soul I'd ever met." Burdine looked into Carter's eyes. "I'm not sure what, or who, revived him, but I'm glad someone did. He's a good man and a good friend. He, or SG-1, any of you, ever need anything, you come to me?"

"Ah, yes Sir."

A loud voice carried in from the living room. "Hey, Carter, Bill, what you guys doing in there?" Footsteps approached the kitchen, O'Neill's smiling face appearing around the corner. "Bill, better keep your hands to yourself. She's a General's daughter." O'Neill looked at Carter. "Well, sort of. I guess he's still a General."

+++++++++++++++++

They talked for hours, trading stories, even told a few through-the-Stargate stories, since Burdine had the clearance. Finally, well into the night, the Senator looked sadly at his watched and announced he had to leave.

"Sorry, kids, but I've got a plane to catch in the morning..."

O'Neill lifted an eyebrow.

"Okay, plane to catch in a few hours. It's been fun." They shook hands all around, and it was Jack who walked his famous guest out to the waiting car. Once again, they shook hands, then grabbed each other in a bear hug.

"It was good to see you, Bill," Jack told him, sincerely. "Don't be such a stranger, eh?"

Burdine nodded, eyes narrowed. "I'll say the same to you." He paused. "I like your team, a bit unusual," he added with a chuckle, "but they do grow on you."

"That they do."

Burdine smiled. "I can tell. They're good people, Jack."

"That they are," O'Neill's tone took on a more serious note. "The best."

"I'm glad. I'm glad you've found your way again, Jack."

O'Neill's smile was soft, reflecting the memories of the years since they'd last seen each other, the good and the bad and the tragic he'd lived in that time. "Yeah. The yellow brick road. It was always there, sometimes buried pretty deep, but always there, when I looked."

#####FINIS#####