So Many Sons and Daughters

Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Category: Angst, tribute to the victims, rescuers and volunteers of Sept. 11,

2001

Rating: PG-- language, adult subject matter

Pairing: A bit of Jack/Sara

Season: Any season

Summary: Jack O'Neill learns of a national disaster

Warnings: None

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 (Heliopolis, Jack's Place

excepted) without the author's consent.

Authors Notes: As fans of SG-1, we see ourselves in these characters, that is

what makes them real to us; we care about them because we can share in their

triumphs, their defeats, their hopes and their fears, and, this week, they

share in ours. I wanted to write something in tribute to the victims, the

unsung and unknown heroes, and all those who are struggling to rescue

victims, care for the injured, and bring the perpetrators to justice--

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"Son of a bitch." Colonel Jack O'Neill had seen some terrible things in his

life, but what he'd just witnessed on his television shook him to the core.

For the past two days, he'd heard only bits and pieces of the news reports.

Sequestered deep in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, he'd spent a very, very

long 36 hours overseeing the suddenly tightened security at the base. Only

now and then during the hectic day and a half had he caught rare words of the

news, a moment's glimpse of a computer screen connected to an internet news

site, or snatches of overheard conversation between appalled airmen and

stunned civilians.

Even worse had been the official news he'd been privy to, the warnings and

the reports from the Pentagon. He knew the place, knew it well, was familiar

with it's hallways, the warren of offices and the thousands of soldiers and

civilians, airmen, Marines, military of all branches who worked there. He

knew people who worked there, dozens of them, old friends, even a few bitter

enemies, but he wouldn't wish this fate on anyone, he thought, as he watched

the billowing smoke.

Jack silently prayed that no one he knew was in that inferno, and at the same

time felt guilty for wanting the dead and the injured to be someone else's

friend, brother or son. They were all U.S. military, all brothers and sisters

regardless of the color and design of the uniform they wore.

He was angry, and only wished he had someone to take the anger out on, an

enemy he could see, fight, and defeat.

They were all Americans; they were all his people, the people he'd dedicated

his life to serving and protecting.

All through the day and night, O'Neill had been busy, far too busy to think,

too worried about what he *could* do to ensure that his people were safe that

he hadn't had time to spare a thought for the rest of the disaster.

Finally, nearly 36 hours after reporting for what had started out as an

ordinary day, or as ordinary as any day could be at the SGC, the Colonel

thought, General Hammond had sent him home. Once back to his dark and quiet

house, the eastern sky already turning rosy with the sunrise, the traffic

seeming unusually light, the city seeming somehow subdued, Jack fell

exhaustedly onto his sofa, and hit the switch on the TV remote.

It was his first glimpse of the rest of the disaster, the part he hadn't seen

while absorbed in his military duties. The sight shocked him-- the videotape

of the airliner's death plunge into the towering New York building eliciting

a cry of stunned horror.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered to the dark and empty house.

He'd thought it couldn't affect him, that he wouldn't feel this way. After

all, he'd seen some pretty horrendous stuff over the years, been part of war

and death and destruction.

He'd thought he would be immune to it, but he wasn't. No one could be, seeing

that tape, over and over again, that plane, a plane full of ordinary people,

innocent passengers, hitting a building full of innocent people. Jack O'Neill

was a warrior, a man who faced life and death decisions every day, but they

were decisions he was prepared for, had been trained for and still he dreaded

them. Just because he was a military man, a professional warrior, didn't mean

he didn't feel, and feel deeply, didn't hurt, didn't know the pain of loss

and grief. Who he was demanded that he hide those feelings, dampen those

emotions and rationally carry on, but it didn't mean he didn't have them.

These people, innocent, unsuspecting people.

Children.

There must have been children on those planes, on the ground, maybe even in

those buildings.

The thought of their fate hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.

Children.

Children, innocent, helpless, children.

The thought took his breath away.

He couldn't watch, couldn't sit and silently look on as the networks

presented replay after replay of the horror, of planes impacting buildings,

skyscrapers crashing to the ground, stunned and terrified faces.

It was a world he lived in every day, but one he didn't expect to come home

to at night.

Movement.

He needed to move, to get out of the house and use his energy, expend it

doing something. He couldn't do anything positive, he was too far away to

help, though he had the irrational urge to get in his truck and drive to New

York or Washington and personally begin tearing away at the debris with his

bare hands.

Jack grabbed his jacket and began to walk, long, swift strides that carried

him down the block in the first dim light of dawn. Weary but unable to rest

or sleep, he walked, not thinking, not planning, just walking, hoping to make

his body so exhausted his mind would no longer function, so those visions of

death would quit running through his head.

He didn't plan where he was going, not consciously, but as he began at last

to feel the ache in his knees and legs, he looked up to see where he was.

God, he should have known, this place where grief always drove him, drew him,

a place of peaceful greenery and bright flowers and unmitigated sorrow.

A familiar car stood in the parking lot, a familiar figure sat silently on

the bench.

He would have turned away, but some need to comfort and be comforted drove

his feet forward without thought.

She raised her face. "Jack? Jack!" and suddenly she was there, in his arms,

clinging to him, her hands on his arms and around his shoulders, as if

needing to confirm he was real and not some early morning apparition. "God,

Jack, I'm so glad you're here. Glad you're okay. I've been trying to call you

for two days. I was afraid you were there."

He said nothing, didn't know what to say, just folded Sara into his embrace.

"I didn't know where you were," she whispered.

"I was on base for 36 hours," he whispered.

"I tried to call, left dozens of messages..."

"Shhh," he soothed her, his hand rubbing calming circles on her back. He

could feel her trembling. "It's okay."

"It will never be okay," she said, a sob escaping her. "I saw the news."

"Yeah."

"All those people, Jack, all those people, in the buildings, in the planes..."

He couldn't say anything, just rocked her against his chest, his chin atop

her blonde head.

"Do you know the names? Was there anyone we knew, at the Pentagon?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. I saw some lists of

missing people, but no names I knew."

Her face had taken on a more hopeful look. "Are you sure? Judy and Frank's

son is assigned there."

"Frank Cromwell's son?"

"Billy."

"He's just a kid."

"Not anymore. He graduated ROTC last year, he's a lieutenant..."

Jack shook his head. "I'd have noticed that name. I think he's okay."

"God, I hope so. I don't think Judy could take anymore."

Jack's heart lurched, remembering his friend's hand sliding hopelessly

through his fingers, the intense gravity sucking the man into the Stargate.

He washed a hand across his face. "God, Ohmac was right. Humans aren't ready,

that we could do this to each other."

Sara looked puzzled. "Ohmac?"

Jack blinked. "Just someone I knew, someone who understood us better than we

understand ourselves." God, he tried so hard, worked so hard to protect his

world, to show those alien races that humanity was worthy of their help, and

then they did these things to themselves? Was humanity worth saving? Were the

Tollan right? 'We aren't ready for the weapons we need,' he thought. 'And the

Nox, they called us young, but maybe we aren't just young, we are stupid.

Hopeless. Not worth saving.' Jack shook his head wearily. No, there had been

acts of incredible courage and compassion, too, amid the evil and the horror.

Sara raised her face, studying Jack's visage. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "You?"

"Better. Now." She looked away. "I just feel so helpless."

"We'll find who did it, and they'll be punished," Jack promised.

"That won't bring anyone back."

"No, but it might save a few lives down the line." The Colonel waved a hand

in the air. "There's nothing else we can do."

"Pray," she suggested.

He shrugged. "I'm not very good at that."

She turned to him once again. "You could try." Sara turned then, and her

fingers laced through his, walked with him down the familiar grassway between

the rows of gray markers. She stopped before Charlie's stone. "So many sons

and daughters died," she said softly. "So many grieving parents." Tears

leaked down her cheeks.

Jack embraced her once again, unable to speak, just taking comfort from her

touch, as he knew thousands of people were, all across America and the world,

finding what solace they could, in the arms of those they cherished.

"God bless them all," she said, staring down at the place where one beloved

child rested.

He couldn't speak, just held her closer, and shared the grief of a nation.

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