Alternative Reality: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece.
Sequel: "Entangled Alliances" is a sequel to--yeah, you guessed correctly--"Entanglements with the Enemy." Let me know what you think of the new title (it used to be "More Entanglements with the Enemy"! I'd love to hear them!
Rating:PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Summary: Lucas plays boom-boom once again with his vortex. The only real question is . . .who is his enemy? :-)
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Entangled Alliances
Part Four
Bad News
Standing on the bridge of the seaQuest, Commander Jonathon Ford sighed. It was definitely a quiet day. Even Lieutenant Ben Krieg, the usual rascal of the crew, was behaving himself today . . . well, at least moderately. He'd been on time. He hadn't made any wise cracks. And he hadn't even pestered Ford once during his shift.
Tiredly rubbing the back of his neck, Ford wondered if Krieg was up to something. It certainly made more sense than Krieg behaving. While he supposed miracles could happen, Ford also thought they didn't happen too frequently, and he wasn't sure Krieg was exactly miracle material. Yes, definitely: Krieg was planning some hair-balled scheme to get back at him for who knew what.
He blinked as he looked from Krieg's quietly attentive face to his navigation charts. The man looked like he was actually doing his job, which frightened him more than if Krieg had been hanging upside down from the ceiling and howling like a banshee. That, at least, would have been somewhat normal.
Hmmm . . .
"Commander?" O'Neill called from his station. He had a puzzled frown on his face. "We've got a call coming in from the Pentagon . . ."
"Oh? Must be the Captain," Ford said quickly, remembering that Bridger had promised to relay the "exciting details," as he'd put it, of Lucas's awards ceremony.
"I'll bet they're having fun," Ortiz sarcastically chimed in, speaking with a somewhat lopsided smile. He pointed at a console beside him. "Weather's supposed to be dark, gloomy, and rainy, all rolled into one. What a day to take a vacation in Washington."
"It's not vacation, Ortiz," Ben drawled, shaking his head. "It's Washington. Vacation and D.C. don't go in the same sentence."
"And, what, Krieg . . . you don't know the addresses of half the Washington Mafia?" Katie teased, smiling slightly.
"Hey! I resent that implication!" Krieg looked at her with shocked eyes. "As if I'd know the Mafia!"
Ortiz snickered behind his station. "It's probably more like this, Krieg. You know more than half of them--in fact, you're probably related to most of them!"
"How'd you hear of Cousin Ralph? He's my best buddy, you know . . . well, one of them . . ."
Tim cleared his throat noisily as the banter threatened to continue. "Well, actually, sir, it's General Thomas," Tim began, looking warily at Ford. "He says he needs to talk to you in private."
"In private? General Thomas?" Ford frowned. This was certainly . . . odd. What was Thomas doing calling him? Furthermore, what on earth was the man doing asking for a private one-on-one with him? "Well, put him through, Mr. O'Neill. I'll take the call in the wardroom."
"Aye, sir."
Ford headed off the bridge, walking quickly towards the ward. He tried to imagine what Thomas could want. Actually, the more he thought about this, the more strange it seemed. Ford felt a nerve in his jaw jump slightly before firmly squelching it, forcing his emotions well below the surface. He'd rarely ever spoken to Thomas; he couldn't imagine needing to speak to the General with Bridger already in the General's company.
Unless something . . .
Resolutely, Ford stabbed the thought before it could completely take form in his mind. No. Nothing had happened. Things were just fine.
He was simply over-reacting.
He'd been doing a lot of that since the Ulysses disaster. Ford frowned, wishing he could simply silence the thoughts, but finding he could not. As he walked down the seaQuest's halls, his face completely calm, completely stoic, Ford remembered that week: his Captain, kidnapped by enemy spies; one of his best friends, Katie Hitchcock, stuck in the same demented hands as Captain Bridger; Lucas, Tim, Kristin, and even Ben . . . all facing who knew what.
And then hearing of what had actually happened. Ford swallowed hard, trying to push the thought away, but unable to do so. The muscles of his jaw tightened. He'd arrived in MedBay to find Lucas looking like a building had collapsed on him. The rest of the crew hadn't looked much better. Even Krieg had had some dark bruises, several of them running across his temple. And Bridger . . . the Captain had looked terrible, almost unhinged, his eyes partially glazed. Ford had never seen Bridger like this before, and he hoped never to see him that way again.
His jaw tightened as he entered the ward. The entire mess had happened under his command: under his control. He had been in command, but he hadn't been able to do anything to help. Ford's fists tightened into balls as he remembered his own uselessness. There he'd stood by, helpless, as Lucas went around blowing up a ship and trying to evade a shipful of lethal enemies. Ford had been miles away when Brigg had boarded the Ulysses; in fact, he hadn't even heard of Brigg until much later. Ford had been in hot pursuit, but still far from able to intervene, when Lucas had been tortured. He'd still been in hot pursuit when the whole mess had reached its near-disastrous ending.
He always wondered what Bridger would have done if their roles had been reversed. Would Bridger have resolved the situation well before Lucas was tortured? Well before Brigg arrived on the scene? Well before the situation even got out of hand?
Ford cleared his throat, then put on his best military façade: inexpressive eyes, clamped mouth, chin high. He hoped the mask served its purpose today; he hoped Thomas wouldn't be able to see the turmoil even now raging within. After one deep breath, he pushed the button for the vidscreen.
There was a moment's pause as the screen flickered. General Thomas's worried face then flashed before him.
*****
"Good day, Commander," Thomas said hastily. His voice was tight, over-controlled. Ford could hear the strain even as he tried to ignore it. "I trust all is well with the seaQuest."
"Yes, of course, sir. Simply a routine mission." He watched the General. The man wasn't meeting his eyes.
"Ah, yes. Good to hear."
Ford waited for the General to continue, and wasn't disappointed. After a quick perusal of Ford's face, Thomas leaned forward, his face dominating the vidscreen. "I'll get right to the point, Commander. I know your time is precious, and there simply is no way to ease bad news."
Ford tried to hide the hammering of his heart by clutching desperately at the back of a chair. He swallowed--hard. "Bad news, General? What . . . bad news?"
Thomas slumped back in his chair, suddenly looking several years older. He ran a hand through his dark hair. "Commander, at approximately fourteen hundred hours Washington time, Captain Bridger's helicopter was . . ."
Horror raced through Ford's mind. He listened, his face turning into cold ice as he prepared for Thomas's words.
". . . hijacked."
*****
Ford blinked his eyes in amazement. No . . . he hadn't heard correctly. Obviously, he'd misunderstood. The words floated without direction within his mind. He felt like his brain was in some sort of eternal rewind: the same events coming back at him, only with slight variations in the who and what. After a second, he shook his head.
This just couldn't be. It couldn't be.
Damn it, no one--no one, not even Captain Bridger and Lucas, the two worst magnets for trouble that he knew of--could get hijacked twice in two months!
It was . . . impossible . . . wasn't it?
However, one look at Thomas's exhausted face assured him otherwise. It had happened.
Ford carefully controlled his voice before asking, his voice soft, "Who did it? Do we know?"
Again, Thomas refused to meet his eyes. This only made Ford worry even more. Finally, the General replied, "Yes, we know." There was a short silence before Thomas continued, "You're not going to like this one bit, either, Commander. It was NAP. Again."
An explosive second passed between them.
"NAP?" Ford finally demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. "NAP? As in . . . the Non-Allied Powers? That NAP? Again?" Frustrated, he started to pace: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. After a second, he whirled towards the General's harried face. "General, I can't believe this! It's incredible! Preposterous! How could they have the . . . the gall to try this twice in a row?"
It was not until well after the words were out of his mouth that Ford realized he was reacting exactly as Bridger: with anger and emotion in his voice. For once, he wasn't too concerned about controlling that anger.
"Commander Ford," Thomas began tiredly, his voice soft but somewhat stern. He frowned. "Look, Ford--Jonathon--it's not exactly the same situation."
"Oh? General, what would the difference be?" More anger seethed into his tone. Again, Ford couldn't care less about that anger. This was just . . . this was just too much.
"Commander . . ." Thomas sighed, then ignored his rudeness. "NAP has them--and we don't know where. They're also demanding ransom for the Captain and the Doctor."
"Ransom?" Ford felt his temper was about to boil right through the Atlantic Ocean. He shook his head. "A political power keg asking for ransom. This is insane."
Thomas was silent.
After a second, Ford's head suddenly snapped up. His eyes narrowed. "You said the Captain and Westphalen. What about Lucas? The boy? He was on the helicopter, too."
"Hrmm-Urmm . . ." Thomas noisily cleared his throat. He shuffled some papers, absently tapping his fingers. Again, he wasn't meeting Ford's eyes. "Mr. Wolenczak is currently being held by NAP agents."
With a thud, Ford sank into the nearest chair. He stared at Thomas.
"We're not sure where, unfortunately." Thomas looked up, at last meeting Ford's eyes. "We do have some familiar names connected to this, though. It at least tells us what we're going up against."
"Who?" As the General looked away, Ford exploded, unable to keep the rancor from his voice, "Who?"
"The ONS."
Ford stared, fist rolled tightly until his nails bit into his flesh. He inhaled deeply and opened his mouth, but no sound came. After a few seconds of silent almost-speech, Ford at last clamped his mouth shut; he suddenly realized there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, to make this better. Nothing short of a miracle could make this better.
Maybe he should call the blasted Pope to request one.
Blindly, Ford thwacked his hand against his leg, wanting anything--anything--to break, to wrench into tiny little pieces, as he heard this news. This was simply insane, especially after Ulysses. Ford knew the ONS, or the Operations for National Security, was infamous for its cruel and unscrupulous tactics. It had a worse reputation than Section Seven, which took some doing. They tortured their captives. They bled people to death if and when it suited their needs. They had absolutely no qualms about playing with people's minds. If Lucas was in their hands . . .
If that kid was in their hands . . .
Ford didn't want to complete that thought, but he did: If Lucas was in their hands, he would probably never come home alive.
Moments ticked by. Ford finally asked, his voice cracking, "What . . . what are you thinking is their primary goal in capturing Luc . . . Mr. Wolenczak?" There. If he could distance himself, if he could cushion the truth behind formal language, behind formal titles, maybe . . . maybe he wouldn't feel like a chasm was ripping through his heart a centimeter at a time.
But despite his best efforts to distance the pain, the ripping continued.
"Presently, we have little doubt, Commander, that their goal is information on Mr. Wolenczak's vortex. After the power we saw demonstrated aboard the Ulysses, it seems a likely possibility."
Ford had to agree with this assessment. Though he didn't like it, it seemed the most logical possibility--if logic had anything to do with this whole disaster. He also suspected Lucas wouldn't tell the bastards a thing, even if they tried to batter it right out of him. The kid had faced abuse and terror before: many years at the hands of his own father, and then at the hands of Brigg. Lucas knew what torture was. From everything Ford had heard, he'd learned what torture was all too well.
Wincing at the thought, Ford shut his eyes. Balance. He needed balance. He couldn't be any help to the Captain or to Lucas if he lost his control. He had to keep in control of himself.
However, that fragile control slipped as he heard General Thomas's next words. Ford felt that his life had slipped entirely out of control: that everything he had worked for, fought for, understood . . . just simply fell apart.
"Commander, we also believe we have a name associated with this." As Ford looked at him, Thomas sighed sadly. He shook his head. "It's Noyce."
*****
Ford blinked his eyes, clearly not following the General's train of thought. "Noyce? General, what's Admiral Noyce have to do . . ." He stopped, the words stuck in his throat at the thought of Bridger's best friend. "You can't be serious . . . I mean, sir, are you implying . . ."
Thomas snorted, shaking his head. "No, I'm not implying that at all, Commander. I'm stating--directly, even. Admiral Noyce, that paragon of UEO virtue, is dirty as my garden soil."
Ford simply . . . stared at him.
After a second's pause, Thomas sighed. He leaned in towards Ford, filling the vidscreen with his dark features. "Think for a moment, Commander. Just think about it." The General held up one chunky finger, firmly waving it in Ford's view. "Let's go over seaQuest's mission history for a moment, Ford. Point number one. Who commanded Bridger to pick up Rubin Zellar, the mad bioengineer?"
Ford eyed Thomas as if he were nuts, then shook his head. "That's nothing, General. He was just giving us our mission. Nothing more."
Thomas ignored him. He held up his second finger. "Point two. Who ordered you to the Liberté? Who ordered you to 'handle the situation,' at all costs?"
Ford frowned.
"Point three, Commander." The third finger popped up. "Who lured him onto the seaQuest in the first place . . . saying some stupid thing to you about handling a renegade sub?" Ford blanched at this, clearly remembering the heated first days of his relationship with Bridger. "Who, Commander, made you pretend to be incompetent so that his ruse would work?"
Ford started to pace. Again, he frowned. After a moment's tense silence, Ford snapped, "So . . . what are you saying, General? That Noyce--Bridger's best friend, for god's sake--somehow . . . somehow orchestrated the whole Stark affair to put his friend in the Captain's shoes so he could later betray him?" He shook his head. "That makes no sense. No sense at all!"
"Oh, but it makes perfect sense," muttered Thomas. He looked at Ford, eyes appraising. "Look, Commander . . . imagine it. You lure your friend into the top sub, put him into all the dangerous scenes, give him orders no other Captain would follow . . . knowing he'll either follow your orders or get the ship sunk. It's a brilliant plan, and also one of the simplest. Use your friends to do your dirty work."
Thomas paused, looking Ford in the eye. Slowly, he stated, "He used Bridger. He used you. He used the entire seaQuest crew."
Ford felt about ready to explode. He shook his head, eyes blazing. "Look, General, I think you're wrong. Dead wrong. It doesn't make much sense. If he were dirty, Noyce would want to protect his dupes, not . . . throw them right to the flames!"
He just couldn't accept it. He wouldn't accept it. He'd trusted the man, placed his and his crew's lives in his hands. He also couldn't believe that Bridger--Captain Bridger, his commanding officer--could be stupid enough to have his best friend use him.
No. Impossible. Ford simply would not believe it.
The look on Thomas's face became almost sly. He smiled, holding up a fourth finger. "And then there is point number four, Commander. Think of the Ulysses for one moment."
Ford stared at him, then blanched. He looked away, a muscle in his cheek throbbing in tune to the pain in his heart.
Thomas simply continued: "On the Ulysses, who was the NAP commanding officer?"
Ford's eyes widened, though he kept his face tilted down. "Alicia Noyce, you mean . . . his daughter . . ."
Thomas nodded.
"She explained her motivations." Ford cleared his throat. He slumped back in his chair, thinking, as a frown slipped across his face. "In fact, I thought Alicia Noyce accepted political asylum in the UEO. Last I'd heard, she was being forgiven her 'trespasses.'"
"Oh, she was . . . have no doubt. Until she went and did this, that is." General Thomas smacked his fist into his desk, angrily scowling at Ford. "She accepted asylum, then went and managed to contact NAP agents right under our own damned noses. I have proof of that . . ."
"Yes, but her actions are not her father's actions! That's like . . . like saying the 'sins of the father pass on to the son.' It's nonsense, and you know it . . ."
"Don't you find it ironic, though, Commander, that Noyce is her father? I'm positive he told her of Bridger's flight plans. Positive . . . for who better than the Captain's best friend to trap him? Bridger trusts Noyce. Bridger wouldn't even think to question the man's word. What better tool could you use against a man?"
Ford stared at Thomas, then shook his head. "No. I won't accept that, General. Not until I have proof."
Thomas smiled, inclining his head slightly. He shrugged. "Call him. Talk to him. See if he squirms." The General leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking very smug. Ford wanted to wipe that expression right from the man's face, but knew he couldn't.
"Okay. I think I will," Ford finally said after a moment's silence had stretched too thin between them. He watched as Thomas perked his eyebrows.
"Good, Commander. I guess I'll talk to you later, then." As Ford nodded and was about to disconnect the vidlink, Thomas added one short comment, "Just remember, Commander . . . if he squirms, ask yourself why he's squirming. Friends don't squirm. But eels do."
Ford stared at the vidlink in surprise, then blinked as it cleared, the familiar gold and blue UEO symbol replacing Thomas's near-gloating expression. Ford wondered at that expression even as he placed a call through to Noyce's office. Was the General trying to discredit Noyce so he could take his position? They weren't even in the same branch of the service, though. It just . . . didn't make sense.
As Ford ran a hand across his chin, deep in contemplation--and completely unaware that he was mimicking the motion he had seen Bridger make so many times--the screen flickered; it cleared to reveal a middle-aged man in an impeccable white dress uniform. Ford sighed. He knew this man--or, at least, men like him. It meant nothing that he'd never spoken with him or met him; he'd met his type before. The man was the stereotypical "administrative official": Cool, crisp lines, perfect hair, perfect Oxford accent. Just what he wasn't in the mood for today.
He sighed, glancing at the man's insignia. "Lieutenant, I need to speak to Admiral Noyce. This is Commander Ford from the seaQuest. It's urgent . . ."
The Stereotypical Official frowned slightly, suddenly looking somewhat flustered; Ford had to admit, the look at least made the man seem a bit more . . . well, human, perhaps. "Sir, I'm afraid that's impossible . . ."
"What do you mean, 'that's impossible'?" Ford interrupted, snapping at the man. His face was glowing angrily. "What part of 'urgent' didn't you understand?"
"But, sir . . ." the confused man started, then stopped. He shook his head. "Commander, Noyce . . . Noyce was called into Washington, D.C., for a special awards ceremony . . ."
Ford heard this. Slowly, an ominous sense of foreboding slammed into his mind; he felt his stomach muscles stiffen.
The man continued: ". . . He disappeared shortly after reaching Washington." The man looked away, then down, a troubled expression settling over his face. "We're not sure where he is."
Oh, God. Ford's index finger shook slightly, barely controlled, as he clicked off the vidscreen. He stared blankly, silently, at the now empty vidscreen.
Ford believed in chance. He believed in coincidence.
But he strongly suspected that this . . . this wasn't coincidence.