Title: Fly Me to Freedom
Author: Maddie
Genre: AU action
Rating: K+
Pairing: Gen
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Neither the SGA characters nor the movie/book Mysterious Island belong to me. I am just borrowing them and mixing them up a bit. No infringement intended.
Summary: The story was originally written for the team_SGA, team AU Fest on Live Journal. The prompt I chose was a recreation of the movie Mysterious Island, based on the Jules Verne novel by the same title. In this movie, soldiers escape from a prison camp during the American Civil War and crash land on an uninhabited island, or so they think. For anyone familiar with the movie, I used the 1961 version. The story follows the movie somewhat, but I parted ways with the cinema version when I got the men to the island.
Fly Me to Freedom
"Have you ever flown before?" The question was spoken in a soft, almost reverent voice.
"Flown? If man were meant to fly…."
"Yeah, I know, he'd have been born with wings. But have you ever flown before?" The question now had more urgency.
Rodney McKay studied the man at the grimy window. Tall and lean with an unruly shock of dark hair, he'd been more enigma than companion during their shared incarceration. His sack coat of faded blue wool, and threadbare, standard issue sky blue kersey trousers were bare of rank. The ill fitted clothes hung on him like rags on a beggar, obvious to even the most casual observer that they were never meant to fit this particular man. His forage cap, as frayed as his coat was faded, was also free of corps insignia as though all effort had been made to erase his origins and affiliations.
He had arrived in the dark of night, a single prisoner under heavy guard, not brought in by wagon or train with other prisoners. Since then he'd been confined here in the cellars. Though most of the prisoners at Libby Prison in Richmond, Virginia were officers, the cellar was that special place where their Confederate captors kept those they deemed most dangerous. His movements had been restricted to this cell and an occasional trip to the muck filled yard they used for exercise, but only after the yard had been cleared of all other prisoners. With little notice, he would be spirited away, in the middle of the night, by two or three of the Rebel guards. He would be gone for a day, sometimes more, and then returned. Often the bruises would be obvious, other times not, but McKay could tell he was in pain by the way he held his body and moved to perform the most basic tasks.
McKay could only guess what was so special about this prisoner in cell block 14, east wing of Libby Prison.
"I flew in one of them once." There was a wistful quality to the man's voice that was almost childlike in its wonder.
McKay moved to stand behind John Sheppard as he continued to stare out the window. Looking, McKay could see what he was so smitten by. It was an observation balloon, tethered just inside the wall of the yard. It had been there for the past two days.
"Would you know how to fly one?"
McKay snorted his disgust. "I'm an engineer, not an observer. I've erected and destroyed roads and bridges, placed and removed obstructions, conducted topographical surveys, prepared accurate maps, and reconnoitered the enemy's works – from the ground."
"But do you know how they fly?" Sheppard insisted.
"Gas. Lighter than air gas if you understand the concept. The Union uses hydrogen. The only two balloons known to be flown by the Confederates are hot air balloons. Which does make me wonder if this particular balloon has been captured or if the Rebels finally figured out how to make and use hydrogen."
"Hydrogen?"
McKay rolled his eyes. Was he always to be cursed with the over curious and under educated. "Hy-dro-gen. It isn't as heavy as the air we normally breathe. Though it is part of the air we normally breathe. It makes the balloon rise. Like wood floating on water. To make the balloon rise you drop weight from the basket. Lighten the load. To make it come down to the ground you let gas out of the balloon. Other than that your fate is determined by the speed and direction of the wind.
"The wind is out of the southeast." Sheppard observed. "10 to 15 knots. There's weather developing. That would take us west and north. Just about right."
"Just about right for what," McKay asked the question, but had a terrible feeling that he already knew the answer.
"I'm going to escape. In that." He nodded his head toward the balloon, a calm confidence in his matter as though escape were a god given fact.
Once again, McKay snorted his disbelief. "You are going to escape. The last time I checked we were still in a locked cell, in a locked and well guarded prison. By what miracle do you expect to make this escape happen?"
"Another prisoner was just brought into the yard. Alone and under guard. There is a good possibility they'll bring him here with the rest of us recalcitrants. When they do we make our move. If a storm develops in the next few hours it will only help to hide our movements."
"WE make OUR move?"
"Do you want to spend the rest of the war here? Think about it, McKay. You always complain about how there isn't enough food, but plenty of lice, scurvy, camp fever and consumption."
"And if we aren't successful, there's a good possibility we'll be sent on to Camp Sumter...from which there is no escape except to Canaan and the lord's own presence."
"Then you're with me." The corner of Sheppard's mouth quirked up in that odd half smirk of his.
McKay let out his breath with a huff of disgust. "Would you give me an option?"
Sheppard grinned. The first genuine grin McKay could remember from him. "Here's the plan," he began.
******
"The men that captured him said he was carrying this." The guard put a heavy holster in the middle of the desk.
Captain Kavenaugh drew the weapon from its holster, turning it over in his hands and testing the feel. "Very impressive." Kavenaugh returned the revolver to its holster. "And where would someone like you come by a weapon like this? Only the highest ranking Confederate officers carry a LeMat. That tells me that you are not only a traitor but a thief as well."
"Neither," the man said bluntly, breaking his silence for the first time.
Captain Kavenaugh slammed his fist onto the table in front of his prisoner. "You are a disgrace to the uniform you are wearing. I cannot believe that a fellow southerner would stoop to such levels."
The prisoner made no other further sound. The captain found his sullen silence unnerving. The man was a disgrace to a confederate uniform, but he was also intimidating. Well over six feet tall he towered over all of Kavenaugh's men. His shock of dark, shoulder length hair was unkempt and unruly, twisting into tangled ropes. The man was covered with more grime than could be accounted for in the time he had spent as a prisoner. The official report said he had been apprehended in the bayou, living like a swamp rat amidst the cypress. He still wore his uniform trousers, now faded to butternut, but the rest of his accouterments were a cross between the natives and the Cajuns. He was filthy and yet he carried himself as though he were General Lee himself. And this weapon was further damning proof that he was a threat to the Confederacy. Only ranking officers had been issued a LeMat. He himself had seen only one in the possession of J.E.B. Stuart himself. That meant this man was a deserter, a thief or both.
"You've been accused of helping the Negros escape to the north. Running them through the swamps and hiding them from the law. Do you know what the punishment is for aiding and abetting an escaped slave? To say nothing of desertion from your regiment."
"Didn't desert." The man's comment was little more than a grunt.
"You are wearin' the uniform of the Confederate States of America. Or what is left of one."
"Didn't desert."
The man's eyes glinted with a feral sharpness that Kavenaugh found unnerving. Even securely bound he radiated a sense of self assurance and strength that left Kavenaugh twitching with discomfort.
"Perhaps you will be more willing to co-operate after spending some time here at Libby." Kavenaugh nodded to the two guards standing behind the prisoner. "Take him to the cellars in the east wing."
"What cell block, sir?"
"Wherever he'll be the least comfortable. Keep him away from the Negros since he seems to have a particular need to help them escape."
"Yes, Sir," the two men said in unison. They used their rifles to nudge the prisoner to his feet and towards the door.
Kavenaugh sighed with relief as the door slammed behind them, glad that the man was no longer present. This one would be very difficult.
******
"They're crossing the yard," Sheppard warned from his vantage point at the window. The sun had set and the yard was now shrouded in shadows. The wind had increased in intensity. The rain could not be far away.
McKay had hunkered down behind the door and could feel the panic building in him. He wasn't a fighter. He made no pretense of being a fighter. He was an engineer. He built things.
From somewhere on his person Sheppard had produced a long thin cord. It looked like little more than a filthy boot lace, but McKay knew, in the right hands such a simple thing could be a lethal weapon. He had never thought of his cellmate as a killer, and now he was suddenly seeing him in a different light. He saw him as a soldier, someone trained to take lives.
A sudden commotion in the corridor leading to their cell alerted them that the guards were approaching. They could hear the steel heel plates of their boots as they hit the stone floor and McKay could almost imagine sparks flying from the contact. Sheppard had flattened himself against the opposite side of the door. His face was an emotionless mask, his body tense and ready to fight. It took all of McKay's concentration to keep his own body from trembling. What was he doing? This was insane. He was leaping from the frying pan into the proverbial fire.
The boots stopped. McKay listened intently for the sound of a key in the lock of their door. He heard rough voices and a dull thud like a rifle butt against flesh. Then the boots were approaching again, and this time he did hear the door unlocking.
Before he could think the door burst open and a tumbled confusion of grey fabric and the blue of rifle barrels and black leathers crashed into the center of the room. McKay had barely grasped what was going on when Sheppard waded into the melee and dispatched one of the Confederate guards with practiced efficiency. The second's guard's head was caught in the vise like grip of the new prisoner's legs. He rolled with an efficient twist of his hips and legs and McKay heard the sickening snap of the guard's neck breaking. It was over before McKay could move away from his position against the wall. He and Sheppard stood facing the new prisoner whose arms were still tied behind his back. He glowered back at them. The man continued to kneel on the ground. There was a soft grunt, and the man's hands were free. In the right one he held a small knife barely visible in the gloom of the cell.
"What?" McKay stammered in surprise and pointed to the knife. "Where was that hidden?"
The other man ignored his question as he got to his feet. McKay gulped. He had to be at over six feet tall. Taller even than Sheppard who was taller than the average man.
Sheppard and the man stood face to face for the briefest second. Then Sheppard spoke. "We're getting out of here. You are welcome to join us. I think we might be on the same side."
"All I want is what they took from me. Then I'll disappear."
"Wait," Sheppard said. "If we work together we can all get out of here."
"I work alone."
"When we're out of here, you can go wherever you want alone. We need to work together to get out of here." Sheppard repeated his statement.
"They took something from me. It's in the captain's office."
"No, no, no," McKay interrupted their little plotting session. "Nothing was ever said about taking anything from the captain's office."
"Quiet, McKay," Sheppard said, his look thoughtful. "This may work. Grab his greatcoat." He motioned to the guard that the big man had killed and started to strip the coat off the other guard himself. He also grabbed the man's hat and weapons.
McKay gulped nervously. "If they capture us again they'll think we're spies. They'll hang us all."
"Probably gonna do that anyway," the tall stranger said.
Sheppard finished pulling on the Confederate leathers, checked the belt pouches for powder, caps and miniballs, then donned the greatcoat. He pulled the dead man's kepi down over his face so that the brim shadowed his features.
McKay's hands shook as he mimicked Sheppard. The Springfield rifle felt awkward in his hands. He had learned to fire a weapon when he had first enlisted, but he had never needed to do so in battle. His talents lay elsewhere. He'd never killed anyone, but dared not confess that to these two. Apparently he didn't need to. His discomfiture was so obvious, Sheppard noticed.
"You don't need to fire it. Just hold it. We're taking this prisoner to the Captain's office."
"He just came from the Captain's office. Isn't that going to look odd?"
"I'm hoping no one notices."
"He's pretty hard to miss." McKay's final protest was cut short by what sounded suspiciously like a growl. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, as he stared up into the newcomer's grim face. "Okay, okay, let's get this over with." He jammed his Confederate kepi down low over his face and shouldered his rifle.
At a nod from Sheppard the big man put his hands behind his back and Sheppard wrapped a scrap of rope loosely around his wrists. Then they were out of the cell, locking the cell door behind them so curious guards didn't discover their absence any sooner than necessary. They moved quickly down the stone corridor to the steps leading upward,
McKay did his best not to shake when they were stopped by the guards at the main entrance to the prisoner's barracks. For once he decided silence was best and let Sheppard do the talking.
"He's had a change of mind." Sheppard mimicked a Virginia drawl as he addressed the confederate soldier guarding the door. "Seems he doesn't like small spaces. Took one look at the 'accommodations' and decided to talk to Captain Kavenaugh."
The soldier nodded them on. If he suspected anything he made no indication of it.
McKay said a silent prayer as they marched across the yard straight to the captain's office. The office was dark and there was no guard outside. They slipped through the door, and into the darkened room. Whatever the tall man was looking for must not have been in plain sight. He quickly surveyed the room then went straight to the gun cabinet at the far corner. He wrenched open the door, and took out an ordinary looking holster. With a fluid movement born of practice the man slipped the belt around his waist and strapped to holster to his thigh. He pulled the revolver from its sleeve, checked the load, and spun it casually once in his hand, then slipped it back into the holster again.
"Now we can go," he said his voice a low rumble in the darkness. "What's your plan?"
"We're flying out of here." Sheppard said a hint of boyish glee in his voice.
The big man grunted. "You plan on sprouting wings?"
"We've already had this discussion," McKay interjected under his breath.
From the cover of the captain's office, Sheppard gestured to the tethered balloon. The wind had increased in intensity and rain was falling in large splattering drops that threatened a deluge.
"Sprouting wings might be smarter." The tall man said as he peered out the window. "I don't like it."
"If you can think of a faster way to get over the wall, I'll hear it." Sheppard said, watching the yard for any sign of movement by the guards.
The big man thought for a moment, then nodded. "Over the wall. Then you let me out."
Sheppard nodded agreement. "As soon as we can land."
Despite the fact that they had barely met, the two men moved in concert, barely communicating, yet seeming to understand what each needed to do. Like a well oiled machine, McKay thought, one any engineer would be proud of, except for the fact that he was the squeaking cog.
With Sheppard leading the way, they left the office, slipped back into the yard and were half way to the gondola. McKay was about to believe they would succeed when the first warning shot was fired.
They had been prisoners long enough to know that the firing of one gun after dark was the signal for the immediate assembling of the guard. Sheppard broke into a run. McKay did not hesitate. He was almost to the balloon when a second shot rang out. The rain had begun to fall in earnest and McKay could barely see where the shot was fired from, but apparently their new comrade did. Without hesitation, he returned fire and was rewarded with a grunt and thud as one of the guards dropped to the ground.
"McKay," Sheppard ordered, "Into the balloon, we'll cut the ropes. Get this thing ready to fly."
"I'm not a pilot…" McKay began to protest, but neither Sheppard nor the big man was listening. They had engaged the enemy and were returning fire, holding the guards at bay, giving him time to board the gondola. He reached the basket, hauled himself over the edge and dropped to the bottom. Peering over the edge, he began to loosen the heavy sandbags that were attached to the sides. He had no idea how many he would need to drop to compensate for their weight, but he guessed. It was, after all, just simple math.
As he worked he heard the report of Sheppard's Springfield and the big man's gun. He mentally counted the shots from the revolver, knowing that when the man reached six he would have to reload.
He felt the gondola rock as Sheppard and their new friend heaved themselves over the side and into the gondola. Sheppard sawed at the last rope that held them to the ground. The balloon bucked and yawed with the wind, and for a panicked moment McKay thought they would not be able to rise off the ground. Then, with a lurch, the final rope parted and he felt the balloon begin to ascend. Sheppard and the big man continued to fire over the side of the basket. Five, six…McKay counted the shots from the revolver. Seven? Eight? Did he have two revolvers? Nine. McKay glanced at the man just as he flicked something near the barrel of his revolver. His final shot barked a resounding report that sounded more like a shotgun than a revolver.
McKay wanted to ask what he had just fired, but his question was forgotten as the wind caught the balloon and sucked them up into the rain swollen sky.
* * *