Gut Feelings
By
Denise
Henry flipped through the folders, randomly picking one to read. This was silly, he knew, to even attempt to read all the mission reports from the SGC. There were over a thousand of them, one for every mission carried out either through the Stargate or on Earth and half of them were cross-referenced to each other or referring to events that had happened months or years before.
The sheer amount of information was staggering, as was the events recounted. From giant aliens to tiny, 'they can fly through anything' pixies, the experiences of the SGC teams seemed to run the gamut from amazing to nightmarish.
In a way, he envied them, envied their freedom to explore, envied their experiences. He was jealous, in a way, of the fact that so many of them had set foot on alien planets. They'd flown in space ships and even had friends among the stars…friends that were rather fond of them if the attitude of the one named Thor was any indication.
They'd visited alternate realities, received messages from the future and even traveled back in time, all courtesy of this wondrous piece of alien technology that he had yet to see with his own eyes.
A long forgotten memory flitted around the edges of his mind and he frowned, reading the report again before setting it aside and reaching for the phone. "Megan," he called to his secretary through the speakerphone.
"Sir?"
"I need the personnel file for Major General George Hammond. The whole file, not just the non-classified bits," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," she answered and Henry disconnected the line, returning to the mission reports with an eagerness usually reserved for the latest Tom Clancy novel.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
George walked through the halls of the West Wing, General Maynard at his side. "Give him a chance, George," the man said. George glanced at him, trying to see some hidden message in the man's dark face. "He's got an open mind."
"A trait that not everyone in this administration shares," George said softly, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground, but also knowing that General Maynard shared his opinion about Kinsey and the man's motives. In fact, it had been Maynard who had given George more than a few friendly warnings over the years.
"The president is well aware of a certain person's weaknesses," he said meaningfully. They walked into the outer office, the president's secretary stopping her typing and standing up.
"He said to send you in as soon as you arrived, General Hammond," she said.
"I'll wait out here," Maynard said, taking a seat.
George followed her into the open door, inadvertently eavesdropping on President Hayes' conversation.
"Bob, can we stop complaining and start figuring out what we're going to do?"
"Mr. President. General Hammond," she introduced, interrupting his phone call.
"Show him in," he ordered, taking off his glasses. "We can't ignore a threat of this magnitude, hear the man out! Well, whatever he is, and get back to me!" he ordered, obviously a bit peeved at whomever was on the other end. He hung up the phone and stood up. "General George Hammond."
"Mister President," George said, shaking his hand.
"I think it was Lieutenant last time we spoke wasn't it?" the man remembered.
"For both of us, that was a lot of hair ago, sir," Hammond said, surprised that he'd remembered.
"Sit down," he invited, leading the way to the sofas. "You know when I took this job, I thought I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. But then I found out what you do for a living."
"Yes, sir," George replied, fighting the urge to correct the man. It was what he DID for a living and it was a job he didn't have anymore, thanks to the President. He wanted to be bitter, wanted to get a little of his own back…but he squashed the urge to napalm his bridges until he'd at least heard the man out.
"George, this had nothing to do with your record, but if the American people had any idea what your contribution was..."
"Thank you, sir, that's kind of you to say. One day maybe they will," he replied, slightly mollified by the man's words. He knew, with the clarity of hindsight, that some of his decisions hadn't been the best ever. But after endless sleepless nights, he also knew that there were none that would have made differently, not given the same information he'd had the first time around.
"Doctor Weir, she's as smart as they come," President Hayes continued.
" I hope so," George said honestly, knowing full well if she wasn't, that she wouldn't last long. He just hopes she didn't make any decisions that got any of his people killed….ex-people…no, they'd never stop being his people and he'd never stop looking out for their best interests, as much as he could anyway.
"The poor thing, she has no idea what she's gotten herself into. I had no choice, George; I had to do something. I want you to know that I'm aware of your history with the Vice President."
"Yes, sir," George replied cautiously.
"Hell, we both know why I picked Kinsey, more than the money... he delivered Florida all by himself. Trust me, if I knew then..."
"Of course," George answered, relieved in a way to know the real reason for the odd alliance. Months ago when then Candidate Hayes had announced his choice of a running mate, George had wondered what had happened to have changed the man so much from the young officer he'd once known. This made sense. Politics often made strange bedfellows.
"So, let's talk about your reassignment," Hayes said, changing the subject.
George shook his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of retirement, sir," he confessed.
"I don't think so, George, not just yet. I want to keep you around Washington, we're going to need you and your expertise," he said sincerely.
"With all due respect, sir. I'm sure you have a whole room full of advisors with far more tactical experience than me."
Hayes nodded. "Earth tactics, yes. But not goa'uld. Tell me, how much do you trust this…Bra'tac I think it is."
"Master Bra'tac," George corrected. "He was Teal'c's mentor and is currently the leader of the rebel Jaffa. I trust him implicitly. It was only through his assistance that SG-1 was able to prevent Apophis' attack five years ago. Why do you ask, sir?"
"I just got a call from Doctor Weir. Bra'tac came to Earth a few hours ago and told them that Anubis is on his way here."
George sat up straighter, a sick feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. He'd been expecting this for a while. He knew that eventually the system lord would get tired of plots and schemes from afar and would come in person to finish them off, that Jack was right, one day they'd be enough of a pain in the ass to deal with. "When?" George asked, his face deadly serious.
"They estimate three days."
George nodded. "If Bra'tac says they'll be here in three days, they'll be here in three days."
"That's what I was afraid of," Hayes said. He leaned back, crossing his legs. "What can you tell me about the goa'uld?"
"They rule by fear and intimidation," George said. "Most often they impersonate or take on the persona of a deity. They're also scavengers. From our experience, they seem to come up with very few ideas of their own, but rather steal ideas and technologies. Just recently, we've discovered them using robotic probes, much like our MALPs to explore planets."
"What's your threat assessment?"
George shook his head. "It's doubtful that we can beat them. They may steal all their technology, but what they have is centuries beyond us. The only way to beat them is to…. Catch them off guard. Think creatively or annoy them enough that their arrogance leads them to making a mistake. They're used to throwing large numbers of soldiers at each other. Sometimes four people sneaking in can accomplish more than a whole battalion."
"Arrogant, huh?"
"Oh yes," George agreed. "They're so used to not being challenged or having people afraid of them, that they don't take one on one confrontation well. They're not used to dealing with people that talk back or don't cower in fear. Like the Asgard, they depend on their technology too much."
"Like people that can't add two and two without a calculator," Hayes said.
"Something like that, sir," George said. "Mister President, the technology the goa'uld use is very advanced, however, before I left, SG-1 started a mission that could very well lead us to something better, technology that could outstrip whatever Anubis has."
"That's what Doctor Weir was talking about? This aah…Ancient something."
"Yes, sir. Mister President, I know this may not be my place, however, I strongly suggest you allow SG-1 to complete their mission. Allow them to find the Lost City. If the technology there is what I think it is, it could be our only hope."
"The Vice-President believes that the might of the US armed forces will be enough to stop the impending invasion," Hayes said dryly.
"With all due respect, sir, Earth doesn't stand a chance. Anubis will defeat us. If he hasn't already, the first thing he'll do is to dial our gate. He may use it to launch an attack, or could simply tie it up to prevent us from using it to retreat. Then he'll attack the big cities, probably here first. If he wants slaves, he'll send down ground troops. If not, he's fully capable of blasting us back to the stone age from orbit."
"You see," he said, sitting forward. "This is exactly why I need you here, George. I need someone who's got a realistic view of what things are like out there." He got to his feet, George following suit. "I'll let you think it over," he said.
"I don't need to, sir. I'd be honored," George said, the imminent threat pushing all thoughts of retirement out of his mind. Anyway, unless he helped, he stood a good chance of barely living long enough to get back home, much less enjoying his retirement.
"That's what I was hoping you'd say," President Hayes smiled, reaching out to shake George's hand.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Sir?" Megan stuck her head around the door. "General Hammond is-"
"Send him in, send him in," Henry said, getting to his feet, abandoning his paperwork. "George!"
"Mister President," the man said, returning his smile and shaking his hand.
"You did a hell of a job with Prometheus," Henry congratulated, motioning for the general to have a seat.
"It was the crew, sir. I was just along for the ride," Hammond replied modestly. "And if it wasn't for the fighters, we wouldn't have lasted very long."
Henry's smile faded. "Yes. How many did we lose?" he asked seriously.
George handed him a folder. "The families have all been notified," he said as Henry opened the folder, reading the names.
"Colonel O'Neill?" he asked, seeing a name he hadn't quite expected.
"He's still in stasis, or whatever it is, down in Antarctica. Without understanding his condition, the opinion is that any attempt to remove him could very likely result in…an unpleasant outcome," the general said solemnly.
Henry nodded. "And the rest of SG-1?"
"Bra'tac picked them up and returned them to the SGC," he reported. Henry flipped through the pages, skimming the names. In reality, there weren't a lot, not compared to the hundreds of men that had been lost at sea, however, proportionally wise, the Snakeskinners had suffered tremendous losses, both in aircraft and personnel.
"I finally remembered who they are," Henry said slowly, looking up to meet George's eyes.
"Sir?"
"I had to do some digging, and a lot of reading between the lines of a deliberately vague mission report but…I've met them before, haven't I?"
Hank groaned and opened his eyes, wondering for a moment what the hell kind of liberty he'd had if he'd passed out in the woods somewhere. He stared up at the sky and watched a couple of puffy white clouds float by before becoming aware of a couple of things. First of all, he hadn't had liberty in days and second of all, he could feel pavement under his butt.
Sitting up, he groaned, frowning at the people lying around him. In a heart beat it all flooded back. The convoy, the prisoners, flat tire. He struggled to his feet, staggering over to check on his men before making his way back to the back of the van, not surprised to find it empty.
Around him, the other men were starting to stir, muttered groans and curses, proving that they likely felt just as badly as he did. Certain that everyone was alive, Hank climbed into the cab of the truck, reaching for the radio and reporting in.
Satisfied that help was on the way, and fully aware that none of them were in any shape to start a search, he clambered down out of the cab and made his way over to the front of the second truck, sliding down to sit beside his friend. "You ok, Georgie?" he asked softly, examining his friend. He looked a little green around the gills and Hank worried for a second if he should have requested medical assistance when he'd called in.
He nodded. "Yeah, you?"
"What the hell was that?"
He shook his head. "Some kinda ray gun," he answered, scrubbing his hands over his face. The other men were now on their feet and wandering around, their voices raising a bit as they argued over whose fault it was and wasn't.
Hank shook his head. "I searched them. All they had were their shoelaces. All their weapons were in the truck."
"Well, somehow they got a hold of them."
"Just like somehow they slipped out of their manacles?" Hank shot back, thoroughly puzzled as to how the spies had escaped.
George shrugged. "James Bond can do it."
"Thornbird ain't gonna buy that." George shrugged. "At least we still have their stuff," Hank said.
"It's gone," Georgie said flatly.
"What?"
"They shot it with that ray gun and made it all disappear."
Hank stared at him for a few minutes, replaying events in his mind. He'd been in the second truck, transporting the spies' possessions. He remembered driving up and finding the stopped truck, climbing out and then falling to the ground as one of the prisoners shot him, a ray of blue light coming from the item in his hand, sending him to join the other bodies lying on the …he turned to face George. "He shot you."
"Yeah."
"Once?"
"That was enough."
"Then how do you know they destroyed the stuff in the back of a truck that arrived after they shot you?" he asked, seeing realization cross his friend's face as the man paled, worse than he had a few weeks ago when he'd received word of his father's heart attack. The sound of truck engines broke the silence and Hank got to his feet, holding out a hand to help Georgie up. "Keep your mouth shut," he warned, ignoring his paranoia and listening to his gut.
"What the HELL is going on here!" Thornbird demanded, barely waiting for the car to stop before climbing out, his face beet red.
"The spies escaped, sir," Hank said, coming to attention and saluting the major.
"How did that happen?"
"We don't know, sir."
"Hammond, you were in charge of the prisoners, how did they escape?"
"I don't know, sir," Georgie said, staring straight ahead.
"You DON'T know!"
"Sir," Hank interrupted. "As per your orders, the prisoners were restrained and sequestered in the back of the van. Therefore, none of us can tell you how they escaped because none of us witnessed it." The major stared, his eyes narrowing as he considered Hank's words and the hint of blame contained within.
"Their belongings?" he asked, gritting his teeth.
"Gone, sir," Hank said. "They must have taken it with them."
"They can't have gone far, not carrying that stuff." He turned on his heel, stalking back to the car. "Seal it off! I want every available officer to do a search. We will find these spies or heads will roll!"
"Yes, sir," General Hammond said. "I was wondering if you would remember."
"They weren't Russian spies?"
Hammond chuckled. "Doctor Jackson speaks the language, but no, they weren't spies. Just four members of my command who'd gotten displaced in time."
"I'd always wondered if I'd did the right thing," Henry muttered, still trying to reconcile the fact that the four escaped spies from thirty years ago were the very same people who had saved this planet several times over. What would have happened had he ignored his gut feeling and done his duty? What if he had exposed George's slip? How different would the present be because of one misspoken sentence in the middle of a New Mexico highway three decades ago?
"Why did you?" Hammond asked softly.
Henry shook his head. "I don't know. I really don' t know. Just a gut feeling I guess…George, you were a lot of things back then, but a spy wasn't one of them." He stared at the man for a second before leaning forward. "Doctor Weir tells me that SG-1 wants to continue their search for the Lost City."
"That doesn't surprise me, sir," George said. "Especially since that could be their only chance to reverse Colonel O'Neill's condition."
"What do you think?"
"Mister President?"
"Would you let them go?"
"Yes, sir, I would," George replied without hesitation.
"Even though Mister Woolsey may consider it a waste of time and resources for three people to search for a mythical city to save one man? Especially since Anubis is apparently dead and no longer a threat."
"Just because Anubis is gone, doesn't mean that there are no more threats out there."
"And?"
"And, sir?"
"Kinsey would suggest that it was some type of plot or ploy on SG-1's behalf to regain control over the Stargate."
"With all due respect, sir, Kinsey has been known to suggest a lot of things that are wrong, misrepresented or outright lies," George said, meeting his gaze boldly.
Henry laughed, enjoying the refreshing honesty of the man. "Yeah, that he does. I pity whomever he works for next. I just hope they don't call me for a reference," he said, fantasizing about the ex-Vice President hawking burgers.
"Let them go, sir," Hammond said, abruptly changing the subject.
"George?"
"If anyone can find the Lost City, it's SG-1," he said, his voice reflecting his absolute belief in his words. Henry looked at the man and saw nothing but implicit trust. No motives, no machinations, just an honest belief in his people and their abilities.
"That's what I thought you'd say," Henry said, getting to his feet. "Hell, you trusted them thirty years ago and we're still here. That's good enough for me," he said, once again trusting his gut. It hadn't steered him wrong yet.
Fin