SGC Sort Of

Jack O'Neill sat and watched. He had made himself comfortable, leaning on a fallen log, conceded by trees and bushes. He had brought his binoculars and was, even now...checking the terrain around the entrance to the complex.

The two Jaffa guards didn't even bother to put up a pretense of 'patrol'.

One stood off to the side, arms folded, staff weapon leaning up against the rock facing of the tunnel entrance.

The other faced him and they seemed involved in a debate over some subject that neither appeared particularly interested in. They were just passing the time.

They were obviously bored out of their gords.

Jack could relate to them. He had wanted to drive through town..check it out but the closer he got, the more people and Jaffa there was.

Some were beginning to look at him suspiciously. One large being had halted his steps and pointed Jack's truck out to another of his kind as Jack had driven by.

The Col had no idea what the exchange had meant but he didn't want to find out, so....instead of his original plan...to find a damned newspaper and see if that could shed some light on the bizarre day he was experiencing...he decided, upon reflection..to head away from the city.

He had ended up here...at the SGC...or what had been...the SGC.

On his way out of town, Jack had passed several places that used to stock newspapers...the blue boxes were empty or missing...locks broken or glass shattered...

No newspapers to be had, apparently.

He hid his truck from sight, just in case and had made his way up the mountain about an hour back.

The place looked deserted. No activity...No military guards, the huge gate entrance, locked and closed.

Jack had never seen those gates closed...not even during a lock down.

Soldiers and trucks had blocked any escape routes, granted but...those gates had always...always been open for business.

He had passed one car coming up here...one. An old chevy. Dirty, chocked full of odds and ends, the driver, an old man, full white beard and an expression that boded ill for any would be 'wavers'.
Jack had not 'waved'....he had not even thought about 'waving'.

He checked his watch. Enough was enough. This was getting him nowhere and it was almost 11:30. He was getting hungry.

That bowl of fruit loops didn't really stay with a guy.

He moved silently, cautiously, through the thick underbrush of bushes and thickly massed trees, arriving at the exit tunnel he had used a few times over the past years for this purpose or that.

He checked the hinges, wondering how far sound carried up here.

The Jaffa were down the hill about 700 meters or so.

If the lid squeaked or groaned when he lifted it, would they hear?

It looked pretty rusty.

He wasn't sure why he wanted down there. He just knew he had to go. To see for himself, maybe...was there some type of evidence still about to explain what had happened? A clue?

Something....anything.

Besides, he hated inactivity. This was better than sitting in the bushes watching the Jaffa scratch their collective asses.

O'Neill eased the lid open a fraction and peered inside.

There was no sound...none.

A tiny scrape of metal he, himself, could hardly hear, met with his efforts.

He scowled. Inside the now fully opened hatch, one could tell...it was clean and well oiled and..the slide bolts were brand, spanking new.

Jack leaned over and peered down into the dark area.

Silence surrounded him.

Just the strong wind in the trees above him disturbed the serenity of the moment.

He thought about his weapon...the nine millimeter he had strapped on when he exited his truck.

He would need two hands to climb down that ladder.

He climbed the edge of the opening and began his descent.

Into what? He had no fucking clue what-so-ever.

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Author Notes : Will hopefully post more sometime this week - Thanks for reading!!!! We really appreciate it!