Chapter 2

It was supposed to be a diplomatic mission. Safe, short-term, there and back in a day, and absolutely no danger. That's why they allowed an aging Major General to tag along.

Somehow the locals had heard of me. I've helped a lot of people over the years and word gets around. Naturally, I took the mission. I miss the field. Being a Major General isn't all it's cracked up to be. Nothing but paperwork. I hate paperwork. Hate doesn't even being to describe it. I loathe paperwork. Give me a 9-mil and a pound of C-4 and I'd face a hoard of Mongols single-handedly before I'd decide a stack of paperwork was the better option.

Big mistake.

I don't know the details of my capture. One minute I'm chatting up the locals, the next I'm being dragged along on my back, my arms tied to the rear end of a wagon being pulled by horses. Horses with claws, the kind that went extinct years ago on Earth.

The nail that I swear is being driven through my skull is accompanied by the hammer itself. I shout to let them know I'm awake, but they don't stop. I pull myself up on the rope and get to my feet, tripping and stumbling until I get my balance and match the speed of the wagon, glancing around at the situation.

The only thing I see is the butt of the staff just before it crashes against my temple and I'm out for the count.

When I finally regain consciousness I'm flat on my back, my arms tucked at my side. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm not blind, that it's just dark wherever I am, probably a prison. At least, it smells like one. It takes me another minute to realize that my right shoulder is dislocated.

I curse at the thought of putting it back in, by myself, with no pain meds in the foreseeable future. But like the practical soldier I am I do what needs to be done.

Didn't feel so good. I've had worse, a lot worse, but that doesn't make it any easier. Cradling my arm with the support of my other hand I struggle to my feet to get a good look around. My eyes adjust to the dim light of the stars above and I realize this is no ordinary prison.

There are no walls or doors or bars or even a ceiling. Just cliffs. They seem to go on forever, rising higher than the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Sheer cliff faces. Ten years ago, maybe, but at my age with a busted arm…I wouldn't be climbing out any time soon. There has to be another way out, but it will have to wait.

A man wearing a black uniform approaches me, another slightly behind him, pointing his weapon right at my chest. The first is holding a cup of water. He takes a sip and I realize he's toying with me.

I've been tortured before, I know the routine. Show a man what he wants, taunt him with it, but never let him have it. It doesn't work on me. I've known Samantha Carter more than ten years and I've never had her, never really thought I could. Who needs water more than they need Samantha Carter?

He seems disappointed by my apathy. And he becomes downright annoyed when I start talking.

"Where have you taken me?" I ask defiantly, and am pleased by the strength of my voice.

I'm not surprised when he doesn't answer me.

"I'm a General of the United States Air Force. You don't want to mess with me."

They seem delighted by my threats, though they have no idea what the United States Air Force is.

"So how about you just let me go and I'll forget this whole thing ever happened," I wisely compromise.

They just laugh at me, saying nobody ever gets out of there. I'd like to whack them a good one. They're obviously amateurs. I could have them both disarmed and begging for mercy in two seconds flat if I had both arms. I could probably find a way even with the useless appendage, but there's nowhere to go, I don't know the area yet. So I bite back the urge to knock them senseless and walk away from them, checking for a way out, some passageway perhaps leading to an all-too-convenient elevator to take me to the surface with the push of a button.

Alas it is not to be.

They really don't like me ignoring them. I sense them coming and spring around, striking the first man a bone-crunching pop to the nose, and slam him back against the second guy, knocking them both over on their butts.

They really hate me now and there's nowhere to go, nothing to fight for, nothing with which to defend myself. Especially now that I've attracted the others.

I sit down submissively, shielding my arm, letting them see I'm no threat anymore, that I won't hurt them if they leave me alone. I can't afford to get hurt.

They don't buy my act, and soon I'm curled up on my side, protecting my delicate ribs from their booted onslaught. My shoulder slips out again just before I pass out.

SJSJSJSJ

I really don't want to be awake. I want to sleep forever. You don't feel anything when you're asleep. But I'm not asleep anymore so I must endure the agony brought on by my insolent, arrogant manner of dealing with the situation.

I need water. Not want, need.

I'm not a religious man, but I swear my prayers have been answered. A woman is sitting beside me, cradling a cup of water in her hands. When she sees I'm awake she brings it up to my lips and lifts my head slightly, pouring the precious liquid into my mouth. I nod gratefully and she nods back.

"Your arm." She says, pointing at my bad shoulder. "We fixed its location for you. We managed to get you a portion of food. You need to eat it. It will be some time before you get more." Then she stands up and walks away before I can thank her or try to make conversation.

I manage to force down the slop she called food. It was worse than chewing day old coffee grinds. The nausea of my head trauma and the shoulder pain doesn't help the taste at all but I manage to keep it down by sheer will alone, knowing what trouble I could be in if I can't get food and water in the near future.

I try to stand but the ache in my ribs doesn't let me. I manage to sit up, cradling my useless arm. This isn't good. Not good at all. Defenseless, alone, injured, imprisoned, hungry, thirsty, confused…everything I don't want to be. It's a familiar act to me. Been there, done that, got the scars and nightmares to prove it.

This was different. These people I see around me, the other prisoners, are different. There are women and children here, babies even. I can see them huddled in corners, cowering like abused puppies resigned to their fate. These people are beaten in every sense of the word. It makes me sick to see human beings like that, and I swear that no matter what, I will never be like them. I will never give up.

I came close to giving up before. I would never put the security of my country at risk but everyone has a breaking point. Turns out mine is death. Not so much dying, it's the being dead part that I dislike. And then the not staying dead. But that's classified.

I watch them. It's what I'm trained to do, observe and assess the situation. My assessment isn't very promising. My preliminary search of my new prison doesn't reveal a way out, aside from free climbing a 200 meter sheer cliff face with a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, concussion, and a headache the size of Antarctica.

I've been to Antarctica. I hate it there. Bad things happen there. Broken ribs, broken leg, internal bleeding, hypothermia, rare incurable disease, being frozen in time as my brain shuts down. It's not my favorite place in the world. Just thinking about it makes me shiver. On the other hand, Antarctica reminds me of Carter. She was there with me the first time, when I was injured and we were trapped under the ice. Don't ask how we got there.

We'd been working together about a year by then. I had no idea that she would become the most important woman in my life, that I would fall in love with her. She wasn't really the same Sam that I fell in love with. She was young and naïve, and didn't have enough confidence in herself. Oh, she was cocky as hell over trivial stuff, but when it came to absolute survival she honestly didn't think we'd be getting out of there.

I don't think like that. Being a family man by nature, albeit one without a family at the time, I know for sure that I'm going to make it home. I owe it to them. That was my first time since Charlie's death that it looked like I might not make it. So I focused on her. I pushed, I cajoled, I promised, I swore she would make it home, that we would make it home. She didn't really believe me.

After we're rescued she believes me. We always make it home.

But she isn't with me now, and I miss her. Not that I want her here with me, imprisoned by sadistic bastards. I just miss her. It hasn't really hit me yet that I'm in Hell.

The children don't play here. They don't have the energy for it. I remember Charlie getting really sick once and he could barely crawl out of bed. This is worse. The Holocaust Jews, worse than the starving children I've seen in my travels to third world countries, emaciation and fear and hopelessness. It's an ugly sight.

I need to help them. I have to do something for them. It's my way. In prison you can't show any weaknesses, there will always be someone there to exploit them, but my weakness, and one I can't ignore, is children. It's my way. Sometimes there's no hope for the adults, but the children? Children don't deserve the sins of their parents. Children are innocent and good, everything I've sworn to protect. They deserve better than this.

And so I know they will be my greatest weakness.

Over the first few days I get my bearings. I antagonize the guards as little as possible, hoping to allow my shoulder enough time to recover. And my head.

The woman had been right about the food. We don't get another bite to eat for nearly 72 hours. By then my stomach has coiled in on itself from hunger. It was green goop this time. Smelled worse than it looked, and tasted just as bad, but none of us were complaining.

I watch the guards closely, studying their routine. They seem unconcerned by me, which I list in my favor. It's good to be underestimated. You can get away with a lot of things. I've counted 15 guards so far. The shifts changed, and I know there has to be a way out for them to come and go. I just need to find it.

The others aren't talking. They ignore my questions with blank expressions as though they think I'm deluding myself. I hate when they do that. Makes my job so much harder.

I'm sleeping fitfully, alone, off in some corner as far away from the others as I can get, when I hear the crying. It's a child's voice, a young boy. I run to the sound as fast as I can, my protective instincts kicking into overdrive.

One of the guards is kicking the screaming child in the back. The small boy is curled up on his side protectively as he takes the beating, and seeing that makes my blood boil. No way am I putting up with this.

I dive at the guard like a whirlwind, knocking him to the ground and driving his shoulders in with a sickening crunch. I lash out at his face and he's unconscious by the second blow. I strike him again for good measure, ignoring the pain in my hand and shoulder as I beat the man to a bloody pulp. He deserves far worse in my book.

That's when the guards pull me off. Rather, throw me off and reciprocate the punishment by kicking me and knocking me senseless.

I'm sure it isn't healthy to be knocked unconscious as many times as I have been in the last week. Or even over the span of my lifetime. You don't want to know the number of times I've awoken not knowing where I am and how I got there. And that's disregarding the times it was alcohol-induced.

This time when I wake up there is a man with me. He silently hands me some food and water then walks away. I watch as he sits down across the room next to the young boy I had defended. At least the kid has family in a place like this. As a matter of fact, everyone seems to have someone else with them. I'm really the only one who doesn't have anyone.

Not that I care. I'm used to being alone. Normally I have my team but I am extremely grateful they aren't stuck here with me. Though Carter would have probably found a way out by now. Something brilliant.

Being the stubborn soldier I am I decide not to wait patiently for miracles. So I become my normal, irascible self and antagonize the guards, shouting insults at their cowardice for daring to hurt a defenseless child, criticizing the dump of a place they're keeping us in, making a nuisance of myself as I try to reason with them to let me go.

My defiance doesn't go unnoticed, by either the guards or the other prisoners. They watch me curiously, the guards flicking their whips threateningly, the prisoners just waiting silently from afar. The guards don't seem to want to get close. Even with just the one arm I had done some serious damage to their cohort, but they also look as though they'd like nothing better than to splatter my brains across the floor. I don't care for that.

But me and my big mouth, the words just come out, I can't help it. It's who I am. I can't control the situation but I can control how they perceive me. I'm a leader, I need to have some control. And I am in complete control when I insult their manhood and get thrashed for it. Somehow it's reassuring.

And stupid.

I've taken lashes before but nothing quite like this. In all those prison flicks and slave stories and my own experiences in war you do a bad thing and you get twenty or so lashes on the back. Not here. They don't care where they get you or how many times.

Before I even hit the ground three guards have me surrounded and each inflicts a single thunderous clap against my body. My shirt and jacket protect me from the ones to my back and chest but I can already feel the blood trickling down a long thin line on my cheek, running into the corner of my mouth and trailing down my neck. I hit the ground like a flash, shielding my face from their attack.

These guys are ruthless, and I have no idea why. Generally when I'm being tortured they at least do me the courtesy of asking questions, meaningless or not. These guys make no pretense of an interrogation. They just seem to enjoy hurting me. Maybe this isn't such a good idea, my being so vocal about my displeasure at being locked up in a pit, that is.

I don't like being hurt. I try to avoid it at all costs but sometimes it's necessary in my line of work to step in and take the bullet. Not that these swell folks are shooting me, it's a figure of speech for crying out loud. But seeing as my taking the bullet had done nothing to further my cause I make the unusually wise decision not to mess with these guys without reason. Although getting home is an excellent reason to get thrashed, it's not so fun when you're still locked up after your troubles.

I don't verbally assault them on my own anymore. Not without reason.

The cut on my face starts on my forehead over the right eye and tracks down my cheek, passing harmlessly over the eye socket. There are no mirrors here, but I can feel the swollen edges of the tract and I know it's a fiery red wound prone to infection in a place like this. Nothing to do about that but hope for the best. I clean it up as best I can with my meager water supply but there is nothing with which to cover it.

There's no first aid in Hell.

After the guards have left the father of the young boy comes over to me.

"You should not antagonize the guards," he tells me seriously.

Ya think?

"Somebody has to do it." I mutter, trying to keep my face still as my flapping jaw pulls at my wound.

"They will kill you." He kneels down beside me and offers me some water. I accept it gratefully, it's the first real act of kindness I've seen down here, aside from him and the woman giving me food earlier. It was my share anyway, but now he's giving his portion of water to me, and that's really something to appreciate.

I take a sip and hand it back, not wishing to appear greedy. He willingly takes it back and finishes it off before I can even consider asking for it back. I smile at the gesture, despite the pain it causes my face. He looks at me curiously.

"You are smiling?" He's surprised that I can smile at a time like this. People don't smile here.

"Thank you for the water," I say, trying my best not to grimace as I smile gratefully at him.

He's trying, he really is, to smile back at me. His face is gaunt, his eyes sunken, and he looks like a grinning skull, his lips somehow managing to quirk up, but his eyes are lifeless and there is no humor there, no sincerity, no life. "Thank you for helping my son."

He means it, he just can't show it anymore.

I acknowledge his gratitude with a nod and before I can say anything else he is gone.

SJSJSJSJSJ

Three days later I see Carter.

Infection has set in and I recognize the familiar signs of fever as my body shakes convulsively. My skull is on fire and my cheek throbs with every beat of my heart. I'm glad there are no mirrors, I probably don't look so great.

I'm curled up on my side in the corner I have designated as my own when she appears, kneeling before me.

"Carter." I cry out to her surprised. "What're you doing here?"

"You don't look so good, sir. We should get you to Janet."

I know I'm imagining her. Janet is dead, real Carter would know that.

"I could go for that." I whisper through clenched teeth. "I'd take Doc and her needles over this any day."

She smiles at me, the most beautiful smile I've ever seen and I can't help but think she's really there. Only Carter can smile like that, looking more beautiful and radiant than I could ever imagine.

Apparently I can imagine pretty good.

She sits down just out of reach, a Carter thing to do. We don't touch. We realized more than six years ago that there was something between us, and maintaining a physical distance was the best way not to act on it. So we don't touch. Sure, I hugged her when her father died, when her best friend Janet was killed on the same mission I was critically wounded, when she was dead on her feet after being chased through the woods by the enemy after surviving an explosion of the base camp. She needed a shoulder to lean on and I was there for her. Always.

I realize I'm not there for her anymore.

"You're going to make it, sir." She says determinedly.

I smile through the spasms that wrack my body. She never lets me give up.

She starts talking about all her technical doodads that she's always playing with at home. My favorite scientist. My genius. She knows things I could never hope to understand. She says things I can't even pronounce that just roll off her tongue like silk. She breaks it down for me, simplifies it so a cow could understand, with visual imagery if it calls for it. She's a theoretical astrophysicist. She once explained wormhole theory to me with an apple. I still don't understand but she was so adorable twisting that imaginary apple about as she described a worm burrowing through it.

I don't eat apples anymore.

I drift off to sleep with her voice whispering lovely words in my head, like neutrino radiation and pulse wave generator and astronomical proportions.

I miss her.

TBC