A/N's: thanks for your reviews, guys! Glad to hear you are excited, but... it IS going to take the team a while to actually GET there... so please, be patient... I know Jack is, grin...
O'Neill was having a hard time concentrating. His head was aching unmercifully and his eyes were itching. It irritated the hell out of him. Even moving his arm to wipe his eyes was too painful, too much of an effort and made him groan out loud.
Although the wakening by the bright lights and loud buzzer had stopped a while ago, he wasn't aware of it. He seemed to remember he was in some prison, but found it too hard to figure out what prison or how he'd gotten there in the first place.
Exhausted as he was, each time Jack drifted away, something startled him awake. He had no idea what it was but it pissed him off. Wearily, he lifted his head, cracked his burning eyes open and tried to determine where he was. There wasn't much light in the room, yet he was certain that a layer of shimmering water covered the floor.
He abruptly sat up as his memory slipped back in place and he realized he was locked up in a Tyberian cell in Camp Ockeloen. Marc Crook was with him, in the other cell.
Shit.
The other cell was empty.
Why couldn't he remember what had happened? Why was he trembling all over and damn it, he was getting sick of the cramps in his legs.
He shifted and yelped from pain. Something seemed to be cutting through his flesh. It hurt, but he couldn't really tell where the pain was. First it appeared to be at the back of his thighs, but then his arms seemed to be the problem.
Focus, Jack. Get it together.
They'd probably taken Marc for questioning, he thought. There was nothing he could do about it, and, tired as he was, he decided to close his eyes for a while.
The sound of the guards opening the door of the cell next to him startled him. The first things O'Neill noticed this time was that he was hot, causing sweat to trickle down his face and that his head ached even worse than before.
Did he hear somebody humming the National Anthem?
Which team had won?
Mentally kicking himself for dozing off during a good game of hockey, he struggled to sit up. Opening his eyes he frowned in surprise. Where was his television? Where was his beer?
Shit. He wasn't at home. He wasn't even close to that.
Marc?
He moved, then winced as something was stabbing him somewhere and forced his eyes to focus on his friend. Crook wasn't moving, but was instead sprawled out on the floor of his cell.
Jack hadn't heard the guard approach him and he writhed as firm hands grabbed him by his sore arm, shaking him roughly. "Oww… Houston, we have a problem," he muttered.
The guard hauled him to his feet and was forced to support the dangerously swaying American. A second guard stepped closer to assist and together they dragged the man out. A sudden outburst from the injured man completely took the guards by surprise as the three human bodies crashed into the cell door. Cursing at the loud sound of wrenching material, the guards regained their balance, hauled the American up and headed off toward the interrogation room. This time, the guards lifted O'Neill's arms, locking the chains that were hanging from the ceiling around his wrists before stepping back.
The sudden lack of support made the Colonel spin on his heels. The firm jerks on his wrists and shoulders snapped him to attention. The stabs of pain suddenly tearing up his left shoulder instinctively made him shift most of his weight to his right arm until he managed to position his legs straight under his body, allowing them to carry his weight and keep him upright.
He hurt all over. Some parts of his legs were burning as the fabric of his torn pants scraped against his inflamed skin, while stabs of pain kept running through his shoulders from all but hanging onto the chains and his arms felt as if they were on fire. Images of mines he'd disarmed floated in front of his eyes and he vaguely remembered a huge explosion but he couldn't tell what it was.
Hell. That's where he was. He knew he would end up there sooner or later. He'd always hoped for later, but he'd probably run out of time.
Damn.
He was burning. His legs, arms, shoulders and eyes were all on fire.
He was in Hell and the devil was asking him questions. Somehow he remembered something about not making a pact with the devil, so he decided to keep his eyes and mouth shut. Keeping that mouth shut would become a problem, he knew.
Don't tell them anything, Jack.
"Who are you?" A voice shouted in his ears.
Who was he? Was it safe to tell him that? The devil probably had a list of every poor dude that was doomed, so why was he asking the obvious? "John Doe," he mumbled weakly.
A hard blow in his midsection forced all the air from his lungs. Gasping, Jack fought to keep his balance and somehow managed to stay on two legs.
"Who are you?" The question the same, hissed loudly near his ear and he felt as if a freight train was running through the middle of his head.
Name, rank, serial number. Stop the train. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank…
He was allowed to give them that, he'd done it before. The guy probably had a bad memory. Or was this somebody else? He needed to concentrate, but it was so hard. His mind was blurry and he almost forgot the question.
Name, rank, serial number. Right. He knew that.
"O'Neill. Colonel, US Air Force," he whispered. Hopefully that was enough 'cause he couldn't remember the serial number. He'd never been good at recalling numbers. That's why he had Carter and Daniel…
Somebody violently pulled his chin up, forcefully lifting his throbbing head and he cracked his eyes open. Face to face with the commander, Jack vaguely recognized the man as his memory slipped back in place. The Tyberian Elite Forces had captured him. He had attempted to rescue a team, but failed. At least he remembered now. That was something.
"Where are the Americans?"
"Go to Hell," O'Neill snarled.
Another blow took him by surprise and he lost his balance, sucking in air through clenched teeth. The sudden weight on his wrists and shoulders made him gasp and while rotating, he kicked with his feet until they found solid ground again. The released pressure caused more pain and the Colonel had to use all of his willpower to stop from screaming.
The question was repeated and O'Neill glared at the commander.
"Did anybody tell you that you're the biggest piece of shit your mother could produce?" he snapped angrily. He'd forgotten the keep-your-mouth-shut policy, highly aggravated as he was by the mere sight of the man in front of him.
The commander's face turned red. He raised his hand and slapped the Colonel hard on his cheek. The force of the blow spun him around and O'Neill was now facing the wall, fighting hard to stay upright. One of the guards had picked up a wooden stick and repeatedly swung it against the back of his victim's thighs.
The burning sensation that had been spreading through O'Neill's body was replaced by red-hot agony as inflamed tissue from embedded shrapnel burst open. The pieces of debris were cutting deeper into his flesh. More blows inflicted additional harm and this time his body stopped fighting as he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.
Colonel Bayfield stood straight, his movements sharp, precise and deliberate. He'd gathered a blue print of Camp Ockeloen and pinned it to the wall. Using his pencil as pointer, he tapped on the image of the main entrance.
"This, ladies and gentlemen, is Camp Ockeloen. Located in the mountains north of the capital city of Tyberia. Notice that two flanks of the camp are secured by mountain walls, approximately seven foot high," with his pencil, the Colonel showed them the north and east side of the camp. "The Elite troops have laid minefields here and here for extra protection. The entrance to the camp is on the west side; you can see the two watchtowers on each side of the fence. This here," he pointed to an object south of the camp, "is what we think is a radar installation. The three members of Major Crook's team were held in this building and Colonel O'Neill told me there are dungeons underneath this building where the guards keep prisoners too." Bayfield tapped on the huge building near the north mountain wall.
"So that's where the Colonel and Major Crook are being held?" asked Sam, storing every single detail of the map in the back of her memory.
Bayfield nodded. "I think so. I don't think they are held in these barracks, so this is the only logical place."
"So how do we get in?" Daniel asked, flying straight to the point at Mach two.
The Colonel ignored his question for the moment. "Colonel O'Neill made his way in here, on the north side. He must have spent many hours creating a safe path through the minefield, dismantling the explosives that were in his way. Captain McKean informed me the marked lane worked fine as he could successfully lead his men out through it."
"The guards will have discovered the path. It will be of no use to us," Teal'c concluded.
Bayfield smiled. "Yes, Teal'c. They will have set up new mines here. We can't use this way in."
"But?" Fraiser asked, sensing the triumph in the Colonel's voice.
"But," the Colonel answered, "I bet there is another path through this minefield," and he pointed out the field on the east side.
Sam frowned, raising her eyebrows. "Do you think the Colonel has marked a lane there as well?"
"Yes," said Bayfield. "In case the enemy closes the door, Jack always makes sure to leave a window open."
The group fell silent for a while, all staring at the Colonel.
General Hammond's voice finally broke the silence. "You think he created another way in, but you can't be sure."
Bayfield turned, grimly looking at the General. "I know how O'Neill operates, Sir. He made a second path, all right. He probably hid the entrance and exit markers, we'll have to be careful to find them, but I know it's there."
"Wow," commented Daniel shortly.
"Okay," nodded Hammond. "Suppose this is our way in. What's the plan?"
"First of all, we'll approach from the east. They will expect us to come in from the north first, not east. We'll fly to Incirlik, Adana in Turkey and start from there. The non-flying zone above Tyberia and Iraq forces us to move over land." The Colonel turned to Daniel. "That's where you come in. We need transportation from the base to the east. We need to go all the way to Iraq, then move south and enter Tyberia from that side. Hopefully you'll speak enough languages to make the arrangements without attracting attention."
Daniel nodded confidently. He would be able to find a way. The languages wouldn't become a problem. Turkish he spoke already, and as was said before, he would learn the rest in the plane.
"No offence to you, ladies," the Colonel turned to Sam and Janet. "I have no problems with women in the military. On the contrary; that's why I'm proud that you're about to join me on this mission. But I've got to remind you that we're going to a part of the world where women are treated differently than we're used to." He searched their faces, trying to detect if his words had effect. "Basically that means you'll stay low and out of sight. Your presence could be an advantage in the end. Nobody will expect women to take part in a rescue operation."
Fraiser and Carter slowly nodded in understanding. Although they knew about the lack of women's rights in those particular countries, it would be something extremely difficult to handle.
Bayfield loudly knocked on the map, drawing everybody's attention back to the task at hand. "When we reach Camp Ockeloen, we'll find a place to retreat to. You'll be waiting there. Teal'c, from there it's up to us. I have no idea yet how to get them out. We'll just have to cross that bridge when we get there."
Teal'c raised his brows in surprise, hearing one of O'Neill's favorite quotes.
Misunderstanding, Bayfield explained. "I mean we will have to find a way when we're there, Teal'c."
Teal'c just bowed his head.
A vague smile crossed the General's face, only to be replaced by a mixed expression of hope and concern. "When is the first flight to Incirlik?"
"I've scheduled one for 1900, Sir."
"Determined, were you, Colonel?"
"Yes, Sir."
Hammond looked at his watch. It was almost noon and he realized the team would have some packing to do. "All right, people. I suggest you all collect your stuff and prepare for departure." He sighed out loud and eyed each one of them, as if to personally wish them luck. "God speed, ladies and gentlemen. Bring our men home," the 'safely' left unsaid.
all right... they are ready, have a plan and are on their way... what could possibly go wrong?
