Chapter 11: The Wham Episode

It had been difficult informing the families of the fallen members of the team. Don had insisted on doing so himself. He'd been responsible for their safety. He'd lost men before, but the hardest part was that he couldn't even explain what they'd been doing this time. It was one thing to look a mother in the eye and tell her that her son had thrown himself on a grenade to save the squad, or that they'd been on patrol and were ambushed. All he could do here was assure them that the deaths of their loved ones hadn't been for nothing. It did little to ease the pain he'd seen in the eyes of the three families. Donowitz's family wouldn't even be receiving his body; it was at a lab somewhere being dissected to figure out how the alien weapon had killed him. As he recalled, the "official" story was that he'd been buried at sea.

It had been two weeks since the incident. Don had refused to take the 'First Encounter Pool,' as the betting pool to find an alien civilization had been called. A long informal discussion that had made its way around the mess hall had revised it to 'peaceful contact' being the defining condition for the pool.

In the meantime, things were busy on Earth. President Truman and Prime Minister Attlee had been informed of the incident and briefed fully via earpiece radio. The fact that the Stargate team had personally encountered hostile aliens that appeared to be eerily similar to the Eagle Warriors had led to speculation from a variety of factions; all regarding the nature and composition of the aliens. The main groups holding to the theory that the aliens were related to the Egyptian gods were combing over tomes and records to try and figure out which god associated with scorpions. Others were starting to ponder that there were a variety of aliens that used animal motifs from their worlds and their resemblance to human society was mere coincidence, this group also held that Ra may have been an entirely different being and his association with Earth merely being coincidental, some even going so far as to postulate that Ra was just a religious icon, and that perhaps an alien culture may have picked up the Egyptian mythology from Earth, or vice versa. Regardless, Don left the speculation to the academics and others at the base who had the benefit of their books and study. His main job was to figure out how to kill the damn things.

To that end, new procedures had been devised. The program was being given a number of bazookas, since explosives had been most effective. The limited effectiveness of the Thompsons had also been considered; the bases had recently received a shipment of over-pressurized .45 cartridges, which replaced the existing ammo load out for Thompson users. In addition, heavier duty side arms were being distributed, with Colt .45's that used the over-pressurized ammo being the popular pick, though Don and a few others had opted to pick heavy duty revolvers as their side arms of choice, predominantly the Smith and Wesson Model 27. The thing kicked like a mule, was more difficult to reload and only had six shots, but the hope was that its extra stopping power could punch through the alien armor. Since Don and a few others had experience with using revolvers, they had been the ones to propose the alternative. One thing everyone was still getting used to was that in Division Thirteen, so long as the ammo could be easily made and procured, you could use whatever gun was being made. This lead to a lot of extra discussions in the mess, men talking about which guns would work the best against the aliens. However, for the sake of pragmatism, Don issued the standing order that the soldiers could only take non-regulation equipment into the field so long as a minimum of two people either used the same weapon, or the same cartridges that others could use. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of soldiers going in with mismatched ammo.

A couple of veterans from the extended fronts in Germany had been talking about trying to acquire some German equipment for the bases to use, especially some of the heavier German vehicles, but Don and the rest of command put the kibosh on that. While there was still surplus equipment lying around, most German equipment used ammunition and other resources that wouldn't be compatible with their gear produced in America or Britain. More importantly, most of the facilities that had made the ammunition were in Germany and had either been obliterated in the bombing campaigns, or were shut down by the occupational authorities once Germany surrendered. So in order to make the equipment, in the short run anyways, they'd have to start up a small industry in Germany, and right now, no one wanted to give those bastards any work, least of all Don. While some of their tanks were indeed fearsome, he and others were loath to let any German equipment into their bases, there was just something wrong entertaining that thought. So for the moment the Germanophiles were shut down, all gear for the moment would be equipment that could be manufactured in America or the Commonwealth.

All gate travel, except that between Heliopolis, Earth, and Camp Roosevelt had been temporarily suspended until further notice. Camp Roosevelt had a continuous guard on the winch to drop the Portcullis in case of unscheduled connections, not to mention a more drastic increase in the number of guards present as well as serious increases in security precautions. While it was doubtful that the enemy had seen their destination, nothing was being left to chance.

The energy staff recovered from ES-5 was being studied quite intensively. They'd actually figured out how to fire it by accident. A lab tech had been swabbing it when he'd accidentally activated it and punched a hole in the wall with an energy burst. So far, with limited testing, they hadn't had much success in having it hit targets. They'd given it to an Army sniper, who had only managed to hit the target about half the time at best. Whether this was due to the weapon being inherently inaccurate or just being inaccurate in human hands remained to be seen. It had been determined that the weapon fired what appeared to be a condensed burst of plasma that could travel at incredible velocities, though as Simmons had demonstrated, it was possible to dodge the shot. The damage dealt by the staff was considerable, from what could be seen; a small notch built into the staff could regulate the flow of power. On normal settings, it was easily capable of killing a man should it strike him in the torso or head, the combination of the heat and energy release would be overwhelming, extremity shots would likely leave a target in shock, though the plasma's cauterizing effects could leave it survivable. On higher settings the blast could literally send a man flying several feet, though it significantly reduced the already rather low rate of fire the staff had and the bolt seemed to be more inaccurate. The "low" power settings were a bit misleading. The bolts were still deadly, and on the lower setting, the staff could fire at a pace comparable to a semi-automatic rifle, however, it seemed that the plasma would dissipate after twenty or thirty feet.

Don and many of the scientists pondered if it could one day be adapted into a more Earth-normal weapon design ... the idea of plasma rifles eventually being employed by US forces was being tossed around. Even with the system's apparent inherent inaccuracy, the devastating effect of the plasma, combined with its apparent limited anti-armor capabilities, made it an incredibly attractive target for development. Unfortunately, as things stood, the research team could only do so much. With only one sample, they were hesitant to attempt to take it apart because of the risk of damaging it irreparably, possibly ruining their chances of learning how to replicate the technology. Though a strong voice in the bases was pushing hard to do so anyways, wanting to learn the secrets, and as Don had heard mutterings, that they might meet the aliens again and get more samples.

He shuddered at that though, he'd rather not do anymore fighting if it could be helped, so many unknowns, it made the situation tense. Looking down at the files on his desk, he marked down several final notes, before signing the bottom of the four, each signature below the image of a man whom he had served with only two weeks prior:

PFC. Alexander Perkins- K.I.A

SPC. Bernard Montgomery- K.I.A

PFC. Leonard Bilstrom-W.I.A. Honorable Discharge; Placed on Permanent Disability

PFC. Richard Donowitz-K.I.A

Sighing, Don closed the folders, he had a sinking fear that before his time was up, he'd have to sign more of these folders.

June 20th, Upper Earth Orbit

After more than a year of travel, the little ship's sensors finally detected that it was nearing another orbital body and shut off the hyperdrive, remnants of scout programming instructing it a little too late to investigate. As the ship shot out of hyperspace, it fell into a course above a blue green world, in fact it far too close. The stresses on the little ship from spending a year in and out of hyper space, in addition to skimming the atmospheres of dozens of worlds had left it with many small fractures and imperfections. No Asgard ship had been designed like this before, and as a testbed, it lacked the refinement and strength of the more developed lines. The three clones in its bay had died long ago, their small frames emaciated, their skulls deformed, though the ship knew none of this. Its attempts to stabilize its path failed, and it found itself in a decaying orbit above the world.

Every two hours, a small klaxon would chime through the silent interior warning of an unstable reentry, and the ship would deftly move out into a temporary higher orbit. This world was different; unlike the others, its records indicated dozens of landing spots, but per the protocols in the old freighter database, it had to wait for a signal from one of the landing beacons. No signal came. In approximately seventeen days, it would crash. In the meantime, automatic systems began to project a sequence of holographic images into the lower atmosphere of the world it would soon die on, a sequence of abnormal shapes that would attract the attention of inhabitants who could then arrange for its recovery. Scanning the world, it placed itself above the northern hemisphere of the world and it began the long descent to its death.

The next day, the stresses on parts of the ship finally gave way. A sublight engine nacelle and two of the small rear wings of the ship broke off as it pulled itself back up. The loss of power was noted and the ship moved to a slightly higher orbit to compensate. The debris continued to follow the orbital path and eventually entered the atmosphere. The Trinium material was tough, but the tumbling pathway of reentry scorched it horribly and the friction began to peel away at the small pieces of debris. As they entered their final trajectory over a small peninsula and a small island, the nacelle exploded, scattering most of the wreckage into a small sound of water near the western coast of one of the northern continents.

June 22nd, 1947, near the Puget Sound, Washington

Samuel Marcus had been visiting the Tri-Cities and the Hanford site over the past couple of days, continuing the trend of his being the Initiative's go-to guy for assessing the utility of various projects in conjunction with the Initiative's goals, when he was awoken early in the morning with a confidential telegram sent from one of the bases. A request had been made from his higher-ups that he pay a visit to a couple of people who lived in the vicinity of Puget Sound, and to use "the secure link," code for one of the Heliopolis radio devices, to receive further details.

Putting the headset in and adjusting it to the designated channel, he sighed before speaking. "This is Samuel Marcus. What's the situation?"

"Captain Marcus, this is Truman."

"Mr. President, what can I do for you today?" Samuel asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"I understand that you're in Washington state at the moment, and that's why we're contacting you. There are a couple of civilians we need you to talk to. We received a report that they spotted some kind of flying object over Puget Sound. In light of recent events, we need to see if they're telling the truth. If they did spot some kind of alien craft, it's possible that it's linked to the encounter on ES-5. And, if they are telling the truth, it's imperative that you keep them from spreading the rumors too far and keeping them from causing a panic. One of them, a Harold Dahl, claims to have debris from the objects. We need those samples. You are authorized to do whatever you deem necessary to complete those goals."

After several more minutes of briefing, he checked out early, hopped into his new assigned car, a black Buick and drove nonstop first to Seattle, then a short ferry ride over to Vashon Island before finally driving over a small causeway to Maury Island. By the time he arrived, it was almost 11 in the morning; Samuel was glad that the military was picking up his gas bill. He'd spent a good hour or so asking around the island about the supposed sighting before finally he was directed to the household of one Harold A. Dahl. Yawning, Sam placed a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes to hide the dark circles and stepped out of the car. Checking his badge and revolver, he strolled up to the front door. Knocking, he patiently waited for several seconds before the door opened, revealing a middle aged man wearing a simple plaid shirt and blue jeans.

"Harold Dahl?" Samuel asked.

"Yes?" the man answered inquisitively.

"I'm investigating some strange sightings that recently occurred in this area, I heard you were the man to talk to."

Biting his lip, the man nodded. "You heard right, you here to talk about the debris?" he asked in a lowered voice.

"Yes. I was wondering if perhaps we could go for some coffee and some breakfast, it's been a long morning. Plus I don't want to alarm your family."

"Uh…Sure. No worries, one second." He said as he closed the door and heard some rattling noises on the other side. "I'll be back in a little bit honey." he heard a muffled voice say from behind the door as Harold reemerged, with a coat and a small box. "I know a nice little place to grab a bite to eat, you have a car?"

"Yep! Right over there." he gestured to the Buick.

Fifteen minutes later they were seated in a small diner on the island. After quickly downing a batch of coffee, Samuel cupped his hands and looked at Harold.

"Let's get down to business, Mr. Dahl. Yesterday several radar facilities detected four to five objects moving at high speed over this vicinity, before apparently disappearing from sight. From what reports were sent to me, you, your son, and a deckhand were out in the Sound when these objects appeared. Apparently one discharged some sort of … slag at you?"

Harold nervously chuckled. "Well, that's the rough long and short of it. I only told a few people yesterday, I'm surprised people have already heard about it."

Samuel waved his hand dismissively. "We have our sources, plus I'm fairly sure your deckhand didn't keep things to himself, either."

"Well…I suppose." he said unconvinced.

"Now, I'd like to hear from you. Word for word. What happened?"

"Well….Its like you said, we were out on the boat, when I saw these fireballs shooting across the sky, they were spinning real fast like, and one of them was trailing smoke. They shot over our location real quick like, and then one of the larger ones looked like it had some kind of explosion, because it sent this hail of hot debris down onto the boat. The metals … they were like nothing I've ever seen before, looked like steel, but were lighter, and somehow stronger. They rained on my boat and broke some of the windshield, some even hit my son in the arm. One got my dog in the head, poor thing hit the deck dead. Before I knew it, it was over, the debris that didn't land on my boat vanished, and I think the rest landed in the Sound."

Morris took notes for several more seconds after Arnold finished talking. Taking another long sip, he closed the book before looking up. "These metal fragments … Do you have them?"

"Well sure, the doc had to pull them out of my boy's arm, and I got all the ones I could off my boat. They're all here." he said offering the small box.

Samuel took it and opened it, inside were dozens of small metallic fragments, they'd clearly seen wear and tear, but still looked to be in relatively good condition. "What the hell?" Samuel thought as he gingerly picked up one of the pieces. Dahl was right, they looked like steel, but seemed too light, and he couldn't make heads or tails of it. His next step was to make sure Dahl kept quiet about this. "I'll have to take these." he said, bringing the box to his lap.

"Now hold on, can't you leave me a piece or…"

"No."

Raising his voice slightly, Dahl looked at Samuel "Now look here, I've been cooperative and I don't take kindly to being looked down on mister, I'd like to know something." He finished as he stood slightly, fortunately, their small booth toward the back was relatively inconspicuous and the waitress wouldn't be back for a minute or two.

"Mr. Dahl … sit down."

"I won't be talked down! What the hell is going on?!"

Standing, Samuel brushed back his suit revealing his badge for a brief moment, and his revolver for a longer moment. "Mr. Dahl, I'd like to impress upon you the seriousness of this situation. You've been cooperative so far, and I'd recommend you remain cooperative. That badge says I can do whatever I deem necessary to protect this nation, and this gun is how I enforce that badge's mandate. Now. Sit. Down." he said with a final authority, hoping Dahl wouldn't know an Army Intelligence badge for what it was.

Breathing faster, Dahl went wide eyed as he sat back down, cowed. "What do you want?!" he asked, with a slight tone of panic in his voice.

"As I said, Mr. Dahl, your cooperation." Samuel said sitting down. "Apart from those metal fragments which you've generously donated, I'll need you to remain silent about this event."

"Silent?"

"Yes, silent, as in, don't talk about it, do not mention it, let it go."

"A….and if I don't?" He asked nervously

"Use your imagination." Samuel finished, standing and grabbing the box. Taking out his wallet, he quickly dropped several bills on the table, more than enough for the meal and tip.

His next stop would be to have a quick word with Mr. Dahl's deckhand.

June 26th, 1947.

"Fuck!" Sam tiredly exclaimed as he threw the newspaper on his table in the small motel he was staying at, in Seattle. SUPERSONIC FLYING SAUCERS SEEN BY IDAHO PILOT! The headline bore. After making a couple of subtle inquiries, he determined that Dahl hadn't said anything, and this was independent of that sighting it seemed. Hastily checking out, he had to make his to Pendleton, where Mr. Arnold, the man who had seen these "saucers" was reported to be working out of.

June 28, 1947, Kenneth Arnold work residence

Samuel had resigned himself to staying in the Pacific Northwest for a while. There had been a number of sightings of unidentified flying objects, and he had been tasked with investigating these. He'd already visited a few locations talking with people who had seen something, though none of them had evidence like Dahl had, so he hadn't had to pressure them like him. Likely they were just nutbirds trying to get attention. Now, he was in the home of one Kenneth Arnold (the man lived in Idaho, but had a small place in Pendleton where he worked), who claimed to have seen nine large objects moving at impossibly fast speeds. Samuel was to assess if the stories had any merit to them, and if they were worth worrying about. Thus far, Mr. Arnold had been far more cooperative than Dahl. He'd reiterated everything he'd seen, and so far it was verbatim for what he'd said we saw in the papers. Scribbling notes, Samuel was pleased with his progress, so far it looked as though this guy hadn't seen anything more than what may have been a mirage.

"And so, Mr. Arnold, you estimate that the objects disappeared around the vicinity of Mt. Adams?"

"Yeah, I flew parallel to them for a bit, as best as I could, though again they were moving a hell of a lot faster than I was, but yeah, that's roughly where I lost visual. Bear in mind, I only had line of sight for a minute and a half before they vanished entirely."

"Okay, and one last question, these object, according to you, they were disk shaped. Did any of them look like they were in trouble at all?"

"Well, no in so far as I can tell, they looked like disks to me, and they all seemed right as rain, they were even doing little maneuvers that made me think of military aircraft." Nodding satisfied, he stood and collected his things. Whatever Kenneth Arnold had seen, it seemed like it wasn't whatever Dahl had seen.

July 7th, 1947. Upper Earth Orbit

The Asgard vessel had been attempting to correct its situation, which ended in failure; the ship's systems had been damaged by the year in hyperspace to the point where they no longer functioned properly. Its last pass had seen many of the smaller parts shorn from the ship, a lower secondary command pod had entirely separated and fell with the next cloud of debris. According to the computer, the debris fell into a large body of empty water.

Shuddering, the ship entered its final orbit, plunging into the planet's inescapable grasp. As it hit the upper atmosphere, the hull began to glow red as the ship cooked in the friction of reentry. It made one complete circle around the world before it plummeted deeper, parts breaking off and disintegrating as the ship settled in its final course. The central command blister remained surprisingly in one piece as the rest of the ship broke apart and followed it in, a massive rain of debris trailing the ship and the smaller parts burnt up. The remaining engine nacelle exploded like the former, showing the rest of the debris in an explosive cloud. This tore into the back of the command blister, exposing it to the elements, the large amount of heat began to cook the inside of the craft as it made its final landing. The dead clones quickly cooked, their pale grey skin becoming charred as the craft began to approach the ground rapidly. The dutiful computer who had seen the ship through its journey quickly shut down as the power was cut to its section, its faint lights dying as the rest of the ship was engulfed in an ever brighter light. Many of the smaller metal pieces had disintegrated entirely or showered across the large desert; the remains were now falling towards…

July 7th, 1947. Roswell, New Mexico

Mac Brazel looked up and saw a fireball shoot across the sky, it fell beyond the ridgeway of his property and crashed several miles down the road in a bright flash of light he saw above the ridge.

"Holy Shit!" he yelled a he ran into his home and grabbed a phone, he wasn't sure if it was a civilian plane, or maybe a plane from the air force base, but that crash looked bad and he'd be damned if he let someone die. After talking on the phone for several minutes he hung up and dialed the next number, the Fosters needed to be informed about what was happening on their ranch…

July 9th, 1947, Area 52 (Stargate Initiative Headquarters)

Samuel sighed. Several of the soldiers involved in the skirmish on ES-5 were coming back through the gate to check check out the wreckage, along with some of their linguists, and Doctor Littlefield.

Already rampant news was spreading about the so called "Roswell Incident," and Samuel had been assigned to handle damage control and keep speculation contained. His first order of business would be to keep the families involved telling the same story. The next step would be making sure that all the debris was picked up, including any pieces that the witnesses might have squirreled away. He yawned as the gears in his mind whirled rapidly, so much work had to be done, and he'd gotten little sleep between the plane ride from Oregon and the drive through parts of New Mexico. Recovering, he made a few notes in his book before he turned to Professor Langford as the first soldiers came through. "This is incredible." he said.

"It really is, isn't it? The President is attempting to establish a new agency to handle extraterrestrial, and other, er, highly unusual issues, Earthside. Myself and several others who have been doing some work already have been recruited for when it gets set up. The official documents will be coming in through executive order in the next few days. I forget the code name for the whole thing, Magic, Majesty, something like that" he said with a wave of his hand.

"Well, regardless, it's a pleasure to have you here Agent Marcus, we can always use good men to help us out."

"Call me Sam doctor, and I'm glad to be aboard."

July 11th, 1947, Roswell Airbase

Simmons stared at the collection of wreckage, or, more appropriately, at the bodies recovered from it. "I don't fuckin' believe it." he said.

Agent Marcus nodded. "I don't think any of us do. Now, Sergeant Simmons, your report of the incident on ES-5 says that you were the only one to get a glimpse beneath the armor of one of the Scorpion Warriors."

Simmons nodded. "I just saw a patch of skin and some blood. Red, like here on Earth."

"And the skin? What was it like?"

"It was dark ... I think. I wasn't really focused on that. I was more focused on trying to stay alive. Why?"

"In the reports, it mentions that the warriors moved almost mechanically, like machines. But machines don't bleed. The possibility of an advanced armor suit was discussed by some of the scientists I've spoken to. And, given the fact that the attack was only about a month ago, the possibility cannot be ruled out that this ship was sent to investigate."

"They couldn't have known to come here. They didn't get the dialing sequence for Fort Roosevelt, and even if they had, shouldn't they have sent the ship there?" Simmons responded defensively.

"We believe it's possible that they recognized us, as in humans, from their hypothetical previous visits here, and therefore Earth was the only possible origin point for the team."

"And you think they sent a ship to investigate?"

"Yes."

"Then if you already have all that down, why am I here?"

"Because you've had the closest encounter with them. You handled one of their bodies. You have the best idea of the size of the Warriors. We want you to see if you think one of these aliens could have fit inside the entity. And the rest of the squad can help see if they think any of the technology is similar. You mention that the alien's skin was black, and looking here at these aliens, I'm seeing a lot of black skin. Now, the eggheads are running some tests to see if this is their natural color or not, but we won't know for a couple days. This is incredibly important, Sergeant Simmons. If they know where we are, if they see us as a threat, we don't stand a chance."

Simmons walked over to one of the corpses, and gingerly began to pick it up. "Damn things don't weigh much at all." he said.

"Does it look like it could have fit into the Scorpion Warrior's body?"

Simmons frowned, thinking. "Maybe." he said. "I have no clue what it's like inside the armor of those things, I mean it looked like chainmail and plates, the kind knights would wear. I don't know what kind of alien technology might be in the stuff, all I remember was that it could hit like a son of a bitch." Simmons grimaced, still unsure: "I just don't know. If it was these little guys, it'd have to have been some kind of super suit."

Samuel nodded. That was good enough for him. For the time being he'd recommend that they operate on the theory that these were the aliens that had been encountered on ES-5.

Elsewhere, Ernest was being briefed on the alien wreckage by one of the scientists in the Initiative.

"The metal slag found by Mr. Dahl appears to be similar to sections of the alien vessel's hull. It wouldn't be unreasonable to theorize that what Mr. Dahl saw was debris from the ship. In addition, attempts to perform further tests on the metal, namely, to take a smaller sample of it, have drawn parallels to another discovery made via the Stargate: the reinforcing at Heliopolis."

"You mean those metal pillars we've been trying to cut into?"

"The very same, they all seem to be constructed from some kind of metal that has properties we've never seen before. Based on the metal's mass and density, it's lighter than steel, but with a melting point and strength far above anything else I can think of. It's strange, a metal like this doesn't exist on the periodic table, hell, nothing like this exists on Earth."

"Exactly … On Earth." Ernest chimed in.

"Indeed, whatever this is, we sure as hell haven't found a source like it on Earth. Tests indicate that this metal we've recovered from the wreck is alloyed with other more elements, though we won't get a detailed rundown until we managed to actually melt a piece down and run it through a centrifuge."

"Doctor…If theoretically we were confronted with a vehicle whose exterior was made with stuff like this…what would our options be?"

"Well…That depends, we don't know what this is alloyed with and what some of the properties of it are. But given the relative toughness of the Heliopolis pillars, we can make some guesses. First we know that thermite hasn't made a dent in those things, so any incendiary material that could weaken metal would have to burn significantly hotter, or hold a high temperature a longer period of time. Another super dense material such as tungsten might be able to act as an armor penetrating shell or round. Hell, I hear that uranium in a depleted state could also act as a similar agent, though with those two you have to deal with rarity. You could also try to pound it with enough high explosives, but how much that could actually damage it is debatable."

Ernest grimaced, those all weren't the best options, they either had their own supply problems or could potentially deal out a large amount of collateral damage. "Is there any other way?" he asked.

The doctor shrugged. "If you're desperate enough, you could try dropping an atomic weapon on it…"

Later that day, Samuel, Ernest, Paul, Don, and Simmons were gathered in a room, one of the earpieces laid out on the table. They'd found a way to adjust both the volume and the reception of the device, so multiple people could use one.

"Mr. President, it makes the most sense, given the circumstances, to operate on the assumption of an imminent threat." Samuel finished as he concluded his analysis

"What the hell can we do about it, though?" Truman asked after a pregnant pause. Don voiced the obvious.

"They have interstellar spaceships, so they can attack us easily. We need defensive spaceships, get some of our boys into orbit."

"The Lieutenant is right, Mr. President. We have to get something up there that can let us fight them if they come. I spent a while observing Dr. Von Braun's rocket project. They could get rockets into the upper atmosphere. With appropriate funding and resources, they'd make progress. We need manned defenses. They're our best hope."

"We're already stretched thin on the budget. How can we afford to fund a space program?" Truman said.

"Military funding." Simmons said. "Take funds from where you can, divert it into a space program."

Don chimed in, "That's what we've been doing so far, and we've still been left with a bit of a hole to deal with. If we wanted to make a space program, we might have to have an open office by which to do so. The question then become twofold, how the hell do you convince Congress to give tons of money to a space program, and who controls it?"

"Give it to the Navy." Simmons said flatly, as though it was obvious.

"Why the Navy?" Paul asked.

"The problems with the Navy have mainly come from them feeling like they're being unfairly penalized for the Stargate. Throw them a bone. Give them something that can make them feel like they aren't just being shunted into a niche role. Let them be the line of defense they want to be, only against extraterrestrial threats, not Earthbound ones. Let's also not kid ourselves, if anyone is going to have the experience manning large vessels and keeping order for long periods of time shut off from contact it'll be the Navy boys. I don't really see the Air Force moving giant battle ships through space."

That warranted a chuckle from the table.

"Plus, this gives the Air boys and the Army a nice check. Both sides want to be the guys with the nukes, and I think it goes without saying, if we're going to build space defense, we're going to need nukes. If the Navy is entrusted with some, that'll go a long way to patching up this division in the branches."

"Simmons…are you sure you aren't a politician?" Samuel asked.

"My father was on the city council back home." Simmons shrugged.

Dr. Langford put his hands together for several moments, looking down, deep in thought. After several more moments he snapped his fingers. "This is all a good idea, Simmons, and I wholeheartedly endorse it. I also recommend, if we do pass this proposal along to the Navy, Mr. President, we also sacrifice some of our funding to help with the idea, give it back to the Navy."

"WHAT?!" Ernest exclaimed in disbelief. "You can't do that! The Stargate is the most important discovery in the history of mankind, and you want to risk the funding we already barely have? You want to risk killing the greatest program in history to keep a bunch of close-minded fools who can't see the importance of the Stargate happy?! You, of all people, Paul? You know how important this is!"

"Doctor, which is more important: this program benefiting Earth, or making sure that there's still an Earth for the program to benefit?" Don said.

Paul spoke up. "I understand where you're coming from, Ernest. The Stargate has become the greatest project of my lifetime. But they have a point. This program is useless if there's no one left for it to help. We have to look at the big picture, son. If the 'gate's program has to suffer in the short term to save it in the long term, that's the best course of action."

Speaking up, Truman continued, "I agree, we need to ensure the safety of this world, as much as exploration is a priority, it is not the top priority. I'm putting my foot down with the Navy boys, they'll have to accept the result, we can't continue to dance around this issue." Pausing for several moments Truman collected his thoughts then spoke back into the microphone. "I'm going to start making some calls and preparations with Attlee. It's clear that if we now have this dimension of security to worry about, we'll need to better coordinate with our allies. I want to talk with him about bringing some of the more developed Dominion nations aboard this program too."

"So soon, Mr. President?" Paul asked.

"Indeed, this spacecraft crashing on our soil is a wake up call, no matter how strong we think we are, we don't have the capabilities of these aliens. If we ever should find ourselves under threat, we need to stand together. The prime minister and I will start working on incorporating the Commonwealth into our program, and with time, the rest of our allies abroad. Meanwhile, I'm giving the Initiative an order. We need to find out for sure if the aliens you encountered at ES-2 and ES-5 are the same ones that sent the spaceship here. The Initiative is to send two combat recons, one to ES-5 and the other to ES-2."

"Mr. President, sir, with all due respect is that wise? We only have a very limited knowledge of those things, I'm worried about sending soldiers into those worlds." Don said, respectfully.

"I understand lieutenant, but we need to know if we're dealing with the same race, if these turn out to be two different aliens, then we can breathe a bit easier. But if they're the same, then that means the ES-2 and ES-5 aliens know where we live, and if that's the case, I'll have no choice but to bring the Soviets, every other nation in the world, and the general public in on this program and that's something I don't want to do. I don't want to give Stalin any possible lead in production and technology, and I sure as hell don't want a panicked civilian population. This kind of technology cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. I need you to do this, because otherwise the program might be getting a lot more crowded."

July 12th, 1947, Washington, D.C.

Harry Truman knew it was big. The alien vessel that had crashed near Roswell, New Mexico had been recovered successfully, along with several alien corpses. He'd been talking to the few people who knew about the Stargate, and, after impressing upon them the importance of the situation, they'd agreed to form a new department that would work closely with the Stargate program, known as the National Intelligence Department, or NID. While details were still being hammered out, it had been decided that the Stargate program and the NID would be wrapped into one budgetary package. This added a degree of legitimacy to the Initiative that allowed it access to more than just black budget and shuffled-around funds. NID's main goal would be to handle all intelligence matters for the SGI, both abroad, and more importantly, domestically. He'd already been informed that several people were being worked over to assure their cooperation in their silence, or sticking to a story that wouldn't implicate the SGI should they have already talked with the media.

This, of course, had forced his hand with the budget talk with the Navy. Already events were being set in motion. In addition to the upcoming splitting-off of the Air Force from the Army, which Truman had been advised to let happen, his advisers citing concerns over the Army having too much power with command of the atomic weaponry and being in charge of the largest branch. With that decided, Truman then firmly informed the admirals about the situation and the next plan. The Navy would be reduced to the levels discussed, and the Marine Corps would slowly be dismantled, with its ship borne assets going to the Navy, aviation assets going to the Air Force and its infantry components would be gradually phased into the Army as a specialized branch. The president disliked taking such a hack and slash approach to the nuanced situation, but with the Roswell incident and the previously mentioned ES-5 encounter, the military budget situation needed to be resolved decisively. He'd made one concession to Navy in addition to giving them the directive to take over full aerospace research, which was still pending and would take effect at the beginning of the next fiscal year: they would get exactly one of their desired "supercarriers" when they had a design thought up, with options for more to be commissioned depending upon the success of the first and the necessity the global situation might place on creating more of these vessels. With the Sec Defense position still vacant until September, he hoped that by then the situation would be more stable.

At least, that's what he hoped until he read the front cover of the New York Times and several other newspapers:

TRUMAN TO GUT NAVY! PRESIDENT PROPOSES "RADICAL" BUDGET MEASURES!

MARINE CORPS TO BE DISMANTLED! TRUMAN'S NEW BUDGET REMOVES BRANCH THAT WON THE PACIFIC!

TRUMAN TO THE HEROES OF THE PACIFIC: "GET OUT!"

The worst had to be the cartoons. One in particular showed Truman dressed as Hideki Togo and stabbing a marine in the back with a bayonet. He would have laughed if he didn't recognise the critical danger it represented to his administration.

He was rubbing his eyes with his hands when an aid bust into the room, a frantic expression on his face.

"Sir," he exclaimed, "Admirals, King, Hawley, and Kinkaid have resigned! The press is demanding a comment!"

It had finally happened, someone had gone to the damned press, and now every damned beltway insider, from journalist to representatives from districts with navy yards were hammering him for meetings and statements. King, and several other admirals and naval officials, had resigned in protest. He saw his poll numbers take a dip as people began clamoring. The election was a year away, and he knew this might hurt, but he was banking on the Army to pick up some support. The fact that they tended to be larger employers helped. Still every little bit had hurt.

He was scheduled for an appointment with Republican Senator Robert Taft, who had, for some reason, requested a private meeting with him, saying only that he wished to discuss certain things unofficially. Taft was a character Truman knew he had to be wary of. He was the head of the Republican policy planning committee, ad certainly a personal enemy. He had been responsible for the crafting and passing of the Taft-Hawley Labor laws, which he had had no choice but to sign into law, the damn bill. An aid had apparently heard from Taft's secretary that he wanted to discuss navy affairs. That had struck the President as odd, as Taft had never expressed much interest in military let alone naval activities. The only shipbuilder in Taft's state of Ohio was the American Ship Building COmpany, but the navy had never placed navy orders of significance with them anyways. Truman suspected that he'd be trying to ask about the navy, which was odd, he remembered Taft tended to not like large government groups, and the only ship builder in Ohio was the American Ship Building Company, but to Truman's knowledge, the Navy hadn't placed any orders with the company even before the cuts.

When one of his aides showed the Senator in, President Truman stood and extended a hand.

"Senator Taft, welcome." he said. The senator took his hand and shook it.

"Mr. President, thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I know I wasn't very specific in my request."

"Senator, I'm more than happy to discuss anything you would like to talk about."

"Well, then, Mr. President, I'll get right to it: what's this I hear about an interplanetary gateway?"