Jack O'Neill groaned softly, slapping clumsily at the alarm clock. He must be getting old - 05:30 sure seemed to be coming earlier some days. The moment he raised his reluctant head from its cozy pillow he heard something else coming early – the garbage truck.

Scrambling out of bed, he hurried through the dark house toward the garage and the pungent trash can waiting there. Colonel Jensen's salmon filets had been a nice contribution to Friday's cook-out, but the decaying remnants had been poisoning the atmosphere in the garage ever since. If he missed this chance to get rid of them, he'd be enjoying their potent fragrance for another week.

Intent on this top-priority mission, he slapped the garage door-opener and ducked under the half-open door with the plastic trash can in tow. He smiled and waved at the trash collector as he trotted down the drive, hoping the friendly gestures would encourage the man to wait. He was almost there when the truck started to move slowly forward. He couldn't see the collector's face in the darkness, but he was close enough to hear his low chuckle. Rushing the last few feet, he stepped behind the vehicle, intending to put the trash in himself if he had to.

"Thanks," he grumbled sarcastically.

As he raised the can, hands reached out and hauled him into the truck along with it.

Startled and mostly blind in the early morning dark, he made precious few observations before being pinned. There were several people crouching in the back of the garbage truck. His bare feet told him they were sitting on a tarp that kept them from direct contact with the trash. At least four pairs of hands were on him, holding his limbs still. And the chest attached to the arms that were bear-hugging his head and covering his mouth belonged to a woman.

"No, thank you, General O'Neill," whispered a voice, responding to the single word said so far. "You've been very helpful. Grey sweats and t-shirt, bare feet."

A rustling sound followed this last odd statement, then Jack had the impression of a grey-clad man climbing past him out of the truck. A pair of white socks were traded for the now-empty trash can and he understood. They'd come prepared, no doubt each dressed differently to try to simulate things he might have been wearing. The one wearing grey would put the trash can back and probably drive Jack's car away in a little while. In the unlikely event that anyone saw any of this, they would think they saw the same man drop off his trash and return to the house.

The truck trundled down the road, dutifully stopping to pick up the trash at each house until it turned the corner. As it accelerated away, Jack got a final glimpse of his house, a single light now on, and thought how he had indeed made this too easy for his enemies.

Not everyone agreed with that judgment.

In the house, the grey-clad man padded to the bedroom. "Target is en-route," he said aloud. From behind the headboard, the speaker that had played the sound of the alarm now broadcast a voice acknowledging the message. The man removed the microphone / speaker combination from the back of the headboard, placing it carefully in his pocket. The real alarm clock glowed peacefully on the bedside table, announcing that it was now 04:57.

The man moved carefully around the house, taking car keys and a few other articles of interest. He helped himself to shoes and socks, rolling his eyes as he found that the General's shoes were too big for him to fill, and thinking to himself that this had all better be worth it. Major effort had been made, from finding a time and situation in which the General's guard would be down to the perfect ending for this momentous day. If it didn't pan out, a lot of people would be in a lot of trouble.

~oOo~

As the truck rolled along, a gag replaced the hands over Jack's mouth and a blindfold was added. He found it surprising that they did not add ropes, cuffs, or any other device to his wrists or ankles; the hands simply kept holding.

He tried to pay attention to where they were going, but the twists and turns of city driving were difficult to follow. They seemed to be going basically west, and he wondered if they were heading into the mountains to empty their cargo someplace it would never be found.

The fifteenth stop turned out to be their destination rather than the next traffic signal. The hands holding him tensed as the engine died.

"Do you know what this is?" Something cool and metallic slid along his cheek, large then smaller, then coming to an all-too-familiar inch-wide end. The sound of a handgun's safety being released followed, in case he had any doubt.

Jack nodded once.

"Nice and easy now. We'll get you out of the truck and then you are going to walk where you are led. Got it?"

He nodded again. The group could easily take him down before he got the blindfold off, let alone tried to run.

"The garbage truck is right here, ready to remove any evidence. You don't want us to have to use it, do you?"

Jack shook his head.

"Good. Let's go."

Some of his companions got out of the truck before him as the others held him inside. They lifted him out, never letting go for a moment. A tug on his arms told him which way to walk and he did, having no other choice anyway.

He heard a door open and they went through it. A short way forward and there was another door.

Murmurs, quickly hushed, told him there were people in this place. Lots of them. The thought of a quick execution and dumping in the mountains was starting to seem fairly attractive compared to whatever this apparent mob might have in mind.

"General Jack O'Neill," a voice intoned loudly.

He stiffened, turning automatically toward it despite the blindfold. He raised his chin in defiance.

"It has been said that you are past the ability for active duty."

Jack winced, hoping it didn't show. There had been suggestions from Washington that he should give up active command and move to a desk job. His self-doubt grew when there was limited backlash to a report written by Kinsey's cohorts that trashed him and his 'declining abilities.' Worse, he had been feeling the aches and pains of old wounds on an aging body lately, which fueled his despair. Were these people acting on this weakness?

"We want to send a clear message."

Jack tensed, trying to be ready for whatever they were going to do.

"We don't think so, sir!"

The blindfold was whipped off and Jack found himself surrounded by…himself. Dozens of men and women, all with short silver-dyed hair and camouflage-painted faces, surrounded him. They wore grey sweats, blue sweats, or fatigues, as he might have worn to hurry out with the trash. Each grinned at him over a vest with metallic laser-tag targets and carried a weapon. He gaped at them all as he reached up to remove the gag.

"Prepare to defend yourself! You have one minute to put on your vest and pick up your weapon."

There was a vest and a gun at his feet, plus shoes and socks. Jack shook his head with disbelief and got busy.

In exactly one minute, the lights switched off. A chorus of "Happy Birthday General!" rang out, accompanied by the opening volleys of laser-tag blasts.

~oOo~

Later, over barbecued ribs and beer, a happily tired General chatted with the crowd who'd successfully made this birthday very memorable. The talk ranged from the serious to the silly:

"We, uh, weren't the ones who did this, sir. Someone calling themselves 'SG-99' did it all." Good thing he hadn't teased Carter about leaning against her chest during the ride in the truck!

"It was not I who arranged this, O'Neill. Does it not suffice that you acquitted yourself well against these younger Tau'ri warriors? You have demonstrated to all that you remain a formidable warrior."

"Don't look at me, Jack. I knew it was a surprise party, but not that much of a surprise."

"Good thing you can't recognize any of us, right, sir?" The camouflage-painted face winked at him. "No way you could possibly file charges!" Like everything, they'd thought that out: even if he were compelled for any reason to try to find the culprits, he could say it was impossible.

"I knew you wouldn't crack when we – er, they – grabbed you this morning!"

A sheepish voice pointed out that they had never said they would or could shoot him, or even that they had a gun. Was it their fault that a pda-phone felt sort of like a gun when you rubbed it against a blindfolded face? Or sounded like one when it played back a recording?

Not that anyone was that well disguised with the face paint, but Jensen gave himself away. "I hope you appreciate everything, sir. I really hate fish!" Even the grilled salmon had been part of the set up, intended to ensure that he'd want to catch that bogus garbage truck.

A rough chuckle accompanied notice that they would use the garbage truck to get rid of all the evidence.

Someone took a picture of him next to a particularly similar General-look-alike. "You're beside yourself, sir!"

"Can I get your autograph, sir?" A three-day pass was offered with feigned innocence to hold the signature.

"How will we top this next year?"