"That was Daniel?" Caitlin leaned on her co-pilot's headrest, fixed a hazel gaze on the man currently curled into the engineer's seat. "Your Daniel?"
"Yes," Michael said shortly, not quite trusting his voice. The painkiller he'd taken to infiltrate the facility was wearing off, and his knee throbbed like a mad blacksmith had gone to work. It was good to be safe, inside Airwolf's armor-plated confines, good to be warm....
So why did he feel as if he'd stepped into the midst of a tundra blizzard?
Pilot transmitting shock/anger/combat readiness. Airwolf was a notched arrow in the back of his mind, ready to aim at any and all enemies. Targeting?
No, Angel, he thought back. No targeting.
Not yet.
They did that to Daniel. They did that to Daniel.
For a moment Archangel cursed his own memory. An operative's finely-trained recall brought all the relevant details of Dr. Jackson's file to mind, each more chilling than the last. Academic position, wife, home - all lost. Injury upon injury. Confined as insane. Raped by that alien psychopath Hathor....
And now there was fire; a blaze of sheer, unrelenting fury. Rage that choked breath and sight from him, made him wish for an Uzi and a wall of targets.
It was one thing to read, and wince, as the Firm's Deputy Director investigating the SGC. To determine, coolly and calmly, that the Pentagon had no idea what games they were playing with their first contact team's lives. To decide that whoever was in charge of seeing to the SGC's morale and mental health had screwed up royally, and something had to be done before key personnel were too damaged to salvage.
But to know it had happened to Daniel....
Hand on his shoulder; a known touch, not an enemy. "Deep breath," String said bluntly, gray flight suit rustling as he crouched beside the spy in the engineer's compartment. "In. Out."
"Hawke-"
"Breathe," the pilot ordered, in tones that would brook no argument. "Michael. Look at me."
I can't - god, I want to kill - I can't-
"Look at me." Gentler now, fingers kneading taut muscles. "I know what this is, Michael. I know."
Of course. Michael let some of the anger sigh out, leaned into knowing fingers. Of course String would know this fury. He'd lived with it for over fourteen years. "I only... I only knew him a week."
"Brothers last forever."
"He wasn't-"
"He coulda been," Caitlin cut in, knuckles white on her headrest. "You looked after him, right? You and your Momma?" Red brows drew down, gazing into old pain. For all her manifold disagreements with her family, O'Shannessy would be by them in an instant if trouble threatened. "Leaves a mark."
Frightening thought. Archangel had spent so much of his life avoiding ties, avoiding anything that might cloud an operative's cool judgement-
And lost it all on a Van Nuys airfield, with one look into aching blue eyes.
Eyes that now pinned him in place, cool and grim. "Give me a name."
Give me a name and I'll kill them.
Not an offer to be lightly discarded. Stringfellow Hawke was a consummate killer, cold and accurate as a sniper's round. Law, country, morality - none of that mattered to Hawke.
Family. Friends. His lake. His word. Nothing else bound Airwolf's commander.
Intellectually, Michael knew that should concern him. Operatives were supposed to be reliable. Bound by oath and law, answerable to Congress, the President, and ultimately the American people.
But operatives were human, and humans didn't fight and die for abstracts. String counted him as a friend, incredible as they both still found that fact. Him. Michael Archangel.
And so Archangel's people became my people, just as America was where my lake is and Jason Locke's oft-annoying branch of the Company was my brother's people.
Airwolf couldn't be in safer hands.
One more deep breath; Michael let it sigh out long and slow, shook his head. "As they say, never attribute to malice what can equally well be explained by stupidity. Our armed forces don't exactly have a good track record for recognizing there's only so much a sane human being can take." Which only added acid to the fury. Intelligence agencies knew the limits of the human spirit. If Daniel had been one of his....
String backed off, eyed the spy thoughtfully. "If he were one of yours, you'd have pulled him out by now."
"If possible." Sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes an operative was in so deep, as Rostoff had been, you simply couldn't rotate them out for rest.
But even deep undercover in Russia, Vladimir had family. Friends. The hope that one day, if all went well, he could finally come home.
Daniel....
"You think he's going to come."
Michael leaned back in the engineer's seat, regarded a skeptical Hawke. "I believe I've snared his curiosity, yes."
Caitlin hooked an arm around her headrest, skewered them both with a wry glance. "You wouldn't just lean on that, Michael. Even if Daniel is more curious than a litter full of kittens." She gave him a nod. "C'mon. Give."
The spy shook his head. "It's nothing-"
Michael Archangel registered brief empathic spike, Airwolf cut in. Detected: grief/weariness/surprise. High probability unregistered passenger, Daniel Jackson, in acute emotional distress.
"It was just an instant," Michael admitted reluctantly. A sharp, frightening instant; like the moment he'd first looked Stringfellow Hawke in the eye, and known this man would be his. "It could well have been my imagination, based on what we know from his record...."
No.
Echoed through full link.
Accurate reading.
Currently tracing intermittent contact, full link, Michael Archangel.
Foreign frequencies detected.
Frequencies human.
Probability 90% foreign contact is unregistered passenger, Daniel Jackson.
Attempting to project safety/curiosity/welcome.
Odds of success: unknown.
Caitlin whistled. "You think you can reel him in, Lady?"
Possible.
String shot the Tactical screen a hard look. "She can tug, Michael. She can't pull you in."
"File says he's no dummy," Caitlin agreed. "If I bumped into an old friend in the middle of a top-secret facility, in the middle of Siberia-" the ex-cop spread empty hands.
"True." Archangel rubbed fingers over the silver head of his cane, glanced at the clock to gauge the approach of night. Felt the creep of darkness toward them in his bones, as Airwolf checked light levels in preparation for flight. This was old ground, familiar ground. Frighteningly familiar, to one who'd made a life running agents. "But Dr. Jackson's had to walk away from every culture he's been interested in. Academia, Abydos, all the peoples he's met through the Stargate. SG-1 is first contact; he may return for treaties and the like, but he can never spend enough time to become part of a culture."
String considered that, eyes hooded. "So what makes now different enough to want to come to you?"
"Now he's stuck surrounded by a culture that may allow him to study it, but will never accept him as part of it," Archangel said coldly. "Humans have limits, Hawke. He's near his."
Interest sparked in that blue gaze. "You want to run him."
"What?" Caitlin burst out.
Archangel shrugged, all too aware of Airwolf's insignia on his gray-clad shoulders. "Better me than NID."
"What?"
String gave her a quick, quelling look. "You think he's that close."
"Marella checked the odds," the Firm's Deputy Director said flatly. "We have three possibilities. First, and least likely, he quits. If the government allows that, he falls out from under their official protection; your guess is as good as mine who'd grab him first. Personally I'd prefer the Russians, he's quite good at reducing tensions, but NID has more in-country operatives." Two fingers lifted. "Second... he's been under a great deal of strain, and there is a history of mental illness in his family tree."
String's eyes narrowed. "You think he could crack."
"The SGC's already institutionalized him once without cause," Michael replied darkly. And I didn't know. They had Daniel locked up, convinced he was losing his mind, and I didn't know.... He couldn't shake the image of the eight-year-old Ariella Coldsmith-Briggs had coaxed out of unbearable grief that wild week, bound and sedated in padded walls. "I think, if things continue as they have been, he could end up damaged to the point he's no longer Daniel Jackson. And that would be a crime."
"Don't like those." Caitlin bit her lip. "He's an American."
"Option three," Michael said quietly. Wondering, for the first time in a very long time, what his mother might think of what he was about to do. She was in the Game. She'd understand. "He looks for help. And NID, much as we might not wish to claim them, is also American."
"Damn." The former Texan shook her head, eyes closed; as if she could shake away reality. "But he was your friend, Michael. And you want to use him."
"I use everyone, Ms. O'Shannessy," Archangel said bluntly. "It's my job." And never let her see how much it hurts....
Callused fingertips brushed against his cheek, rough echo of the feathery touch in his mind. "Damn stubborn as a left-footed mule idiot," Caitlin bit out, hand still outstretched. "Why can't you just say you don't know any other way to help him?"
"There are always other ways," Archangel said coolly. Trying not to flinch, as String's fingers settled against his wrist. "It's my job to find other ways...." And why couldn't they just hate him, so he could wall off his heart and get the job done-
Just a touch. Just fingers against his skin, and compassionate hazel and blue eyes, and a vibrant song of rotors in the empty places of his soul.
Lost. I'm lost.
Not lost. A swiftness of feathers, unshakable as the mountains Airwolf laired in. Never lost. Mine.
"Can't find what's not there," String said quietly. "They've locked him in and shut him out. Only way's to blow a hole in the box." A wry, upward quirk of dark brow. "We're good at that."
Michael dragged in a breath, leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to hurt him." There. The truth was out, awful and terrifying as an avalanche. I don't know if I can do my job.
Yet he had to. He had to, or break his oath to defend his country; and his oath was all that held the tattered remnants of an operative's soul.
"You're better with people-" String started
"Huh! Like that's a news flash," Caitlin muttered.
String shot her a dark glance, scowled when it bounced off her impish smile. "What do you think he'd do if you told him the truth?"
~*~*~*~*~
Now, Daniel decided, as Major Channing politely turned down one more offer of local vodka. The party was in full swing, the hall warm with massed bodies and a blazing fire, balalaikas strumming songs of love and betrayal, a laughing Russian peasant in festival vest and polished boots dragging a stammering Sam into a stomping dance.
No one noticed a silent figure snag sliced sausages and wend his way into starlit night.
The archaeologist munched spiced meat in the shadow of a barn, staring up at diamond-dusted darkness. The Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, guiding Polaris and the white streak of the Milky Way....
The bear, Chickadee with her cooking pot, and Where-The-Dog-Ran. A flicker of amusement tugged at his mouth as Ariella's old bedtime star-stories rose to mind. Stories that had whispered and tugged at his memory for years, only to draw blank stares from any foster family he'd tried to tell them to.
Only decades later had Daniel found out the track-turned-stardust wasn't a Southern story, but Cherokee.
Colored. That's what Ariella's time would have called her. No matter how many generations back those stories had become part of her heritage. No matter how blonde, and genteel, and fair. Colored. Passing for white.
Small wonder her son... was a spy.
Polaris means north, and Michael said he'd be about two miles that way.... Jack might not think anything of his sense of direction through the 'Gate, but that was off-planet. Was it his fault the stars weren't in the right places? Weren't even the same stars?
Don't think about it.
Daniel walked a wooden fence-line to the edge of a young orchard, took one last bearing before heading under mossy trees. Ordinarily he wouldn't try this. His vision wasn't the best in broad daylight; night was best braved with caution and a flashlight.
But there were so many stars tonight....
And will I see the Firebird? the archaeologist wondered wistfully, remembering a thousand Russian tales of spirits friendly and otherwise, met on nights the stars seemed so close you could almost touch. If I could just see... something beautiful. Something of hope. My luck couldn't get any worse from a Firebird's curse....
And for a moment, he did see feathers. A shimmer of snow-white and cloud-streaked blue; a winter wolf with hawk eyes, silent and swift as a falcon in flight.
A blink, and the trick of starlight disappeared; light and shadow resolving into a form just as sleek and deadly. Three slender wheels, a black-and-white hull, a subtle silver shine of rotors-
And a spy in a gray flight suit, leaning on a rosewood cane, tense as a wound spring.
Daniel stopped on the clearing's edge, watched his breath puff into chill air. What do I say? What can I say?
"Daniel." Almost a whisper; Michael studied him, gave a subtle nod. "I'm glad to see you."
~*~*~*~*~
Twice in one day. That's got to be a personal best, Sam thought wryly, denying the panic trying to clamp down on her ribcage in the middle of Iablan's music and merriment. Panic that was currently insisting Daniel was gone, and this was bad, and she had to find him-
Panic that was dredging up everything from that whole mess with the Eurondans' heavy water, to that fraction-of-a-second near-miss with the Enkarans, to Jack cutting them off mid-phone call when Daniel had been frantically trying to get information on Osiris. Before his possessed ex-girlfriend did her Goa'uld best to fry his brain.
Panic that squeezed even tighter when Sam remembered the empty look on Daniel's face as they went through Russian customs.
It's like he just doesn't care anymore. The major tried to shake away the thought as she combed the crowd, grimaced as it came circling back. This couldn't be as bad as it seemed. Daniel was just off in a quiet corner somewhere, that was all. Sha'uri's gone, and Nick's gone, and Shifu's off being enigmatic with Oma Desala. And the rest of us aren't enough to hold him.
No. That couldn't be. The SGC wouldn't even exist without Daniel Jackson. He was just... a little down lately, that was all. He'd snap back. He always did.
Now if she could just find him-
A whiff of sickly-sweet, and the world went black.
~*~*~*~*~
"Excellent." Naberezhnyi regarded the still woman out of sight of the merriment, wondered once more if chloroform were the right compound for such a task. Too much could kill....
But the chemical's properties were familiar, and the major's biochemistry was not. Best to stick to what they knew.
"Load her in the truck. After you have secured the shackles." It would be a jostling ride to the temporary lab, and a few hours before their transport to a more secure location could arrive. He would take no chances. Who knew if the major's symbiote were truly dead?
Yet iron shackles should hold even a Goa'uld, so long as she was weak. And within the lab itself, there were more... esoteric restraints.
If she were Russian, he might have pitied her.
~*~*~*~*~
Daniel wrapped chilled hands around the warmth of a coffee-filled camp mug, glanced at the man who'd poured it. "Where's Dom?" Half-dreading the answer; he might not know that much about spies, but he knew very well they usually didn't die in bed.
"Home. Taking care of my nephew." String seemed cool and composed as ever, gun safely tucked under his forest-green jacket, leaning against the helicopter's dark hull with casual ease.
You have a nephew? Daniel bit his tongue against the question, flushed. They hadn't known Teal'c had family, either. Not until Rya'c had nearly died.
Blue eyes crinkled at the corners; as if the covert pilot had heard that unvoiced surprise a thousand times before. Suddenly the measured gaze... wasn't quite so measured. Not softer, exactly. But gentler. Like a gyrfalcon, tenderly tearing off strips of prey for its downy young.
Suppressing a shiver, Daniel turned toward a hint of lithe, sudden movement. A woman?
String's co-pilot. Daniel recognized clear hazel eyes, though the waves of red hair under her parka hood were a shock. "Caitlin," she grinned at him, hands stuffed into fur-lined pockets. "Would've talked to you last trip, but you were kinda out of it."
"So I've heard," Michael mused. "At least this time you did bring the Marines." A half-dark gaze implored the heavens. "For all the good it did."
"You sent that note-" No. Don't let him sidetrack you. "Michael. Archangel. Why are you here?"
"I see Colonel O'Neill's seen fit to fill you in on some of the less savory aspects of my profession," Michael murmured. "Fair enough. I'm here for the same reason you are." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hardened palmtop computer. "Only your fact-finding mission is grudgingly sanctioned by such notables as Senator Kinsey, while mine... well. The good senator's annoyed enough that I'm still alive. Knowing I'd carried out an operation such as this one would give him the perfect excuse to try to fire me. Again."
"Ah... excuse me?" The palmtop's contents seemed clear enough; scanned Cyrillic documents about interstellar travel, no known human inhabitants located on planet number nine-
Nine? But Svetlana said they'd only been to seven planets....
Oh. Hells.
"Yes. They are lying to us, Dr. Jackson." A wry smile bent the blond mustache. "Not that I can blame them. Not if they think the likes of Kinsey are in charge."
"Wait. Wait." Daniel held up a halting hand, trying to scan the computer screen and read the pilots' unfamiliar expressions at the same time. Hell with it. He focussed on Michael. "You know Senator Kinsey?"
"Unfortunately." The shrug was too practiced to be casual. "The senator has many reasons for disliking secret projects. Some of them are even rational." Michael touched fingertips to black hull, as if the helicopter's presence were a comfort. "A few years ago, Kinsey had a... fellow acquaintance on the Hill. Senator William Dietz, head of the Senate's Weapons Appropriations Subcommittee. Not the most honest sort, as politicians go, but a man with a positive gift for selecting weapons systems that would perform in the field. As close as a man like Kinsey comes to having a friend."
Daniel felt his eyebrows climb. Kinsey had friends? Weird thought.
Michael glanced away, drew his gaze back up with determined finality. "The story is long, but the pertinent details are short. Dietz came to review one of my projects. A traitor, who happened to be one of the project's designers, blew Senator Dietz, my facility, my tower, and many of my people into very small pieces." He tapped a finger against his cane. "Kinsey's never forgiven me for having the bad taste to survive."
String snorted. "He'd probably let it go if you handed over Airwolf."
"Not a chance in hell!"
A swift curve of lips; was that a smile on the pilot's granite face? "I know."
"Airwolf?" Daniel asked carefully. Frantically storing details in memory to crosscheck later. If he just knew why Kinsey hated the SGC so much....
And why would handing over Airwolf draw the same sharp, defensive anger he'd seen on Jack, when Maybourne tried to walk off with Teal'c?
Caitlin patted black hull. "Airwolf." A wry sparkle in hazel eyes. "She already knows who you are."
It has a name. Daniel studied the black-and-white war machine with fresh eyes, trying to see past memories of Guatemala, of fear and fire and death. Trying to see the beauty in lines sleek as night, the stubby wings hiding lethal weapons, the turbo engines that could punch her through the sky like the fist of Hippolyte.
Not easy. But there was something in the pilots' eyes when they looked at her; something he'd never seen in a Marine admiring a weapon.
Something that reminded him of Janet, cradling a sleepy Cassandra in her arms at an SG-1 picnic.
Weird. Daniel shook off the incongruous image, glanced at Michael. "Did you bug their facility, too?"
"In a slightly different fashion than we did yours," the spy answered frankly. "We do need to know what's going on in there. And I doubt any measures the Pentagon might institute at Kinsey's behest would be sufficient."
Caught flat-footed, Daniel gaped. It'd been a shot in the dark, he'd never expected.... "Why are you telling me this?"
The half-dark gaze met his. "I need your help."
Uh-oh.
"I'm not certain you realize the magnitude of what the Pentagon has done." Michael's hand clenched on his cane; he shifted his weight with a grimace. "In essence, they've started a private war. Congress generally tends to frown on that." A flicker of wry smile. "Not that I'm anyone to take them to task for expending munitions in congressionally unsanctioned ways, but they've done so without consulting the usual agencies of American intelligence as well. And that does worry me."
The archaeologist finished off his coffee, deliberately set the cup down on a black wing. Think. What would Jack say, here? "Exactly what good would spies do in intergalactic warfare?"
"I've no idea," Michael said frankly. "We haven't been allowed to investigate the situation." A spark of anger in that visible eye. "Even though you have had aliens loose on this planet. Good Lord, Daniel! What if there had been a sarcophagus down in Guatemala? What if one of those parasites with delusions of grandeur had gotten loose, grabbed some peasant, or American embassy worker, or international terrorist-" Knuckles clenched, white on silver. "Or you."
A Goa'uld in a terrorist. With access to not just the regular weapons Seth's cult had used, but everything modern terrorists had grabbed hold of; from bio-warfare to chemical weapons to stray radioactive materials. All of which could become a dozen times more deadly, with a Goa'uld's millennia of knowledge to back them. Gods, he hadn't even considered that scenario. Daniel swallowed, suddenly lightheaded. "Part of the job."
"Part of the job? To put yourself at risk, with no backup?" A hissed, furious breath; lips peeled back, baring Archangel's teeth. "You thought it might be one of Hathor's spawn, and you still went; after what she did to you-"
Hathor. He knows about Hathor. Daniel blinked furiously, trying to clear away memories of helplessness, of knowing what the Goa'uld Queen wanted was wrong, yet feeling his body respond anyway. Of knowing he'd betrayed Sha'uri, that he didn't deserve to find her now. Of feeling almost glad that his wife had died without knowing how he'd hurt her, that he'd never see the pity in her eyes....
Oh, Jack was right. Archangel was good. He almost sounded like he cared. "You never looked for me." Gods, his voice was shaking. Why was his voice shaking?
"Professional hazard," the spy said softly. "We never knew your real name. Not even my mother did. All we knew was that your parents had done some Company work; if we'd pried, we might have put you in danger - String!"
And the pilot had an arm under Daniel's shoulder, supporting him as his knees gave way. Caitlin yanked open the co-pilot's door in a hiss of warm, pressurized air, cleared the way as String helped the archaeologist slump into the doorway. "Thought she couldn't touch him?" the redhead bridled.
"She didn't, much," String said bluntly. "Stress." The cool voice gentled; a night breeze, instead of howling blizzard. "Daniel. You're safe. You're with the Lady. Not a safer place on the planet...."
There was more; a smooth river of meaningless words, washing past as Daniel huddled against warm metal. And somewhere in there was a shoulder to lean on, a whisper of familiar voice that promised nothing. Only held, and soothed, and vowed it understood.
He wept then, as he'd wept so many years ago; cried for the pain and loss and the shattered dreams.
And as there'd been so many years ago, there was an arm around him, a promise stronger than any words.
I'm here. I won't let you fall.
Just hold on, Daniel. You can hold on.
I believe in you....
~*~*~*~*~
Contact with unregistered passenger, Daniel Jackson, intermittent.
Projecting safety.
Advise Michael Archangel continue physical contact.
Not planning on letting go any time soon, Lady, Michael thought dryly. Damping his own anger; how long had it been since Daniel had felt truly safe, if this was what a moment's promise of haven did to his defenses?
"I've been chemically manipulated," the spy kept up his quiet murmur, wondering how much might be getting through to the shaking archaeologist. "I know what it's like to feel yourself - betray yourself. To feel you should have known better. To feel you should have done something." He brushed short strands out of Daniel's glasses, felt the hot salt of tears sting his skin. Short, almost military haircut; god, why hadn't the SGC seen that as a warning? Probably thought he was trying to fit in. Damn it. "If Hawke hadn't dragged me off to the cabin for a few days - if I hadn't had that peace, to gather myself back to myself...." He glanced up, helpless.
"Just keep talking." String kept watch on the path back toward the village. "I held onto Tet; felt like days. Burned his ears about Horn."
"Oh, Hawke...." Caitlin touched his hand as she headed to the avionics bay, firm and gentle as she would a skittish mustang.
The pilot gave her an almost offhand shrug. "I'm okay. Now." String slid a quick glance at Daniel. "He needs somebody to be there. Doesn't matter what they're saying."
"I appreciate your confidence in my conversational skills, but this is far beyond my level of expertise." Airwolf shifted in the back of his mind, spinning out gossamer threads of comfort. No telling what of that might be getting through; Airwolf had no link to the archaeologist, only an odd shred of lingering familiarity from past contact. "He needs help, Hawke. Real help, not that sanctimonious bastard MacKenzie." And not me. He was an operative, trained to run agents; trained to interrogate, break a man down, reshape mind and soul into what he needed. Not to heal.
"Yeah." String's eyes were bleak as he glanced at his watch. "What's that riddle of Marella's? All medicines are poisons?"
And all poisons, medicines, Michael finished silently. An old, old medical quandary; what could kill could also heal. Easy for you to say. This is like clearing rubble with Hellfires.
"Triage, Michael. Do what you can."
And do it fast. Archangel nodded. They were pushing it as things stood; between sneaking into Russia tense minutes before dawn, hiding under cover to catch a much-needed nap, and then infiltrating the Russian Stargate facility, they'd been in Russian airspace almost twenty hours. Much longer, and-
String's head snapped up; he peered down the faint path toward the village, sidearm in hand. "Inside."
Movement finally penetrated the archaeologist's tear-streaked haze. "W-what-"
"In, and quiet," Archangel breathed, guiding him into Airwolf's confines. Now he could hear what String's keener ears had caught; footsteps through fallen brush, a soft murmur of bored Russian. "We've got company."
Doors sealed with a gentle hiss; Caitlin was already in her helmet, frowning at lights flickering across her board. String strapped into the pilot's seat, started a swift preflight.
And Michael found himself with an armful of struggling archaeologist. "We're not - I can't - you're not going to take off!"
"Daniel-" Reason wasn't going to cut it here. Not with the Lady ready and quivering, just waiting for the press of a switch. "Caitlin?"
"We got trouble." Caitlin jerked her head toward an instrument panel, hands dancing over the board as she called up specific frequencies on transmission surveillance. "The Marines just lit off radios, and man, are they ticked."
"Yet that's a Russian patrol out there." He didn't have all the numbers yet, but he didn't like what they were adding up to.
"They were?" Daniel's struggles slowed. "How do you know?"
"We heard them," Michael shrugged. "They're only a mile away."
Daniel went still.
Oh, hell. Archangel winced. Maybe String could still let him out, so he could find a hole and pull it in after him-
And chagrin was lost in a rush of hunger-for-sky, as String pressed ignition.
~*~*~*~*~
Only a mile away. Daniel tried to focus on that as vibration built around him; more sensed than seen, this helicopter had soundproofing that beat any military plane he'd flown in to heck. Only a mile.
As if it weren't anything special. As if hearing better than Teal'c's were average, everyday....
Michael flung a harness strap into his grip, pulled on a helmet, took over controls Caitlin had left for the co-pilot's seat. "Engineering's set." He took a moment to plug slender cables into the back of his helmet. "I wonder what Major Channing's tolerance for frustration is."
"Whisper Mode," String ordered.
"Ah, no offense," Daniel pointed out, lowering his voice to the asked-for whisper, "But aren't they going to hear us anyway?"
"Nope." Caitlin had punched up a green-on-black wire-frame image of Airwolf. Whisper Mode LOCKED flashed on-screen. "We're playing owl."
Owl? Daniel blinked as they rose into the night sky, felt his stomach sway as Airwolf's nose dipped and they surged forward. Oh, brother.
Up and away, light and free as a falcon. Daniel drew in a breath of strangely flat air, dragged his attention from star-strewn night to Archangel's intent concentration on the communications setup. "Aren't our - Major Channing's frequencies supposed to be encrypted?"
"Yeah." Somewhere up front, String switched on a speaker.
"-Patrol 2," the radio voice was calm, controlled; a Marine in hostile territory, without immediate targets in sight. "No sign of Major Carter."
"This is three, we're running into resistance from civilians. Requesting clarification?"
Major Channing's voice was calmly annoyed. "You are not, repeat not, to initiate hostilities. We're going to find Dr. Naberezhnyi and get this cleared up-"
String switched off the speaker. "Michael?"
"Scanning local NSB frequencies, including those earmarked for the Stargate facility." Was it Daniel's imagination, or was there real worry in Archangel's cool tone?
The pilot's helm nodded. "Look for content, pattern shifts-"
A subtle snort. "I do know the drill, Hawke."
Hazel eyes glanced back from the co-pilot's seat. "You don't think this is about the Lady?"
"No, of course it's not you," Daniel blurted, debating whether or not to head for the hatch. Forty-odd feet off the ground, not to mention the slim, cold-eyed pilot he knew would block his path... maybe not a good idea. Try reason. "Look, I've got to go. Didn't you hear Major Channing? Sam's missing."
"And they didn't notice you are, too," Caitlin shook her head. "Sometimes I hate it when you're right, Michael."
String flashed a quiet grin back toward them. "You get used to it."
"How do you know they don't know?" Daniel persisted. Tracking starlight to try and figure out which way they were heading; not back toward Iablan, that was certain. "Just because they haven't said anything about me, doesn't mean they're not looking." They have to be looking. Jack promised they'd be looking. That I wouldn't be - left alone....
A half-dark gaze studied him, handed over a helmet. "Put it on." A gloved finger pointed up. "Auxiliary tie-in's up there."
Daniel fumbled on black plastic, plugged in the indicated cord. Flinched back at the sudden clarity of voices in his ears; a quiet murmur between Hawke and Caitlin, overlaying the intercepted bursts of Major Channing's teams. "What are the cables for?"
"In-ship radio. Power." Archangel's eyes were dangerously level. "Neurological monitors."
Daniel paused. Resisted the temptation to rip the padded helm off. Granted, it took years for Eurondan systems to cause lasting problems. But they'd at least been working with neural interfaces for decades. Who knew what a Tau'ri copy could do? "Ah, that can be bad."
"They're just monitors, Dr. Jackson. Purely Terran technology. Designed long before the SGC was up and running. A system to let the aircraft commander know if a crew member is incapacitated." Humor glinted in Archangel's smile as he waved toward Hawke's control stick. "We have to pick our targets the old-fashioned way."
"What targets?" He could hear String and Caitlin tossing fragments of a discussion back and forth; EM readings and radio transmissions and something about a Firm file on secure labs in the local area. "I thought you were spying."
"We were," Archangel said grimly. "And logic, not to mention good sense, would dictate that we continue that mission and leave, rather than risk exposing our presence. Major Channing is good at his job, he should be able to recover one missing Air Force astrophysicist. Or at the very least raise enough of a diplomatic stink that the Russian government would be forced to produce her, probably groggy, with no memory of where she'd been or who she'd been kidnapped by. Chechnyan terrorists, no doubt. Or so the official story would go."
I think I hear a "but" coming.
"Unfortunately-"
Close enough.
"The fact that Major Carter is missing is not nearly as troubling as who she may be missing with." Archangel touched controls, nodded as engines nudged back into optimal range. "It wasn't relevant before... but Baklan Naberezhnyi's specialty is definitively not astrophysics."
"It's not?" Daniel licked his lips. "Who is he? KGB?"
Archangel snarled. "I only wish. Biopreparat."
"What's that?"
Michael hesitated.
Oh, this isn't going to be good....
"Bio-warfare," String said bluntly.
A buzzing filled his ears. Daniel stared at nothing, saw monitors go gray-
Dragged in a breath, shaking off terror like water. Color crept reluctantly back into the world, bright and coppery as the taste of fear in his throat. "Biological warfare's illegal."
"And Title 14, Section 1211 of the Code of Federal Regulations, implemented on July 16, 1969, makes it illegal for U.S. citizens to have any contact with extra-terrestrials or their vehicles," Archangel pointed out. "Need I list how often you and your team have violated that law?"
Daniel bristled. "That's different!"
"How?"
Gods. He had to ask? "We haven't - we don't-"
"Got that right, we don't!" Caitlin said fiercely.
"True," Michael agreed. "We perform defensive research. We keep stocks of various deadly diseases, and chemicals, for the express purpose of finding new and better ways to defend ourselves and our allies. But. We do. Not. Use. Bio-warfare." Steel under his words, made all the sharper by old grief in his gaze. "Because, arrogant as it may seem, we are America; and we believe - incredible as it might be to the rest of the world - that our enemies may be just as human as we are. And there are acts no human being should commit upon another."
Silence was ragged in Daniel's ears, broken only by the murmur of his breath inside the helmet. He believes that. He really does believe that.
"But why?" the archaeologist finally pleaded. "Sam's not a host."
"Doesn't matter." String's voice was cool as ever. "Naberezhnyi's out to protect his people."
Don't judge. Don't- "You make it sound like you understand!"
"Know thine enemy." And it was Caitlin's voice; Caitlin's frank hazel gaze meeting his. "One on one, you can talk to just 'bout anybody. Start mixing it up with countries, and religion, and politics - hard to tell who's the good guys."
"We are," Michael said flatly.
Daniel raised a skeptical brow. "Really?"
"Of course." Almost a laugh, from String. "We wear white hats."
~*~*~*~*~
Cold. Bright.
Sam swam back toward consciousness, dimly aware of a buzz of foreign voices, a draft of cool air along exposed skin, a burning slice on her chilled arm, a blur of walls and lights that had no place in the tiny Russian village she remembered.
"-Four cc's precisely-"
Dr. Naberezhnyi. How - where-
"She is awake. Horrasho." A white lab coat came into her blurred view; latex-covered fingers touched her cheek. "Mark the time."
A quiet Da, and a rustle of paper.
"Far less time to recover than the dose should have required," Naberezhnyi mused. Latex prodded a neat red incision on her arm; probably made by the blood-edged knife in that ominous tray of equipment by his hand. "Though there appears no swifter healing than a healthy female specimen. I am curious what the video-recording will show, under high magnification."
Fear shivered down Sam's spine; her weapons and uniform were nowhere in sight, and the papery blue tunic that was her current nod to modesty felt fragile as a centuries-old wall-hanging. Was this what Teal'c had dreaded, infested by that alien insect? "I'm not... a specimen...."
Naberezhnyi's gaze was open, and curious, and completely devoid of compassion. "It is fortunate you are conscious. We should have an accurate baseline, before we begin the procedures." He wove fingers into her hair, casually yanked out a dozen strands. "We will not be able to begin the processing until we reach the proper facilities, but there is no reason to waste time."
Biting back a swear, Sam focussed enough to see her hairs separated into three sample bags and stored in a cooler of dry ice. Samples for PCR? What... what do they want with my DNA?
Jolinar. It had to be. The Tok'ra had left more than just memories behind with her death. She'd left physical traces; from naquadda in Sam's brain and bloodstream to an odd protein marker Janet could isolate, but not explain.
DNA, RNA, protein. The old biology sequence bubbled to the fore of her brain. Oh God. Was it that simple? She left her DNA? Which would mean her intuition had been right all along; she really wasn't herself anymore.
"Be grateful, Major." The scientist smiled, cold and heartless as Arctic winds. "Few have the opportunity to serve their planet as you will."