~*~*~*~*~
Marine majors did not swear, Major Channing thought, regarding the Russian patrol his men had caught. Not unless the situation called for it. And this didn't. Yet.
Close, though.
"Coffee?" He glanced at the metal camp mug they'd taken off the disgruntled patrol leader.
"Yes, sir." Lieutenant McMillan nodded forcefully. "Fresh."
Where there was coffee, there was an archaeologist. O'Neill's Rules of Jackson-Watching Number 17.
Only this time, there wasn't an archaeologist. What there was, was a faint trail of footprints, a trio of regular dents in soft grass, and a peculiar circular pattern to the way debris had been thrown around this small clearing.
Peculiar, if you'd never seen a heavy-lifting helicopter takeoff.
Very heavy-lifting, Channing thought, unease crawling through his gut. Downwash had scoured everything lighter than fist-sized rocks from a central point, embedded some lighter pebbles into tree bark. He'd seen military-issue cargo helicopters work. This was high-powered even for them.
Yet no one - not the villagers, not his patrols, not even the nervous Russian soldiers they'd caught - had heard it fly.
Screw it. "Set up the satellite phone," Major Channing ordered. "Call the General."
And hope he was reading this right, and this was some sort of Russian black ops work. If it were Goa'uld....
Get your head on straight, Major, Channing told himself forcefully, as his men regrouped into defensive formations. We've never seen aliens use helicopters.
Yet.
~*~*~*~*~
Got you, Caitlin thought, eyeing the seemingly-abandoned missile silo a mile ahead. Abandoned only to normal vision; IR, EM scanning, and radio surveillance revealed a furnace-glow of heat sources that shouldn't be there, a network of active circuits, an encrypted mutter of information. Cross-reference that with the Firm's latest info on medical equipment movements, the likely travel radius of any vehicle Naberezhnyi could've used, and Archangel's memory of how Biopreparat operated-
One active, illegal bio-lab, Caitlin nodded. Suppressed a shiver, thinking of the last time she'd run into Russian biological weapons. Carrying death in her own veins.... Too bad we can't just blow the whole thing.
The Lady's fierce triumph echoed her own. Target located. Outward patrol perimeter noted.
Enemy reinforcements potentially en route. Developing pattern of placed portable lights consistent with intent for use as light plane STOL landing strip.
Searching for possible landing sites.
String eyed the two best options, turned to her. "Which one?"
Caitlin chewed her lip. Another test. Almost three years with the Lady, and they were still testing her limits.
Three years with the Firm, when Dom and String've had over a decade, the young operative reminded herself. You still got lots to learn. She weighed her options, pointed. "There."
"Why not the north site?" Cool. Not a hint of wrong or right.
"It's closer, but it's too open," Caitlin said firmly. "Roving patrol could see us, an' we can see they got two of 'em; one watching out, one putting down the lights." Americans might have elaborate security systems. Russia had always trusted more to armed guards than electronics. "Heat source there's equipment, there's people. The one who's not moving is probably Carter. We need to sneak in and find her; then the Lady can swoop in and get us out. But we gotta have surprise to start."
"Good." The small smile warmed her down to her toes; String didn't hand out praise lightly.
Which was just as well, given the shock he dished out next. "Dr. Jackson." Hawke pointed to the pack of Firm gear set near Archangel's seat. "Pick what you can use. You're coming with us."
The archaeologist took out one of the spare semi-automatics, drew in a sharp breath. "You want me to what?"
"He's right." Michael moved to take the silenced sidearm from Daniel. Stopped at String's cool glance. "It should be me."
"Michael, you can't." Caitlin kept her gaze away from the rosewood cane as String landed; Michael knew his limitations. Even if Archangel sometimes ignored them. "This isn't just sneaking. We gotta get in, get her, and get out before they get time to light off."
"I can-"
"Take another dose of painkiller and fall over." String's tone was hard as the Tehachapi Mountains. A finger pointed to a subtle amber light on his console; the Lady's visible reminder of her pilot's medical limits.
Michael Archangel currently suffering post-medication effects of classified Firm neuromuscular pain block. Airwolf might have kept her objections off the computer monitors, but they were clear and sharp in Caitlin's mind as if she'd highlighted them on-screen. Second dose contraindicated. Muscular tremors, numbing of full link negative factors in mission success.
"Why did I ever believe it was a good idea to put medical monitors in these systems," the spy grumbled.
Daniel's gaze found the offending knee. "How bad is it?"
Archangel bristled. "Nothing that would prevent me from my work-"
"He shouldn't be on it." Flat fact, from String. "He tries, the Lady'll lock the doors."
"Hawke!"
"Air support, Michael. Give me backup. Not heroics."
The archaeologist shoved up his glasses. "He, ah... makes sense."
"That's what worries me," Archangel grumbled, working his way out of the engineer's seat. The time it took him was testimony enough in String's favor. "When Sir Galahad sees reason, Armageddon can't be far behind."
Galahad, Daniel mouthed, gold brows rising. Shook his head.
Caitlin hid a grin. What, can't you see the resemblance? Rides in on a magic steed, saves the girl, disappears.... "We're gonna need more than somebody who speaks Russian in there, anyway," she pointed out, vacating the co-pilot's chair. "Major Carter hasn't ever seen us. How's she going to know we're the good guys?"
"Been working with us too long." String's face had that spare, wry grin she knew so well; more a flash of sky-bright eyes than any motion of lips. "You're starting to think like an operative."
Red brows quirked up. "That a compliment, or an insult?"
"Let you know."
"While the two of you are busily determining who's offended whom... Daniel." Archangel dug into a pocket, came up with one of the Firm's new spray-cans. "Short-range, non-lethal knockout. Good for two hours. Do not breathe it in." A hint of grin bent his mustache. "About time the French paid us back for some of their industrial espionage."
Biting his lip, Daniel took the can.
"Dr. Jackson." String's tone was deadly serious. "You don't have to come. Cait and I can pull this off."
Oh, yeah? But Caitlin kept her doubts silent. She could almost see Daniel gathering his nerve, reassembling shreds of tattered emotion.
The archaeologist swallowed dryly. "You don't speak Russian."
String shrugged. "I'm a pilot. I know some Spanish, that's it."
"Remind me to start pounding Russian grammar through your skull when we get home," Michael muttered.
Daniel shook his head slowly. "You need someone who can speak the language-"
"We need someone who can shoot if he has to." Hawke's gaze never wavered. "These aren't aliens, Dr. Jackson. And we can't get caught."
"He's right," Archangel said bluntly. "We cannot be found here. Alive, dead, or in pieces. The diplomatic repercussions would be devastating."
"So I want you to think, and give me a straight answer." String's tone was almost as gentle as Dom's. "Comes down to them or us - can you shoot?"
The archaeologist drew in a ragged breath. Weighed the weapon in his hand. Combed fingers through short hair.
Checked the safety, with all the skill of a veteran. "They have Sam."
String held his gaze a moment more; nodded. "Pull up a map, Lady. Let's see how we're going to do this...."
~*~*~*~*~
I'm in hell.
Sam shuddered against cold air, barely wincing as the edge of her shackles bit into the cut on her arm. It was too familiar a pain.
I'm in hell, and I'm not even dead yet.
So far the tests hadn't been too... invasive. Naberezhnyi's people had only sampled body fluids, taken skin scrapings, and temporarily replaced iron shackles with plastic bonds to put her through their portable MRI. Not too much different from what Janet would do after a particularly risky off-world mission.
Except for the part about being chained to the table-
Don't panic! Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. Control. Watch for a way out. There's got to be a way out....
Except so far, there wasn't. The Russian scientists were aware and alert, despite the hour, and armed guards had never been more than a few yards away. Even when they'd turned on the MRI, grim soldiers had simply exchanged metal-based weapons for plastic and glass knockout hypos.
Sam had stayed very, very still on sight of those. The only thing worse than knowing what was happening was... not knowing what was happening.
God. Was this what Daniel had felt like in MacKenzie's hands? Drugged, and abandoned, and knowing there was no one to save him....
Don't think that way! Channing's looking for you. Daniel's looking for you. Soon as Channing calls in, the Colonel will be looking for you. Now pull yourself together and help them find you!
Okay. Inventory time. Shackles, check. Lab assistant, check. Pair of armed guards, check. A few bottles full of Cyrillic-labeled chemicals; damn it, what a time for Daniel not to be here. She probably had everything here she'd need to blow the place sky-high, and she couldn't even read the warning labels.
One of the guards jerked up from listening to his radio, beckoned to Naberezhnyi with an excited babble of Russian.
"Ah. They come. Good." Steel gleamed in the overhead lights; Naberezhnyi put the sheathed hypo down, just long enough to remove a dark bottle from refrigeration. "Still. We have enough time to check the preliminary allergic response."
Oh, yeah. Sadistic scientist, check.
~*~*~*~*~
I can't do this. Daniel tried to keep his teeth from chattering as he straightened his borrowed uniform, gave up. He might have snuck past the outer perimeter without a problem, and he might be about Michael's size, but there was no way he could wear a foreign service's gear with any degree of confidence. I can't....
"Daniil." String's touch on his wrist was firm, no-nonsense; a light version of the steady grip that had guided him through the dark. The pilot's own makeup had been re-touched, and his soldier's gear was stiffly neat. "We've done this. They won't see you. They'll see a superior officer with an assistant. Someone they hope isn't their problem."
Right. Like Jack had done to Jaffa a half-dozen times, marching right past in borrowed headgear. "I'll sc-screw it up-"
"Michael thinks you won't."
Sure. And a spy was such a good judge of character.
"Gut in knots?" String's brows were lifted; mildly, politely interested. "Hands like ice? Want to throw up?"
All of the above. "Y-yeah."
"Smart man." String nodded. "Remember. You're not an archaeologist. You're not even an American. You're a Russian Army Captain, here to take control of some idiot's secret project that just landed on your desk - and you are mad as hell." Stepping back, he snapped off a salute.
Right. Show time. Daniel made certain his cap was centered, strode into sudden view of the two guards by the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw String bring up his rear, formally correct as Colonel O'Neill accompanying General Hammond. "Schtovui!"
The two guards stiffened to rigid attention; Daniel marched right into the stiffer one's personal space, quelling the sudden impulse to take to his heels. "Where is Doktor Naberezhnyi?" he demanded. "We have orders to move the subject, immediately!"
"Captain!" A swift salute, that still never took the guard's hand too far from his weapon. "We had no orders-"
"Of course, you had no orders," Daniel bristled. "Never are the orders where they should be. But I assure you Naberezhnyi will. Take me to him, now!"
The senior guard swallowed, but stood his ground. "My apologies, Captain. But, you will understand, we must see your documents-"
Hsssh.
Daniel swayed back as a dark-clad Caitlin cushioned the farther guard's tumble to the ground. String held his unconscious victim a second longer, spray can in his off hand, leaning the man against the side of the silo in a pose a casual observer might mistake for a lazy slouch.
The archaeologist sucked in chill air, watched the guards' slow rise and fall of breath. They're alive. They're alive.
String glanced up. "Let's go."
Daniel nodded jerkily, straightened. Ticked-off Russian Captain. Right.
Hand on the door. And one, and two, and-
Here goes everything.
~*~*~*~*~
Enemy radar was a whisper of wind across Airwolf's sensor-strewn skin; a tingle of fingers brushed lightly over hairs. Radio chatter was a grumble at the edge of hearing, sharpening as she tuned into the correct frequencies. Cameras focussed skyward, searching for the first trace of her enemies. Incoming.
Michael's hands tapped over her controls, setting up IFF. "What've we got, Angel?"
She felt data flow to her screen, knew the pertinent facts in her alloy bones. Two keen hunters knifed the sky; swift and dangerous as she was, bearing the deadly missile-talons she so fiercely missed. In their wake lumbered a light, slow companion, dove to the enemy's eagles.
"MiGs high on watch, light plane low to snatch and grab," Michael muttered. "And none of them from Kuybyshev. Hmm. Has to be more than Naberezhnyi involved; he's skilled with germs, but he doesn't have this kind of foresight." Gloved fingers tapped absently on the edge of her console. "Not surprising they don't want to keep the major near the Stargate. Not when the good doctor's just dying to try out his tailored viruses on something with a tougher immune system than your average Afghani." A wisp of images rose to his mind; smuggled photos of horrid death in glass vials, of deadly purple lesions, of Firm agents' bodies strewn like poisoned jackstraws....
Kabul-Aleutian? Airwolf shivered, a cub seeking shelter from storm. That had been close. Too close. String and Caitlin had been so ill, pain and psychotic paranoia leaking even through her then-unstable links. And all she'd been able to do was watch her pilots' medical monitors fade, as the virus wormed its way inward....
"They found the cure, Angel." Michael pressed keys, refining the image from passive radar. "And the good doctor's not arrogant enough to let something that lethal loose under such uncontrolled conditions. Not quite."
Delay takeoff?
"No time." Cool determination flowed down Archangel's link as he pressed ignition; aware, as she was aware, that their IR signature would draw enemy attention within minutes. "How far are they in?"
Listening.
~*~*~*~*~
Sam bared her teeth, jerked clear of pointed steel. "Get the hell away from me, you son of a-"
"Language, language, my dear major." Naberezhnyi held the needle away from her squirming form, took a moment to wave a chiding, latex-skinned finger. "And we had been cooperating so well... do you not know our goals are the same? We seek to slay the Goa'uld, as do-"
A scattering of pops; armed men jerked and coughed, staggering against the walls. The assistant shrieked, diving for a corner, even as a familiar voice shouted something in Russian.
Daniel?
"Nyet!" Naberezhnyi snarled, aspirating the needle. Holding it, poised, over her heart. "Nyellzya! How dare you to interfere?"
Gaze locked on that deadly cylinder of air, Sam still caught a glimpse of the cold-eyed man in the Russian soldier's uniform as he aimed dead on her captor. "Man said, let her go."
"Nekogda!" A cold, cruel smile. "And so we wait, yes? Until one of us grows... tired?"
"There isn't any point to this, Doctor," Daniel insisted. Off to his right was a blur of red and fur, as a stern-eyed woman gestured the assistant away from fallen weapons. "Sa- Major Carter's not a host. You took an MRI; you have to know that!"
Sam wet her lips, tried to draw her gaze from that glistening point. Failed. He's not going to listen, Daniel.
"She can't help you kill the Goa'uld," the archaeologist went on. "Nothing you can do to her will tell you anything!"
"Ah. So innocent, you Americans...." The biologist sniffed, contemptuous. "She knows their secrets, does she not? Ah, yes; I see she does. Then there is much she can tell us. Much indeed."
Damn. Daniel never had been good at poker. "Daniel, he's-"
The metal point lowered, clear threat. "Silence, Major."
Sam tore her gaze from the needle, tried to reach the blue eyes under that shock of a Russian officer's uniform cap. He's stalling, Daniel!
"MiGs coming in." Cold certainty in the strange man's eyes. "We're out of time."
Naberezhnyi started, held steady. "Then you must know, there will be no escape."
The stranger smiled.
And yanked Daniel to the floor.
Thunder roared through metal walls; tore waves of heat over her bare skin. Shattered glass in scintillating sparks, loosing tangs of iodine and rubbing alcohol that blended with the shrieks-
Sam opened her eyes to ear-ringing silence, a sting of torn skin across her breastbone, a cold lash of wind through shredded metal.
A hot, wet spatter of blood on arm and shoulder, as Naberezhnyi's shattered form tumbled boneless to the floor.
"'Mind me not to tick him off," the redhead muttered.
"Sam!" Daniel fumbled with her restraints, took the automatic lock-pick the covert ops stranger handed him. "Hang on, we're getting you out - did he hurt you? Stupid question, I know, sorry. They said he was in bio-warfare... did he inject you? With anything?"
"Took blood samples. Said he'd save the rest... for later." 30-mm, the major thought dazedly, rubbing shackle-bruised wrists as she blinked at hole-strewn walls. Maybe 40. Shot right over me. Holy Hannah.
And she was alive. Either the guy on the other end of the guns had a targeting system she'd never seen, or he had the luck of all the Irish ever deported from Erin. Or both. "My uniform-"
"Right, right. Got it." Daniel grabbed up a heap of dress blues, flushed. "Ah - let me turn around-"
"No time." The covert ops blond seized her hand, helped her past shattered glass. A caterwaul rose behind them; the assistant Naberezhnyi had never named, scrabbling over a body, screaming at the top of his lungs before the redhead sprayed him in the face. He fell, limp and silent.
"But - shoes-" Daniel protested.
"No time."
And they were out in the frigid Siberian night, a buzz of some light plane approaching from the east, laced with shouts from onrushing soldiers and a muzzle-flash of bullets.
Bullets that spanged and sparked, off the howling black beast between them and the stars.
A helicopter? But helicopters didn't howl. Jets howled. And what was that odd suck of air as she neared warm hull; like the intake of massive engines?
Jet engines on a helicopter. Nobody has jet engines on a helicopter!
And they were inside, a rush of warm, purified air, a festival of lighted consoles Sam was just dying to get a look at-
And the covert blond's unyielding hand on her shoulder. "Night, Major."
Hsssh.
~*~*~*~*~
"You didn't have to-"
"Strap in and stay quiet, Dr. Jackson," Archangel said tightly. He didn't dare leave the co-pilot's chair for engineering; they were already in the air, and Caitlin had climbed into the back with grim determination, freckles standing out against pale skin. Damn. She must have had to shoot someone. "Things are about to get complicated."
Very complicated. Oh, hell. I've never flown against MiGs before.
Michael pushed back fear, concentrated on the bright lines tracing through his mind; MiG trajectories, slowing as they approached the spot they meant to circle while their light, fragile companion came down for the pick-up. And any second now, someone's going to have a brainstorm and pick up a radio.
He felt more than saw String's slight nod of agreement. "Jam them." The pilot's voice dropped, almost nonchalant. "And hit the lights. Might as well let them know how much trouble they're in."
"More accurately, how much trouble we're in," Michael murmured, jamming the airwaves. Airwolf's weapons-ready status - or lack of same - was clear across his boards. "Need I remind you what we're not carrying at the moment?"
A crinkle of blue eyes under the dark visor. "They don't know that."
~*~*~*~*~
"Bohze moi!" Mache Kabanov jerked back on his MiG's stick, peeling off from the black-and-white shark silhouetted below. There was a form whispered about in the darkest pits of pilots' barracks; the wolf of the north, the rusalki's kin, the ghost that struck and vanished in the night. The deadly black helicopter that must be American, could not be anything but American - yet even the NSB did not know for certain.
"Mache - is it-" Talai, his wingman; as starkly shaken as he, before static drowned radios and radar alike.
And so we die, with only the wind to witness-
Light vanished. Recovering starlight visors showed a ripple in the wind; silvery rotors fleeing west, into the night.
They did not fire? But why? The wind-wolf was armed, all knew it; fangs of Sidewinders and Hellfires, claws of armor-piercing bullets. More than a match for any pair of MiGs, did it take them unawares.
Unless-
They were so far from American airspace. Even did that black craft dip across the border into China - and they would be fools to do so, and those who flew it were not fools - they had so many hundreds of kilometers to go. So far, before that racing night-beast could find fuel again.
And missiles were so heavy.
A bluff!
Teeth bared, he fired.
~*~*~*~*~
"Turbos!"
Daniel swallowed as a massive hand seemed to push him back against the wall. Add that to the headache building behind his eyes - he gulped again, trying to hold back the taste of spiced sausage. Lucky for Sam she was already out of it. Oh, hell.... "What's going on?"
Michael didn't glance back, even when thunder rattled by - and off - their hull. "They're chasing us."
"You're not going to shoot?"
"Don't have much to shoot with," Caitlin muttered. Some of the color was coming back into her face, though there was still a suspicious wetness to her eyes. "Ammo means weight. An' it's a heck of a long way to fill up."
Okay, made sense, good... not good. "So what do we do?"
String's snort was clear over his helmet radio. "Run."
"Oh." Running was good. Running was fine. Except- "Ah... those are jets."
"Yes, they are." Michael did something to his console, shook his head. "MiG-29's. 30-mm cannon, good agility, air-to-air missiles... and running flat-out, they can push 2.3 Mach."
Over twice the speed of sound. Yipe. "And?"
"Usually, we can get a bit faster."
"And?"
"We're carrying five people-"
"Hawke, we got missiles incoming!" Caitlin sang out.
"Sunburst!"
"-And we have to dodge."
~*~*~*~*~
Even in the middle of Siberia, explosions tend to draw attention.
Jouncing along in their commandeered trucks, Major Channing jerked his gaze to the red-streaked sky. The locals might not have been willing to talk, but sonic booms were a dead giveaway that something was up. Flash of white making a tight circle in the sky, thunder of high-mm cannon, lights in a rectangular strip on the ground.... What's a light plane doing under a dogfight? "Lieutenant, hail them."
"Still jammed, sir!" McMillan twisted a knob on his equipment, snarled something under his breath. "Wide-spectrum, high intensity - whoever's up there, they don't want anyone talking."
Damn it. "Good bet the major's up there." He didn't know how, but he'd have wagered his last paycheck on it. Where there was SG-1, there was explosions.
Heck, for all he knew, she'd commandeered one of those MiGs. Astrophysicist or not, Carter was a pilot. Even if she hadn't been up in a while. Not sure I'd want Dr. Jackson for a co-pilot.
Not like she'd have had much choice. Say what you want about Dr. Jackson, he at least knew his Cyrillic.
Hope he's with you, Major. 'Cause I don't have a clue where he is.
~*~*~*~*~
Evading pursuit.
Technical specs of the MiG-29 flowed through the back of Airwolf's consciousness; speed, turn radius, stall angle, limits of internal strain. Some of the same facts echoed from her pilots, calculating similarities and differences to try to tilt the odds in their favor.
Ignore the comparison. Stretch into the wind. Track every flow and eddy in the night, rippling skin sensors to cut turbulence to its barest tug. Seek any gust angling near her path; anything to gain a few more inches, a fraction more speed. Feel the trembling heat of turbo engines pumping air and fuel into furnace heat, struggling like a mountain runner's heart in thin, chill mist-
Fog!
Thick and gray, curling across her skin in moist chill as they raced down the plateau to colder northern lowlands. Not a problem, for one who saw by starlight and IR; still, it sent a thrill of triumph through her commander's veins. Why-?
Ah. That calculation, matched with that - yes.
Close. It would be close.
Radar shrilled behind her, as a missile arrowed in for the kill.
Incoming!
"Sunburst! On my mark, drop jamming.... Now!"
Hot, angry shrill, drawing nearer, nearer-
And they were over a last hill and down, dropping into the depths of a river marsh. Swamp reeds bent in their passage, rippling waves of carmine-edged green in the night.
Heat - light - pressure wave-
A burst of flame and thunder behind them, shattering the hill's crest to rocky shards.
Missile decoyed.
~*~*~*~*~
"Michael?" Daniel resisted the urge to reach over the back of the seat and wave a hand in front of the spy's face. There was something glazed in Michael's gaze, as if part of him were somewhere else....
More important, for a bunch of people supposedly running at Mach plus, they'd stopped.
Not quite stopped, the archaeologist amended, seeing a ripple of water under the canopy as they whispered down-river. He turned toward Caitlin. "What are we doing?"
The redhead blinked, studied her displays. "Hawke?"
"Think we lost them."
"Wha-" Never mind, Daniel thought. "How?"
"Like a fox." Archangel sounded incredibly weary. "They lost us, and they got their communications back. It'll take them a while to figure out we're not part of the wreck back there."
"Fog's all down the river," String noted. "Should cover us down to the Laptev Sea. Head a little farther north, we can catch a refuel on the edge of the Barents. And then we go home."
Daniel touched the side of Sam's face, checking her soft breathing. "Um - isn't this going to be a little hard to explain?"
"That depends." A hint of interest pushed Michael's weariness back. "I don't suppose you have your passports?"
Hand in Sam's uniform pocket, Daniel stopped. "What are you going to do with our passports?" he asked warily.
Archangel only smiled.
~*~*~*~*~
"-to Room 118. Dr. Thorrson to Room 118-"
Propped up in a visitor's chair, Daniel listened to the soothing Norse voice over the hospital intercom. Room was a bit chilly for his tastes, but a helpful nurse had loaned him a thick wool blanket, and he'd just - about - gotten - comfortable....
"Gngg... gaah-"
Daniel pried his eyes open. "Sam?"
Wrapped in linen sheets and a fresh hospital gown, Carter blinked blearily at him. "Wh'r?"
"Here." Daniel snagged the ceramic cup left on the bed-stand, helped her sit up. "They said you'd probably want water." Think. Think. He'd talked this over with Michael on their way in; tell as much of the truth as possible, without making their Russian hosts look like either A) idiots or B) homicidal. "We're in UNN... well, I suppose you'd call it Tromso General."
Sam gulped water, glanced up from her shaking hands. "What?"
"The University Hospital for Northern Norway," Daniel clarified. "We're in Norway."
Sam gaped at him. "How?"
"Dr. Jackson?"
"Yes," he answered automatically in Norse, nodding politely to the white-clad blonde in the doorway.
Wait a minute. The nurses he'd seen here wore blue scrubs. Or green....
"I am Iduna." She handed him a small, tape-wrapped package. "I believe these are yours."
"What's that?" Sam peered past his shoulder as he sliced open the package.
"Our passports," Daniel said softly. Officially stamped; exit through Murmansk, entry through the Tromso airport. The archaeologist looked out a window, into the vanishing fog. "Thank you."
~*~*~*~*~
"...And the last thing I remember is getting pulled off the examination table, Sir," Major Sam Carter finished, sitting stiff and straight at the briefing room table under Cheyenne Mountain.
Colonel Jack O'Neill fiddled with a pencil. Glanced at Daniel. Frowned. For a guy who nearly got kidnapped - again! - he looks way too cheerful. "Daniel?"
"They said something about French Intelligence." The archaeologist spread empty hands. "I didn't want to ask too many questions."
Now, that would be a first. "You okay?" French spooks could be mean.
"I'm good. Really." A hint of humor sparkled in that blue gaze. "They were... pretty polite. Most of the time."
Oh yeah. When they hadn't been shooting everything that moved. Who did the French think they were, anyway?
Then again, they really had been polite, giving Daniel a copy of their illicitly scanned data to bring home to the U.S. Who'd have thought?
'Course, they might as well have stamped "We are CIA" across their passports, Jack thought sourly. We know they didn't go through Murmansk. Russia knows they didn't go through Murmansk.
But neither side was about to admit it.
Oh, yeah. Jack mentally rolled his eyes. Naberezhnyi? Who's he? We don't know any Naberezhnyi.
Right now, the offending documents were in the hands of military intelligence, who were apparently having massive interdepartmental disputes about the supposedly-forged stamps. Application area, intentional ink flaws, scrawl of witnessing official's signatures - sounded like heads were going to roll.
Jack had the sinking suspicion those stamps would be in his teammates' passports for good.
"Sorry I can't tell you more about how we got out of there." Daniel nudged up his glasses. "But it was late, I was really tired, and all those blinking lights looked the same...."
"That's all right, Dr. Jackson. You're not an aviation expert," General Hammond said firmly. "But did you say it outran a MiG?"
"Not outran," Daniel said firmly. "They startled it, dodged, then got under cover. At least, I think that's what happened." He shuddered, slightly green. "Way under cover. There were leaves flying past the windshield. Ah... do you really need anything else? I think I just want to sit somewhere and translate Indo-Aryan declensions. For about a week."
"Thank you, Dr. Jackson. Major. That'll be all," the general stated. "At least we have something the White House can use to mollify the Russians after your... unusual departure."
Jack caught Teal'c's eye as the team filed out of briefing, hung back. "You sure it'll be enough, Sir?"
"Dr. Frasier's report verifies that the anesthetic gas is consistent with that used by French operatives," the general nodded. A wry grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Should be entertaining to see Franco-Russian relations go down for once."
"Have to agree with you there," Jack admitted. "But if the French know about the Stargate...."
"They've been heavily involved in investigating alien technology ever since H.E.A.T. stumbled across the Hivemind's Leviathan. Given France's declared position on American power, I'd prefer they went on being ignorant, but-" the general shrugged. "It could have been worse."
North Korea, China, South Africa... oh yeah, Jack thought. It could've been way worse.
"After all," Hammond added wryly, "If they'd been American intelligence operatives, we'd have had one hell of a lot of explaining to do."
Jack chewed on that thought as he strolled into the hall.
It tasted awful.
A dark presence loomed over him, lit only by a gleam of gold from his forehead. "O'Neill."
"Teal'c." Thank god, a voice of sanity. "Anything in there seem weird to you?"
A Jaffa brow rose. "To which anything did you refer, O'Neill?"
"Daniel," the colonel said firmly, planting a mental finger on that niggling feeling of unease. "Carter's upset. Anybody'd be freaked out, strapped down and almost vivisected, but Daniel...."
"Daniel Jackson's mood appears much improved."
"Right." Jack jabbed a finger into air. "He's been kidnapped, shot at, shot at people, almost drugged, hauled tail out of Russia the illegal way - and he's in a good mood." It didn't add up. "Janet check his blood work?"
"He is, as you have said, clean." A slight tilt of head. "Perhaps he is merely responding well to the trust placed in him by those who assisted in Major Carter's rescue."
"Trust?" French spies? Not a chance. "Teal'c, remind me to bring you back some books on the SDECE. And everybody trusts Daniel."
"Such a statement is inconsistent with what I have observed," the Jaffa noted, matching his stride down the hall.
Jack shot him a look. "Excuse me?"
"On several occasions when we were observing unknown forces from concealment, you or Major Carter have directly restrained Daniel Jackson and told him to 'hush'."
Jack snorted. "He likes to talk to people. He always wants to talk to people."
"Dr. Frasier did not trust Daniel Jackson to refrain from harming us while he was under the influence of Ma'chello's creations."
"He was acting crazy...." Jack protested weakly.
"Colonel Makepeace, before his departure, was uncertain of the wisdom of providing Daniel Jackson a weapon."
Now that was firmer ground. "You gotta admit, he's not exactly an expert marksman."
"Nor are many of those on this base."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "You're working up to something here?"
"I am not 'working up' to anything, O'Neill," the Jaffa said bluntly. "I am still unfamiliar with the culture of Tau'ri soldiers. Yet I observe that Daniel Jackson is more often chastised for what he is not, than accepted for what he is."
Okay, now that really was crazy. "Daniel wouldn't last ten minutes as a spy."
Teal'c paused before the elevator, before punching the button that would take them to their barracks level. "Based on Major Carter's report, O'Neill, he already has."
~*~*~*~*~
Better Part Of Valor ready for hard drive installation.
Note - Requires provided hardware to run.
Install:
Daniel regarded the simple text box on his computer screen, absently tapped fingers against the edge of his desk. Install the program, and the Firm's custom-built software would burrow into his computer, creating a hidden, encrypted communications link between his files in the SGC, and... somewhere else.
Install the program, and shred the SGC's trust in tatters.
One click. One press of a button.
The CD case Michael Archangel had handed him lay open and empty on a stack of Sumerian cuneiform tablets. The small, discreet tape case of "provided hardware" sat in his desk drawer, ready for use.
Or ready to toss into the nearest trashcan.
Jack. Teal'c. Sam.
Sam, who'd almost died because the Pentagon wouldn't talk to the Firm. Because Russia didn't believe America would act for the good of the planet. Because the Russians and the SGC couldn't believe Senator Kinsey would keep his word.
Because no one would trust anyone else.
Enter.
~*~*~*~*~
Translations from Russian (transliterated from Cyrillic alphabet):
Horrasho - Good.
Da - Yes.
Daniil - Daniel.
Schtovui! - What's happening? (What the hell?)
Nyet - No.
Nyellzya - (It is) impossible.
Nekogda - Never.