Disclaimer et al in part one.
Hell, Reclaimed, part 4
A few minutes later O'Neill was in a large room on the lower level and strapped to a chair with what was possibly his own duct tape. He pulled at the bindings and grimaced. They'd even bound his ankles to the legs of the chair.
"Don't bother trying to get free. I have more of this wonderful American invention." Bensada tossed the remainder of the roll aside. "I also enjoy the plastic ties your 'SWAT' teams use."
O'Neill rolled his eyes. A smart-alek Iraqi. And *why* was the guy speaking English so well? He barely had any accent at all.
Bensada took a few steps to the left and walked back slowly; he stopped directly in front of O'Neill. "I truly can't believe it, you know. You stole my plane! What the hell were you thinking?"
If it was to be games, O'Neill was up for it. "I thought I left my oven on."
The leader stared at him blankly.
"I just wanted to go turn it off. Wouldn't want the place to catch fire."
"I think you have more things than this to worry you. What is your name?"
"Luke, Luke Skywalker." At the look in Bensada's eyes O'Neill conceded. "Okay, Luke Perry."
O'Neill noted another inconsistency: the man was apparently versed enough in western pop culture to understand his answers were not valid.
The Iraqi moved to a long table against one wall. "I can see you do not take me seriously. That will change." He flicked a hand, and two guards came from somewhere at the rear of the room to stand on either side of O'Neill.
"What are you waiting for?" Bensada barked at the men. O'Neill watched him closely and could have sworn he saw a slight flash in the man's eyes. Before he could say anything more the guards were moving. One got behind him and pressed down on his shoulders, pushing him solidly into the chair as the other swung his fist and connected with O'Neill's jaw.
His head jerked at the impact, but he straightened it and glared back at the Iraqi. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."
Bensada motioned to the guard and tossed him a metal rod from the table. The man held it like a baseball bat and swung. The club impacted O'Neill's lower chest and his breath came out in a harsh grunt. He'd tightened his abdominal muscles in an attempt to reduce the strength of the blow, but it wasn't enough and his head dropped to his chest as he strove to compose himself.
He didn't see the guard raise the weapon for another blow. This one fell across the back of his neck and shoulders. O'Neill yelped in pain as the bar crunched against his vertebrae. The guard behind him grabbed his shoulders and forced him to sit upright again.
Bensada raised his hand to temporarily stop the assault. "Name, rank."
O'Neill licked a drop of coppery fluid from the corner of his mouth; he'd bit his tongue when the last blow hit. "Bart Simpson, Astronaut."
The Iraqi was incensed. He stepped forward and took the bar from the guard and waved it menacingly in front of O'Neill's face. He asked again, slowly, with barely controlled rage in his voice. "Name and rank."
There hadn't been another flash, and O'Neill wondered if he really saw it or not. He took a chance and answered in the same slow deiberate manner as he'd been asked. "Cronos, System Lord."
Bensada stopped waving the rod and took a single step back. He narrowed his eyes at his prisoner.
"Oh, sorry, you're right. That would be 'dead' System Lord."
The bar was suddenly tossed away, and it clattered as it hit the floor and rolled. "Who *are* you?"
There was no more doubt in O'Neill's mind. "Just someone who knows at least one dirty little secret."
"Get him out of here!" Bensada spun and stalked to the door; he paused at the opening. "Not back to the cell, take him outside."
'Outside' turned out to be their version of solitary confinement. O'Neill was thrust into something that resembled a crate and sealed inside. No padlocks were used; the soldiers literally nailed the lid in place. The only ventilation was from where the slats did not meet up precisely and in a very short time O'Neill felt himself breathing more heavily as if the air were going stale.
He was sitting with his long legs drawn up and was hugging his knees. It was difficult to turn but he managed to get his face right up against where a sliver of light shone through and sucked fresh air into his mouth.
The day wore on, and the crate heated up to a stifling temperature from the relentless sunlight bearing down upon it. O'Neill wondered how long Bensada might leave him there. Lack of food wouldn't be a problem, since he didn't think he could stomach it anyway, but without water the day would be a very long one indeed.
Sykes and Barnes were more than glad to see the collection of bunkers, hangars and other semi-permanent structures that made up Al Jaber Air Base. They didn't mind at all when General Marchman dressed them down in front of a whole hangar full of airmen for going off half-cocked on a fool's mission with O'Neill. They'd already given him the short-short version over a satellite-link phone from the Turkish base, and now the General had had a full day to work himself up into a full-blown tempest over it.
"Colonel and Major, I fully intend to have you attend Court martial for this; the papers are on my desk as we speak. O'Neill's lack of discipline and failure to follow orders is something I do not see as a positive model. As far as I'm concerned the man got what he deserved; he's a disgrace to the uniform, and so are you." He squared his shoulders. "You will be in my office and prepared for a full debrief in twenty minutes. If I am not completely satisfied, your next stop will be the stockade." He didn't pause even a moment and spun on his heel to stalk back to his Jeep.
Colonel Sykes stood at absolute attention in the Generals office three feet in front of his desk and waited. And waited.
Marchman had called him in and then told him he needed a minute to get a few things together. 'Most likely, the Court martial papers' Sykes thought to himself dryly. One minute turned into three and then ten. Twice the Colonel had opened his mouth to say something and been told in no uncertain terms that he would be informed when it was time to speak. It had turned into a contest of wills.
Finally after twenty-seven minutes, the General leaned back in his chair and looked his subordinate in the eye. "You still here? I guess you'd better report then."
Sykes nearly voiced the chuckle that was in his throat. Marchman might be the base Commander, but he had no Special Forces training. Standing at attention for half an hour was mere child's play. Try standing perfectly still in the dark as an enemy soldier comes within six feet of you and takes a piss.
It *did* however make the Colonel angry, if for nothing else than the delay. He'd specifically told Marchman over the phone that there was a security issue with some piece of technology that the Iraqis had in their possession, something O'Neill was familiar with and felt strongly enough about obtaining to offer military support. It was imperative they contact O'Neill's command back in Colorado and get them involved. O'Neill had even hinted there was a very specialized team needed to deal with this situation.
Despite the little bit of posturing between them when they first met, Sykes had developed a kinship with O'Neill. Both were Special Forces, and both had put some quite 'distasteful' missions under their belts. A certain unspoken level of trust existed between them, and he was inclined to go with his gut instinct and follow O'Neill's lead. With Marchman his gut was telling him something entirely different; that he was dealing with a pencil-pushing bureaucrat who was more interested in protocol than properly managing what may turn out to be critical intel.
Still, sometimes the best way through a problem is to meet it head-on.
Sykes gave Marchman a detailed account of everything he'd done and seen, starting with the moment his feet touched earth when he'd first exited the chopper, including in detail the conversation with Alianni and what he'd said about this strange 'box'. The General seemed to tense at the part where he told of how O'Neill had shot Bensada. When Sykes was done Marchman, pushed himself back from his desk a few inches.
"So you think he's dead, huh?" He opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph, sliding it over to Sykes. "How do you account for this? It was taken this morning."
Sykes frowned. It was a picture of Bensada, alive and well, or so it seemed. "I can't Sir. But if you remember what I said about the box-"
Marchman cut him off. "Colonel, I can't believe a reasonable man like yourself has fallen for this load of crap. There *is* no technology, cutting edge, or otherwise that can do what that crazy old man said it could. Why O'Neill was so interested in it I can't say. Apparently he's got an agenda of his own."
The Colonel's ire was coming up. "I don't believe that, Sir. If you want to, then so be it. Grant him one thing though; O'Neill's commander in Colorado deserves to know his man won't be coming home anytime soon."
The General leaned back in his chair. "All right, I'll make the call, but that's it, just a status report. I'm not gonna have Cheyenne Mountain dictating what missions are sanctioned by this Command. There will be no wild goose chase after some magical box and no further rescue attempts to that same compound. It's a shame you didn't get Sellers out, he was a good man."
"And O'Neill?"
"Like I said, I think he got what he deserved." He let out a chuckle. "You say he actually stole a plane and would have gotten away if he hadn't touched down on that lake bed? I'm surprised he didn't just go on and leave the rest of you to the wolves. Seems you ended up on your own anyway."
Sykes bristled. "He was trying to get Yazu to a hospital. Hell, if the Iraqis hadn't shown up, Barnes and I would have probably found a way to cram ourselves into that cockpit and we'd all have been back here by noon. O'Neill did what he had to do to get us all out safely, to see to it that no one was left behind."
"Need I remind you Sellers *was* left and *you* ended up in some produce truck hiding under melons."
The Colonel swallowed hard. "The fact things didn't turn out well does not mean anyone was at fault. We *did* get out, and it was O'Neill's actions and befriending Alianni that made that happen. We can still get to Sellers if-"
Marchman stood quickly and roared at his XO. "That's enough! The subject is now closed." He nodded to the door. "Send in Barnes on your way out. It's his turn next. Dismissed."
Hammond set the phone down and immediately picked up the other on his desk, the one that connected directly with the Pentagon. He requested to speak with General Dorsey and was put on hold for much longer than was necessary. As the minutes ticked by he wondered if he'd ever get to speak to the man. Finally a bright young voice came across the line and informed him the General was in continuous meetings on a matter of national security and would be unavailable for the foreseeable future.
Hammonds face was red, and he swore he could feel steam coming out of his ears. He hung up the phone and poured a glass of water, forcing himself to drink it slowly and calm down.
Five minutes later he was back on the phone- this time making arrangements to fly to Washington that afternoon. His door was ajar, and Major Carter stopped at the entrance with her hand raised to knock. As she did she heard him conversing with someone on the phone.
"No, I don't care what *kind * of plane you get me on, just get one! Today, airman." His demeanor was gruff but softened immediately as he looked up and saw the Major. He waved her in and called to his secretary. "Julia? Would you pick up this line? Use your feminine wiles on this guy if you have to but *please * get me a flight out this afternoon, Okay?"
She giggled and started tapping buttons on her phone to take over the call.
Carter slid the rest of the way into the room. "Going on a trip, Sir?"
"Maybe." He answered in a near-defeated tone then seemed to shake it off. "What have you got there?" He smiled and gestured to the folders in her hand.
"The mission reports from P4C 227, Daniel's and mine."
The General accepted the files to survey them quickly before dismissing her. His eyes appeared to scan the opening page, but his thoughts were elsewhere. O'Neill had insisted Carter be allowed to command the team in his absence, and Hammond wondered if she might be aware that his little 'vacation' was anything but. He decided to test the waters.
"So, any problems with the team?"
She looked at him oddly. "Um, no. What problems might I have? I mean, it's Daniel and Teal'c." She shrugged. "They're like brothers to me, except they listen better."
Hammond didn't return her smile. "What about manpower? Any trouble with the watch divided three ways instead of four or maybe need another pair of hands to manage your equipment?"
Before he completed speaking the question she was already shaking her head. "No. We don't need a fourth. The Colonel will be back soon; we'll be fine until then."
The confidence and determination in her voice finally brought out his smile. "I'm sure you will." He glanced down at the folders and back up at her. Instead of dismissing her he, asked her to close the door and take a seat.
He steepled his hands on the desk. "Major, what I'm about to tell you is not just confidential, it's classified. I'm going to let you into the loop because for one, I think you are already marginally aware of the circumstances and two, having found myself not exactly kept up to speed on this, I'd like to open up some options."
He took a breath and continued. "You are aware that Colonel O'Neill is not just visiting a friend."
She nodded. "It's a mission of some kind, not SGC related."
"Correct. I don't want to be too specific, but I will confirm that and tell you he is currently out of the country and complications have arisen. I myself have only been given the barest details, and suddenly my Washington contact regarding this matter has become 'unavailable'. I can smell a cover-up a mile away, and Major, this stinks of it. They are saying Jack will be delayed 'indeterminately', but I believe something has happened to him. I intend to go to Washington and demand to be given full access to whatever information they have at this time." He paused and let his words set a moment. "I understand SG-1 is scheduled to go off world tomorrow afternoon. Nothing against your command abilities, but I wondered if you'd consider holding off on that mission for now. I'd like to keep SG-1 uncommitted for a little while, just in case..."
Carter nodded. "Not a problem, Sir. I'll inform my team. We'll be standing by." The General dismissed her, and she quickly left his office. As she exited, she closed the door behind her and leaned back against it with her eyes closed, thinking of those few minutes in the parking lot when she'd last spoken with her CO.
She knew it was a covert mission, but it hadn't really dawned on her it might be dangerous and more than that, somewhere outside the United States. O'Neill could, of course, handle himself in any environment, since he'd been on every continent on the planet, and elsewhere.
She took a deep breath and blew it out, suddenly aware of the silence around her. Julia was still on 'hold' on the phone and had resumed typing whilst awaiting a response. She was now stopped, fingers in mid-stroke, staring at the Major. She looked as if she'd just asked a question, but Carter was certain she hadn't heard a thing. Slightly embarrassed, she pushed off from the door and waved a hand to the secretary. "Ah, no, nothing. I'm fine. Thanks." She hoped her answer was at least close to what was expected.
As she moved through the corridors, she replayed her conversation with Hammond in her mind. Out of the country. Complications. Delayed. Cover-up. Her pace quickened to a near-run.
She turned a corner at breakneck speed and bumped solidly into Teal'c, and he grabbed for her upper arms to keep her from losing her balance. "Major Carter."
At first his expression was that of smug amusement at having to 'catch' his teammate, but as his eyes met hers, the mirth faded.
She looked up at him with her eyes wide and full of worry. The sudden stop made her voice catch, and she was unable to speak for a moment. Before she made the attempt, Teal'c was looking warily into her eyes as if perceiving something. He asked her the one question she couldn't answer. "What has happened to O'Neill?"
Hammond arrived at the Pentagon and found Dorsey in his office. No meetings, no 'national security' urgent event in progress, just relaxing and reading reports. His aide tried to stop the visiting General from entering, but Hammond bulldozed his way right through her and into Dorsey's private office.
Their eyes met, and Dorsey waved off his aide. "It's all right, I was expecting General Hammond; sorry I didn't tell you."
Hammond waited for the door to shut before speaking. "This morning I received an interesting phone call from Kuwait."
"I know." Dorsey waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Marchman is an idiot. He shouldn't have called you directly. All communications regarding this mission were to have gone through me."
"And just when were you going to inform me?"
"When circumstances dictated the time was right." He shuffled some papers on his desk and leaned back. "Since you're here you might as well know."
He waited for Hammond to sit before continuing. "Water, coffee?" Hammond shook his head.
"All right then. I received a communiqué two days ago that O'Neill's mission had been compromised. The original mission you already know was to extract three American prisoners. An additional objective, which I did not previously share, was the assassination of a high-ranking Iraqi General."
Hammond grimaced. He knew enough of O'Neill's past to know he might be requested to do something like this again, but it saddened him to have it occur while the man was under his command. "Got it. Go on."
"The mission was botched. O'Neill has done well for us many times, and I must admit it is specifically his tendency to be a maverick and his ability to be, shall we say, 'creative' under extreme circumstances that makes him the commodity he is. This time it didn't pay off. Firstly he was supposed to rescue three Americans but only got two out, then instead of carrying out the second objective right away as planned, he chose to hold his position behind enemy lines and jeopardized two team members who stayed with him."
"He did have an opportunity but apparently missed the shot too, another foul up. Maybe our Colonel is finally getting too old for this. I'm not as impressed with him as I used to be."
Hammond blew off the insult. "Where are O'Neill and his team now?"
"The other two airmen are safe back at the base in Kuwait, but O'Neill managed to get himself caught. You know he actually tried to steal a plane to get his men home, would have made it if he hadn't gone back for them."
That almost brought a chuckle out of Hammond. Now that was the O'Neill he knew, not some half-cocked fool that routinely went around 'botching' missions. "So, I take it these two men corroborated the story to this point?"
"For the most part, but you know how tight team members get, they won't say anything that even hints they aren't backing O'Neill."
"So what is it they're saying you don't believe?"
Dorsey looked at him, surprised to be so transparent. He'd have to work on that. "Colonel Sykes and Major Barnes were there when O'Neill took his shot. They both say it was textbook perfect. The man was dead before he hit the ground. However-" He pulled a photograph out of a file and tossed it across the desk to Hammond. "They can't explain this. The photo was taken the next day, and as you can see he's very much alive."
Hammond studied the photograph and then looked back at Dorsey. "You're sure this is the man?" The other General nodded.
"What else?"
Dorsey folded his hands on the edge of the desk. "All right, but this is only because it supposedly involves your Command. Sykes said the Iraqis have some kind of technology, something that might even be able to bring a man back from a deadly injury in a very short time, no doctors, no hospital stay required. He said O'Neill knew what it was and was adamant that they get back quickly so he could contact you. Ever since he got back Sykes has been leaning on the CO out at Al Jaber to get you involved. You don't have any idea why he'd make a request like that do you?" He leaned across the desk and eyed Hammond carefully.
Hammond glared back, considering what Dorsey had just said. What was it O'Neill had stumbled across? Goa'uld technology in the Iraqi desert? "I just might." He said slowly. "You've given me something, now I'll return the favor. You know what we do out at the mountain is highly technical."
"Yes, yes, deep space radar telemetry. Geek city." Dorsey waved his hand dismissively. "Doesn't explain why you have so many SF and ex-SF's assigned there and how much ordnance you go through on a regular basis."
Hammond's expression grew stern. Dorsey had obviously been looking into places he shouldn't be. "Granted there are risks to what we do and it must be protected. I'd advise you to back off on your current lines of inquiry."
"Is that a threat?'
"No, no, just a friendly word of caution. Now as I was saying," Hammond relaxed, now in control of the conversation. " We have at our disposal technology that is far beyond anything you may consider 'cutting edge'. If in fact Colonel O'Neill has found evidence of similar technology in Iraq, it is imperative it be secured. You have no idea what you are dealing with here."
"You're not telling me you're buying Sykes story about some miraculous healing device?"
"That I can neither confirm nor deny."
Dorsey's mouth dropped open and gaped. He snapped it shut. "George, what's this about?"
"Funny, that was why I came here. To get some answers. How about we drop the dance we've been doing and get on with it? You've still got a man to be rescued, and so do I. Apparently there's also something relative to my Command that I need to get my hands on as well. As far as this Iraqi, I think we both have issues regarding him. Either we cooperate or none of that will happen."
Dorsey tapped his fingers on the tabletop as he decided. "Full disclosure?"
"From your side regarding this mission, yes, but from me, need to know only." He raised a hand before Dorsey could argue. "Believe me what I'll give you will keep you up at night."
The fingers drummed again then stopped abruptly. "All right, but I *am* a heavy sleeper." He pulled a folder out of his drawer and slid it to Hammond. "Sykes and Barnes reports in full, copies of everything O'Neill was given at the start of the mission and," He paused. "A transcript of a short interview with some collaborator who rendered our people assistance. He rants about this famous 'technology ' of yours and was quite taken with O'Neill, but I'm not persuaded he's anything but a crazy old man with questionable loyalties. He's the one who set up the plane theft that got your man captured."
Hammond nodded; it would take some time to go through this material. "I'll see all relevant data is sent to your office immediately." He stood up. "General, two things, you best consider believing what your subordinates tell you. The universe can be an astounding place. And second, your use of Colonel O'Neill has come to an end. Do I make myself clear?"
"You're of no higher rank than I, you can't make that decision." Dorsey stood to his feet, sneering.
"Fine, expect a communiqué from the Joint Chiefs within the hour. Air thin enough for you or would you prefer the White House?"
Dorsey's eyes narrowed. "You never know when someone with those specialized skills will be needed again. The Joint Chiefs and the President are well aware of this, and I have friends too, don't forget that. For now it will do. Just get me those files."
"Done." Hammond said over his shoulder as he left.
SG-1 was aboard a transport bound for Kuwait by the end of the day. Their only stop was at Dulles where Hammond joined them. As they crossed the Atlantic he briefed them on everything he knew up to that point.
"So, your primary mission will be find and rescue Colonel O'Neill and Major Sellers. In addition you need to find what assuredly is a sarcophagus and either secure it or neutralize it and then find out if Bensada is just a very fortunate man who found the device and figured out how to use it or is in fact a Goa'uld."
Daniel had been only half listening and raised a finger in the air. "I'm unclear on one small point. You want to go over exactly how this Bensada got shot? From what those men reported, Jack wasn't in any immediate danger and no firefight was going on. So just how does a country's leader get himself killed in broad daylight?"
Hammond glared at him; he'd purposefully skimmed over that part. "I can't go into particulars, suffice it to say, Colonel O'Neill shot him."
"Without provocation?"
"They said he had a gun pointed at Major Sellers."
"O-kay" Daniel dragged out the word. "So there was a certain level of threat involved. Jack just decided to- what? Take a pot-shot at the guy? Took him out, just like that?"
"Doctor Jackson." Hammond rubbed a hand over his bald head.
"The guy could have just been trying to threaten Sellers into talking. I'm sorry but it seems to me in the past we've tried other things in situations like that, a diversion, maybe something explosive, anything." His eyebrows wagged as he spoke.
"Doctor."
"I mean you can't go around just killing high-ranking officials in other countries."
"Daniel." By this time Carter got it. She reached out and took hold of Daniel's forearm to get his attention. When he glanced at her, she shook her head, silently communicating the need for him to stop his current line of questioning. He ignored her. "Or maybe *he can*."
Hammond turned his back to the archaeologist. He had no answers for the man.
Daniel continued, unfazed. "So what was it, a contract? Is the Air Force now the new Mafia? Is that what Jack really does for a living? SG-1 is just his day job?"
Hammond took a deep breath and turned around. He spoke sadly. "He did, Doctor. And I'm sorry to say every one of his missions was sanctioned by the United States Government. There are things that none of us are glad to do, that must be done. O'Neill has always been someone who could make the hard decisions. You wonder why I am so lenient with him? Believe me, he's earned it."
Daniel continued to glare but held his tongue; he'd always wondered if Jack was as far removed from his past as he let on. Now he knew the truth. It wasn't his past; it was here and now.
The remainder of the trip was spent reviewing files and reading reports with very little verbal interaction between the members of SG-1. It was hard to accept this side of their friend and Commander, but none of them doubted it was true. They'd each have to come to terms with it in their own way.
Upon their arrival at Al Jaber, Hammond found the previously haughty Marchman to be quite subdued. Orders had already come through that essentially placed Hammond in charge of the base. The President had taken the situation to heart and met with the Joint Chiefs himself, requesting that the utmost cooperation be afforded to Hammond and his people. The thought of a Goa'uld being in power in any country on Earth was alarming. For it to be Iraq was unthinkable.
Hammond quickly made sure Marchman understood his priority was to oversee any missions dealing with Bensada and not to replace the current Command. Marchman's duties wouldn't change except for the need to keep Hammond apprised of the overall running of the base. The two men started out at odds from their phone conversation but quickly came to understand and appreciate each other. They decided to do their best not to step on each other's toes.
The next morning the original team was assembled and ready to be briefed on what they thought would solely be a rescue mission. They were more than surprised to be joined by the unusual group from Colorado.
Hammond gave them a short overview of the mission goals, carefully omitting any overt references to either sarcophagi or the Goa'uld. The subject of 'the box' did come up as a part of the mission, and Sykes pressed for more information.
"So this 'box' thing, what is it really?" He hadn't forgotten all the incredible things Alianni had said about it.
Daniel shrugged, "It's an archaeological treasure, an artifact."
Barnes leaned in. "Right. That's not what we've heard."
Before Daniel could explain further Hammond stepped in. "For the record no one in this room can tell you exactly how it works." He glanced at Carter for confirmation, and she nodded heartily. He chose his words to stay marginally within the truth. "You don't have to know all that to do what you have to do. As far as this mission is concerned, it's an artifact, nothing more."
Hammond turned the discussion back to Daniel. "Doctor Jackson, why don't you give us a description of the 'artifact' so we can determine how best to secure it?"
Several minutes and a lively discussion later Carter added her opinion to the pot. Sykes was obviously convinced they could make an actual go of capturing the device and desperately wanted to know more about it since discussion of its purpose had been shut down. She tried to get her point across and not overstep her rank.
"Sir, yes this- artifact is important but it's just too big to sneak out of the country. It would be like stealing a lame elephant! Do you know how much it weighs? Unless we commandeer a cargo plane or at least a helicopter to air lift it out, it's not going anywhere." She knew the Colonel was considering her options and turned to Hammond, "I know it would be a significant loss, but I recommend we destroy it."
Hammond nodded his agreement. "That's it then. We've heard pretty much everyone's opinion. Barring a massive outbreak of cooperation from the Iraqis, the box is going nowhere. You will neutralize it." He pointedly looked at Sykes and noted the frown on his face. "You have intel on the location?"
Sykes grudgingly stood and pointed to a map of Bensada's compound on the board behind him. "According to our friend, Alianni, it should be in this building. We should be able to get in and deal with it without too much difficulty, since we already have pretty good information about the guard's movements, but we'll have to coordinate the rescue part of the mission. Even with a pretty fair diversion we'll only have one shot at this."
Hammond spoke again. "There is one other thing to accomplish." All eyes stayed on him, those of SG-1 knowing what was coming next and the Al Jaber team wondering what he could possibly add to this already unconventional mission.
"We need Bensada."
O'Neill woke to the shuddering feel of the crate as it was repeatedly struck by a hammer to loosen the slats. As one was freed, it fell away and allowed the bright sunlight to hit him full in the face. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted up at the blurry figure before him. At that point he didn't care who it was that had come for him; he wanted nothing more than to get out of this tiny corner of hell he'd occupied for two days. His mouth was cracked and dry from dehydration, and he wasn't surprised at all not to have felt an urge to pee in well over 24 hours, there just wasn't anything in there.
His legs were completely numb, and the guards yelled at him for not moving, then grabbed at his upper arms and dragged him roughly up and out of the box. He was deposited face down in the dirt and choked as he inhaled the dust stirred up by his collapse.
They allowed him to cough several times before one of the soldiers poured a canteen of water over his head. He quickly cupped his hands to catch as much of the liquid as possible and sucked what he could into his mouth; licking his hands to get every last drop. They didn't give him a much time to recover, immediately dragging him back into the building where he'd been questioned earlier.
Bensada was there waiting, this time much more wary of his prisoner. O'Neill's wrists were chained this time, and he was pulled upright as the links were drawn over the heavy iron light fixture in the ceiling. The pulling didn't stop until he was stretched tall and could only bear weight on his feet by standing on his toes.
The Iraqi leader walked in a circle around O'Neill, assessing him. The prisoner was caked in mud from where the splashed water had wet his skin and clothing allowing the dirt to stick to him. He breathed harshly; lack of water and hot desert air had begun to scorch his lungs; the temperature in the crate had reached nearly 130 degrees by the previous afternoon and then plummeted through the night, a perfect scenario for a case of 'desert' pneumonia. The Colonel was alert though and returned the gaze of his captor as much as he was able from his position.
Bensada looked at the dark eyes staring back at him. "So, you are more resilient than you at first appeared. Perhaps you are no stranger to the desert." He walked a few more paces. "You already know my name. Is there harm in knowing the name of the one I am addressing?"
The Colonel's voice was rough. "O'Neill."
"Hmm. No arguments today? You surprise me." He walked over to the table and handled several of the items there finally choosing one. He adjusted the setting to the lowest power and held up the stun gun for O'Neill to see. "Ordered on the internet. 59.95 American dollars. Amazing."
He moved closer to the center of the room. "Now, I will ask, and you will answer. For every refusal I will turn this up one level. You understand I have no desire to kill you, not yet." He touched the probe to his own palm and watched the blue sparks dance. "Ah, this is exquisitely painful. You should try it."
"Thanks, I'll pass."
"As you wish." His voice turned serious. "Why are you here?"
"Vacation, looked like a nice spot-" O'Neill jerked and grimaced as the device touched his side making his muscles spasm painfully.
"That was one." Bensada adjusted the dial. "There are several more, care to try another?"
"No, not really." O'Neill's voice shook as he tried to compose himself. The strength of the jolt was much more than he'd expected by the way Bensada had held the device to his own hand.
"Answer me."
"Uh, what was the question?"
The Iraqi motioned to a guard who brandished a long knife and in two swift moves cut O'Neill's T-shirt from him, baring his torso. "Why. Are. You. Here?"
"Oh, that. Bad timing?"
Bensada shoved the weapon into the center of O'Neill's chest and held it there until his entire body was jerking and his legs gave up their support of his body. His shoulders protested the awkward positioning to bear his weight. He recovered just in time to see Bensada adjusting the weapon again.
"You should know this device has been altered. In its original configuration it did not kill, even at the highest setting. Now it does. Three of five." He walked slowly around O'Neill keeping a discrete distance.
"Let us try a simpler question. Your name is O'Neill. You are obviously American and a criminal."
O'Neill's eyebrows went up.
Bensada explained. "You are guilty of trespass, injuring my men and stealing my plane. You are also the one I believe who attempted to murder me."
"Succeeded."
The Iraqi spun around angrily. This American knew far too much. "Do I look dead to you?"
O'Neill eyed him from head to foot. "Not at the moment. Give me another chance, and I'll make sure it sticks."
The weapon rammed into his flank this time, the pain enough to make O'Neill yelp and his consciousness begin to fade. The guards kept him awake by dousing him with a bucket of water. He roused, sputtering and blinked hard to get the water out of his eyes.
"Four. When one is in a weakened condition even this level will kill." He squinted his eyes at O'Neill. "Perhaps you would like to see a demonstration." He waved an arm and the door opened. O'Neill clenched his jaw as Toby was dragged into the room and shoved against the far wall.
The two Americans eyes met and held each other's gaze. Bensada glanced from one to the other. "You have met before?"
"Don't know him." O'Neill knew it would hurt, but if Bensada even suspected a slight connection between the men Sellers life would be even more at risk than it had been up 'til now.
Sellers flinched ever so slightly. Despite it being years since he'd seen O'Neill and the shock of him actually being there, he recognized his former teammate immediately. Though O'Neill's eyes gave no hint of recognition whatsoever, Sellers knew it was there. He fell in step following O'Neill's lead and addressed him. His voice was raspy and forced.
"Hey, man, that's some shit you've got yourself into. Old Ben here never strung me up like that."
"Luck of the draw, kid. You just haven't pissed him off enough yet."
Bensada's eyes narrowed, and he stepped between the men breaking off the conversation. "No matter. It is as I have said 'a demonstration' only." He gestured to a guard who hauled Sellers to his feet. With no warning Bensada swung his hand holding the weapon and jammed it into Toby's shoulder. Bright blue sparks flew, and both Toby and the guard jerked in response. The Iraqi loosed his grip immediately but fell backwards and smacked his head hard against the wall then slid to the floor unconscious.
Sellers dropped where he was, twitching spasmodically as if having a seizure. After several seconds it stopped, and his bruised body went limp against the floor. O'Neill watched, horrified inside but outwardly, with only a small measure of interest.
He noted his friend was still breathing. At least there was that. "Ouch. I don't think he was ready for that."
"And will you be?"
O'Neill grimaced as he saw Bensada adjust the weapon to the final setting and begin to circle around behind him once again. He half expected the Iraqi to forego any more questions and simply kill him.
Bensada emerged on the other side, walking slowly and considering the value and strengths of his prisoner. He put the weapon in his pocket.
"O'Neill, correct?" He noted the Colonel's nod. "We need not continue in this manner. You know I *will* kill you without hesitation. And-" He stopped directly in front of O'Neill, "I think you know I can do it more than once. You should reconsider your future."
"Bite. My. American. Ass."
Bensada closed his eyes for a moment as rage overtook him. He whipped the stun gun out of his pocket and lunged at O'Neill. Being hung up and stretched out had had a positive effect as it turned out, the stiffness was nearly gone and with the return of blood flow O'Neill now had full use of his legs.
He swung one foot up and knocked the stun gun away then with the other came around and thunked Bensada soundly on the side of his head. The man reeled and dropped to his knees with a great moan. O'Neill's next move was to swing his lower body up until he could hold himself upside down by his knees and unhook the chain. That done he dropped to the floor, upright and ready to take out the only other person standing, the second guard.
He never actually saw the hand device or Bensada rising up and removing the black leather glove to use it, but the crushing slam of his body against the wall was unmistakable evidence. He slid to the floor with a grunt, and Bensada was there again, this time holding his palm open and directing the energy at O'Neill's face. The shaking started immediately, and it seemed every drop of blood was rushing into his head. The pressure grew and forced capillaries then veins and arteries to rupture. Blood made its way its way to the surface and the coppery fluid began to seep from O'Neill's nose and ears. Within seconds crimson droplets appeared at the corners of his eyes too.
Toby Sellers hadn't ever seen anything like it. Despite his condition and having just regained consciousness himself, he was awed by the powerful weapon in Bensada's hand. Something like what he thought a laser-based weapon might be if the Sci-fi nut cases had any say about it. Still here it was, a real weapon in front of him, killing his friend in a horrifying manner. Sellers roared a curse as he forced himself to his feet, picking up the discarded stun gun as he stood.
He dove toward the man but was far too late, Bensada had already turned and the yellow-orange light flashed in Sellers direction. At once he was thrown harder than he could have imagined against the rough stone, and as he slumped to the floor in agony, he passed out.
Bensada refrained from killing the second American and glanced back at the crumpled form of O'Neill, the blood still flowing and pooling in the dirt where his face lay. The American's bloodshot eyes now stared lifelessly off into space, his jaw hanging open in a grotesque look of surprise.
~TBC
Hell, Reclaimed, part 4
A few minutes later O'Neill was in a large room on the lower level and strapped to a chair with what was possibly his own duct tape. He pulled at the bindings and grimaced. They'd even bound his ankles to the legs of the chair.
"Don't bother trying to get free. I have more of this wonderful American invention." Bensada tossed the remainder of the roll aside. "I also enjoy the plastic ties your 'SWAT' teams use."
O'Neill rolled his eyes. A smart-alek Iraqi. And *why* was the guy speaking English so well? He barely had any accent at all.
Bensada took a few steps to the left and walked back slowly; he stopped directly in front of O'Neill. "I truly can't believe it, you know. You stole my plane! What the hell were you thinking?"
If it was to be games, O'Neill was up for it. "I thought I left my oven on."
The leader stared at him blankly.
"I just wanted to go turn it off. Wouldn't want the place to catch fire."
"I think you have more things than this to worry you. What is your name?"
"Luke, Luke Skywalker." At the look in Bensada's eyes O'Neill conceded. "Okay, Luke Perry."
O'Neill noted another inconsistency: the man was apparently versed enough in western pop culture to understand his answers were not valid.
The Iraqi moved to a long table against one wall. "I can see you do not take me seriously. That will change." He flicked a hand, and two guards came from somewhere at the rear of the room to stand on either side of O'Neill.
"What are you waiting for?" Bensada barked at the men. O'Neill watched him closely and could have sworn he saw a slight flash in the man's eyes. Before he could say anything more the guards were moving. One got behind him and pressed down on his shoulders, pushing him solidly into the chair as the other swung his fist and connected with O'Neill's jaw.
His head jerked at the impact, but he straightened it and glared back at the Iraqi. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."
Bensada motioned to the guard and tossed him a metal rod from the table. The man held it like a baseball bat and swung. The club impacted O'Neill's lower chest and his breath came out in a harsh grunt. He'd tightened his abdominal muscles in an attempt to reduce the strength of the blow, but it wasn't enough and his head dropped to his chest as he strove to compose himself.
He didn't see the guard raise the weapon for another blow. This one fell across the back of his neck and shoulders. O'Neill yelped in pain as the bar crunched against his vertebrae. The guard behind him grabbed his shoulders and forced him to sit upright again.
Bensada raised his hand to temporarily stop the assault. "Name, rank."
O'Neill licked a drop of coppery fluid from the corner of his mouth; he'd bit his tongue when the last blow hit. "Bart Simpson, Astronaut."
The Iraqi was incensed. He stepped forward and took the bar from the guard and waved it menacingly in front of O'Neill's face. He asked again, slowly, with barely controlled rage in his voice. "Name and rank."
There hadn't been another flash, and O'Neill wondered if he really saw it or not. He took a chance and answered in the same slow deiberate manner as he'd been asked. "Cronos, System Lord."
Bensada stopped waving the rod and took a single step back. He narrowed his eyes at his prisoner.
"Oh, sorry, you're right. That would be 'dead' System Lord."
The bar was suddenly tossed away, and it clattered as it hit the floor and rolled. "Who *are* you?"
There was no more doubt in O'Neill's mind. "Just someone who knows at least one dirty little secret."
"Get him out of here!" Bensada spun and stalked to the door; he paused at the opening. "Not back to the cell, take him outside."
'Outside' turned out to be their version of solitary confinement. O'Neill was thrust into something that resembled a crate and sealed inside. No padlocks were used; the soldiers literally nailed the lid in place. The only ventilation was from where the slats did not meet up precisely and in a very short time O'Neill felt himself breathing more heavily as if the air were going stale.
He was sitting with his long legs drawn up and was hugging his knees. It was difficult to turn but he managed to get his face right up against where a sliver of light shone through and sucked fresh air into his mouth.
The day wore on, and the crate heated up to a stifling temperature from the relentless sunlight bearing down upon it. O'Neill wondered how long Bensada might leave him there. Lack of food wouldn't be a problem, since he didn't think he could stomach it anyway, but without water the day would be a very long one indeed.
Sykes and Barnes were more than glad to see the collection of bunkers, hangars and other semi-permanent structures that made up Al Jaber Air Base. They didn't mind at all when General Marchman dressed them down in front of a whole hangar full of airmen for going off half-cocked on a fool's mission with O'Neill. They'd already given him the short-short version over a satellite-link phone from the Turkish base, and now the General had had a full day to work himself up into a full-blown tempest over it.
"Colonel and Major, I fully intend to have you attend Court martial for this; the papers are on my desk as we speak. O'Neill's lack of discipline and failure to follow orders is something I do not see as a positive model. As far as I'm concerned the man got what he deserved; he's a disgrace to the uniform, and so are you." He squared his shoulders. "You will be in my office and prepared for a full debrief in twenty minutes. If I am not completely satisfied, your next stop will be the stockade." He didn't pause even a moment and spun on his heel to stalk back to his Jeep.
Colonel Sykes stood at absolute attention in the Generals office three feet in front of his desk and waited. And waited.
Marchman had called him in and then told him he needed a minute to get a few things together. 'Most likely, the Court martial papers' Sykes thought to himself dryly. One minute turned into three and then ten. Twice the Colonel had opened his mouth to say something and been told in no uncertain terms that he would be informed when it was time to speak. It had turned into a contest of wills.
Finally after twenty-seven minutes, the General leaned back in his chair and looked his subordinate in the eye. "You still here? I guess you'd better report then."
Sykes nearly voiced the chuckle that was in his throat. Marchman might be the base Commander, but he had no Special Forces training. Standing at attention for half an hour was mere child's play. Try standing perfectly still in the dark as an enemy soldier comes within six feet of you and takes a piss.
It *did* however make the Colonel angry, if for nothing else than the delay. He'd specifically told Marchman over the phone that there was a security issue with some piece of technology that the Iraqis had in their possession, something O'Neill was familiar with and felt strongly enough about obtaining to offer military support. It was imperative they contact O'Neill's command back in Colorado and get them involved. O'Neill had even hinted there was a very specialized team needed to deal with this situation.
Despite the little bit of posturing between them when they first met, Sykes had developed a kinship with O'Neill. Both were Special Forces, and both had put some quite 'distasteful' missions under their belts. A certain unspoken level of trust existed between them, and he was inclined to go with his gut instinct and follow O'Neill's lead. With Marchman his gut was telling him something entirely different; that he was dealing with a pencil-pushing bureaucrat who was more interested in protocol than properly managing what may turn out to be critical intel.
Still, sometimes the best way through a problem is to meet it head-on.
Sykes gave Marchman a detailed account of everything he'd done and seen, starting with the moment his feet touched earth when he'd first exited the chopper, including in detail the conversation with Alianni and what he'd said about this strange 'box'. The General seemed to tense at the part where he told of how O'Neill had shot Bensada. When Sykes was done Marchman, pushed himself back from his desk a few inches.
"So you think he's dead, huh?" He opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph, sliding it over to Sykes. "How do you account for this? It was taken this morning."
Sykes frowned. It was a picture of Bensada, alive and well, or so it seemed. "I can't Sir. But if you remember what I said about the box-"
Marchman cut him off. "Colonel, I can't believe a reasonable man like yourself has fallen for this load of crap. There *is* no technology, cutting edge, or otherwise that can do what that crazy old man said it could. Why O'Neill was so interested in it I can't say. Apparently he's got an agenda of his own."
The Colonel's ire was coming up. "I don't believe that, Sir. If you want to, then so be it. Grant him one thing though; O'Neill's commander in Colorado deserves to know his man won't be coming home anytime soon."
The General leaned back in his chair. "All right, I'll make the call, but that's it, just a status report. I'm not gonna have Cheyenne Mountain dictating what missions are sanctioned by this Command. There will be no wild goose chase after some magical box and no further rescue attempts to that same compound. It's a shame you didn't get Sellers out, he was a good man."
"And O'Neill?"
"Like I said, I think he got what he deserved." He let out a chuckle. "You say he actually stole a plane and would have gotten away if he hadn't touched down on that lake bed? I'm surprised he didn't just go on and leave the rest of you to the wolves. Seems you ended up on your own anyway."
Sykes bristled. "He was trying to get Yazu to a hospital. Hell, if the Iraqis hadn't shown up, Barnes and I would have probably found a way to cram ourselves into that cockpit and we'd all have been back here by noon. O'Neill did what he had to do to get us all out safely, to see to it that no one was left behind."
"Need I remind you Sellers *was* left and *you* ended up in some produce truck hiding under melons."
The Colonel swallowed hard. "The fact things didn't turn out well does not mean anyone was at fault. We *did* get out, and it was O'Neill's actions and befriending Alianni that made that happen. We can still get to Sellers if-"
Marchman stood quickly and roared at his XO. "That's enough! The subject is now closed." He nodded to the door. "Send in Barnes on your way out. It's his turn next. Dismissed."
Hammond set the phone down and immediately picked up the other on his desk, the one that connected directly with the Pentagon. He requested to speak with General Dorsey and was put on hold for much longer than was necessary. As the minutes ticked by he wondered if he'd ever get to speak to the man. Finally a bright young voice came across the line and informed him the General was in continuous meetings on a matter of national security and would be unavailable for the foreseeable future.
Hammonds face was red, and he swore he could feel steam coming out of his ears. He hung up the phone and poured a glass of water, forcing himself to drink it slowly and calm down.
Five minutes later he was back on the phone- this time making arrangements to fly to Washington that afternoon. His door was ajar, and Major Carter stopped at the entrance with her hand raised to knock. As she did she heard him conversing with someone on the phone.
"No, I don't care what *kind * of plane you get me on, just get one! Today, airman." His demeanor was gruff but softened immediately as he looked up and saw the Major. He waved her in and called to his secretary. "Julia? Would you pick up this line? Use your feminine wiles on this guy if you have to but *please * get me a flight out this afternoon, Okay?"
She giggled and started tapping buttons on her phone to take over the call.
Carter slid the rest of the way into the room. "Going on a trip, Sir?"
"Maybe." He answered in a near-defeated tone then seemed to shake it off. "What have you got there?" He smiled and gestured to the folders in her hand.
"The mission reports from P4C 227, Daniel's and mine."
The General accepted the files to survey them quickly before dismissing her. His eyes appeared to scan the opening page, but his thoughts were elsewhere. O'Neill had insisted Carter be allowed to command the team in his absence, and Hammond wondered if she might be aware that his little 'vacation' was anything but. He decided to test the waters.
"So, any problems with the team?"
She looked at him oddly. "Um, no. What problems might I have? I mean, it's Daniel and Teal'c." She shrugged. "They're like brothers to me, except they listen better."
Hammond didn't return her smile. "What about manpower? Any trouble with the watch divided three ways instead of four or maybe need another pair of hands to manage your equipment?"
Before he completed speaking the question she was already shaking her head. "No. We don't need a fourth. The Colonel will be back soon; we'll be fine until then."
The confidence and determination in her voice finally brought out his smile. "I'm sure you will." He glanced down at the folders and back up at her. Instead of dismissing her he, asked her to close the door and take a seat.
He steepled his hands on the desk. "Major, what I'm about to tell you is not just confidential, it's classified. I'm going to let you into the loop because for one, I think you are already marginally aware of the circumstances and two, having found myself not exactly kept up to speed on this, I'd like to open up some options."
He took a breath and continued. "You are aware that Colonel O'Neill is not just visiting a friend."
She nodded. "It's a mission of some kind, not SGC related."
"Correct. I don't want to be too specific, but I will confirm that and tell you he is currently out of the country and complications have arisen. I myself have only been given the barest details, and suddenly my Washington contact regarding this matter has become 'unavailable'. I can smell a cover-up a mile away, and Major, this stinks of it. They are saying Jack will be delayed 'indeterminately', but I believe something has happened to him. I intend to go to Washington and demand to be given full access to whatever information they have at this time." He paused and let his words set a moment. "I understand SG-1 is scheduled to go off world tomorrow afternoon. Nothing against your command abilities, but I wondered if you'd consider holding off on that mission for now. I'd like to keep SG-1 uncommitted for a little while, just in case..."
Carter nodded. "Not a problem, Sir. I'll inform my team. We'll be standing by." The General dismissed her, and she quickly left his office. As she exited, she closed the door behind her and leaned back against it with her eyes closed, thinking of those few minutes in the parking lot when she'd last spoken with her CO.
She knew it was a covert mission, but it hadn't really dawned on her it might be dangerous and more than that, somewhere outside the United States. O'Neill could, of course, handle himself in any environment, since he'd been on every continent on the planet, and elsewhere.
She took a deep breath and blew it out, suddenly aware of the silence around her. Julia was still on 'hold' on the phone and had resumed typing whilst awaiting a response. She was now stopped, fingers in mid-stroke, staring at the Major. She looked as if she'd just asked a question, but Carter was certain she hadn't heard a thing. Slightly embarrassed, she pushed off from the door and waved a hand to the secretary. "Ah, no, nothing. I'm fine. Thanks." She hoped her answer was at least close to what was expected.
As she moved through the corridors, she replayed her conversation with Hammond in her mind. Out of the country. Complications. Delayed. Cover-up. Her pace quickened to a near-run.
She turned a corner at breakneck speed and bumped solidly into Teal'c, and he grabbed for her upper arms to keep her from losing her balance. "Major Carter."
At first his expression was that of smug amusement at having to 'catch' his teammate, but as his eyes met hers, the mirth faded.
She looked up at him with her eyes wide and full of worry. The sudden stop made her voice catch, and she was unable to speak for a moment. Before she made the attempt, Teal'c was looking warily into her eyes as if perceiving something. He asked her the one question she couldn't answer. "What has happened to O'Neill?"
Hammond arrived at the Pentagon and found Dorsey in his office. No meetings, no 'national security' urgent event in progress, just relaxing and reading reports. His aide tried to stop the visiting General from entering, but Hammond bulldozed his way right through her and into Dorsey's private office.
Their eyes met, and Dorsey waved off his aide. "It's all right, I was expecting General Hammond; sorry I didn't tell you."
Hammond waited for the door to shut before speaking. "This morning I received an interesting phone call from Kuwait."
"I know." Dorsey waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Marchman is an idiot. He shouldn't have called you directly. All communications regarding this mission were to have gone through me."
"And just when were you going to inform me?"
"When circumstances dictated the time was right." He shuffled some papers on his desk and leaned back. "Since you're here you might as well know."
He waited for Hammond to sit before continuing. "Water, coffee?" Hammond shook his head.
"All right then. I received a communiqué two days ago that O'Neill's mission had been compromised. The original mission you already know was to extract three American prisoners. An additional objective, which I did not previously share, was the assassination of a high-ranking Iraqi General."
Hammond grimaced. He knew enough of O'Neill's past to know he might be requested to do something like this again, but it saddened him to have it occur while the man was under his command. "Got it. Go on."
"The mission was botched. O'Neill has done well for us many times, and I must admit it is specifically his tendency to be a maverick and his ability to be, shall we say, 'creative' under extreme circumstances that makes him the commodity he is. This time it didn't pay off. Firstly he was supposed to rescue three Americans but only got two out, then instead of carrying out the second objective right away as planned, he chose to hold his position behind enemy lines and jeopardized two team members who stayed with him."
"He did have an opportunity but apparently missed the shot too, another foul up. Maybe our Colonel is finally getting too old for this. I'm not as impressed with him as I used to be."
Hammond blew off the insult. "Where are O'Neill and his team now?"
"The other two airmen are safe back at the base in Kuwait, but O'Neill managed to get himself caught. You know he actually tried to steal a plane to get his men home, would have made it if he hadn't gone back for them."
That almost brought a chuckle out of Hammond. Now that was the O'Neill he knew, not some half-cocked fool that routinely went around 'botching' missions. "So, I take it these two men corroborated the story to this point?"
"For the most part, but you know how tight team members get, they won't say anything that even hints they aren't backing O'Neill."
"So what is it they're saying you don't believe?"
Dorsey looked at him, surprised to be so transparent. He'd have to work on that. "Colonel Sykes and Major Barnes were there when O'Neill took his shot. They both say it was textbook perfect. The man was dead before he hit the ground. However-" He pulled a photograph out of a file and tossed it across the desk to Hammond. "They can't explain this. The photo was taken the next day, and as you can see he's very much alive."
Hammond studied the photograph and then looked back at Dorsey. "You're sure this is the man?" The other General nodded.
"What else?"
Dorsey folded his hands on the edge of the desk. "All right, but this is only because it supposedly involves your Command. Sykes said the Iraqis have some kind of technology, something that might even be able to bring a man back from a deadly injury in a very short time, no doctors, no hospital stay required. He said O'Neill knew what it was and was adamant that they get back quickly so he could contact you. Ever since he got back Sykes has been leaning on the CO out at Al Jaber to get you involved. You don't have any idea why he'd make a request like that do you?" He leaned across the desk and eyed Hammond carefully.
Hammond glared back, considering what Dorsey had just said. What was it O'Neill had stumbled across? Goa'uld technology in the Iraqi desert? "I just might." He said slowly. "You've given me something, now I'll return the favor. You know what we do out at the mountain is highly technical."
"Yes, yes, deep space radar telemetry. Geek city." Dorsey waved his hand dismissively. "Doesn't explain why you have so many SF and ex-SF's assigned there and how much ordnance you go through on a regular basis."
Hammond's expression grew stern. Dorsey had obviously been looking into places he shouldn't be. "Granted there are risks to what we do and it must be protected. I'd advise you to back off on your current lines of inquiry."
"Is that a threat?'
"No, no, just a friendly word of caution. Now as I was saying," Hammond relaxed, now in control of the conversation. " We have at our disposal technology that is far beyond anything you may consider 'cutting edge'. If in fact Colonel O'Neill has found evidence of similar technology in Iraq, it is imperative it be secured. You have no idea what you are dealing with here."
"You're not telling me you're buying Sykes story about some miraculous healing device?"
"That I can neither confirm nor deny."
Dorsey's mouth dropped open and gaped. He snapped it shut. "George, what's this about?"
"Funny, that was why I came here. To get some answers. How about we drop the dance we've been doing and get on with it? You've still got a man to be rescued, and so do I. Apparently there's also something relative to my Command that I need to get my hands on as well. As far as this Iraqi, I think we both have issues regarding him. Either we cooperate or none of that will happen."
Dorsey tapped his fingers on the tabletop as he decided. "Full disclosure?"
"From your side regarding this mission, yes, but from me, need to know only." He raised a hand before Dorsey could argue. "Believe me what I'll give you will keep you up at night."
The fingers drummed again then stopped abruptly. "All right, but I *am* a heavy sleeper." He pulled a folder out of his drawer and slid it to Hammond. "Sykes and Barnes reports in full, copies of everything O'Neill was given at the start of the mission and," He paused. "A transcript of a short interview with some collaborator who rendered our people assistance. He rants about this famous 'technology ' of yours and was quite taken with O'Neill, but I'm not persuaded he's anything but a crazy old man with questionable loyalties. He's the one who set up the plane theft that got your man captured."
Hammond nodded; it would take some time to go through this material. "I'll see all relevant data is sent to your office immediately." He stood up. "General, two things, you best consider believing what your subordinates tell you. The universe can be an astounding place. And second, your use of Colonel O'Neill has come to an end. Do I make myself clear?"
"You're of no higher rank than I, you can't make that decision." Dorsey stood to his feet, sneering.
"Fine, expect a communiqué from the Joint Chiefs within the hour. Air thin enough for you or would you prefer the White House?"
Dorsey's eyes narrowed. "You never know when someone with those specialized skills will be needed again. The Joint Chiefs and the President are well aware of this, and I have friends too, don't forget that. For now it will do. Just get me those files."
"Done." Hammond said over his shoulder as he left.
SG-1 was aboard a transport bound for Kuwait by the end of the day. Their only stop was at Dulles where Hammond joined them. As they crossed the Atlantic he briefed them on everything he knew up to that point.
"So, your primary mission will be find and rescue Colonel O'Neill and Major Sellers. In addition you need to find what assuredly is a sarcophagus and either secure it or neutralize it and then find out if Bensada is just a very fortunate man who found the device and figured out how to use it or is in fact a Goa'uld."
Daniel had been only half listening and raised a finger in the air. "I'm unclear on one small point. You want to go over exactly how this Bensada got shot? From what those men reported, Jack wasn't in any immediate danger and no firefight was going on. So just how does a country's leader get himself killed in broad daylight?"
Hammond glared at him; he'd purposefully skimmed over that part. "I can't go into particulars, suffice it to say, Colonel O'Neill shot him."
"Without provocation?"
"They said he had a gun pointed at Major Sellers."
"O-kay" Daniel dragged out the word. "So there was a certain level of threat involved. Jack just decided to- what? Take a pot-shot at the guy? Took him out, just like that?"
"Doctor Jackson." Hammond rubbed a hand over his bald head.
"The guy could have just been trying to threaten Sellers into talking. I'm sorry but it seems to me in the past we've tried other things in situations like that, a diversion, maybe something explosive, anything." His eyebrows wagged as he spoke.
"Doctor."
"I mean you can't go around just killing high-ranking officials in other countries."
"Daniel." By this time Carter got it. She reached out and took hold of Daniel's forearm to get his attention. When he glanced at her, she shook her head, silently communicating the need for him to stop his current line of questioning. He ignored her. "Or maybe *he can*."
Hammond turned his back to the archaeologist. He had no answers for the man.
Daniel continued, unfazed. "So what was it, a contract? Is the Air Force now the new Mafia? Is that what Jack really does for a living? SG-1 is just his day job?"
Hammond took a deep breath and turned around. He spoke sadly. "He did, Doctor. And I'm sorry to say every one of his missions was sanctioned by the United States Government. There are things that none of us are glad to do, that must be done. O'Neill has always been someone who could make the hard decisions. You wonder why I am so lenient with him? Believe me, he's earned it."
Daniel continued to glare but held his tongue; he'd always wondered if Jack was as far removed from his past as he let on. Now he knew the truth. It wasn't his past; it was here and now.
The remainder of the trip was spent reviewing files and reading reports with very little verbal interaction between the members of SG-1. It was hard to accept this side of their friend and Commander, but none of them doubted it was true. They'd each have to come to terms with it in their own way.
Upon their arrival at Al Jaber, Hammond found the previously haughty Marchman to be quite subdued. Orders had already come through that essentially placed Hammond in charge of the base. The President had taken the situation to heart and met with the Joint Chiefs himself, requesting that the utmost cooperation be afforded to Hammond and his people. The thought of a Goa'uld being in power in any country on Earth was alarming. For it to be Iraq was unthinkable.
Hammond quickly made sure Marchman understood his priority was to oversee any missions dealing with Bensada and not to replace the current Command. Marchman's duties wouldn't change except for the need to keep Hammond apprised of the overall running of the base. The two men started out at odds from their phone conversation but quickly came to understand and appreciate each other. They decided to do their best not to step on each other's toes.
The next morning the original team was assembled and ready to be briefed on what they thought would solely be a rescue mission. They were more than surprised to be joined by the unusual group from Colorado.
Hammond gave them a short overview of the mission goals, carefully omitting any overt references to either sarcophagi or the Goa'uld. The subject of 'the box' did come up as a part of the mission, and Sykes pressed for more information.
"So this 'box' thing, what is it really?" He hadn't forgotten all the incredible things Alianni had said about it.
Daniel shrugged, "It's an archaeological treasure, an artifact."
Barnes leaned in. "Right. That's not what we've heard."
Before Daniel could explain further Hammond stepped in. "For the record no one in this room can tell you exactly how it works." He glanced at Carter for confirmation, and she nodded heartily. He chose his words to stay marginally within the truth. "You don't have to know all that to do what you have to do. As far as this mission is concerned, it's an artifact, nothing more."
Hammond turned the discussion back to Daniel. "Doctor Jackson, why don't you give us a description of the 'artifact' so we can determine how best to secure it?"
Several minutes and a lively discussion later Carter added her opinion to the pot. Sykes was obviously convinced they could make an actual go of capturing the device and desperately wanted to know more about it since discussion of its purpose had been shut down. She tried to get her point across and not overstep her rank.
"Sir, yes this- artifact is important but it's just too big to sneak out of the country. It would be like stealing a lame elephant! Do you know how much it weighs? Unless we commandeer a cargo plane or at least a helicopter to air lift it out, it's not going anywhere." She knew the Colonel was considering her options and turned to Hammond, "I know it would be a significant loss, but I recommend we destroy it."
Hammond nodded his agreement. "That's it then. We've heard pretty much everyone's opinion. Barring a massive outbreak of cooperation from the Iraqis, the box is going nowhere. You will neutralize it." He pointedly looked at Sykes and noted the frown on his face. "You have intel on the location?"
Sykes grudgingly stood and pointed to a map of Bensada's compound on the board behind him. "According to our friend, Alianni, it should be in this building. We should be able to get in and deal with it without too much difficulty, since we already have pretty good information about the guard's movements, but we'll have to coordinate the rescue part of the mission. Even with a pretty fair diversion we'll only have one shot at this."
Hammond spoke again. "There is one other thing to accomplish." All eyes stayed on him, those of SG-1 knowing what was coming next and the Al Jaber team wondering what he could possibly add to this already unconventional mission.
"We need Bensada."
O'Neill woke to the shuddering feel of the crate as it was repeatedly struck by a hammer to loosen the slats. As one was freed, it fell away and allowed the bright sunlight to hit him full in the face. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted up at the blurry figure before him. At that point he didn't care who it was that had come for him; he wanted nothing more than to get out of this tiny corner of hell he'd occupied for two days. His mouth was cracked and dry from dehydration, and he wasn't surprised at all not to have felt an urge to pee in well over 24 hours, there just wasn't anything in there.
His legs were completely numb, and the guards yelled at him for not moving, then grabbed at his upper arms and dragged him roughly up and out of the box. He was deposited face down in the dirt and choked as he inhaled the dust stirred up by his collapse.
They allowed him to cough several times before one of the soldiers poured a canteen of water over his head. He quickly cupped his hands to catch as much of the liquid as possible and sucked what he could into his mouth; licking his hands to get every last drop. They didn't give him a much time to recover, immediately dragging him back into the building where he'd been questioned earlier.
Bensada was there waiting, this time much more wary of his prisoner. O'Neill's wrists were chained this time, and he was pulled upright as the links were drawn over the heavy iron light fixture in the ceiling. The pulling didn't stop until he was stretched tall and could only bear weight on his feet by standing on his toes.
The Iraqi leader walked in a circle around O'Neill, assessing him. The prisoner was caked in mud from where the splashed water had wet his skin and clothing allowing the dirt to stick to him. He breathed harshly; lack of water and hot desert air had begun to scorch his lungs; the temperature in the crate had reached nearly 130 degrees by the previous afternoon and then plummeted through the night, a perfect scenario for a case of 'desert' pneumonia. The Colonel was alert though and returned the gaze of his captor as much as he was able from his position.
Bensada looked at the dark eyes staring back at him. "So, you are more resilient than you at first appeared. Perhaps you are no stranger to the desert." He walked a few more paces. "You already know my name. Is there harm in knowing the name of the one I am addressing?"
The Colonel's voice was rough. "O'Neill."
"Hmm. No arguments today? You surprise me." He walked over to the table and handled several of the items there finally choosing one. He adjusted the setting to the lowest power and held up the stun gun for O'Neill to see. "Ordered on the internet. 59.95 American dollars. Amazing."
He moved closer to the center of the room. "Now, I will ask, and you will answer. For every refusal I will turn this up one level. You understand I have no desire to kill you, not yet." He touched the probe to his own palm and watched the blue sparks dance. "Ah, this is exquisitely painful. You should try it."
"Thanks, I'll pass."
"As you wish." His voice turned serious. "Why are you here?"
"Vacation, looked like a nice spot-" O'Neill jerked and grimaced as the device touched his side making his muscles spasm painfully.
"That was one." Bensada adjusted the dial. "There are several more, care to try another?"
"No, not really." O'Neill's voice shook as he tried to compose himself. The strength of the jolt was much more than he'd expected by the way Bensada had held the device to his own hand.
"Answer me."
"Uh, what was the question?"
The Iraqi motioned to a guard who brandished a long knife and in two swift moves cut O'Neill's T-shirt from him, baring his torso. "Why. Are. You. Here?"
"Oh, that. Bad timing?"
Bensada shoved the weapon into the center of O'Neill's chest and held it there until his entire body was jerking and his legs gave up their support of his body. His shoulders protested the awkward positioning to bear his weight. He recovered just in time to see Bensada adjusting the weapon again.
"You should know this device has been altered. In its original configuration it did not kill, even at the highest setting. Now it does. Three of five." He walked slowly around O'Neill keeping a discrete distance.
"Let us try a simpler question. Your name is O'Neill. You are obviously American and a criminal."
O'Neill's eyebrows went up.
Bensada explained. "You are guilty of trespass, injuring my men and stealing my plane. You are also the one I believe who attempted to murder me."
"Succeeded."
The Iraqi spun around angrily. This American knew far too much. "Do I look dead to you?"
O'Neill eyed him from head to foot. "Not at the moment. Give me another chance, and I'll make sure it sticks."
The weapon rammed into his flank this time, the pain enough to make O'Neill yelp and his consciousness begin to fade. The guards kept him awake by dousing him with a bucket of water. He roused, sputtering and blinked hard to get the water out of his eyes.
"Four. When one is in a weakened condition even this level will kill." He squinted his eyes at O'Neill. "Perhaps you would like to see a demonstration." He waved an arm and the door opened. O'Neill clenched his jaw as Toby was dragged into the room and shoved against the far wall.
The two Americans eyes met and held each other's gaze. Bensada glanced from one to the other. "You have met before?"
"Don't know him." O'Neill knew it would hurt, but if Bensada even suspected a slight connection between the men Sellers life would be even more at risk than it had been up 'til now.
Sellers flinched ever so slightly. Despite it being years since he'd seen O'Neill and the shock of him actually being there, he recognized his former teammate immediately. Though O'Neill's eyes gave no hint of recognition whatsoever, Sellers knew it was there. He fell in step following O'Neill's lead and addressed him. His voice was raspy and forced.
"Hey, man, that's some shit you've got yourself into. Old Ben here never strung me up like that."
"Luck of the draw, kid. You just haven't pissed him off enough yet."
Bensada's eyes narrowed, and he stepped between the men breaking off the conversation. "No matter. It is as I have said 'a demonstration' only." He gestured to a guard who hauled Sellers to his feet. With no warning Bensada swung his hand holding the weapon and jammed it into Toby's shoulder. Bright blue sparks flew, and both Toby and the guard jerked in response. The Iraqi loosed his grip immediately but fell backwards and smacked his head hard against the wall then slid to the floor unconscious.
Sellers dropped where he was, twitching spasmodically as if having a seizure. After several seconds it stopped, and his bruised body went limp against the floor. O'Neill watched, horrified inside but outwardly, with only a small measure of interest.
He noted his friend was still breathing. At least there was that. "Ouch. I don't think he was ready for that."
"And will you be?"
O'Neill grimaced as he saw Bensada adjust the weapon to the final setting and begin to circle around behind him once again. He half expected the Iraqi to forego any more questions and simply kill him.
Bensada emerged on the other side, walking slowly and considering the value and strengths of his prisoner. He put the weapon in his pocket.
"O'Neill, correct?" He noted the Colonel's nod. "We need not continue in this manner. You know I *will* kill you without hesitation. And-" He stopped directly in front of O'Neill, "I think you know I can do it more than once. You should reconsider your future."
"Bite. My. American. Ass."
Bensada closed his eyes for a moment as rage overtook him. He whipped the stun gun out of his pocket and lunged at O'Neill. Being hung up and stretched out had had a positive effect as it turned out, the stiffness was nearly gone and with the return of blood flow O'Neill now had full use of his legs.
He swung one foot up and knocked the stun gun away then with the other came around and thunked Bensada soundly on the side of his head. The man reeled and dropped to his knees with a great moan. O'Neill's next move was to swing his lower body up until he could hold himself upside down by his knees and unhook the chain. That done he dropped to the floor, upright and ready to take out the only other person standing, the second guard.
He never actually saw the hand device or Bensada rising up and removing the black leather glove to use it, but the crushing slam of his body against the wall was unmistakable evidence. He slid to the floor with a grunt, and Bensada was there again, this time holding his palm open and directing the energy at O'Neill's face. The shaking started immediately, and it seemed every drop of blood was rushing into his head. The pressure grew and forced capillaries then veins and arteries to rupture. Blood made its way its way to the surface and the coppery fluid began to seep from O'Neill's nose and ears. Within seconds crimson droplets appeared at the corners of his eyes too.
Toby Sellers hadn't ever seen anything like it. Despite his condition and having just regained consciousness himself, he was awed by the powerful weapon in Bensada's hand. Something like what he thought a laser-based weapon might be if the Sci-fi nut cases had any say about it. Still here it was, a real weapon in front of him, killing his friend in a horrifying manner. Sellers roared a curse as he forced himself to his feet, picking up the discarded stun gun as he stood.
He dove toward the man but was far too late, Bensada had already turned and the yellow-orange light flashed in Sellers direction. At once he was thrown harder than he could have imagined against the rough stone, and as he slumped to the floor in agony, he passed out.
Bensada refrained from killing the second American and glanced back at the crumpled form of O'Neill, the blood still flowing and pooling in the dirt where his face lay. The American's bloodshot eyes now stared lifelessly off into space, his jaw hanging open in a grotesque look of surprise.
~TBC
