To Thine Own Self Be True

by Sashet

This is my take on what happened to Jack during his 4 months in Iraq. Be warned this story contains bad language and scenes of extreme violence, torture and rape. Don't say I didn't warn you. A million thanks to Dr D for living it with me. This one is fo

1. The Torment

This above all: to thine own self be true

Hamlet Act 1 Scene 3

You can not do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison Iraq

US Marines, Sgt Andy Harriman and Cpl Manuel Sanchez had been tasked with searching the seemingly endless corridors of the prison. The intelligence reports they had been given said that this fortress prison in the middle of the desert was being used to hold political prisoners. All they had found so were farmers, shopkeepers and businessmen. Their crimes? To have spoken out against Saddam and been heard. Their punishment? Imprisonment, torture and, in many cases, death.

The two Marines turned into a darkened corridor, this was the last place they had to search and then they would be done. As before they kicked in each cell door, loudly proclaiming who they were and what they would do to any who disobeyed their orders. Each cell so far had been empty but they still carefully checked every room, not only searching for prisoners but also for anything the fleeing troops may have left behind; papers, plans, maps, booby traps.

The two soldiers could not have been more opposite, Harriman was a 25 year veteran of some of the world's worst trouble spots, this would be his last combat mission before, hopefully, a quiet posting and retirement.

Sanchez was just a rookie, straight out of Parris Island and seeing more action than he could have imagined when he watched the Marine's recruiting video.

Dimly, over the sound of his rasping breathing as he struggled to push the air from his tortured lungs, Jack thought he heard the cries of soldiers. The voices seemed to fade in and out as they moved from the corridors to the cells and back again. He was sure the voices were getting closer though... they had to be.

The tiny part of his mind that wasn't overwhelmed with pain and drugs raced with a jumble of thoughts, what if they didn't find him, if they gave up searching before they reached him, what if it was another hoax, another illusion?

He was dying, slowly, breath by agonizing breath as his heart was gradually crushed and he was certain that if they didn't find him then, he would die in this stinking place and nobody would ever know that he had been there. He wanted to cry out, to shout that he was here, to make himself heard, to save his life. However, suspended as he was, the effort of trying was too much for his abused body, his shouts came out as nothing more than quiet, pitiful cries.

"Saédni.. Men Fadlek" (Help me... please) Without conscious thought he had spoken in Arabic, another legacy of what had been done to him.

His body was racked with a bout of coughing that would have brought tears to his eyes had he had any tears left to cry. A fresh smear of blood trickled from his nose.

Jack could do nothing but wait and hope and believe.

He had believed in Frank, but that belief was shattered when Frank left him behind, after all they had promised to each other the bastard had left him behind. He had turned tail and run leaving him to the unspeakable horrors he had endured.

He had believed in Sara and Charlie and they had believed in him too, until in the darkness of his despair he had turned his back on them. He had failed them by choosing pain over hope, humiliation over love, death over life. With the failure went his belief.

Loud shouts right outside his cell, a crash, and the door was practically broken off its hinges as the Marines burst through. They quickly swept the room, looking for signs of anybody hiding in the dark recesses, for booby traps, for anything that might endanger them and hamper their search. They found nothing and turned their attention to the helpless form that dominated the room.

Harriman, who had served in Vietnam, South America and more tiny tinpot African states than he cared to remember, had seen scenes like this way too many times before. Small men trying to prove how big they are by degrading and humiliating those who could no longer fight back. He was not surprised by the inhumanity that man could heap on his fellow man in the name of some, usually misguided, ideology.

Sanchez had never seen anything like the sight that greeted him when he burst into the room. He thought he would be glad if he never saw anything like it again. What he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Sweet Jesus." He muttered, automatically crossing himself.

In front of them was the naked, semi- crucified form of a man. His skin hung loosely from his skeleton, evidence of a prolonged period of malnutrition, most likely starvation. His body was covered with cuts and abrasions, a large yellow and purple bruise marred his torso. Both sides of his chest were misshapen, his right knee was swollen and scars criss- crossed his back; these were the obvious signs of torture both old and new. The less obvious signs would be found in the weeks to come.

At least half a dozen crocodile clips were still attached to his body, electrodes taped to his temples, the small red burn marks that dotted the skeletal frame told their own story. There was a cannula still in his arm and an empty stand lay discarded on the floor. Whatever had been on the stand was long gone, pushed into the helpless victim for what? Some perverted pleasure? Neither man was in any doubt as to what had gone on in this room.

As Sanchez drew closer whispering a prayer for the man's soul, he noticed a smell; it was a mixture of sweat, vomit, bodily waste and infection. His stomach churned and, as he looked into the hollow eyes, seeing all Jack's pain in them, he knew he couldn't stand to be in that room any longer. He turned and ran, just getting outside the room before he vomited violently.

Jack couldn't believe it as his cell was suddenly filled with the onrushing forms of the two marines.

Dare he believe it?

They looked like US soldiers but was this just another cruel trick, a sick joke, another way for them to get what they wanted?

They had messed with his head before; beating and starving him until he didn't know where he was, torturing and drugging him until he almost didn't know who he was. They had showed him a glimpse of freedom then snatched it away; they had given him hope and then crushed it. Was this their final way to break him?

Even as he watched the looks of disgust and pity cross the soldiers' faces, he still daren't believe that they were who he wanted them to be.

He looked into the young man's eyes, into his soul, he saw the horror of what he saw reflected back at him.

As the soldier ran from the room, despite everything he had been through, a tiny flicker of hope touched Jack's heart.

Harriman watched as Sanchez fled the room, he knew it was hard on the young soldier. Hell it was hard on him. This was as bad as he had ever come across, worse even than Vietnam.

Keeping his face as impassive as he could he looked straight at Jack.

"Don't worry, we'll get you down from there in just a second."

He quickly crossed the room to where the remains of the door lay shattered on the floor, sticking his head out he found Sanchez wiping his mouth with his hand. The young rookie looked a little pale and more than a little shaken.

"You OK Sanchez?" he asked kindly, knowing there was no point in admonishing him. His reaction had been only natural; Christ, Harriman wished he could have run too, he was getting far too old to have to face those kinds of sights. He'd done his time.

"Yes Sgt, I'm sorry about that. It's just, how could people do ...." he waved his hand in the general direction of Jack, fighting back the fresh wave of nausea that threatened him when he thought about the sights in that room.

"I don't know Sanchez, I really don't know." Harriman's voice was weary. "But I do know that we will find the bastards who did this and when we do..." the threat was left unspoken.

"Right now though we have to get that guy down and to a hospital before it's to late, so let's go marine."

"Yes Sir" Sanchez said. He squared his shoulders, took a long deep breath and headed back into the room of horrors.

Their first order of business was to lower the frame that supported Jack, taking the weight off his chest and diaphragm, hopefully helping him to breathe more easily. As soon as the frame was on the floor, Sanchez set about cutting the ropes that held Jack in place. The wounds on his wrists and ankles were infected, pus and blood seeping from them.

Sanchez once again smelt the sickly smell; it was, he thought, the smell of death. His stomach rolled and, for a moment, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to carry on but, one look at Jack's broken and battered body and he knew that if he faltered now he would be as good as killing him so, praying for himself and for Jack, he carried on.

Once the frame was on the floor Harriman was at Jack's side, rubbing water over his dry cracked lips, allowing just a little to seep into his parched mouth. He thought he heard Jack whisper something and leant in closer.

"Laa (no)" Jack mumbled, "Trick... not real... Laa (no)."

"No sir, we're real. US Marine Corps and we're here to take you home."

He heard the hiss of pain and a low moan escape Jack's lips as his arms were finally freed from their long held position. Sanchez moved Jack's arms so that they rested by his sides.

"Can you tell me who you are?"

The frequently repeated litany still came easily to Jack's mind, less easily to his lips. His voice was barely audible, pain laced through every word.

"O'Neill" a pause, a cough.

"Jonathon." More coughs racked him, his breath seemed to come in painful gasps. This time a longer pause.

"Major, United States Air Force."

The last words left him drained, coughs once more shook him, leaving a trail of blood stained spittle at the corner of his mouth. He had no energy to say any more and he closed his eyes, trying to still the spasms in his limbs, gathering what little strength he still had.

Harriman reached for his first aid kit. Taking out a clean dressing he soaked it with water from his canteen and carefully wiped away the fresh blood from Jack's mouth and nose. He knew that these were the symptoms of a man suffering from serious internal injuries and he thought that maybe their rescue had come too late. As he cleaned the blood away, he noticed that Jacks' eyes flew open and he tried to recoil from his touch, he wondered if this was because of the pain he was in or was there some deeper fear in the touch of another.

"Well Major, you just rest easy now, we'll get the medics straight away and get you out of here."

He finished cleaning Jack up and started to rise. He felt the faintest pull on his arm.

For Jack, the change in his circumstances was both a blessing and a curse. Lowering the frame and freeing his arms had taken the immense pressure off his chest. His breathing had become less labored and he took the opportunity to take some long deep breaths.

That was a big mistake; the pain from his broken ribs flared through his side pushing him close to the welcoming arms of unconsciousness. He gasped; sweat breaking on his lip and forehead. Stupid move O'Neill he thought; he was about to find out just how stupid.

The final traces of the psycho-stimulants he had been given rushed into his system. Fuelled by the now more powerful beats of his heart, they flooded his mind and body with sensations of pain and terror that, despite all he had been through, he still wasn't prepared for.

He was once more aware of the pain in every fibre of his body, the weeks and months of abuse; physical, mental, sexual seemed like they had only just happened, and maybe they were still happening. His mind was overloaded with uncomfortable and terrifying memories of pain and questions, pain and no questions and pain, endless, endless pain.

All he knew was that he couldn't tell them anything, couldn't let them know how much he hurt, how much he was crying out inside for it all to end, so he said nothing, hoped he gave nothing away and waited for them to do or say something.

Then the questions started again: Can you tell me who you are? So he told them, or tried to tell them. His voice, whilst quiet to them, seemed to scream in his mind:

I've told you this before, so many times before, how many more times? I won't tell you anything, I didn't tell you anything, I can't tell you anything.

Just please don't hurt me any more.

Please...

He heard himself repeating his name and rank. The pain he felt in every cell of his body stopped him from completing his mantra, driving his breath from him in a spate of agonizing coughs.

The soldier beside him was speaking as he reached out to touch him.

God NO – Don't touch me like that.

He tried to pull away – a touch was always followed by... More.

More pain, more humiliation, more hurt, more questions. More that he never wanted to remember.

This time though there was no... more. Nothing followed the touch. The soldier just wiped away his blood.

No pain followed his touch, no questions followed his touch, no further violation followed his touch.

Why? What do they want? Leave me alone...please.

He reached out and caught the soldier's arm.

Harriman wasn't sure that he actually felt the hand on his arm as much as sensed it. The grip was weak, not really a grip at all. He looked down at Jack, realizing that he was trying to speak and bent back down.

Once more he tipped water from his canteen into his hands and wet Jack's lips. He watched as Jack feebly tried to lick at the moisture, desperate to quench the raging thirst he felt inside.

Beside and around them Sanchez was at work carefully removing the crocodile clips from Jack's body. The drugs in Jack's system meant that he never noticed each tiny reduction in the level of pain when one was removed.

Sanchez was disgusted by what he had to do and by what had been done to the man beneath him. There seemed to be no part of his anatomy that had been spared the vicious bite of the crocodile clips – arms, legs, feet, hands, face, even his genitals bore the tell tale red burn marks.

He worked as quickly as possible, he just wanted to get out of there, to see the sun again, to see his buddies again, and maybe to forget what he had seen. He knew that the last of those wishes would never come true.

Jack looked at the older marine, his face seemed kindly, and he didn't smell like the others had smelt; of strong cigarettes, stale coffee and cheap cologne. He wanted to trust this face, but could he?

"Why?" His voice was full of suspicion and mistrust.

Harriman went to take Jack's hand in his own then, remembering how Jack had reacted when he had touched him earlier, stopped himself.

"Because we never leave anyone behind." He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Never leave anyone behind .

The same promise he and Frank had made.

Except Frank had broken his promise and Jack's life had become a living hell. A never-ending living hell that had taken his hope, his belief and nearly but not quite his life.

He was still breathing and, deep inside the very center of him, the fight for life would not give up. He just wanted it all to end, to close his eyes and let the pain and the horror just stop, forever. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

"Right now I have to get the medics in here, so that we can get you home Major."

He moved to get up again.

"Just lie still Sir, it won't be long now."

"No..." a groan of pain from Jack as he tried to move. He was still not sure that this wasn't some kind of trick, another drug induced image to make him believe in something. But maybe he didn't care if it was, if it made the pain stop even for a moment then it was worth the risk.

The fight for life inside him grew, until he knew that it could no longer be ignored. He would take the risk and he would live.

"No... walk. Need to walk." Jack's plea was cut short by a violent bout of coughing, blood once more seeped from his nose and mouth. He grimaced in pain as the knife wounds in his side began to bleed again. The drugs still in his system allowed him to feel everything far more than he could ever want to.

Harriman looked at Jack and noticed that, despite all the pain, all the torture and all the horror that he had endured, a flicker of pride still burned in his eyes.

"I can't let you do that Sir. If I let you try anything without seeing the medics first I'll spend my last posting cleaning latrines."

For Jack it had suddenly become important that he walked out of this hell. It was the most important thing in the world to him. Even if it killed him, he had to walk out, he had to prove to them, and to himself, that they may have broken his body but they had never, quite, broken his spirit.

Jack took a deeper breath, fighting the pain that was building up inside him, threatening to pull him into the waiting arms of unconsciousness and death.

"Please.. I need..." a pause to allow a fresh wave of agony to pass through him, his body shuddering under its cruel and merciless onslaught, "walk... out." He couldn't speak any more. He wanted to close his eyes but was afraid that if he did so he might never open them again. Instead he fixed his gaze on the war weary Marine Sergeant, and tried to will him to grant his request.

It must have worked.

Harriman knew that he couldn't deny Jack his chance for dignity. He believed that Jack was probably going to die anyway, so why not give him his last wish? He would deal with the consequences later.

"OK Major, you win. I'll let you walk out of here if you promise not to die on me." His voice was light, a trace of a smile crossed his face.

Jack managed a weak half smile.

"Promise." He whispered back.

Inside he wondered if he really would be able to walk when the time came. His ribs and knee ached with a dull endless throbbing and he had lost so much blood. The pain he was feeling never seemed to get any less, in fact he was sure that it was getting worse. Every breath sent pulses of agony blazing through him, unconsciousness was never far away, but maybe just far enough.

He would try, he had to.

Harriman stood up and went across the room to where Sanchez was standing. The young soldier still looked shaken. Quietly Harriman spoke to him.

"Go and find the General, tell him what we've found. Ask him to get the medivac choppers here ASAP. Oh, and find me some pants for the Major will you?"

He patted Sanchez on the back and sent him on his way.

Never had a soldier been so glad to get out of somewhere as Sanchez was to get out of that room. He ran from the room and out of the dank dismal corridors faster than he thought was possible. He didn't stop until he felt the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his face.

Looking round he found the General and his entourage set up in the corner of the yard and hurried to report their gruesome findings.

In the cool dark cell below, Harriman was trying to stop the wounds in Jack's side from bleeding. He had applied a pressure dressing to each, taping them in place. It seemed to be working...for now. He wasn't sure how much longer it would continue to work.

Jack lay as quiet and still as he could, given the occasional shudders of pain that still radiated through him. Usually he didn't feel them coming and they drew the breath from his lungs and forced a moan of pain from his lips.

He needed to conserve what little energy he still had if he intended to keep his word and walk away from hell.

He had to hold on just a little longer.

Jack O'Neill Major US Air Force. For my Country. NO. For myself !

*******

This is no time for ease and comfort. It is the time to dare and endure.
Winston Churchill

5 months previously Elgin Air Force Base Florida

Major Jonathon 'Jack' O'Neill stood outside the small neat house in the warm sunshine wondering how he was going to tell Sara that he had finally received the order that they both knew was inevitable. In 48 hours he and his unit would be on their way to the Middle East as the ground offensive got under way in operation Desert Storm.

The 55th Special Operations Squadron were being deployed to Kuwait from where they would take part in covert missions into Iraq to seek out and destroy Saddam's hidden scud missile launchers before he had a chance to use them against the advancing allied troops.

Jack was glad that the orders had finally come through, he and his men were tired of simulated missions, practices and drills. They wanted to be out there doing it for real. Helping to rid the world of another unwanted, unnecessary tyrant.

He wasn't sure that Sara would share either his view or his enthusiasm and how would he tell Charlie? What could he tell his young son that would help him to understand why his dad had to go away?

Best get it over with he thought, brushing non-existent dust from his uniform before he turned and walked purposefully up the path to the house.

Sara had been watching him as he had stood in the garden thinking. She could tell by the way he had squared his shoulders, straightened his uniform and started up the path that the news would not be what she wanted to hear. She smiled to herself as she realized that Jack went through the same ritual every time he had to tell her that he was being sent overseas or on some covert mission. He was so predictable she thought.

She decided to spare him the agony of having to tell her and, as he entered the room, she simply asked "When?"

Jack breathed a huge inward sigh of relief, he always hated telling Sara when he had to go on missions. He smiled at her, crossing the room and grabbing her in his arms.

"48 hours." The smile changed to a wicked grin, and he kissed her long, hard and passionately. When they finally broke free from the kiss, he whispered in her ear, "So we don't have very long, and while Charlie is still at school.....", his intent was obvious as one hand caressed her breast the other reached for the buttons on her blouse.

Later, as they lay in bed, comfortable in the feel of each other, safe in the love of each other, Sara asked "Do you want me to tell Charlie?"

"Would you? You'll make such a better job of it than I will."

"Coward." She said laughingly, playfully punching Jack on the arm.

The punches turned into tickles and the pair were soon wrestling in each other's arms their passions once more rising. Suddenly Jack stopped and looking down at Sara he said, "I love you, I have always loved you, I will always love you. You know that don't you?"

Sara's voice was quiet, a little choked as she replied "Yes I know,... we both know."

They made love slowly, passionately, sensuously like it was their first time, or maybe their last.

For Jack the next two days passed in a whirl of briefings, meetings and preparation. He had to be sure that everything and everybody was in their right place when it came time to go. The Middle East was too far and too hostile to arrive unprepared.

Jack was not the kind of officer who liked to leave anything to chance, so he checked and double-checked and then checked again until he was satisfied that he could do no more.

Sara hardly ever saw Jack, he left early and came home late, and she could never reach him on the base.

She had tried to explain to Charlie but she knew that he didn't really understand what was happening or why and, at times, she wasn't sure that she did either. She tried to keep herself busy, so that she wouldn't have to think about Jack and what he had to do and how she was going to miss him but, living on an Air Force base, it was a next to impossible task. At every turn there was another wife going through the same emotions as she was, and there were times during those two frantic days when she was glad of their support.

All too soon it was time.

Jack, Sara and Charlie were waiting on the edge of the hot tarmac as the giant transport plane loomed into view.

He turned away from the runway and looked at his family. They were his life, his soul, his center, and his reason for living. God, he was going to miss them, it would be like leaving a part of himself behind. The look on Sara's face told her that she felt the same.

Sara had seen Jack's best friend in the Air Force, Major Frank Cromwell standing just a little way off.

She spoke quietly to Jack "I'm going to talk to Frank, have a last word with Charlie, he's really going to miss you."

With that she turned and walked away, leaving father and son alone in the shimmering heat.

Jack wasn't really sure that he knew what to say, how could he explain what he had to do and why he had to go away. He squatted down so that he was the same height as Charlie and, taking his small hand in his own, he took a deep breath and said "You know that I have to go away, don't you?"

Charlie nodded, but said nothing.

Jack thought that his heart would break, Charlie looked so sad and lost. A tiny child struggling to understand a strange and dangerous world. Jack swallowed the lump in his throat and carried on.

"I need you to take care of your Mom. Can you do that for me? I need you to make sure that she isn't lonely, or worried or scared because you will be there to look after her. If you do that for me I promise I'll be home in no time, you'll hardly even notice that I've gone. Do we have a deal?"

Charlie seemed to think long and hard and then drawing himself up to his full small height he said proudly "Deal Dad!"

Jack was so proud of his son. In that moment he had gone from a child to a young man. Jack knew that he would never forget the look of pride on Charlie's face, pride in the fact that he had asked him to step up and look after his Mom.

Jack's heart was fit to burst as he picked Charlie up and swung him in the air, before hugging him tightly.

"I love you Charlie."

"And I love you too Dad."

Sara had been watching the two men in her life out of the corner of her eye as she chatted to Frank. They had been talking of anything and of nothing. Idle chatter in an attempt to relieve the growing tension as the time crept inexorably past. Suddenly Sara turned serious and she grabbed Frank by the arm.

"You have to promise me something Frank. You have to promise to watch out for Jack for me."

Her voice faltered slightly "I....we need him Frank, we need him to come back safely and I need you to help. Will you Frank? Will you bring him back to me, to me and to Charlie?"

By now tears filled her eyes and she angrily wiped them away on her sleeve. She had vowed to herself that she wouldn't cry in front of Jack or Frank or Charlie or anyone, she would save her tears for when she was alone.

"You know I will Sara. I always do. I'll bring him home, for both of you I promise."

He hugged Sara tightly and whispered "I promise."

Frank kissed her lightly on the cheek before they broke their embrace. Sara dried the last of her tears and smiled at Frank.

"Thanks Frank, look after the both of you."

"You'd better get back to Jack before he thinks there is something going on between us." Frank joked giving her arm a final reassuring squeeze.

Jack still had Charlie in his arms when Sara rejoined them, she almost felt guilty for breaking up this precious moment, but Jack belonged to her as much as to Charlie.

Jack reached out with his free arm and encircled Sara, drawing her in to the embrace.

All around the airfield the same scene was being played out a hundred different times. Husbands and wives, fathers and their children, a hundred good-byes, a hundred broken hearts, a hundred prayers for safe returns.

The time had come.

Jack put Charlie back down and looking solemnly at him said "Remember our deal Charlie."

"Yes Dad." Charlie's eyes were filled with tears.

Jack turned to Sara, framed against the afternoon sun he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. He stared long and hard at her, trying to imprint the picture in his mind. He kissed her gently.

"I love you." He whispered. "I'll miss you, but I promise I'll be home real soon."

"I love you too. Now go, get on that plane."

She didn't want him to go, but she knew that she couldn't hold her tears much longer and she didn't want Jack to see her cry.

Jack turned and started to walk away, towards Frank, towards the plane, towards his destiny.

Sara ran after Jack, catching him just before he reached Frank.

"Please be careful Jack."

"I will." He replied favoring her with one of his best smart-ass O'Neill grins before turning back toward Frank. The pair made their way to the plane, seemingly deep in serious conversation.

Sara made her way back to Charlie and, as they and all the others watched the plane load-up, taxi down the runway and climb into the hot afternoon sun, she felt a shiver down her spine.

She knew then with a cold dread certainty that it would be a long time before she saw Jack again.

*********

In misfortune, what friend remains a friend?
Euripides

3 weeks later Somewhere in Kuwait

Majors Jack O'Neill and Frank Cromwell left the relative coolness of the briefing tent and stepped into the blazing desert sun.

They had just received their latest set of orders, another night time raid into Iraq looking for the hidden scud missile launch sites that were now beginning to become a problem for the allied air attacks.

It wouldn't be the first mission they had been on, nor was it likely to be the last. So far all their incursions into sleepy Iraqi towns and villages had yielded nothing. No weapons, no soldiers, no dangers, just ordinary people trying to live ordinary lives while all about them the world went not so quietly crazy.

"I don't like going on such short notice." Jack grumbled, "I mean tonight! We've only just got back and the guys need a break."

"I know, but if the Intel is right we don't have long before Saddam moves those scuds again. This is the best chance we have had to actually find something; we can't let it go to waste." Frank reasoned.

Jack knew that Frank was right, they had to go now or miss the best chance they had had since arriving to deal Saddam a crippling blow and further turn the tide of the conflict in favor of the allies. He just couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something, that there was something just not quite right about this mission.

He pushed his reservations to the back of his mind, he had a job to do, they both had a job to do. He told himself that he would just be that little bit more careful this time but, with Frank to back him up, what could go wrong?

********

The choppers hovered close to the ground, just far enough away from the town to not be clearly heard. After all, Iraq was a country at war and the sound of military might was not an unusual one, even at night. The members of the US Air Force 55th Special Operation Squadron jumped from the choppers and quickly blended into the desert scrub. The choppers left as quietly as they had arrived. The desert was once more silent and apparently empty.

From their positions hidden amongst the sparse desert scrub that bordered the small Iraqi town, Jack and Frank scanned the desert for signs that they had been seen. Nothing moved anywhere. The town slept on, the night's silence only punctuated by the faint sounds of animals

"Looks quiet, let's get this show moving." Frank whispered to Jack.

A silent nod of agreement.

This was a well-worked routine. They both knew what they had to do, all the men under their command knew what to do. Words were not necessary.

Jack signaled his group to move out and begin the approach to the town. He turned to Frank.

"See you on the other side of town and don't leave without me!"

Then he was gone, a silent figure all but invisible in the clear desert night.

"Promise." Frank whispered after the departing figure, before himself calling together his men and setting off towards the town.

The town looked like all the others. No signs of life, no movement, nothing.

Jack and his team were at the outskirts, they stopped and waited, watching for anything that might tell them they had been seen. Just like all the other towns nothing changed, so they moved on.

Suddenly, Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle; it was his early warning system telling him something wasn't quite right. This usually only happened just before things really turned to shit.

The reservations he had about this mission surfaced again, and he knew, he just knew that this one was going to go bad. The only thing he didn't know was how or when.

Hoping that Frank wasn't too far away, he thumbed his personal radio.

"Alpha 1 this is Bravo 2 do you copy?"

Franks voice faint in his ear.

"I copy. I thought we were observing radio silence."

"We are, well we were. Is it all still quiet on your side of town?"

"Yes. Why?"

Jack suddenly felt a little foolish. Nothing was amiss either here or with Frank. Had he let his misgivings get the better of him? Maybe, but when he had these feelings he usually wasn't wrong.

"It's nothing I guess, just ...well watch your back that's all. Bravo 2 out."

Jack thumbed off his radio and signaled to his team to carry on.

On the other edge of town, Frank did the same, wondering what had prompted Jack to break radio silence in the first place. He knew that Jack didn't spook easily and that maybe he had some good reason behind his strange call.

As he once more watched the silent town, he couldn't for the life of him work out what that reason might have been.

Jack and his team were quietly prowling the empty streets, searching for anything they could find when it happened. The feelings that Jack had about this mission were about to be justified. Suddenly, the streets were bathed in light and gunfire rained down onto the hapless soldiers.

They had been set up and were now as helpless as fish in a barrel.

The soldiers broke for cover, trying to return the gunfire, but still unsure as to where it was coming from. It seemed to come from everywhere at the same time.

As Jack ran for cover he saw one of his team go down, his body riddled with bullets as he fell, his blood staining the dusty street.

Shit! He thought as he made the safety of an empty barn. This is just peachy.

The rest of his team had also made the safety of the barn, most were unhurt but a few were wounded, a couple seriously. Jack knew that he had to get them out of there quickly, he didn't know the strength of the Iraqi forces that opposed them, but he was certain that they would be heavily outnumbered, and they couldn't defend the barn for long.

"Alpha 1 this is Bravo 2 . We have run into heavy hostile fire, I repeat heavy hostile fire. Do you copy?"

Frank's voice sounded breathless in his earpiece and he could hear the sound of gunfire in the background.

"Copy Bravo 2 , we're also under attack. Let's call in the choppers and get the hell out of here."

"Roger that Alpha 1. Where are you? We're holed up in a barn about half a click North of our entry point."

"We see you. You're not that far from our position. We'll make our way to your position." The sounds of shouting and more gunfire cut Frank off before he could say any more.

Jack turned his attention to his own team. They had set themselves into defendable positions and were returning the gunfire as best they could. Jack was proud of them, they were good men and none of them deserved to die. And all of them deserved to go home.

He found the radio operator and sent his message back. They were in deep shit and needed to get out of there real quick. The promise that choppers were on their way heartened his team and they resumed the firefight with renewed energy.

Frank and his team had fought their way through the narrow streets and alleys until they reached the barn. They were lucky, casualties amongst them were light.

It was a morale boost for all the men to see each other again, and hands were shaken and backs slapped as friends were re-united.

"Well this is going well!" Frank quipped.

"Ya think!"

The two friends laughed and then, looking around the barn, went back to the job at hand. They still had to get the men under their command out of this hell and back to safety.

The sound of choppers. A cheer went up from the trapped men, hope at last. The pick-up point was on the other side of town, past the hidden snipers. Not an easy task.

An explosion on the other side of the street from the barn suddenly silenced the gunfire. The rescue choppers were not alone; a Black Hawk Attack Helicopter was punishing the enemy positions. Laying down covering fire and targeting buildings with its missiles. This was their one chance and they took it.

Jack and Frank urged the men out of the barn and into the streets, helping the wounded and giving covering fire themselves. As they spilled into the streets Jack saw the body of the dead soldier.

Never leave anyone behind.

Jack caught Frank's arm.

"Get to the pick-up point. I'll be right behind you, there's just something I have to do. Hold the last seat for me!"

Frank nodded and took off into the streets. He knew what Jack was doing, he too had seen the dead soldier in the street.

The gunfire once more erupted as the remaining Iraqis tried to stop the fleeing Americans.

From somewhere the bullets whizzed down close to Jack, never actually striking him. He zigzagged down the street trying to dodge the bullet with his name on.

Another attack run from the Black Hawk, and this time the explosion was close to Jack, the percussive force blowing him off his feet and sending him rolling back into a wall, where he lay dazed for a few moments.

The sound of a bullet and the chip of stone that blew out from the wall grazing his cheek, was all the encouragement he needed to get back on his feet.

Shooting as he ran, he made his way back towards the dead man. This time his luck didn't quite hold as a shot from high up on a rooftop grazed his temple, the pain driving him to his knees. His vision blurred and the street seemed to come up to meet him. Darkness swam at the edge of his mind, calling him.

Frank heard the explosion from the Black Hawk and turned to look back in Jack's direction. By the time the dust had cleared enough, he was just in time to see Jack running and then stopping and falling to his knees and then onto the ground as the bullet hit him in the head.

"Jack!!!" He shouted, starting to go after him. A tug on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

"It's no good Major, nobody could survive a hit like that. We have to go. Major! We have to go NOW!"

Frank looked at the young soldier beside him and then back to the now unmoving form of his best friend lying in the distance. He knew the soldier was right, nobody could survive a hit like that.

He had to take charge, he had to make sure that all the other good, brave men got home. It was too late for Jack, there was no time for sorrow. That would come later.

"I'm sorry Jack" he whispered, then turned to the young soldier. "OK, let's get out of here!"

Jack was lying on the dusty street. Blood ran from the furrow made by the bullet, it ran into his eye making his vision go a strange shade of red. He tried to sit up, his head spun with the effort, he couldn't seem to get his limbs to co-operate. He just wanted to close his eyes and wait for the world to stop spinning.

One more effort and he managed to lift his head, he thought he saw Frank in the distance.

But it couldn't be Frank because this figure was turning away and leaving. Frank would never leave him - they had made a deal. A deal in blood that they would never leave each other behind, so it couldn't be Frank ,,,, could it?

In the very far distance Jack saw the choppers, rising out of the desert into the night.

A night that was now turning to a red dawn.

Red like the blood that ran down his face.

He noticed that as the choppers rose, turned and flew off towards safety, the gunfire stopped and the town was once more eerily silent. He didn't notice the gun butt until it struck him on his already sore head sending him into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

*******

Pain is no evil, unless it conquers us George Elliot

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison Iraq

Jack woke to darkness and silence, his head pounding and fuzzy. He was lying on his side curled up and, as he rolled onto his back, the pain flared in his head causing him to cry out. He took several deep breaths, fighting down the pain until it seemed to recede to a steady throbbing.

The darkness was not the comforting darkness of night but a complete, suffocating, claustrophobic darkness. Unsure if he had opened his eyes he reached his hand to his face and found that his left eye was caked with dry blood from the bullet wound but, with a little gentle persuasion, he managed to open it. It made no difference to his situation, the darkness was impenetrable.

He couldn't see anything.

Slowly and carefully he sat up, trying not to aggravate the gnawing pain in his head. He pushed himself backwards, until he hit something solid. Using the wall, he forced himself to his feet his head pounding nauseatingly. He used his fingers to slide along the wall, feeling for any change in texture, any opening, anything that might tell him where he was and even better how he might get out.

The texture of the wall never changed and within six feet he had reached a join. Counting his steps in the darkness he continued along the wall, until he came to another join and another wall. He repeated the process until he was sure he had been round his cell at least twice, each wall was exactly the same length, twelve feet, and there seemed to be no obvious sign of a door.

Shit he thought they've buried me alive!

"HEY." He shouted, "Get me the hell outta here!" Silence greeted his shouts; he listened hard for any sound that might indicate that he was not alone.

Nothing.

Nothing but the roaring of the pain in his head and the sound of his own heartbeat.

Jack sank back down the wall, his head swimming sickeningly, panic started to fill his mind and, try as he might, reason seemed to elude him.

He closed his eyes and tried to fill his mind with thoughts of wide-open spaces, clean air and cool breezes.

Come on O'Neill, he chastised himself, you'll find a way out. You have to.

Jack had no idea how long he sat in the dark, but it was long enough for the cold from the cell walls to creep into his body, making him shiver and his joints begin to ache.

A growing hunger and the start of a raging thirst now joined the pounding in his head. He realized that the last time he had eaten or drank anything had been before they had left for the mission – whenever that had been.

Needless to say he had no idea when, if ever, he would again.

He had tried walking round his cell to keep warm, but the effort of standing and moving usually made his head spin and left him feeling tired and disorientated. He decided that, until the pain in his head subsided, he wouldn't try again.

So he sat in the dark, waiting and hoping that something, anything would happen. He started drifting in and out of a fitful sleep.

The darkness was abruptly shattered.

The cell was bathed in strong light, so bright that Jack, accustomed as he was to the total darkness, was temporarily blinded. He screwed his eyes shut against the intruding glare but he could still feel the burning at the back of his eyes.

The silence was abruptly shattered.

As the light filled the room, so did the noise. A mind numbing cacophony of static. Compared to the preceding silence it was deafening and he immediately covered his ears trying to block out the screeching sound.

The light and the noise persisted and slowly he became accustomed to them both. He carefully opened his eyes and was able for the first time to see the full extent of his 'accommodation'.

The light was pouring from behind panels fixed into the roof and Jack guessed the noise was too. Maybe this could be a way out he thought.

Standing up he tried reaching for the panels but, as he had suspected, they were a good way above his head. He was never going to reach them. The next thing he looked for was a door, he hadn't felt one in the darkness but that didn't mean that there wasn't one.

Slowly he went round the now familiar walls, carefully examining every inch. He finally found it set flush into the wall. It was made of the same stone as the walls of the cell it was no wonder he had not found it before. Obviously, there was no means of opening the door from his side.

No way out there either.

Having fully explored all the options, Jack knew that there was nothing he could do to get out of this place. He realized that his only chance was to be ready when...if... they ever came for him. He sat back down, facing the door, trying to conserve his strength, trying to develop a plan.

He thought that the fact that he was now being subjected to the light and noise meant that he hadn't just been left in there to die.

Didn't it?

As abruptly as they had come, the light and the noise were gone. Jack was back in the suffocating silent darkness.

The continuous noise had left him drained, the aching in his head worse. He needed to sleep. Resting his head on his knees, he thought of home, of his own bed, of sharing it with Sara. Her face smiled at him as he eventually fell into a troubled sleep.

He was woken by the return of the light and the noise. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, he just knew it wasn't long enough.

He knew what they were trying to do to him. Sensory deprivation was one of the oldest tricks in an interrogator's arsenal, but knowing that didn't make it any less effective.

The vicious cycle was endless.

Darkness and silence.

Light and noise.

Noise and light.

Silence and darkness.

Jack didn't know how much time had passed, but his body told him it had to be at least a couple of days already. He was still dying of thirst, but strangely he no longer felt hungry. His body was beginning to shut down and he knew that if he didn't get fluids into his system soon, he would be dead in another couple of days. His whole body trembled continuously and cramp spread into every tiny muscle.

He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die here, wherever here was.

He tried to think about home, about Sara and Charlie, but he was tired, so very tired.

Light once more bathed the small cell rudely waking Jack from his now near comatose state. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to raise his head from his knees.

Something was different this time. It took Jack a few moments to realize that there was no noise this time. His brain struggled to work out why. Then the answer came.

The door to the cell swung open on silent hinges and two mean looking guards strode in. In the corridor outside Jack thought he saw more guards, they were heavily armed.

"Kef" (Stand up)

Jack didn't understand what they said so he stayed where he was. Even weakened as he was by dehydration, injury and lack of sleep, Jack was determined to make them work for everything they wanted.

"Kef" (Stand up) this time the statement was accompanied by one of the guards roughly grabbing Jack by his arm and pulling him to his feet.

The sudden movement made Jack's head spin and the muscles in his legs burn. He was glad that the grip on his arm was firm otherwise he feared he might have collapsed.

The guard spun Jack round and slammed him face first into the wall. The force of the impact caused fresh blood to seep from the cut on his temple.

"Hey." Jack protested "All you had to do was ask!"

"Hodoue" (Silence) the guard who had hold of Jack grabbed him by his hair and once more slammed his face into the stone wall. This time blood came from his nose as well as his head.

As the first guard ground Jack's face into the stone wall, the other forced his arms behind him and with a ruthless efficiency bound his wrists tightly. Jack bit back a moan of pain. A blindfold swiftly followed and Jack was back in the suffocating darkness. The guards pushed Jack from the cell.

They jostled and shoved him through a series of corridors, laughing every time he stumbled down steps or fell over objects he couldn't see.

Every time he fell, Jack staggered back to his feet and forced one foot in front of the other. If he was too slow to get up the guards would help him by grabbing his hair and dragging him to his feet, pushing him once more in the desired direction.

Bastards he thought Stinking rotten bastards. The anger gave him strength, but not enough. He stumbled and fell to his knees once more and this time try as he might he couldn't get to his feet.

In the darkness of the blindfold he never saw the kick coming, never knew anything about it until it impacted into his stomach driving the air from his lungs and doubling him over in pain. Still gasping for breath, the next blow rocked him, pain flared in his side and he slid to the floor. He was grabbed by the back of his uniform and pulled to his feet. This time the guards just dragged him until they reached their destination.

Suddenly the grip on him was released and he was thrown forward. He managed only a few steps before falling once more to his knees, he could hear nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing as he fought to gain control of his shaking limbs.

The smell was the first indication that he was not alone; it was a mixture of cheap cologne, the kind of stuff that had been popular in the USA back in the seventies and strong blended cigarette smoke. He heard the footsteps now, echoing on the stone floor. He tried to follow them as they came closer and closer, eventually circling him.

The smell was cloying, overpowering, repulsive as the figure stopped in front of him.

Jack was scared inside, his stomach in knots. He wondered what was in store for him; he didn't really want to know. If he was going to die then he would do so bravely, not cowed on his knees. With a supreme effort of Will Jack pushed himself once more to his feet and, whilst he swayed unsteadily, inwardly he felt stronger, more able to face whatever was to come.

That was until the first blow sent him crashing back to the floor.

More footsteps and then hands grabbed Jack and pulled him back to his feet. They held him firmly by his arms as again the strong unpleasant smell filled his nostrils.

The softest of grunts as a fist landed on his jaw, rocking his head back, splitting his lip.

Another grunt, another fist, another bruise.

Not a word was spoken, not a question was asked.

The room was silent but for the soft grunts of the interrogator as he landed blow after blow.

Jack had no defense, he couldn't see anything, he couldn't tell where the next blow would come from. He couldn't move away, couldn't try and protect himself. He tensed when he heard the grunting, hoping to shield himself from whatever was to come. He tried to hold in the cries of pain that fought to escape his lips, sometimes he succeeded, sometimes not.

Why don't they say something? Why don't they ask me something? What do they want from me?

The questions flooded Jack's mind. The answers were more blows to his abused body in the still silence.

A sudden agonizing pain in his groin stopped the thoughts dead, doubling Jack over, leaving him gasping for breath. Tears streamed from his eyes and soaked into his blindfold.

Shit.... that hurt.

If it hadn't been for the still firm grip on his arms he would have collapsed to the floor. The hands pulled him upright, still gasping.

Another kick, this time straight to his ribs. What little breath he had left was driven from him in a cry of agony as he felt the bone give.

Fuck – now that REALLY hurt.

Jacks' knees buckled and he sagged into the guards' hands. Quiet laughter rang in his ears as they let him go, watching as he tumbled onto the unforgiving stone floor.

Jack managed to land on his sore side, jarring his ribs again, sending waves of pain through his body. The blackness of unconsciousness played at the corners of his mind.

The hard edge of a combat boot struck him in the back and he groaned. More boots landed on his back and legs and he tried to curl up to protect himself, as kick after kick rained down on him. Soon there wasn't any part of him that wasn't sore and bruised, every inch of him ached, every muscle quivered with abuse.

He wasn't sure how much more his body could stand. Pain on top of pain, abuse on top of abuse, agony on top of agony.

A wayward kick caught him square on the temple, once more opening up the wound caused by the bullet. As the blood flowed, the pain overwhelmed him and, before he could cry out, the blackness claimed him and pulled him into its waiting arms.

Jack awoke back in his cell, curled on his side, free from his bonds and blindfold. The fact that he woke at all surprised him; the beating he had taken was severe, the aching and pain in every cell of his body was testament to that.

He didn't know how long he had been unconscious but the stiffness setting into his battered body, told him it must have been several hours at least. He felt the cold stone beneath his feet, and realized that his boots and socks were gone, as was his jacket.

Aw great he thought they were my best boots too.

He started to roll onto his back, groaning and cursing as each new part of him made contact with the floor. His chest and ribs burnt with the effort, and he was soon sweating despite the coldness of his cell.

Once on his back Jack allowed himself time to try and recover his breath and assess his injuries. He carefully felt along his ribs, crying out with pain when he found a particularly tender area. He knew what broken ribs felt like and they felt at best cracked and at worst broken.

Jack moved to sit up, cradling his ribs with one arm, he pushed with the other. The whole world spun crazily, nausea overtook him and he vomited. Only he had nothing to vomit and the resulting dry heaves further punished his bruised torso. Once the feeling passed and the walls and floor had stopped spinning and changing places he tried to move again. This time he made it, grateful for the feel of the wall behind him as he slumped against it.

He tried to think, to work out why him, why now when his life had so much meaning, why was he still alive? But the pain plagued him catching at his reason with a merry viciousness.

He let his head fall back against the wall, closed his eyes and allowed the pain to take him again.

The next time Jack woke it was to the sound of footsteps in his cell.

God – not again – so soon.

He didn't want to open his eyes and see the horror that he was sure awaited him or the leering faces of the guards as they grabbed him and dragged him away. Instead he heard the footsteps stop, turn and leave, the cell door shutting behind them. Slowly he opened his eyes, which was in itself a difficult task, caked as they were in dried blood. He hardly dared believe what he saw, in the corner of the cell was a pitcher and a small lump of old dried bread, now turning green with mould.

He had to reach them!

Summoning his failing strength and gritting his teeth against the pain to come, Jack started to edge along the cell wall. Every movement jarred his ribs and the walls and floor abraded his bruised and battered flesh.

He groaned with the effort, cursing everyone and everything until at last he reached his precious goal.

He looked inside the pitcher.

Thank God - water.

With shaking hands Jack reached for the jug, holding the cool moist container, relishing the feel of it. As soon as he had got his breathing back to somewhere near normal after the exertions of moving, he lifted the pitcher to his lips and drank, long and hard. Never had anything tasted so good, better than fine wine or a cold beer on a hot Florida afternoon, and he didn't stop drinking until the jug was drained. Putting it down Jack realized that he suddenly felt nauseous, the bile was rising in his throat.

His body had been shutting down, and the sudden influx of liquid was too much for his system to cope with.

As he vomited the precious life giving fluid back onto the cold stone floor, he knew that he had made a terrible mistake. His stomach cramped as he heaved, his ribs flared with the effort and he felt tears in his eyes.

Damn stupid move. That could have been your only chance for water and what do you do – drink it down like some teenager downing his first beer. What did that get you – sore ribs and a WORSE thirst.

Jack raged at himself, and once the worst was over he slowly and painfully moved away from the offending area, all thoughts of the bread gone from his mind. He felt a wave of desperation wash over him.

Maybe he wouldn't get any more water.

Maybe he'd get another beating.

Maybe he would never see Sara and Charlie again.

He thought about them, Sara and Charlie, the two most precious things to him in the whole world. He pictured their faces, laughing, carefree and wondered what they were doing now. He hoped they were still laughing and carefree, enjoying life, enjoying freedom.

God he wanted to be with them. He needed to be with them.

He was with them in his mind and those thoughts gave him strength, those thoughts drove away the despair that threatened him, those thoughts helped him steel his Will to stand what was to come.

Jack was exhausted, not just tired but bone deep exhausted. He had got precious little sleep since he had arrived and with no food and water on top of his recent beating his body's need to recover was overpowering and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

They came for him again, shouting to rouse him.

"Kef Alaan!" (Stand Up. Now!)

Jack could hardly lift his head this time let alone his body, so just as before they dragged him to his feet, slammed him into the wall, bound and blindfolded him and pushed him into the corridor.

This time they dragged him more than he walked.

Back to the large room and the man with the cheap cologne.

He was pushed to his knees and held there. He heard the footsteps approaching, he tried to tense his body to absorb the blows to come but he was too weak. For what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact no more than minutes nothing happened, no noise, no questions and no blows.

He wondered what was going on and tried to look beneath and around his blindfold.

Nothing.

He had no defense against the blows when they started. How could you defend against something you couldn't see?

Once more the soft grunting was all the warning that Jack got and it was never enough.

Blows rained into his face, splitting his already cracked lips. A glancing blow from something that felt like a ring cut his cheek. The next blow broke his nose, blood coursed down his face.

The arms let him go and he fell to the floor. They picked him up, only for the next blow to drive him back down again.

So it went on, a blow, hit the floor, dragged back up, a blow, hit the floor....

Jack was barely conscious, when they stopped beating him leaving him in a pool of his own blood. At least this time they hadn't kicked him like before. His breathing was ragged and shallow, his chest hurt like hell, with every tiny movement fire raged inside him. He almost wished he was dead, anything to stop this pain. A vision of Charlie standing proudly on the hot airfield filled his mind and he knew he couldn't die. At least not yet.

Once more they dragged him to his knees, he thought with Charlie beside him he was ready for them.

He was wrong.

The man with the cheap cologne was now behind Jack, he could smell him. The smell was mingled with the sweat of the two guards who held him, close, far, far too close.

He felt hands grasp his still bound hands, stroking each finger almost lovingly until they reached the little finger of his left hand. The hand took a firm grip of Jack's finger and bent it backwards.

Jack realized just too late what they intended to do to him, and he had no time to prepare for the new wave of agony that pulsed through him as the finger reached the limit of its movement and snapped with an audible crack. Jack couldn't stop the cry that spilled from his lips.

"Fucking Son of A Bitch."

The pain was intense, spots danced in front of his eyes, he gasped like a fish out of water, trying to draw enough air into his lungs to quell the rising agony.

He felt the hands at his again.

Oh shit – not another.

The index finger on his right hand, bending backwards, until it too reached its limit.

His trigger finger, he noted absently just before the pain exploded once more.

The laughter of the men in the room was the last thing he remembered.

This was now Jack's world, his whole existence.

Waking in his cell, aching and tired, battered and bruised, bloody but not quite broken.

Waiting for the door to open and the horrors to start again.

Sometimes it seemed that they left him alone for days at a time, other times they came back way too soon.

But they always came back.

The routine never changed, bound and blindfolded, dragged, shoved and jostled, beaten and kicked.

They never spoke, never questioned him.

Once he tried to ask them why.

The beating that followed was more vicious than usual, not stopping even after he fell unconscious.

They broke another of his fingers, he never asked again.

Sometimes when he woke, there would be food and water in the cell, sometimes not. After the first time, Jack had learnt his lesson, now he slowly sipped the water and always ate what they left for him, no matter how disgusting it looked or smelt.

He didn't know how long he had been there, suffering at the hands and feet of his captors, but he didn't think that he could last much longer. He never saw daylight, never had enough to eat or drink, never had enough sleep.

The only thing he had enough of was pain.

It was becoming harder to draw strength from the thoughts of Charlie and Sara, their images were difficult to focus on, their faces gradually becoming indistinct as the pain became the sole focus of Jack's life.

*********

Those who weep recover more quickly than those who smile
Jean Giraudoux

Elgin Air Force Base

Florida

Sara O'Neill was in pain too. The pain of missing Jack, the pain of not knowing if he was safe, the pain of a life that suddenly seemed so empty. She had Charlie, and that helped, but at the end of the day she still went to bed alone and woke the same way.

Charlie did his best to help her, he tried to make her laugh, he tried to help her forget, he tried to be just like his dad. But he was only a child.

Sara wasn't worried that she hadn't heard from Jack since just after he arrived in the Gulf. He had spoken to her over a crackle filled satellite link, reassured her that he was fine and told her not to worry. He said he would be in touch when he could. Sara knew from experience that the type of work Jack and Frank did often meant long periods with no word. So she wasn't worried, besides the two of them would look after each other.

They always did.

As she wasn't worried, she didn't expect the knock on her front door to herald the news it did. As soon as she saw the worried faces of the two Air Force officers on her porch, she knew, she knew it was bad news about Jack.

"Mrs Sara O'Neill?" One of the officers asked.

"Yes... It's about Jack isn't it?"

"If you mean Major Jonathon O'Neill then yes Ma'am it is. I think it might be best if we come in."

Nobody but his mother and the Air Force called him Jonathon.

She swallowed hard motioning them inside the house, the cold dread feeling that she had felt when Jack had left was returning.

They sat down and Sara listened as they told her in Air Force jargon what had happened. Jargon that tried, and failed to hide the fact that Jack was missing.

Presumed dead.

Lost. Left behind. Forgotten. Betrayed?

She numbly accepted their words, their sympathy, and their explanations. They told her that as there had been no body returned to the unit that he would be listed as 'missing'. They said that the Air Force would use all the facilities at its disposal to find out what had happened to Jack, they wouldn't stop looking for him, they WOULD bring him home. All she had to do was to believe that and be ready when he did come home.

She asked about Frank, expecting to hear that he to was 'missing'. After all he promised her he would bring Jack home, and she knew that the only way that wouldn't happen was if he too was 'missing' – for missing read dead.

They said they had no news of a Major Cromwell and even if they did, rules and regulations and red tape would have prevented them from telling her.

They asked her if she needed somebody to stay with her.

"No, my son will be home soon. I'll be fine until he gets here."

They told her they would be in touch as soon as they had any news and that if she needed anything she should call their office. She thanked them for their concern and showed them out.

Sara went back inside the house, a house that, until moments ago, had been a home. Now it was an empty shell, just walls, devoid of life and laughter and love.

Alone in the silent, empty house she picked up a picture of her and Jack on their wedding day. He was resplendent in his uniform; she was the perfect blushing bride, their love for each other obvious.

As she stroked Jack's face through the glass the tears formed. Try as she might, they fell, splashing off the picture to form sad, empty pools on the floor.

"Damn you. Damn you to hell Jack O'Neill. How dare you up and die on me, you bastard. You promised. You promised you'd come home."

Sara suddenly dashed the picture to the floor, the glass shattering. Her anger and frustration and loss overwhelmed her and she wept until she had no tears left.

By the time Charlie came back from school, Sara had regained her composure, cleaned up the broken glass and dried her tears. She had also decided that until she knew more, until she saw Jack's body for herself, she wouldn't tell Charlie.

He was too young to have to face the loss of a parent, to understand the reasons why, to accept death as a part of life.

For his sake, Sara forced the smile back on her face and tried to get on with her life, with their life without Jack, just as she had done every other day since he had left.

Over the coming days Sara badgered everybody she knew on the base, and some that she didn't, trying to find out about what had really happened.

Those in authority would tell her nothing other than the official line. Jack was missing in action.

Stonewalled.

Those who knew her and Jack, promised to do what they could, if they heard anything they would call.

She didn't hold out much hope, they meant well but the Air Force was the Air Force and it ran a well-oiled machine.

All she got was the official line. Jack was missing in action.

Frustrated.

Life or what passed for life went on.

********

Be'er Shahat – The Hell Of Fire And Ice

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison Iraq

It had been some time since they had last beaten him, not that he minded, it had given him time to heal, just a little.

It had given him time to think, to renew his inner strength, his resolve to survive this place.

He had made a promise to Sara and almost more importantly to Charlie, and he couldn't break his promise.

That would make him just like Frank, and he NEVER wanted to be like Frank.

He knew that he had to be able to look Charlie in the face and tell him that he kept his promise and he came home.

Once more the door swung open.

Jack pushed himself wearily to his feet, turning to face the wall. It was easier than being slammed into it.

The guards bound his hands but didn't blindfold him; they led him out into the hallways of the prison.

For the first time Jack could see the rows of windowless doors each leading, he imagined, to cells like his. The halls were dark, damp, musty. There was no doubt that this was a place of pain and ultimately death.

It was soon obvious to Jack that there weren't going to the usual place; he knew that route well enough by now.

Where to now? What to now? He wondered as they jostled him along.

As he tried to look through the partially opened doors on the way, some of the things he saw made him wish for the comfort of another beating. Broken men, mad men, mutilated men, dead men.

Which will I be?

Jack thought he saw shafts of daylight in the not far distance.

Daylight!

A short flight of stairs and they were outside. To Jack the feel of the sun and the gentle desert wind were to be treasured. He had thought he might die without ever seeing the sun again, he had prayed that he wouldn't.

He stopped and lifted his head towards the early morning rays, savoring the feel of them on his face. It reminded him of fishing trips off the Florida Keys, just him and Charlie trying to catch that ever-elusive 'big one'. He smiled as he remembered.

Charlie.

His thoughts were cut short by a hefty shove in the back and he staggered a few steps before regaining his footing.

The guards pushed him out into the middle of a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high, thick, impenetrable walls.

A few sad, lost looking men were already in the courtyard, they too were beaten, their clothes no more than rags. They looked at Jack with the hollow eyes of souls beyond caring, beyond saving, beyond hope.

The guards returned them to their jobs with harsh words and harsher actions.

Jack noticed that all the prisoners he saw were of Middle Eastern descent.

In the center of the courtyard was a small circular open barred metal cage, just large enough for a man to stand in.

This was Jack's destination.

Without warning one of Jack's guards swung his fist hard against his still sore ribs and as Jack doubled over they were upon him, forcing him to the dusty floor. They untied his hands and replaced the ropes with heavy iron manacles. The metal rubbed against his already raw flesh, causing blood to start seeping from the wounds.

They hauled him to his feet and pushed him inside the small cell, forcing his arms out and above his head, where they were securely fastened. The cage was just tall enough to allow Jack to keep his feet on the floor.

A glint of sunlight on a knife.

One of the guards approached Jack and grabbing what was left of his T shirt sliced it from neck to waist so that it fell away leaving Jack's bruised torso exposed.

He wasn't to careful as he cut, catching and scoring Jack's flesh on more than one occasion. Small trickles of blood smeared his chest. Jack just grimaced slightly.

They shut the door on him, leaving him to the growing heat of the day.

"Hey, thanks guys, I needed to work on my tan!"

Jack was grateful that the guards either didn't understand him or chose to ignore him. He thought that one of these days his smart-ass comments would get him into real trouble!

At first the feel of the sun on his skin was pleasant, reminding him of happier times. He had taken Sara to Hawaii for their honeymoon and they had lazed in the sun, laughed in the sun, made love in the sun.

But as the sun climbed higher into the cloudless desert sky, the sweat began to pour off him, his skin itched and tingled as the sun began to wreak its dangerous revenge.

Revenge for the good times, revenge for the enjoyment, revenge for the love that had given life to their son.

The day blazed on and on, there were no clouds, no shade and even the slight breeze had gone. Jack's eyes were sore from the reflected glare off the sand, his body was turning a painful shade of red, and he would have killed for water.

Around him other prisoners came and went, some stared at him, some avoided him, their guards barked orders and dished out punishments in equal measure.

The first time Jack tried to talk to one of the other prisoners, the nearest guard jabbed his rifle butt through the bars, straight into Jack's ribs.

How original Jack thought sarcastically as the pain flared again.

He kept trying to talk to the others, he didn't know if they heard him or understood what he said. All he did know was, each time he tried, it ended with a painful confrontation between rifle butt and bruised, sunburnt, body.

The body always lost.

Seeing that their efforts were having little effect on Jack, the guards tried another method to keep him quiet. The next person Jack spoke to was thrown to the ground and beaten to unconsciousness.

Jack was stunned, shamed, disgusted with himself. He knew he was responsible and he had to live with what he had done, but he could make sure that nobody else suffered because of him.

He was silent from then on.

His arms and shoulders were aching from the position they were held in, but there was little he could do to relieve that. He tried standing on the balls of his feet, it helped a little, but he couldn't sustain it for long. His feet were cut and sore from being dragged across the stone floors of the prison, the hot sand just irritated them more.

He tried to picture cool things, rivers, waterfalls, the sea. He imagined himself immersed in them, their iciness chilling his burning body. It didn't help, in fact if anything it made him thirstier.

Not wet, but still cold

He thought about the skiing trip he had taken Sara on. He had promised her a great time and she had hated it. Hated the cold, hated the fact that Jack was a better skier than her, hated all the little kids who sped past her whilst she was picking herself up...again.

He made it up to her by taking her on a moonlight sled ride, out into the silent snowy wilderness where they watched the stars in a crystal clear night. Like they were the only people left in the world.

That was the memory to hold on to and he clung to it like a dying man until the sun finally, thankfully, mercifully fell.

The desert night was cold. Jack body was frequently racked with bouts of shivering, brought on by both the sudden drop in temperature and the effects of being out in the blazing sun.

He was so thirsty, so sore, so tired.

Every time Jack tried to close his eyes it seemed that a guard was there, jabbing him through the bars, making sure he never rested.

How do they know?

The next day dawned, promising more of the same, endless, cloudless skies and sunshine.

Jack was on the verge of collapse from the heat, his body falling against the hot metal bars, burning him, jolting him back to reality.

As the day drew on, even though he was outside, Jack felt like he was suffocating, the hot dry air, burning into his lungs. Every breath was like liquid fire, his nose and mouth were so dry that the simple act of drawing breath was getting harder and harder.

His eyes were sore, and he could barely open them, sand and grit grated under his puffy red sunburnt eyelids. His whole body was burnt and blistering, Jack was just grateful for the fact that he still had his pants on. He didn't want to think about what the sun would do to 'that' part of his body.

His muscles ached from being held in the same position for so long, the cramping in his shoulders was vicious and he had long since lost all the feeling in his hands. He had no where to move to ease the pain, and even if he had, he didn't have the energy to do so.

He tried to think of other places, other people, other times but the heat made it hard to concentrate on anything other than the simple act of breathing.

The day drew to an end, the cold desert night that followed yet again brought its' own set of trials to be endured and overcome. Jack struggled to do so, he fought hard against the betrayal of his own body. This time he won, he didn't think he would, could, wanted to win again.

The pre-dawn light was not a welcome sight for the exhausted, beaten sunburnt, Air Force Major. He didn't know if it was better to know how many days passed, or if he preferred the timeless, darkness of the cells.

In the early light the guards came for him. Unchaining him, they had to drag him from the cage, he couldn't walk, he didn't have the energy. He didn't even have the strength to cry out as the pain of being released from his long held position hit him. His body just shook.

They half dragged, half carried him across the courtyard, to a corner that was still in the shade. As they drew closer, Jack recognized a by now familiar smell – cheap cologne.

Standing by a large metal horse trough filled with water was Jack's tormentor, aggressor, interrogator.

He was a well-built man in full military uniform, he sported the short hair and beard favored by the Iraqis.

As Jack was thrown to the ground at his feet, the man removed his sunglasses putting them carefully into a top pocket, he looked down with disgust at the pitiful figure sprawling, gasping for water in the sand.

"You must be dying to quench your thirst." His English was fluid, the accent pronounced but with a clipped crisp articulation.

He motioned to the guards, who grabbed Jack and hauled him to his feet. Jack dug deep inside himself, to the very center of what made him who he was.

Jonathon O'Neill

Major

United States Air Force

And in his book that stood for something, so he forced himself as upright as his body would allow and stared straight into the face of his nemesis. He forced out the words through his cotton dry mouth.

"O'Neill, Jonathon, Major, United State Air Force, 66 789 7876 324."

With an almost imperceptible nod of his head, the man in the uniform signaled the guards holding Jack. They dragged him to the edge of the trough, and then grabbing him by the hair, pushed his head and shoulders into the water, holding him down.

At first Jack was grateful for the cool feel of the water on his face, it eased his burning skin, washed the grit from his eyes and nose. Then, as his lungs started to burn from the lack of oxygen, he wasn't quite so grateful any more. Just as Jack thought he had reached the limit of his breath he was pulled clear of the water.

He gasped in the precious air, but it wasn't enough.

Within what felt like seconds, his head was once more being pushed into the water.

Again and again the guards forced Jack's head into the water, holding it there until they were signaled to release him. A brief respite to try and gain his breath back and then it started again.

The man in the uniform signaled the guards and they dragged Jack from the water for a final time, pushing him to his knees, holding him there by firm hands on his shoulders. The water ran from Jack's head and body pooling in the dry sand. He licked the moisture from his lips, his thirst still raged.

"Now then Major, do you want to tell me why you are in my country?"

Questions. At least I know how to deal with this.

"I cannot answer that question." He rasped, his throat and mouth were still so dry.

"Ah, Major. That is not a satisfactory answer so let me ask you again and this time I suggest you think carefully before answering. What are you doing in my country?"

"I cannot answer that question."

The blow that followed was not unexpected but that didn't make it hurt any less. Jack's head rocked with the force and he could feel the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He carefully ran his tongue around his mouth, finding the broken tooth with a painful gasp.

Bastard broke a tooth.

He looked down, spitting blood and tooth into the dust, then raised his eyes to once more look into the face of his aggressor.

"O'Neill, Jonathon, Major, United Sta..."

He got no further before another punch silenced him. More pain, more blood, more of what he had become used to.

"I know who you are Jonathon. What I need to know is what you are doing here. You will tell me. Now or later, the choice is yours."

It was only figures of authority that called him Jonathon, his mother, the nuns at school, the police, the Air Force.

Jack HATED it when anybody called him Jonathon.

"I guess that will be later then." He quipped back.

The man in the uniform smiled slightly, revealing pure white teeth against his dark beard. It was a sinister smile, one that promised nothing pleasant, nothing to look forward to, nothing but the prospect of evil and horror to come.

"Good. I had hoped our time together would not be brief. I have so much I want to talk about, so much I want to..." he paused for a moment as if searching for just the right word to use "...share with you Jonathon. Now though you need time to think, to realize that I have power over your life. You WILL tell me what I want to know, it is just a matter of time."

"I won't tell you anything, not now, not then, not ever."

The Iraqi officer issued an order to the guards holding Jack and they pulled him to his feet.

"We will talk again soon Jonathon. Maybe then you will tell me what I want to know. But I hope not."

"Can't wait."

The guards started to drag Jack in the direction of the prison.

"Hey guys, I CAN walk you know." That wasn't strictly true, Jack hardly had the energy to put one sore, cut, burnt leg in front of the other, but he knew that he was NEVER going to let some jumped-up little dictator with overblown delusions of grandeur get one over on him.

They threw Jack into one of the first cells they came to, slamming the door with unnecessary force. There was food and water in the cell but not enough to quench his thirst or fill his hunger.

Jack lay wearily on the floor and before he realized it fell into a troubled sleep, punctuated by nightmares of the man in the uniform torturing him; only it wasn't him it was Sara or Charlie. Jack woke, shaking and breathless, unsure for a moment of the distinction between life and dreams.

The unchanging passage of time in the windowless cell was only marked by the arrival of more food and water. The guards usually took the opportunity to jostle and push Jack around, they would spit in his water and drop the food onto the floor. Jack didn't care, he couldn't afford to, and he needed the food and water if he was to have any hope of surviving whatever this place still had in store for him.

The door swung open again, Jack looked up into the face of his captor. He stood just inside the cell looking at Jack, what he saw cut a pretty pathetic impression of a man. The weeks of enforced starvation meant that Jack was now pitifully thin, his ribs and collarbones were evident through the tissue thin skin, which still bore the fading marks of his earlier beatings. His hair was longer and he had a good growth of beard, both were unclean, unkempt and matted with his blood. His face was hollowed from lack of food, dark rings circled his eyes; eyes in which there still burnt anger and pride but above all, hope.

The man motioned Jack to his feet. Reluctantly, wearily, and with a huge effort of Will he complied.

"I am sorry that we have not spoken in a while Jonathon, but other matters have taken me from you. Now those matters are resolved and I can once more give you my full attention."

"Gee thanks, I was kinda missing our little chats, although I don't think I have anything to say to you."

"That is what you think now Jonathon, but I believe that you will tell me everything I ask of you. In fact I would bet your life on it."

Seemingly from nowhere the guards appeared and Jack allowed himself to be led out of the cell. The officer followed them.

"You seem a little pale, perhaps you would enjoy some more time in our sunshine. Yes?"

"Sure, I always like to come back from vacation with a tan." Jack hoped his sarcasm hid the fear and pain in his voice. He knew the LAST thing he wanted was to spend any more time in the sun, the effects of the last time were still evident on his blistered skin.

The guards took him outside, back to the cage. This time they hadn't bound him so, when they tried to chain him, he took the opportunity and fought back, managing to land a few solid punches before a blow to his head stunned him enough for them to overcome him and complete their task.

Just as before they left him there for two days in the blazing sun and two nights in the chill of the desert. Just as before they stopped him from sleeping. Just as before life in the prison went on around him.

His skin burnt, his eyes were so sore he could barely open them, his lips cracked and his thirst built to monumental proportions. He was glad when they came for him, even though he didn't know what awaited him.

He walked where they shoved him, back inside the walls of death. When he stumbled on the hard stone floors, his feet cut and bleeding, they would grab him by the most sunburnt piece of skin they could find and 'help' him back on his way. Usually they were laughing.

"Want to let me in the joke guys?" the effort of speaking made Jacks' dry throat burn and set him off with a hacking cough. The guards just ignored him.

They reached their destination, Jack wondered if this was the same room in which he had been beaten before and if that was what awaited him this time. The room contained two chairs and a large table, on the table was a jug and glasses. The Iraqi sat behind the table; he looked immaculate, clean, well fed, all the things that Jack wasn't.

"Good morning Jonathon. Please take a seat, we have much to talk about."

He indicated to the other chair, Jack wanted to sit down, fall down, anything but stand, but he wasn't going to do anything this guy asked of him, not without a fight at least.

"I would prefer to stand" his voice was barely more than a dry rasping whisper. He hoped his shaking legs would hold him as he pulled himself up to his full height and tried his best to look like the soldier he was.

"Very well. As we are going to be spending some time together I should introduce myself, you may call me Kamil. Are you certain you do not want to sit down, this might take some time?"

"No thanks, Camille, I'm just fine where I am." Jack deliberately mispronounced his name, hoping maybe to provoke a reaction.

Nothing.

"Then tell me what where you doing in the village of Tarasha?"

"Never been there, don't know the place, is it nice?"

The Iraqi's expression never changed.

Tough crowd.

"You were there, you were left behind there by your ... friends. Why would they do that? What were you all doing in Tarasha?"

"Told you already, never been there." For Jack every word was an effort; an effort to force past his dry lips and an effort to remain standing, he swayed slightly as he spoke.

The Iraqi reached for the jug on the table and poured two glasses of water. To Jack they were the one thing he needed more than anything, he tried to wet his dry lips but he had no moisture left, his resolve was weakening.

Kamil made a great show of placing one of the glasses on the table by the side of the empty chair, the other he raised slowly to his lips, drinking from it with an over exaggerated gesture.

Replacing the now half-empty glass on the table, Kamil looked at Jack and licked the moisture from his lips in a slow deliberate motion. If Jack hadn't been so thirsty and tired he might have realized that there was more suggested in that action than just the act of tormenting him.

"It is hot in our country." A statement not a question. "I am sure that you find it hot, would you like some water Jonathon?"

Jack was at a point where he knew that the decisions he made right now would determine if he lived or died.

He needed the water to live, but he knew that it would come at a price and that price would be the betrayal of his honor, his sacred oath to serve and protect his country.

But what about his promise to Sara and Charlie, the promise to come home, was that more important than his honor?

Damned if I take it, dead if I don't.

Shit.

What a great choice!

Sara... Charlie.

Shit.

No Choice!

Jack looked once more at the water.

It was no good, there was only one decision to make:

He walked slowly, unsteadily, unwillingly towards the empty chair and sat down. He looked at Kamil as if asking for permission to take the glass.

"Please Jonathon, take the water, there is no trick, no danger. Enjoy it."

Jack reached for the glass, inwardly cursing the weakness of his body that made his hands shake as he slowly drank the cool, clear life saving liquid. He savored every mouthful, finally replacing the empty glass on the table. He was still extremely dehydrated, his throat still dry and sore, but any water was better than none he reasoned.

"Now that you are refreshed, I shall ask you again. What were you doing in Tarasha? Why would you want to attack an innocent town, murder innocent civilians in their beds? This is the typical action of the imperialist aggressor. Are you an imperialist aggressor Jonathon, a murderer in the name of freedom?"

Jack knew that wasn't how it had gone down. They were ambushed and had fought back, they had never murdered anyone. He wondered if protesting his innocence would do any good, he suspected not. That didn't mean he would admit to anything though.

"I'm not a murderer or an aggressor, I'm just an ordinary soldier trying to do my job."

"What was your job? To kill harmless people? To turn them against our glorious leader? What was your job, Major?"

Kamil leant forward on the table, his posture aggressive, his tone still neutral, the effect, intimidating even to a soldier of Jack's experience. Training taught you how to act, how to respond, it didn't, couldn't teach you how to feel.

Jack was scared, although he was determined not to let it show, deep down inside he was scared.

He knew this man could hurt him, the fading scars and bruises proved that, and he was sure that he would do so again.

That didn't scare him.

He knew this man might kill him, eventually.

That didn't scare him.

What scared Jack was what might come between the hurt and his death.

******* It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them
Francois, Duc de la Rochefoucauld

Elgin Air Force Base Florida 75 days later

For Sara O'Neill every day was the same as the one before, they had long since blurred into one indistinct passage of time.

She did the same thing time and time again, the routine giving her a purpose and a meaning to her life as she waited, waited for news of Jack.

She took Charlie to the base school, she cleaned up the house, she phoned for news of Jack, she helped Charlie with his homework and lied to him when he asked about his Dad, and she cried herself to sleep.

As the days drew on she felt more and more like the Air Force was giving up on finding Jack, they said they had looked, searched the surrounding area time and again and found nothing, no trace of anyone. It was as if Major Jonathon O'Neill had vanished, as if he had never existed in the first place.

Now they told her resources were limited, that Iraq was a big country that they had to reassess their priorities. More Air Force jargon that just meant they were no longer looking quite as hard for him.

Sara was convinced that Jack was still alive, she knew deep down inside that he was... didn't she?

The unexpected knock at her door made her jump. Did it herald news of Jack and, if so, did she really want to know?

Yes...No... Oh God.

Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door to find Frank Cromwell on her step.

"Hello Sara, how are you?"

Sara didn't know if she should kiss him or hit him. Did his presence here mean that they had found Jack, that he was alive? Or maybe it meant that he was dead.

Her emotions were on a rollercoaster, she didn't know what to think, what to say, what to do. She just stood there. Finally she found her voice.

"Frank? What, why .... Oh God its Jack isn't it?"

"Can I come in Sara; I have to talk to you."

"Is he dead Frank, tell me, is he dead?" The words tumbled from her lips, her eyes filling with tears as she waited for Frank to confirm her worst fears.

"Come inside Sara, I'll tell you everything I can, promise."

He took Sara by the arm and led her inside the house, sitting them both down on the sofa.

For long moments they sat in silence, Frank looked at the pictures that dotted the surfaces, Jack and Sara, Jack and Charlie, hell even Jack and him taken the day they graduated the Academy. Good times he thought.

Sara fought back her tears and waited for Frank to say something. The time dragged on, the silence became overwhelming. She steeled herself, tried to prepare herself for whatever might be waiting.

"Frank, why are you here? If it's to tell me that Jack is dead then just do it."

"Sara, I don't know if Jack's dead or not. I don't know where he is or what has happened to him. I just know that it is my fault ...it's all my fault."

Frank's voice was cracking, tears were forming, his hands shook. He got up and started pacing the room as if that would somehow help.

"What do you mean it's all your fault? What happened Frank? What did you do?"

Frank told Sara about the mission, about how they were ambushed, about how Jack went back for his fallen comrade. He told her how he saw Jack get shot and how he tried to go back for him.

"I tried to go back Sara, I really did. It's just I couldn't... I wanted to but I couldn't... God I'm sorry Sara... I left him there.... I left him there..."

By now Frank's tears were flowing freely, as he picked up the picture of their Academy graduation his hands were shaking.

"Jack I'm sorry, I tried buddy. I really tried."

Sara got up slowly from the sofa, crossed to where Frank stood and took the photo from him.

"I'm sure you did Frank. I'm sure Jack knows that too."

She looked at the photo of the two of them ready to take on the world, best friends ...forever?

She put the photo down and took Frank in her arms, giving into the tears she had been holding back. Frank returned her embrace, whispering in her ear.

"Sara, if I could take his place I would, you know I would. I wish it was me Sara, I wish it was me."

No more words were necessary as they cried themselves dry in each others arms.

By the time Charlie came back from school, Sara was in the kitchen fixing coffee and Frank was sat back on the sofa.

"Uncle Frank...Uncle Frank." Charlie rushed into the room and jumped up beside Frank, giving him a great big hug as he did so.

"Hi there champ, how you doing?"

"Is my Dad with you Uncle Frank?" Even though he was only young Charlie knew that his dad and Frank were always together.

Sara came with the coffee just in time to hear Charlie ask about Jack, she glanced quickly at Frank telling him with her eyes not to say anything.

"No Charlie, I'm afraid your Dad's not with me, you see he still has some very important work to do but he'll be home real soon now. You know what though, he told me to tell you that he is real proud of the job that you're doing looking after your Mom and that he thinks about you every day."

Sara thought that the lie came easily to Frank, maybe too easily. Had he told her a convincing lie too? Had he really tried to help Jack, to go back and look for him, or had he just saved his own butt? Her emotions were in turmoil, was Frank really Jack's friend? Suddenly she wasn't as sure as she had been.

"Your Dad told me to tell you that he loves you and your Mom very much."

"Charlie, go upstairs and do your homework now. Uncle Frank and I need to have a talk."

Charlie looked sad and lost, like he had on the airfield all those months ago. He didn't really understand why if Frank was here his Dad wasn't; none of it seemed to make any sense. But he still believed in Uncle Frank and if he said that his Dad would be home soon, then he would be. He trudged slowly from the room.

"Good bye Uncle Frank, will I see you again soon?"

"Of course you will champ, and next time I'll have your Dad with me, promise."

Once more Frank and Sara were alone. Before she had felt sorry for Frank, sorry that he had been forced to leave Jack behind, now, well now she wasn't sure what she felt. She was mad at him, sorry for him and crazy with uncertainty all in equal measures.

"Frank did you really do everything you could for Jack?" Her voice was low so as not to disturb Charlie upstairs. "Did you really try to help him, try to find him, try to save him?"

The tears that formed this time were not of sorrow but of anger and maybe even a little hatred.

"After all Frank, here you are large as life in my house, with not a mark on you and my husband is out there somewhere..." her voice was wavering with emotion "and nobody in this whole damned Air Force seems to care if he's even alive any more."

Frank stood up and slowly approached Sara, as he got closer she flung herself at him, crying and hitting him on his chest and shoulders.

"You lied to me Frank, you lied to me... You promised me you would look after Jack for me and you lied to me and you lied to Jack."

Frank was helpless to defend himself against her words and her actions, because he knew, he knew deep down in his soul that she was right, he had lied to her and worse than that, he had betrayed Jack's trust and lied to himself.

******* This is courage in a man: to bear unflinchingly what heaven sends.
Euripides

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison

Iraq

After his first bout of questioning by Kamil, Jack had been returned to the prison but not to his own cell, he was put in with the general population. The other inmates looked pitifully on the gaunt, bruised, exhausted man thrown unceremoniously into their midst. They were grateful that, whilst the prison hierarchy were dealing with the American, they were left relatively alone.

Jack struggled to his feet and staggered to a quiet corner of the bunkroom, where he settled with his back to the wall and tried to sleep. Many of the other inmates were in no better physical shape than he, but they had numbers on their side, and he was wary of an attack.

His sleep was broken by the touch of a hand on his arm, another prisoner was shaking him awake. Jack acted instinctively, defensively, grabbing the man's hand from his arm with one hand whilst the other balled into a fist, preparing to strike if necessary. He looked into the frightened face of a young man; he was probably no more than 20 years old. Jack, realizing the boy was no threat, released his hand and relaxed his fist.

The boy looked relieved and smiled at Jack.

"Food." He said, pointing towards the long table at the side of the bunkhouse.

"Thanks." Jack responded taking the proffered hand to help him off the floor.

They made their way to the table and sat down. The food was what Jack had become used to, thin watery soup and dry bread. It was not enough to fill the empty bellies of the prisoners but they fell on it like it was a gourmet meal and Jack was no exception. He had long since learnt to eat and drink whatever there was, whenever it was available, never knowing when the next 'meal' would be.

Between mouthfuls, Jack introduced himself to the young man.

"I'm Jonathon O'Neill, but you can call me Jack."

"My name is Taraq. I used to drive taxi in Baghdad, play rock and roll music. Now I am here." He looked sad and frightened. "My English is good yes?"

"Yes it's very good. How long have you been here?"

"Many months. I think I will not leave."

They both fell back to silence, each lost in their own thoughts, their own worries, their own fears.

Taraq showed Jack the ways of the bunkhouse. He got him a place to sleep, showed him how to get extra scraps of food and water, never missing a chance to practice his English.

Jack was grateful, for everything, for not having to sleep on the floor, for the extra food, for the exercise they were allowed in the yard, for not being beaten any more. He was getting stronger, slowly, his body was recovering, the bruises were now all gone, his broken bones healed.

He was also suspicious; was Taraq a way for Kamil to find out the things he needed? Why would he be the one to help him, after all, he was the infidel in their midst, the murdering American, the tool of the capitalist Bush.

They were in the courtyard when Jack decided to ask Taraq the one question he couldn't square in his own mind - Why?

"Taraq, why are you helping me, after all, am I not your enemy?"

"Laa (no) Jack, you are friend. When war is over you look after me. Take me to America, to Rock and Roll music. I drive taxi in America, you help me."

His eyes glistened as he thought of his new life in America, the land of the free.

"Naam (yes) I'll help you Taraq."

Jack looked at Taraq, at the sincerity and hope in his eyes and he thought that, if they both survived this place, then he would do what he could to help him. He owed him that.

"Taraq,.... Chokran (thank you)"

As much as Taraq liked to show off his English, Jack liked to take the opportunity to show off the few Arabic words he had learnt.

The pair smiled at each other, an understanding reached, and carried on walking round the courtyard.

Jack used these opportunities to look for ways that he could escape from this hell, so far he hadn't found any. There was only one gate in the walls and that was always heavily guarded. Armed guards patrolled the tops of the high walls and anyway a fall or jump from them would be suicide. If he could somehow get outside the walls he had no idea where he was, where the nearest town might be, which way led to help and which to death.

Escape, or at least the possibility of escape was, for now, not an option, but he knew that he had to keep looking for a way out, he had a promise to keep.

He felt like he was stuck in some freakish time loop; he kept returning to the same room to face the same person asking the same questions in the same manner. He gave the same answers.

Time and time again, nothing ever changed, until one day it all changed.

For the worse.

Jack was taken to the usual room and left there, alone. He sat in his usual place and waited, wondering what fate awaited him, what game Kamil was playing.

The door was flung open and Kamil stormed in, looking less than his usual calm and collected self, he strode to where Jack sat and without warning backhanded him across the face. Jack was stunned, it had been a long time since the last attack of physical violence and he wondered what had provoked this one.

"Stand up." Kamil's tone was slightly raised, the tight lines in his face and the tension in his posture told Jack that he could be in serious trouble.

Not wishing to provoke another beating Jack did as he was told.

"I am sorry Jonathon but we can no longer continue in this manner, the results of our conversations are .... unsatisfactory. I must try something else or I will loose you."

Loose me – what does that mean?

"Bad day at the office Camille? Boss not a happy camper? Well I'm heartbroken."

Kamil raised his hand as if to strike Jack again then changed his mind, instead reaching out and gently, almost lovingly, he touched Jack's face, smiling as he did so.

Jack jerked his head back from the touch, fury blazed in his eyes but, before he had a chance for further action, Kamil had issued an order to the waiting guards and Jack found himself being dragged away.

The guards took Jack to the shower area. One of them grabbed him from behind, wrapping his arm across his throat, restricting his breathing, whilst another handcuffed his hands in front of him. They tried to take his torn, blood stained trousers off him and, despite the chokehold, Jack fought back.

No way José.

He used the guard behind him as a support and kicked out at anyone who came near to him, landing several solid kicks that caused his aggressors to become more determined. The hold on his neck tightened, his breathing became more and more labored, until he couldn't breath anymore and he passed out.

He was awakened by the feel of water on his body. Opening his eyes he saw that he was lying naked on the floor of one of the showers, the guards stood close by. He took a deep breath, feeling the bruising in his throat as he drew the precious air down into his lungs, slowly he got to his feet.

The guards threw him a tiny scrap of soap and indicted that he should clean himself. The water was cold, but to Jack it didn't matter; he was just glad to be able to wash the stench of the weeks and months of his captivity from himself.

He didn't normally take a shower with an audience and so he turned his back to the guards whilst he cleaned himself. The guards shouted at him to turn round but, despite guessing what they wanted, he chose to act as if he didn't understand.

After all too short a time the water was turned off and Jack was once more grabbed and shoved towards a nearby chair. Next to the chair was a small mirror and shaving equipment, a scared looking prisoner held an open bladed razor in his hand. Jack was pushed onto the chair and held there, whilst the prisoner, under the watchful eye of the guards, shaved his beard off. He tried to be careful, but the shaking in his hands meant that, by the time he had finished, Jack's face was cut in several places.

Wet, naked and now bleeding Jack was led away, protesting and resisting with every step.

Kamil was waiting for him, his normal composure had returned and he was once more in control. The guards knew what to do, attaching a length of chain to Jack's handcuffs they passed one end over a high beam and pulled his arms tight above his head. They hoisted him up so that he could just touch the floor if he stood on his toes.

The guards withdrew, only to return a few moments later with an assortment of items that made Jack's blood run cold. Chains, a baseball bat, rubber hoses and what looked to Jack like a bullwhip.

Oh Fuck.

Kamil came round to face Jack.

"You must understand Jonathon, I have a job to do. We have not got very far have we?"

"Fuck you Camille. I won't tell you anything, you should know that by now." Jack licked his dry lips, tried to steady his nerve and prepare himself for the pain that he knew was to come.

The baseball bat was the first weapon of choice.

"I am sorry that it has come to this Jonathon, but I have no choice."

"Yea, I bet you're real cut up about it."

The bat landed across Jack's right knee with a sickening thud and, despite himself, Jack screamed with the pain as his kneecap smashed into what felt like a million tiny pieces. With hardly a pause for breath Kamil swung the bat again, this time into Jack's ribs, the newly healed bones just crumbled. The pain stole Jack's breath away and he passed out without another cry.

Cold water drenched him, bringing his senses screamingly alert. As he tried to shift the weight off his injured leg he was sure that he could feel the jagged edges of the broken bones grinding against each other.

He tried to draw in a deep breath to help quell the rising agony, but that just made his broken ribs explode with pain.

He was in deep trouble and it was about to get deeper.

Kamil came closer, swinging the bat in his hand, his eyes were bright with the look of a man who enjoyed his work. Walking round and round, he drew out the next moment of agony. The anticipation of what was to come was both torture for one man and pleasure for the other.

The whoosh of displaced air as the bat made contact high up on Jack's back was all the warning he got, he gasped and flinched against the contact. A flurry of quick, short sharp blows rained down on Jack's back. None were hard enough to cause permanent damage, but all were hard enough to leave bruises and set Jack swinging against the chains that held him.

Jack fought against the pain, holding back the cries that threatened to spill from his lips, gritting his teeth and taking his mind away to a place where nobody could hurt him.

In his mind he was on the beach with Sara and Charlie, they were playing in the surf, their faces as clear as the day he had last seen them, their voices echoing in his mind: Come on Jack... Please Dad...

They were pleas for him to survive.

Kamil was like a man possessed as he wielded the bat, his breathing became quicker, low moans escaped his lips like a man nearing his orgasm.

In fact for Kamil the power he held over Jack, the pain he could inflict on him, was a powerful aphrodisiac and he could feel the effects on his body as he continued to rain blows on Jack's helpless form.

The bat swung one last time, straight into Jack's groin, dragging his mind back from its sanctuary with a cry of agony. Tears formed in his eyes as he squeezed them shut against this latest wave of hurt.

He felt a gentle touch under his jaw lifting his head up. He opened his eyes to Kamil's face, just inches from his own. He could feel his breath on his face, smell the remains of the spicy food he must have eaten. As he tried to pull his head away Kamil tightened his grip slightly, holding him.

"Does it hurt Jonathon?" His voice was low and seductive, he stroked Jack's cheek with his other hand.

"You must be in a lot of pain, let me help you. I want to help you Jonathon but you must help me first. Tell me what I need to know."

"Screw you." Jack spat the words through gritted teeth.

God yes he hurt, his knee and ribs were no more than molten pools of liquid fire threatening to consume him with their burning agony at any moment. His shoulders ached from holding his weight and trying to keep the pressure off his damaged limbs. His back was aching and sore, he was sure that he would be pissing blood for days to come.

He hurt, he hurt really badly.

Kamil took his hand from Jack's cheek, still holding him firmly with the other hand. He let his free hand trail down Jack's body, tracing the outline of his ribs on his gaunt frame. Jack shuddered with repulsion under his touch. The hand stopped just above his broken ribs.

"Do you want my help Jonathon?"

Jack stayed silent.

"I can not help you if you do not help yourself." And with that he placed his hand on Jack's broken ribs and pushed until the silence was broken by the scream that Jack could no longer contain as he fell once more into the welcoming pain-free arms of unconsciousness.

Kamil released his grip on Jack's face he brushed the hair from Jack's forehead and kissed him.

"Oh Jonathon." He whispered.

Jack came round to a world of hurt. He was no longer chained up but he was still handcuffed, still naked, still in a whole heap of trouble.

His knee was swollen and stiff, he knew it wouldn't ever be the same again. The pain in his ribs pulsed in time with his heartbeat, never ending, just changing in tiny degrees, sometimes less, sometimes more but always there.

He tried to move, to push himself into a sitting position, but the fire in his ribs flared higher, pushing him back towards the darkness, so he just lay where he was.

Waiting.

As the door opened Jack looked up expecting to see Kamil, or the guards come to finish the job, but instead found it was Taraq.

"Am I glad to see you, help me up off the floor will you?"

Taraq seemed hesitant as if he was unsure of what he should do, but he crossed to Jack and, with much cursing and swearing on Jack's part, helped him to a sitting position, with his back resting against the wall, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. Both men were sweating, despite the chill of the cell.

"Chokran Thank You."

Taraq was unusually quiet and seemed to be ill at ease, his face showed signs of worry. He kept looking nervously around as if he was being watched.

"They want me to get you to talk. I say no. They beat me." Taraq raised his shirt to show Jack the bruises and what looked like whip marks that disfigured his chest.

"I'm sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt because of me but you know that I can't tell them anything. Don't you?"

"I tell them. I say you not talk. They say I must get you talk or bad for me."

The fact that Taraq would be beaten, tortured, maybe even killed just because of his stubborn attitude made Jack's insides twist with guilt. But what could he do? If he told them what they wanted to know they would probably kill him and Taraq as well. As long as he held out there was hope for them both, he had to believe that. The hope that they would find a way to escape, the hope that the war would end and they would be freed, the hope that he would see his wife and son again.

"I can't tell them Taraq. I'm sorry. I made a promise and I have to keep it, do you understand?"

"Yes. I will be good. Not for you to worry. I tell them you will not talk. We see what happen. Yes?"

"You're a good man my friend. I'll not forget this."

Kamil, who had obviously been listening, choose that moment to enter the room. He looked at Taraq.

"You may go now Taraq, I will finish our business later." The use of English was not lost on Jack, he knew that Kamil intended him to know that he had condemned Taraq to his fate.

As he stood up to leave Jack caught Taraq by the arm.

"Thank you."

Taraq patted Jack's hand.

"I see you in America my friend."

As Taraq was hustled from the room, they both knew they would not see each other again.

"Very touching Jonathon."

"Bastard, sick murdering bastard." Jack's voice was full of rage and guilt and helplessness. He had sent Taraq to his death to save his own soul, he knew he would have to live with that for the rest of his life, however long that might be. All he could do for Taraq now was to hold on, hold out, hold up and ensure that his death would not be in vain.

The guards pulled Jack to his feet. The movement caused fresh waves of pain and nausea to wash over him, his body shook, his head was spinning. They tried to get him to walk, but his right knee couldn't support his weight, so they just dragged him to the nearby chair and dumped him on it.

Jack groaned with the effort of moving and breathing and trying not to retch. He slumped in the chair instinctively protecting his damaged ribs with his arm.

Kamil started again with the questions, this time it was a non-stop torrent of questions and raging rhetoric, not giving Jack the chance to answer even if he had wanted to. He was starting to shout. Flecks of spit landed on Jack's face. The speed and harshness of this verbal assault made Jack wince a little, he felt like he was a naughty child on the receiving end of a good telling off.

Suddenly Kamil stopped, the silence was as deafening as the words had been.

He had been in Jack's face, standing right over him, now he moved away straightening his uniform.

"Would you like some water Major?" the sudden change in questions, attitude, direction threw Jack, "and maybe some food as well?"

Jack realized that, yet again, he couldn't remember the last time he had had food or water, he was suddenly hungry and his mouth felt dry. He wondered what he would have to do or say to get them.

"Yes please."

Kamil issued an order to one of the guards and then turned back to Jack.

"You do not look well Major."

"Ya think! I'm fine Camille, just peachy in fact. Don't you go worrying about me."

"But I do worry about you. I do not want to have to cut short our time together. I still have a lot to learn about you Major and I think you have something to learn about yourself as well."

"Not from you, you're just a psycho. You can't teach me anything about myself. I'm already a better man than you will ever be."

"You are the tool of your government Major and very soon you could be dead for something that means nothing to you. Do you want that or do you want to let me help you?"

"I won't tell you anything, ever. Asshole."

Silence once more.

Jack wished he had kept his big wise-ass mouth shut as he was sure that his last outburst would cost him the chance for the food and water.

Kamil stood patiently by the far wall, his need to break this man was consuming him although he didn't show it outwardly. He would break him, he would make him talk, or he would be replaced.

Being replaced before he had the chance to fully enjoy Major Jonathon O'Neill was not something he would allow to happen.

********

For Jack it was a case of same shit different day. Kamil was getting seemingly more desperate in his attempts to get Jack to talk.

He had beaten him with the chains, the rubber hoses, his fists, his feet, Jack's body was a mass of bruises and cuts, the imprints of the chains marked his skin. Blood smeared his arms from where he had ripped the skin around his wrists as he jerked again and again against the handcuffs.

He had questioned him and got no answers, now he was running out of time, running out of patience, running out of options.

Jack was hanging onto life by the thinnest thread. When the beatings started he sent his mind away and survived on the thoughts of his wife and son, survived on the thoughts of the promise he made.

Now though, it was getting harder to picture them, to hear them in his mind. His body hurt so much the pain was following him into his mind, robbing him slowly of the only thing he had left.

They came again and Jack thought that this might be the day he died, his body was failing him, the endless beatings pushing it to a limit beyond which lay only darkness and death.

He looked like a luckless prizefighter far enough down on his luck to tackle an opponent well out of his class. His face was heavily shadowed with bruising and, amongst several cuts, was a particularly nasty gash over his left eye.

Today though, today would be different.

Without speaking, the guards released the chain holding Jack and he slumped to the floor, agony pulsing through his arms, his ribs and his knee. They pulled him to his feet and half dragged, half carried him from the room, down the damp dark corridors until they reached a heavy door.

Beyond the door it was like another world, brightly lit corridors, the smell of food and the sounds of Arabic music. These were the quarters of the guards and their masters, people like Kamil.

Jack had no idea why he had been brought to this part of the prison but, as they reached their destination, he was sure that it wasn't going to be anything he wanted to think about.

From inside the room Jack could hear Western music, he thought it sounded like Michael Jackson's "Thriller".

The door opened. The guards dragged Jack into the room and Kamil bolted the door behind them.

The guards held Jack between them, he sagged in their arms, he hardly had the strength to support himself.

"Welcome Jonathon. Do you like my quarters?"

"A little gaudy for my taste, but hey, nobody could accuse you of having class now could they?"

"I may not have class Jonathon but I do have you and now I will break you."

"Don't bet on it." Jack growled.

Kamil barked an order to the guards. One of them held Jack upright whilst the other released the handcuffs. The freedom was short lived as a length of coarse rope was bound tightly to each wrist. The guard released his grip on Jack and they each took hold of their respective ends of the rope walking away until Jack's arms were stretched taut between them supporting his weight and stopping him from collapsing to the floor. Jack winced as they pulled him the action sent fresh waves of pain through his broken ribs, making every breath nothing short of an agonizing effort. He leaned heavily on his good knee, but it didn't stop the endless ache in the broken one.

Kamil turned the stereo up a little louder, the music was to drown out the noise of the torture to come. He carefully removed his uniform jacket and shirt, leaving him bare-chested, he picked up a short bullwhip from the bed and approached Jack.

Oh God no... Ok don't show him you're scared... you're Jack O'Neill for crying out loud.

Jack swallowed hard, his mouth was suddenly dry, he put the trembling in his limbs down to the effects of the beatings. He wasn't fooling anybody, least of all himself.

Kamil stroked the curled whip along Jack's face and down his chest, watching amused as Jack tried to pull away.

"Pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin Jonathon."

He moved round the back of Jack, slowly unfurling the whip as he did so.

"I will teach you this, I will teach you to embrace the pain and the pleasure."

"Bite me." Was Jack's shaky response.

The crack of the whip was barely audible over the music. The first Jack knew of it was when he felt the sting of the leather high across his shoulders and felt the warm blood ooze from the cut. He let out an involuntary gasp through gritted teeth, and flinched against the ropes that held him.

The next lash cut his flesh again, this time lower on his back, but no less painful. He didn't make a sound this time, only tensed his muscles in anticipation of what was still to come.

Again and again the whip flew through the air, the music masking its deadly passage, preventing Jack from ever really being prepared for it's cruel embrace.

He bit his lip until it bled in an attempt to stop himself from crying out. In his head he ran to his sanctuary, to the beach, to Sara and Charlie.

This time they weren't there, he couldn't picture them, couldn't hear them, couldn't find them.

The cry that escaped his lips was not just a cry of pain, but also of anguish. He had lost them, just like Frank they had deserted him, and he was alone. For the first time since he had been in this hell he was truly alone, he wanted to scream.

It was obvious that this was not the first time Kamil had ever handled a whip. His blows were measured in pace and timing, never leaving Jack enough time to recover from the last stroke before the next one fell.

Not every time the whip fell did he draw blood, but more often than not, sometimes it was a new cut, sometimes criss-crossing existing wounds, always painful for Jack, always pleasurable for him.

Jack flinched with each lash, struggling to keep his feet, hardly now noticing the pain in his knee and his side. Sweat ran into his eyes and slicked his body. The salt burned in the sliced flesh.

He endured the strokes with a silent stoicism, just the occasional low hiss giving any indication of his agony. Finally he stumbled, falling onto his bad knee; he couldn't stop the scream as his crushed bones collided with the unforgiving floor. The pain was so intense he thought he would pass out, the edge of his vision greed and swirled, he closed his eyes in one last attempt to picture his saviors. He knew another stroke from the whip would send him into the darkness. But it never came.

The by now familiar smell of cologne and spicy food assailed his nostrils as a gentle hand on his arm helped him back to his feet. He didn't want to open his eyes, didn't want to see that face close, too close to his, but he had to.

Kamil's face was slick with sweat as was his torso, the muscles rippling from the exertion of wielding the whip. His eyes were bright, his breathing rapid and shallow. His erection was obvious through his uniform trousers.

A whispered voice.

"Now embrace the pleasure Jonathon."

Kamil turned away crossing the room to a large ornate desk, with a sweep of the furled whip he cleared the desk of contents, allowing them to fall noisily to the floor.

With a brusque nod of his head, Jack's fate was sealed as the guards dragged him towards the desk. He was too weak to put up much resistance even as the realization of what was to come dawned on him.

Oh Christ ...No...He can't...can he?

No way.....please God... don't do this...

Sara.... Help me

They threw him, non-to gently, across the desk securing his arms to the far side, effectively pinning him down. He gritted his teeth, stopping the cry of pain that threatened to escape him as his lacerated back was stretched, the blood once more seeping from the cuts, the pressure of his ribs against the table caused him to see stars as his breath was ripped from his lungs.

He clamped his legs together as tight as possible, using all his failing strength. There was no way he was going to let this happen, he couldn't.

Jack cried out with pain as one of the guards grabbed his broken knee, viciously pulling his legs apart. More coarse rope quickly secured them to the desk. Now he was completely helpless, completely at Kamil's mercy, completely lost.

The pounding sound of Michael Jackson pleading that Billie Jean was not his lover covered the noise as Kamil unzipped his pants, letting them fall to his ankles as he stood behind Jack. With the smug look of a man who had finally got what he wanted, he plunged his engorged penis into Jack's ass. He didn't stop pushing, deeper and deeper inside Jack until he was buried balls deep. He groaned at the sensation of Jack's tight ass as he started to pound in and out of the helpless man.

Jack cried out in pain as he felt Kamil breaching him, pushing hard inside him, stretching him, forcing himself deeper with every agonizing thrust.

Jeez... that hurts.

Oh God... this can't be happening.

Arggh Shit!

Stop.... Please stop.

"You Fucking sick son-of-a-bitch. I'm gonna kill you. You bastard." Jack's tirade against Kamil was lost on him, the music drowned out most of his shouts and cries, besides which Kamil was too lost in his own ecstasy to hear much of anything except his own heartbeat.

Kamil had got what he wanted, to hurt the American, then to use him. The power he felt surging through him made him feel strong, invincible, untouchable. He wielded that power now, driving into Jack, pushing himself closer to his ultimate release. Jack writhed against his bonds, trying to escape the nightmare he was enduring, his helplessness only fuelling Kamil's desire.

Kamil knew he could no longer hold back, he had to take what he wanted, what he needed, what he had worked so long to achieve and with a cry that drowned out even Michael Jackson, he came long and hard, shooting his semen deep inside Jack.

As Jack felt the warm heat of Kamil filling him inside, he felt tears in his eyes.

What had he let them do to him?

Why had he let them?

Kamil finally withdrew from Jack with a satisfied groan and stepped away, he smiled as he saw the blood and semen on his now flaccid penis. The same blood and semen that stained the top of Jack's legs.

He indicated to the guards and they took their turns in raping Jack. They were rough, driving deep into him, mercilessly plundering his sore, tight ass, laughing at his cries of agony.

"Stop... please stop." Jack whispered. The guards ignored him, the one who wasn't inside him lifted his head from the desk by his hair and slammed it down again.

"Hodoue" (Silence)

The brutalisation continued, first one then the other. Forcing themselves into him time and time again, bruising his skin where they held him.

Jack tried not to cry out with pain and humiliation but he couldn't stop himself. He hated Kamil, he hated the guards but, above all, right now he hated himself.

Finally they were both done with Jack, they looked satisfied with their work as they watched the fresh blood and semen staining his legs.

Jack was burning inside, his anus was split and bleeding inside and out, he felt sick at the thought of what had been done to him. One of the guards again lifted Jack's head from the desk. His face was wet with tears, tears of frustration, tears of pain, tears of hate. Kamil was there.

Bastard... I'll kill you.

Sara.... I'm sorry.

Charlie... I love you.

"Well done Jonathon. Now you are mine, you live and die in my world, in my time, at my whim."

Before Jack had a chance to reply, to even form a reply, the blinding agony of a foot driving his broken knee hard against the desk sent him spiraling into the waiting arms of the peaceful, pain-free blackness.

********

Later, in another part of the prison another type of interrogation was taking place.

Kamil was sweating slightly beneath his crisply pressed uniform as he stood ramrod straight in front of a tall gray-haired man, who wore the black fatigues of the Fedayeen, Saddam's most feared elite militia.

These men had a reputation to uphold, they always got the confession they wanted and their methods were questioned by no one, ever.

The gray-haired man waved another photograph of the battered body of Major Jonathon O'Neill at Kamil.

"This is all you managed, to beat the American half to death and still learn nothing?"

"He is strong Sir, in his body and his mind, but now I have him Sir, I believe he will tell us everything."

The gray-haired man threw the photograph down in disgust before turning his anger once more to Kamil.

"You fool! Anything he tells us now is useless, outdated, rubbish. If I had been called in earlier we would have known the enemy's plans and turned this war into a glorious victory!"

"But Sir, I tried..."

"Be quiet whilst I think." The gray-haired man paced the room trying to work out how he could salvage something from the incompetent ruins of Kamil's handiwork.

Kamil didn't dare move; he thought that when he broke the American, when he forced the information from him, he would be honored by the great Saddam himself. Now he thought he would be lucky not to be joining him in the dark bowels of the prison.

"Yes.. that's it. That is what I shall do." The gray-haired man was talking partly to himself and partly to Kamil.

"As you have wasted the chance to learn anything from this American, I will use him to show our people the corrupt ways of the decadent Western world. I will use him as a propaganda tool; I will make him denounce his God, his leaders, his country, even himself and then I will make him beg me to kill him."

Kamil said nothing, he knew that the gray-haired man could, no, would do what he threatened, and he had no desire to anger him further and find out about his favored torture methods for himself.

"You will make arrangements to ensure that the American.. what is his name?"

"Jonathon O'Neill, Sir he is a Major in their Air Force."

"O'Neill... is given food and basic medical care until I am ready for him. I need him to be stronger than he is now if I am to properly show how the corrupt Western Infidel will fall beneath the might of Allah."

"Yes Sir, I will see to it personally Sir."

"No Kamil, you will stay away from him, I don't want you near him again. Do you understand me?"

He knew what Kamil and his favored guards liked to do to their prisoners, how they got their kicks.

"Yes Sir."

"Very well, I will return at the end of the week to begin my work. Make sure O'Neill is ready for me."

The gray-haired man collected up the photographs from the desk and strode purposefully out of the room, leaving Kamil in no doubt as to his fate if he failed.
********

A strong mind always has hopes; and always has cause to hope

Polybius

Jack knew he must be dreaming, he felt like he was in a bed, soft sheets under his battered body, a plump pillow supporting his head. Had it all been some terrible dream, a nightmare? Was he really at home with Sara and Charlie, safe in their arms, safe in their love?

As he tried to roll over, the pain that seemed to be in every inch of his body flared angrily and he was suddenly awake, all thoughts of Sara and Charlie lost in a fresh wave of hurt.

The dream was reality.

The nightmare was now.

As he pushed the ripples of agony away, steadying his breathing, he slowly opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

He was lying on his side on top of a narrow metal-framed cot, he was still naked and one wrist was handcuffed to the frame.

Like I'm going anywhere!

Carefully he pushed himself onto one elbow and looked around the room. He was alone and the room was bare except for his cot. The effort of even this small movement made his battered body shake and the fire that burned deep inside him reminded him, unnecessarily, of the violation he had endured. He couldn't hold back the wave of nausea that overtook him at the thought of what they had done to him, how they had forced themselves on him and he leant over the side of the cot, until the dry heaves and retching had passed.

He curled back on his side, exhausted, and closed his eyes again. In his mind he could see Kamil and the guards, they were coming for him, they were going to rape him again and, just as before, he was powerless to stop them.

Mn Fadlek Balach (Please don't)

The tears squeezed past his scrunched up eyes, falling silently down the side of his face. The disgust he felt at himself was deep, it went to his very core, his very soul, to the essence of who he was.

Or who he used to be.

He let the pain and hatred consume him and passed out into a dreamless sleep.

The smell of food assailed Jack, pushing its way slowly into his consciousness. He opened his eyes to find that, yet again, nothing had changed. He was still naked, still sore, still restrained and still in hell.

He raised his head from the thin pillow looking round for the source of the smell. A guard he had not seen before sat on the floor nearby, the food at his feet, another paced nervously in the background.

Jack's stomach growled as the smell of the food once more reached him, he was so hungry and thirsty.

The guard, noticing that Jack was awake, got up and crossed to his side; Jack could barely control the shiver of panic that rippled through him as he wondered what fate awaited him now.

The guard reached down and unhooked the handcuff from the frame pulling Jack into a sitting position before cuffing his hands in front of him, the other guard was not far away his hand on his gun, his senses alert for any sign of trouble or resistance. The one who had cuffed Jack's hands went back to the food and, picking up the tray, placed it beside Jack on the cot, he indicated with gestures that Jack should eat.

Jack was confused, the food was not the normal prison fare that he had become, albeit infrequently, used to but was some sort of hot meat stew and rice. There was water and a cup of the hot sweet tea that the Arabs favored. Once more the guard gestured to Jack to eat.

Hell why not?

Jack ate the food with his fingers, slowly and carefully in small mouthfuls. He hadn't had this much to eat before and he was wary of his body's reaction. He sipped the water and the tea, grateful for every drop. He left none of the food, even licking the plate clean when he had finished.

"Chokran" he said "For the food."

The guards did not respond as they collected up the empty tray and left, the nervous one never taking his eyes from Jack as he backed out of the room. He had been told that the Westerner was a dangerous man who would try to kill them and escape. Looking at the battered figure who was now once more asleep he found that difficult to believe.

The food had warmed Jack and, despite the small quantity, had left him feeling full, his senses dulled. He remembered how he had felt like this back home at Thanksgiving and Christmas when he had eaten too much and then fallen asleep in front of the TV. His eyes felt heavy, too heavy to keep open, and as he lay down, sleep claimed him before he had a chance to realize that his food had been drugged.

Kamil had to see Jack again, despite what he had been told. He was obsessed with him, he needed him, he wanted him.

He accompanied the prison doctor as he attended to his unconscious patient. He watched as the doctor splinted and bound Jacks damaged knee and put several stitches in the deeper lash marks on his back.

Wisely the doctor chose not to mention the all too obvious signs that his patient had been raped, brutally. Despite the drugged food, Jack moaned as the doctor finished his examination.

Kamil watched with undisguised lust in his eyes, enjoying once more the sight of the pain he had inflicted on Jack, remembering how he had felt at the moment of his sexual fulfillment. Those thoughts and the sight of Jack, naked and carrying his scars, caused Kamil's erection to return.

The doctor pulled a hypodermic needle from his bag and, after locating a vein, carefully injected the contents into Jack's arm.

"That is a dose of high strength pain killer to help him recover, now he needs plenty of good food and liquid for the next few days. He also needs to rest."

The doctor got up from Jack's bedside, he had done what he could for him, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. He knew about the gray-haired man, he knew what he was capable of and he felt pity and a little sadness for his soon to be victim.

"I'm done here." He said, as he picked up his bag and made for the door, "Food, water and rest." He reiterated as he left the room.

"Yes doctor, thank you. I will join you in a moment." Kamil looked again at Jack, his need to have him growing inside. He crossed to the small cot and bent down listening to the steady breathing of the unconscious man. He stroked Jack's face, murmuring softly as he did so.

"Oh Jonathon, such a shame, I would have looked after you Jonathon, now, now I can do nothing."

The ache in Kamil's groin told him to take Jack again now, but his mind told him to be patient. Where was the enjoyment if the other person wasn't aware of what was being done to him? There would be another chance, a better chance to get pleasure from Major O'Neill before the week was out. So he would wait.

As he rose slowly from the cot, he spoke quietly, even though he was now alone and Jack was still unconscious

"I will see you again soon Jonathon, I promise you that."

The sedative they had put into his food made Jack slow to respond to the guards attempt to wake him. He didn't want to wake up, to leave the warm, safe pain-free place that was undisturbed drug enhanced sleep, but the insistent shaking on his arm just wouldn't go away, so reluctantly he opened his eyes. For a moment his focus wavered and the face in front of him morphed between, Kamil, his henchmen, Taraq and Frank before finally settling. It was the new young guard, the one that had sat on the floor, and once more he was helping Jack to sit upright before pressing more food into his hands. This time it was warm fresh bread coated in honey and more sweet tea. Jack's mind was still not clear of the effects of the previous dose of drugs and so he didn't question why, he just ate and drank greedily. Again, after he had finished the guards collected the plate and left him once more to his lonely vigil.

As he sat on the edge of his cot, he noticed that he didn't seem to hurt quite so much any more, his head was still clouded and fuzzy from the sedative, but he was sure he didn't hurt like he used to. He looked down at his battered and abused body. He had never been overweight, always tending to the lean and muscular, but now he was skeletal, his ribs clearly visible and his skin hanging loosely. His broken ribs were misshapen giving him an odd lop-sided look. He noticed that his knee had been splinted and bound with a bandage. He wondered when that had been done, had his head been clearer he would have also wondered why.

The day wore on, Jack dozed, and each time he woke up his head was a little clearer, the sedative wearing off slowly.

Once more he thought about Sara and Charlie, once more he tried to picture them in his mind, once more they failed him. All he seemed to be able to picture was the sight of Frank turning away from him, leaving him behind, leaving him to this seemingly endless cycle of pain and humiliation.

"Bastard. Two faced lying bastard." He was shocked to hear his voice against the crashing silence of his solitude. He hadn't meant to voice his thoughts out loud, but now that he had he felt better, so he let his tirade run on.

"When I get out of here Frank, I'm going to find you and then I'm going to kill you. You lying shit, I bet you are back home now with a beer and the football game. Warm, dry, safe....and I'm here Frank, here in this stinking rotten prison. Here in this never ending hell, here dying inch by inch."

What had started as anger and hatred was slowly turning to frustration and desperation. Jack's voice which had started strong and full of venom, was now broken and full of tears.

"You were supposed to be my friend Frank, is this how you treat your friends? At the first sign of trouble you turn tail and run. I thought we were friends Frank, friends forever... remember. We said." Jack choked back the tears. "We said, Blood on Blood Frank, One on One, we would be there until the end. Until the very end."

The tears fell as Jack let himself be overwhelmed by the betrayal of his friend. He was lost in the dark pit of hell and he knew there was no way out. No way other than death.

The guards came again with more food, Jack ate in grateful silence watching them watching him and wondering what lay in store for him. He wasn't sure that he cared any more, that he had the strength and the Will left to keep on fighting.

He had lost all the things that mattered to him, the trust of his friend, the love of his family, his belief in the strength of good over evil, his dignity, maybe even his hope.

No trust, no hope, no comfort and only one end.

There was a growing part of him that wanted it all to be over no matter what the consequences might be. He was certain that he was never going home, that he would never see Sara and Charlie again, so what did it matter if he told them what they wanted to hear, signed their 'confessions', agreed with their lies?

He was giving in to the hollow empty darkness that threatened him. It was rolling closer like a malevolent storm cloud, swallowing up all the light, all the goodness, all the last traces of hope in its path. It was sucking him in, snapping the threads that helped him to cling to his life, swallowing up his hope with every passing moment.

The cloud was at the edge of Jack's mind, the safety of its dark center offering Jack the comfort of the end. He closed his eyes, he was ready to welcome the end, to tell them whatever they wanted to hear, to sign whatever they put in front of him, just to stop the pain, the pain in his body and the pain in his mind. He knew when he opened his eyes he would give them his honor and then he would be no more.

He took a deep breath, the cloud rolled in, getting closer and closer and then suddenly it stopped.

Jack could see Charlie, for the first time in what felt like forever, he could see him. At first he was far away but he was running towards Jack getting closer all the time. Jack thought he was shouting something but he couldn't quite make out the words.

Charlie? Is that you, is that really you?

The small figure in his head grew larger and larger, his words becoming more distinct more recognizable.

"Dad, Dad you've got to help me Dad. I can't do this without you Dad. You've got to help me...."

Help him? Help him do what?

Charlie reached where Jack was standing, he stopped just for a second, turning his head upwards to look at Jack, the perfectly formed image of his precious son spoke.

"Help me Dad, please..."

The figure turned and started to run away.

Jack looked one way, towards the gathering storm cloud of despair and death then the other, towards the disappearing figure of hope and life. He had to make his choice. The cloud started to close in, the figure was getting smaller.

There was no choice.

He would never let his son down, not while he still had breath left in his body, he would never let him down.

Jack turned and ran after Charlie, the black cloud receding into the distance.

Jack let out the breath he had been holding and opened his eyes. The guards were still there, the pain was still there, but now the hope was also there.

Since the first time the guards had appeared they had not bothered to re- handcuff him to the bed, instead just leaving his hands cuffed in front of him. Jack decided it was time to try out his leg and carefully pushed himself off the bed. Initially favoring his good leg he slowly and cautiously put a little more weight onto his damaged limb. The pain was intense, the sweat broke out on his forehead as he staggered, stumbled and forced himself to take a step.

"Shit that hurts." He mumbled to himself through teeth gritted against the flaring pain.

Again he forced the un-cooperative limb into another step.

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck." He cursed as the third step proved to be a step too far and his leg gave way beneath him, dumping him unceremoniously onto the cell floor.

He dragged himself the short distance back to the bed and, using his good leg and with a lot of cursing and effort, managed to get himself back up into a sitting position. His body was shaking from the effort and his breathing took several minutes to return to anything near normal.

Undeterred he tried again, this time he managed four steps before he once more found himself on the floor. Again he got himself back on the bed ready to try again.

His body told him to quit now, his broken knee screamed with pain and he was once more becoming aware of the aching in his chest and his back.

He thought back to the time he had last visited the Middle East at the invitation of Uncle Sam. That time he had broken his leg when his parachute failed to open properly and had spent 9 days dragging himself through the barren desert. He hadn't given up trying then, and he wasn't going to give up now.

Now that he had Charlie.

God he HATED this part of the world!

Jack kept pushing himself and his leg until he was completely exhausted and he collapsed back onto the bed. He had managed a few more shuffling agonizing steps each time until he could almost manage to cross the small cell. As soon as he was rested he would start again, he reasoned as sleep took him.

Jack thought he heard the sound of the cell door opening. He had been deeply asleep, deep in the dreamless sleep of a body trying to heal itself. He was still only partially awake when he recognized Kamil and his favored two henchmen as they loomed large in his small cell.

Kamil sat in an ornate wooden chair that Jack thought he had seen in his quarters...before.

His mind was still clouded with sleep as the two guards were upon him, forcing a cloth gag across his mouth and dragging him up off the bed.

They hauled him to the recently vacated chair and threw him over the arms, one of them holding him down as his ass was left vulnerable and exposed.

Jack was awake now, all too aware of what was coming.

He struggled against the guard holding him and was rewarded with a blow from a gun butt that left him dazed.

This time Kamil let his guards go first. Just as they had been the first time, they were once again ruthless with Jack. They forced themselves inside him, harder and deeper, time and again until they could hear Jack's quiet cries even through the gag. They violated him again and again, taking pleasure from his weak attempts to break free. If his struggles became too annoying to them, they would strike his already abused body with a fist or a gun butt until he was still once more.

Finally they were both done, their desires sated, and it was Kamil's turn.

Watching his two henchmen abusing Jack, listening to his helpless cries and seeing his feeble attempts to stop them had driven him wild with anticipation, with need, with want.

The knowledge that he was going directly against the orders of a member of the Fedayeen did nothing to ease his aching erection. In fact it made his desire stronger, more powerful, more dangerous.

He tormented Jack, by walking slowly round him, touching him, stroking him, tracing the outline of his scars with gentle caresses. He watched as Jack shuddered and trembled under his touch, his pleas for whatever, lost behind the gag, his struggles futile against the tight hold and occasional blows on his body. All the time he was building his own need whilst allowing Jack to think about the inevitable act that was to follow.

Then it was time, Kamil could wait no longer. Taking a firm grip of Jack, he pushed himself as deep inside him as was possible, listening to the barely audible noises of pain and anguish from his helpless victim.

Kamil was slow and deliberate in his punishment of Jack, holding out as long as he could. He was careful to inflict as much pain and humiliation as possible by pulling his penis out of Jack and changing the angle of his next thrust so that Jack was torn and split and bleeding within a few strokes.

He made sure that he found Jack's prostate striking it with as many thrusts as he could, causing a reaction in Jack that pleased him and sickened Jack.

Kamil could hold himself no longer, seeing the change in Jack's body drove him to the limit and beyond. With a final long deep thrust he came, quietly mumbling in Arabic as he did so.

Kamil pulled free from Jack satisfied that once more he had wielded his power over the American that he had humiliated him and made him suffer. Without a word he dressed and at the doorway looked back at the sight inside the cell. Jack was still held over the chair, fresh bruises marked his face and body, blood once more stained his backside and legs, smiling widely at his handiwork he turned, straightened his uniform and left Jack to the 'care' of his guards.

When Jack regained consciousness he was once more alone, the deep flaring fire he felt in his ass a reminder that the nightmare he had endured was in fact a reality. A reality that once again left him sick to his soul, more so this time because his body had reacted to the brutal invasion and that went against all his instincts of what was right.

His body was stiff and sore, obviously the guards had beaten him after the blow that had sent him to unconsciousness, what else they might have done Jack refused to even contemplate.

He closed his eyes once more, he had to look for Charlie, to tell him why, to explain, to ask him to forgive him?

In his mind Charlie was there waiting for him, as Jack drew closer Charlie spoke.

"I know Dad... I understand and Sara will too."

Jack reached out to touch Charlie but he always seemed to be just out of reach.

"I had to do it Charlie, I had to let them. Can you forgive me son?"

"It'll be OK Dad...just come home and it will all be OK. You have to hang on Dad, do what you have to do and come home."

"I'm trying Charlie, but it's hard son, it's so very hard."

Once more Jack reached out to touch his son and this time he seemed, if anything, further away.

"Come home Dad....you promised me Dad...you promised."

With those words Charlie was gone.

Jack opened his eyes, he had to deal with the reality, survive whatever they threw at him, do whatever he needed to do to get through and maybe, just maybe, at the end of it all he would get to keep his promise and go home.

For the next few days Jack's life fell back into a steady routine. The guards came twice a day with food, watched him eat and left without ever uttering a word.

On one occasion the doctor accompanied them. He used broken English to explain who he was. He changed the support on Jack's knee and checked the stitches in his back.

When Jack saw him produce a syringe he tried to back away, pressing himself against the cold cell wall. He had no idea what was in the syringe and there was no way he was going to let anyone inject him with anything if he could help it.

The doctor issued an instruction to the guards and they soon had Jack immobile, despite his valiant attempts to keep them away.

"For pain." The doctor tried to explain as he quickly injected the clear amber liquid into Jacks' arm. Jack winced slightly as the needle broke his skin and he glared at the doctor, who smiled apologetically before administering the drug.

The morphine quickly flooded Jack's body, easing the aching and soreness in his muscles and limbs, but at the same time depressing his respiration rate making him feel drowsy, by the time the doctor and the guards left him he was barely awake.

Jack never heard his cell door open, never saw the gray-haired Fedayeen officer watch him as he slept, never realized that the hell he thought he was in was to be nothing compared to the hell that awaited him.

The gray-haired man watched the sleeping form of his latest 'victim' with the detached air of a surgeon about to perform an operation. In fact he often thought of himself in those terms, he was a specialist whose prowess lay in extracting information from previously uncooperative prisoners. He was proud of his work, proud of the fact that nobody had ever failed to tell him what he wanted to know, proud of the fact that he had never failed to rise to the challenges put before him. He relished the thought that Major Jonathon O'Neill would be his greatest challenge yet, and therefore, his greatest victory.

He walked over to the still sleeping figure, appraising the gaunt and battered body with the trained eye of a man who knows what he wants, what he needs. He rolled Jack onto his back and watched him sleeping for a few moments longer.

Satisfied with what he saw, he removed his wire-framed spectacles, cleaning them carefully before putting them back on and leaving Jack's tiny cell.

Outside the door his trusted lieutenants waited, he nodded at them brusquely.

"He is ready, clean him up and bring him to me."

Hell for Jonathon O'Neill was just beginning.

*********