A/N: I'm currently running a 102-degree temperature, am suffering from a raging sore throat, and have absolutely no voice whatsoever. In spite of this, I'm dragging myself to my keyboard to add an update, lest any of you do something rash after the shock and despair of the last 2 chapters. This is a very, very, VERY short update, but I hope it will tide you over until I have the fortitude to write more. Thanks, as always, for sticking with me and the story. We're coming down the home stretch now!

One word about this chapter… I can find no reference in SG-1 to our current war in Iraq. This is a peculiar facet of the issues that arise when we put a reality-based-yet-still-fictitious military on TV. I assume that the SG-1 writers have chosen to avoid writing about this real-life conflict to prevent trivializing or dramatizing those men and women who are engaged in genuine military service. However, since my story takes us to the part of Earth that was once Mesopotamia, I'm forced to set part of this story in modern-day Iraq. I've done my best to exclude any reference to actual occurrences, and have been deliberately vague with the geography in an effort to keep reality from intruding on my story. Hope this doesn't bother any of you.

I think I'd better shut up before the author's note becomes longer than the chapter.

One last thing on a totally non-related topic. To all of you Americans over age 18 who are not convicted felons…

REMEMBER TO VOTE!!!

Chapter 23

Scorching heat rose up from the earth in shimmering waves. The unpaved road was whitened and hard as packed concrete, though cracked and uneven enough to prevent easy passage across it. Of course, this did not present much of a problem, because few people had wanted to rapidly cross this particular stretch of road in some time. Much of Iraq was in a state of unrest, but here, near the deltas of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, life was much as it always had been. The local nomadic tribes lived in small reed houses during the mild, wet winters and migrated closer to the rivers during the scorching, dry summer months. Military caravans were sometimes seen on the major roadways, but here in the southeast, travel was difficult and little traffic ventured away from the cities. The rivers made the soil too saline for much farming, and in places drainage was so poor that marshes prevented easy travel.

Hassan was the lone human on the horizon today. Returning from a neighboring village, he walked slowly across the marshy plains that bordered the birthplace of human civilization. There were a few places where modern technology had intruded, such as his neighbor's jeep that sometimes made the extensive journey into Basra for trading. For the most part, however, his village and culture had changed little in hundreds of years.

Glancing out over the grazing lands that provided his income, Hassan noted with some satisfaction that the herds of water buffalo were thriving. Soon, the rainy seasons would be upon them, and the tribesmen would congregate into their larger, winter villages. For now, however, there was little to do but tend the herds and wait for the floods.

Since the day was so quiet and ordinary, it came as something of a surprise to the young herder when he heard an eerie groan float over the horizon. Hassan's first instinct was to ignore the sound. Even here in the quiet marshlands, people knew to that staying away from the unknown was the safest way to avoid attracting the attention of armed militants. Hassan was just about to hurry on to his destination when a thought occurred to him.

He had been little more than a boy when his father had guided the Western scientists to an area outside his village known only as "Rock Fields." This section of land was generally left alone by his tribesmen, because the relatively high elevation of the site kept it too dry to sustain the buffalo herds. The giant, square boulders that littered the field made it an undesirable location for a reed village. Therefore, the chunk of land had remained undisturbed for countless years.

One of Hassan's earliest memories was accompanying his father to Rock Fields with a small group of American scientists. Not speaking a word of English, Hassan was unable to understand any of what the men had said. However, it was clear by their bright expressions and loud exclamations that they had been pleased with their discoveries. The men had not stayed long, much to his family's dismay. He remembered that the money his father had earned in a week of assisting the Americans was more than the rest of the year's income from tending the buffalo. His father had spoken excitedly of the scientist's return for many years, until it became apparent that they had been unable or uninterested in coming back to the area.

Now, however, Hassan was intrigued. There was no doubt in his mind that the low moans were coming from Rock Fields. The odd way that noises carried across the marshes may have fooled a less-experienced man, but Hassan had been born and raised on these plains. He was certain of the noises' origins, and that they were being made by a human. He paused for a moment, considering his options. It was possible that the unfortunate person was an armed militant who might shoot first and ask questions later. However, it was also very unlikely. No military factions had claimed any interest in this swampy, inhospitable stretch of land in a very long time. There was nothing to be gained from controlling the region. Hassan was also certain that none of the locals would have ventured to Rock Fields this deep in the dry season. It would have been a waste of resources.

In Hassan's mind, there was only one good explanation for the noises, and that was the return of the Western scientists. If a small party of Westerners had ventured unassisted into the area, they could easily have gotten misdirected or fallen ill in the relentless heat. His father had stumbled upon the first group of scientists as they had argued over which region they should next move into. That lucky break had supplemented the family's income for the year, boosting their status in the village. Hassan calculated that a similar stroke of luck could help him towards his goal of someday buying his own jeep.

Knowing that he risked at least an afternoon of lost work, and at most his very life, Hassan decided to take his chances. Changing courses, he expertly picked his way across the low spongy ground in the direction of Rock Fields.

It took the better part of three hours to reach the low rise of hills. By that time, the noises had become faint and feeble. Hassan pushed himself harder, fearing that he might arrive too late to help.

Trudging up the hill, he wiped sweat out of his eyes and glanced around for some sign of the distressed individual he'd come to find. As he crested the first hill, he stopped dead in his tracks, jaw falling slack with disbelief and fear.

On the side of the next hill, where there had once been only an irregular pattern of boulders on a grassy slope, now sat something truly remarkable. A perfectly circular pad of paving stones was embedded in the hillside. More remarkable was the giant, blackened scorch pattern in the grass, which was also eerily marked in a perfect circle, extending a few hundred feet around the area of paving stones.

But, by far the most shocking and frightening feature of all was the lone figure that lay in the center of the stone circle. The man was undeniably armed and dressed in combat fatigues, which alone was enough to frighten Hassan. However, what really sent a chill through his body was the small, embroidered patch on the man's right sleeve. Hassan was admittedly not a worldly or educated young man, but there were some things that fathers in this area of the world taught their sons at a very young age in order to keep them safe. Knowing the difference between an enemy and an ally at a glance meant understanding military insignia.

And, much to Hassan's terror and dismay, the man lying half-dead in the field below him was unquestionably wearing the symbol of the mighty United States Air Force.