FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 2006
1400 HOURS
Another afternoon, another set of people to talk to, O'Neill thought. At least this one would be interesting.
Today he'd be meeting the commander and 2IC of Alpha Six, the rapid response team. The whole idea was O'Neill's own - if Alpha One was the flagship team, Alpha Six would be the troubleshooters, ready to go into a hot spot at a moment's notice. In many ways, this would be his most important team, the one assigned to do the impossible at times.
First into O'Neill's office was the very beautiful 1st Lt. Marlena Paisley. She had been hand-picked specifically for the rapid response team, and would serve as its second-in-command. Paisley was a former racing driver, and her third-place finish in the Indy 500 a year ago was the best ever performance by a female competitor, possibly the best by a second-year driver. Being shy by nature, she had tried to avoid publicity, with little success. Eventually, the emergence on the Internet of photos from her brief and previously obscure modeling career was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Within days she had decided to run away from her celebrity status and join the Air Force - ironically creating yet another storm of publicity. But finally, in the heart of Cheyenne Mountain, the model-turned-race-car-driver-turned-fighter-pilot-turned-special-ops-soldier was glad to be away from it all.
"Lieutenant Paisley, I presume," O'Neill said, as she stepped into the room. He motioned her toward a chair.
Close on her heels was the commander of Alpha Six. He was the only newcomer to the Stargate program among all the team leaders, but a proven special ops squad leader nonetheless. Capt. John Gardiner, formerly in USMC Force Reconnaisance, had been, for the last two or three years, the man of choice whenever it became necessary to evacuate Americans caught in African civil wars, and whenever international terrorism reared its ugly head in Africa. To many Africans, he was known as the Red Ranger, in part for his hair color. Yet, for all his military accomplishments, he did not look very warlike in the setting of a conference room; his wire-rimmed glasses completed the image of a scholar rather than a soldier. Indeed, as the son of missionaries in East Africa, he had always considered his role to be that of peacemaker.
"Captain Gardiner," O'Neill addressed the Marine, "How's Congo these days?"
"Interesting," Gardiner answered noncommittally.
"The usual gunfire, rhetoric, and international intrigue, then." O'Neill nodded.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that. Same old, same old."
"My regards to Monsieur Kabila, anyway. I hear you're a bit of a MacGyver type."
"That's what the Americans always called me, at least" Gardiner said. "MacGuyver of Africa. What can I say? Been on the spot enough times, I guess. Gotta love African politics." Gardiner's improvisatory abilities were particularly famous. His most recent exploit was already legend: sneaking thirty Westerners to safety through two hundred miles of rebel-held territory in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, without having to fire a single shot.
"I'm guessing you both already know exactly why you're here," O'Neill said as Gardiner sat down in the other empty chair. The two Alpha Six officers both nodded. "I'm going to be asking you to do a lot, being the professional troubleshooters that you are. Have you two met before?"
Gardiner spoke first. "No, don't think so."
"I guess some introductions are in order." He pointed to Gardiner. "Captain John Gardiner, US Marine Corps, just in from Kinshasa yesterday..."
Paisley stopped him there. "I know who he is," she announced before O'Neill could finish. She turned to Gardiner. "You're the one who's evacuated people from all those wars in Africa - you're the Red Ranger, aren't you?" she asked with a distinct Texas drawl.
"One and the same," Gardiner answered. Then his eyes widened in recognition. "Didn't you drive on the Indy-car circuit last year?"
Paisley smiled. "That was me in the ugly purple car. Blame Yahoo for that. Do they follow auto racing at all in Africa?"
"Lucky guess, that's all. One of my men in Congo and Sudan kept this picture over his bunk, said the girl in it was some famous race-car driver."
"That would be the sweet little yellow bikini number?" O'Neill interrupted. "Sorry," he added as Paisley grimaced in exasperation.
Gardiner just barely nodded, looking quite embarrassed himself. "Anyway, I never thought I'd see Marlene Paisley here, of all places."
"Marlena," Paisley corrected him.
"I guess we don't need introductions, then," O'Neill said, surprised at how much the two knew already. "So," he began, his voice returning to all-business, "Captain Gardiner, I think you'll find this assignment a whole lot more straightforward than African politics. As you may have read already, we have an obvious, well-defined enemy, which makes things a bit easier. Your team's going to be the rapid response squad, so it'll be pretty much the same kind of assignments you've had before. Mostly bringing our people home, and occasionally a diversionary attack or a covering action."
"Sounds good," Gardiner said.
"Paisley, you're going to be responsible for the rapid part of rapid response. Alpha Six is getting a fast attack vehicle - you wouln't believe how much trouble it was to get a couple of them from the SEALs. You get to drive that, or fly whatever aircraft or spacecraft the team needs to get somewhere. Everyone else on the team is also training to be able to take over in an emergency, but you're probably the best pilot we've got."
Paisley nodded. "I'll try my best, sir. I've been on the death glider and tel'tac simulators pretty much every day."
"Basically what we're asking from you is speed. As much of it as is practical, of course."
"Now that.. I can provide," the young woman drawled with a smile. "So where's the rest of our team?"
O'Neill produced two sets of folders and handed one to each of the two officers in front of him. "Murray's off-world right now with SG-3, and Russell arrives tomorrow night."
He drew their attention first to Murray's folder. "2nd Lieutenant Orlando Murray, Marine Corps, heavy weapons and demolitions specialist. Also known as Ragin' Cajun, Cajun for short. Great guy as long as you're not on the wrong side of a gunfight with him."
After that, Russell's folder. "2nd Lieutenant Valerie Russell, Air Force. Civilian interpreter at Aviano for the last couple years, finally joined the Air Force a few months ago. You're going to need someone to translate, and I figure it's best if your interpreter's already been through basic and weapons training. Any thoughts? Questions? Concerns?"
Gardiner's brain went into neutral right then. "So... I get the runaway celebrity, the high-explosive nutcase, and someone just out of basic..." he started. Paisley shot him an annoyed look. "This could get interesting. Very interesting. And fun..." he finished lamely, his voice trailing off at the end.
1500 HOURS MAGT
Some of the best news stories break by chance - a reporter or photographer happening to be in the right place at the right time to witness history being made. History was hardly being made today, but Izvestia photographer Alexei Semyonovich Pimenov nevertheless kept that thought in mind as he approached the baggage claim at Khabarovsk Novy Airport. He was exhausted from the journey home from Komsomolsk, having dragged himself out of a cheap hotel bed at 4:00 in the morning only to sit in an airport terminal.
He quickly found the carousel for his own flight, and was waiting for his suitcase when he was jostled from behind. He looked around and found himself face to face with a goateed Western-looking man. "Izvinite," the man said with a distinctly American accent before sidling away to join an increasingly large group of his countrymen at the next carousel, who had apparently just arrived from Seoul.
Pimenov may have been tired, but he had enough of his wits about him to realize that something was not entirely normal. He'd never seen such a large gathering of Westerners, not here in Khabarovsk. Twenty of them, he counted, fifteen men and five women, in their twenties and thirties with the exception of a small teenage girl, and all quite athletic-looking. One man, wearing a dark suit and conversing animatedly with the goateed man who had bumped Pimenov earlier, stood out as a leader. Another, Pimenov realized, was someone whose name he should have recognized from his own stint in Africa - John Gardiner. Military advisors, he immediately guessed, but for whom and for what purpose? And why was John Gardiner here, when he was supposedly one of the leading experts on African politics? Could the Russian government possibly have interests in Africa? Why Khabarovsk, when the only military presence here was a single mechanized infantry division whose soldiers largely alternated between watching the Chinese border and playing cards? The questions raced as quickly as they could through his slowed mind. He reached for his camera bag, certain that the news office would be highly interested.
After snapping a few photos, Pimenov gathered enough courage to step forward. "I could not help but notice your group," he said to the leader, in English. "We rarely see many Americans here."
Now it was Phil Davenport's turn to think on his feet. Traveling by commercial airliner had been a ploy to avoid notice in a city where an irregular military flight might actually have drawn much more notice. But now that he had been noticed, by a man with a large camera bag, no less, the people behind him could hardly pass for tourists. Davenport decided to give him part of the truth, but only after checking his credentials.
"You're very perceptive," he said. "Are you local?"
"Yes, I am," Pimenov answered. He handed Davenport a business card. "Alexei Pimenov, Khabarovsk news bureau, Izvestia. I take it you are not here for pleasure?"
"Got us nailed," Davenport said, carefully choosing his words. "Philip Davenport, Lieutenant Colonel, US Air Force. We're on special assignment. The Khabarovsk Stargate base is being shut down and dismantled in the next few weeks, so they sent us to watch over that and making sure it goes as per agreement."
"Ah, I see." The Russian left his most pressing question unasked: why so many people? Twenty seemed like overkill for that kind of job. He decided, instead, to ask the Moscow office for the official press release on the operation.
"So is Russian news so uninteresting that the papers are resorting to sending people after every group of foreigners that arrives at the airport?"
"Not at all, Mr. Davenport. In fact, I am just returning from Komsomolsk myself."
"So... why the pictures? Just in case?"
"I had extra film. Why not?" Pimenov smiled weakly. Davenport looked unconvinced. "I must go pick up my luggage. Good day to you, and perhaps we will meet again." He wheeled around and walked off.