"Convince your enemy that he will gain very little by attacking you.
This will diminish his enthusiasm."
—a Chinese proverb
Chapter Three: The Gateway Opens
Part Three of Nine
The Mission
Saturday 10th July 1993
2147 hours
Things began to happen rather quickly in the attack's aftermath.
The first person Hayes contacted was the Minister of Defence, at that time Sir Samuel Dorrance. It was Sir Samuel's unenviable task to pass the information on upwards to the Prime Minister, who had like his predecessors been kept oblivious to the existence of the Project for deniability's sake, along with various other operations, such as the existence of J Squadron. It was decided by Sir Samuel, in consultation with Major Gerald Harcourt, the OC of J Squadron, that the PM should remain in the dark with regards to the squadron. Things had just been taken almost completely out of Hayes' hands.
After contacting Sir Samuel, Hayes telephoned Admin, issuing an immediate recall order. Right now he needed every asset that he could get ready for action.
Ross groaned, heaving himself, dripping, from his bath at the pager's insistent bleeping. It was the first good soak he'd had in months, and he'd only just gotten in. Great timing.
Ash groaned, slapped at his pager to shut it off, and hastily downed the rest of his pint, shoving a couple of notes across the bar as he grabbed for his jacket before hurrying out of the pub.
He had work to do.
Cursing under his breath, Scudder ground the accelerator of his Renault into the floor, belting hell-for-leather down the M1. It was late, it was nighttime, and he was clocking over a hundred miles an hour when he wasn't tailgating bloody coaches. The Old Bill might clock him and pursue, which would be fun. And if they pulled him over he would make no attempt to ruin their night. He'd take the ticket and the bollocking with it and look contrite. And when he got to Benson he'd hand the ticket over to Admin, who would glare at him for sure. But they'd also pay it.
He'd just been having the best weekend he'd had since getting stuck on the Project. And just as he and Katie had put their daughters to sleep, the bloody pager'd gone off and woken them up again. When it came to anything disturbing, making things awkward for or just plain upsetting his family, Scudder got extremely intense.
He was not having a good night.
Jimmy Conley and Sid Vicious were also none too appreciative of having their evening disturbed. Shortly after being assigned to the Project, they'd discovered they had plenty in common; they liked gadgets, could natter for hours about the same classical literature – Sid was particularly keen on Jane Austen while Conley was a Marlowe man – were heavily into punk rock'n'roll and the Sex Pistols in particular, and best of all they found that when they hit the discos together teamwork made it easier for them to get dates.
Currently, they were in identically rather embarrassing situations. Each trooper was in a hotel room with his date, pager bleeping insistently, struggling to get his trousers back on and come up with an acceptable explanation for his lady-friend of the evening as to why he was leaving.
Double dating could be hell sometimes.
Nev was also experiencing a clash between duty and affaires de la coeurs. He'd taken his girlfriend of the past six months, a nurse by profession, out to dinner in Kensington, a particularly fancy restaurant that was eating deeply into his wallet. But Chrissy was worth it, and unless he was mistaken there was a faint chance that their relationship could become permanent. Much as he loved the Regiment and the atmosphere there, if his relationship got serious and Chrissy asked him to go down Civvie Street, he'd do it. Besides, with his skills, he could probably get the training to gain a doctorate.
And then his pager had gone off halfway through dessert. This job could be such a pain.
Gareth groaned as the woodpecker flew off, spooked by the bloody pager. That was just typical. Grabbing up his binos and bird book from where they lay on the grass beside him, he clambered to his feet and sprinted off towards where he'd left his car.
Froggy had been indulging in his top two favourite pastimes simultaneously: movies, and snogging like mad, curled up in the back of a cinema with a pair of absolutely gorgeous shop girls.
The moment had been completely ruined when his pager had gone off. Glares had been sent his way by the rest of the audience, even more when word whispered around what was going on back there. Cursing under his breath, he made his way out, trampling a few feet in his haste to leave. "Adieu, my cheris," he stage-whispered from the exit to his two pouting girlfriends.
Two and a half hours later, the PM had summoned Sir Samuel, the current Director of Special Forces Brigadier Jonathan Wright, the Director General of MI-5 Sir Nigel Dupayne, Sir Charles Hemmings from the Home Office, which politically commands MI-5, Colonel Reginald 'Reggie' Tooks, who was beginning his final year as commanding officer of the SAS, to Number Ten Downing Street.
The meeting was, despite its location, kept reasonably low-key with the relatively small number of those in attendance. Reggie Tooks' absence from Hereford would not be remarked upon by the Regiment as he had been scheduled to meet with Sir Samuel the previous day and stay that weekend in London, the only member of the assembly whose travel plans might be noticed by others.
It was a meeting that took place entirely behind closed doors, a meeting that would decide the future of the Project. Indeed, as things turned out, it may well have been the most important meeting held by members of the British government.
Sir Nigel was contemplative as his Rolls pulled out of Downing Street six hours later. Well, that was one mystery cleared up: he'd personally searched for the best part of five months, to no avail, to find what Nicholas Tyrell and James Tewson had gotten involved in. 'C' Branch was the wing of MI-5 that concerned itself with the security of the Civil Service (its staffers and its buildings), the security of Contractors (mainly those civilian firms handling defence and communications work), Military Security (in close liaison with the Armed Forces' own internal security staffs) and Sabotage (in reality or prospect). Three years ago, the Head of C.1 (A) – C.1 being Civil Service Personnel and Buildings, 'A' Section meaning within the capital – had come to Sir Nigel, reporting that two of his best operatives had been all but press-ganged by some jumped-up little Army captain for 'something classified'. It would seem Tyrell and Tewson had been making themselves useful, then.
He found it truly disturbing how all this had been kept hidden for so long. What was worse was the implication that all this time, personnel had been being roped in on the sly for so many years. There was simply no telling how many people had come into contact with the Project over the years – no, he corrected himself, decades.
The United Kingdom had access to a…'matter transportation device' as Sir Samuel had described it. A device that clearly led to other sentient life in the universe. Hostile sentient life at that.
The PM had declared…well, a lot of things really. But what most affected Five was that the Project was to be given the full support of any and all of the public services. But beyond leaving Tyrell and Tewson where they were, what more could Five do?
If this Project was set to become a permanent operation, then MI-5 would find a part to play. That much was certain.
Reggie Tooks, now driving back to Hereford, was muttering a steady stream of curses under his breath which he'd picked up from his parent regiment, the Ghurkhas. It seemed, Tooks thought angrily, he had had seven troopers snatched from under his very nose without him even hearing about it. He recognised the names; Ashcroft, Conley, Berensen and Hardcastle were off temporarily attached to UNIT, weren't they? Surely the UN wasn't so lax as to allow some of the most skilled personnel under its command get seconded without raising a stink over the matter. And Hodges, Longley and Kay were supposed to be part of the current CRW force; he'd have to have a word with MacLoughlin, B Squadron's current commander. Tooks was quietly appalled; he would have never thought the burly Scots major would be so lax as to ignore the loss of one of his best corporals. Mind you, it now seemed there were a lot more secrets in the Regiment than he'd ever guessed; and he'd always thought Cameron was a cunning old bastard…
Ross he knew only too well. The Marine had gone through Selection, made troop commander and immediately been snapped up by UNIT, the flash sod. Tooks had to concede though, Ross had later capably commanded A Squadron for two years and personally led them on operations in Columbia for nine months solid. Ross had then managed to stick around as the Special Forces liaison officer in Washington. Until today, Tooks had thought he was still over in the States.
How many more men had been seconded from the Regiment over the years? How many more had gone temporarily missing without anyone noticing, waiting to undertake a mission that had never gone ahead? Well, the mob at RAF Benson weren't going to meet that particular fate, oooh no.
When he got back, there were going to be a lot of very searching questions asked around Hereford. And where he was supposed to come up with these additional troopers and support personnel was anyone's guess…
Brigadier Wright was positively fuming. There may have been an element of propriety towards the SAS to Wright's displeasure, but unlike with Tooks this displeasure was partly born from embarrassment. It was part of his position, his duty, his damn right to know just who was where and what was going on with Britain's elite military units. And yet an SAS officer and seven troopers had been sneaked off to a project no one had seen fit to inform him of the existence of and been there for four months now. He was, Wright was sure, a laughing stock. Well. There was nothing he could do now. Hopefully, Tooks would sort out this deception and trickery in his regiment and get to the bottom of all this.
It was true that Wright was curious about the Project and the benefits that might be reaped. But he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of betrayal. Tooks had said something about some of these troopers being officially seconded to UNIT; what was happening on that front? Did the UN know of the Project, or had they been hoodwinked as well? Secretly, Wright dearly hoped it was the latter. It's bad enough finding out that you've been deceived in your own office, so to speak, but worse to find that potential rivals were not.
The fact of the matter was that his position had very little real authority. The role of Director Special Forces was more than anything a convenience. The Army was still a hierarchy, even to the indulged personnel of the Special Forces units. The chain of command required that an officer of staff rank pass the units' requests up to GHQ. That same chain demanded that any orders flowing in the opposite direction also carried the imprimatur of a Brigadier. Numerically, the fact that the Special Forces Group comprised the 22nd SAS, the Territorial Army units 21st and 23rd SAS, the Special Boat Service, 264 Signals Squadron and the TA unit 63 SAS Signals Squadron, excused the truncated nature of the command. Wright suspected that there was very little reason for his being informed beyond the fact that he and his successors of his current post might be required to handle equipment requests from the personnel assigned to the SGP.
This was not, in short, a situation he particularly liked very much.
Hayes had been waiting at his desk for hours, leaving only to get a coffee from the drinks machine that had somehow wound up at the other end of the corridor. No one could remember who had left it there, or where it was meant to be, but as long as someone kept filling it up and removing the money, nobody was about to complain.
The phone rang. The receiver was in his hand before it could begin its second ring. "Hayes," he curtly said. "Ah…Sir Samuel…excellent. Yes Minister, I'll pass the good news along. Yes, they'll hate us all right. Quite a challenge. Well, I'll see what we can do. Right. Thanks."
Hayes grinned predatorily as the Minister of Defence rang off. He had a briefing to prepare.
J Squadron was a true irregularity even among a unit as unconventional as the SAS. For a start, the 22nd SAS Regiment had its traditional home at Stirling Lines in Hereford, where the borders of Wales and England met. J Squadron had its own separate headquarters in Hampshire, on the southern coast, in an old factory that had once produced rubber Wellington boots. For another, it was rarely known about outside of the men who had served with it in one capacity or another at some point during their careers. Indeed, should an officer become Director of Special Forces who had not served with the squadron, he would not be notified of its existence. Operational security was tight indeed.
Hampshire was a long way from being the sleepy, quiet countryside bedecked with little villages a lot of foreign tourists believed a lot of the United Kingdom to be. True, there was the New Forest. But with the cities of Southampton and Portsmouth at the heart of Hampshire's western coastline, the county was definitely a hotbed of activity and commerce. Banks and insurance companies had settled the region in considerable numbers. After London, the south coast was the prime location for big business.
What you would not find in any of the hordes of tourist's guides, handbooks, maps, leaflets and holiday advertisements is that there was another important feature of Hampshire, and the city of Southampton in particular. It had a Hellmouth.
It was currently dormant. It had been dormant for several millennia before humans had first come the lands currently known as the European continent, and would most likely remain so for thousands of years to come. But every once in a while, someone who was either an idiot, a megalomaniac or possibly both, would find something that required a Hellmouth of some sort to be involved somewhere in the process for whatever reason.
Being technically dormant, the Southampton Hellmouth was much more difficult to open than the active Hellmouths. There was very little risk of anyone ever finding or developing a way of opening it and letting the hell dimensions spill forth into the mortal realm in one colossal destructive wave, so most of the time the only risk was to the unfortunates chosen for the blood sacrifices and, if a crucial glyph in the ritual circle was drawn incorrectly, anyone who happened to be walking past the building when it exploded. Fortunately this last had only happened once and been attributed to arson at the time. Even more fortunately, the passersby in question on that occasion had been a pair of lawyers who'd been blind drunk at the time after a long night celebrating the closure of a difficult case and got lost on their way home. They'd been barely capable of seeing the pavement beneath their feet clearly at the time, never mind the pieces of severed tentacles and glass that had gone flying past over their heads as the house's windows blew out. Aside from the shock, which had been slightly diffused by the alcohol flooding their systems, both women had been physically unhurt, although one had never been able to contemplate eating squid again for reasons she could never quite identify.
As a result of such goings-on, J Squadron was based north of Southampton, about twenty miles as the crow flies from RAF Odiham, home of the bulk of Britain's fleet of Chinook helicopters.
The squadron had a long and deep history. In 1965 during the Borneo War, a four-man fighting patrol from D Squadron had come across the mutilated remains of some conscripts from the communist Indonesian army. The patrol's scout, a former Ghurkha, had successfully tracked a strange, hideous, salivating, decidedly hostile and definitely non-human creature. Upon finding it in its lair three miles from the dead conscripts, the patrol had taken up positions and opened fire when it shuffled out to hunt that evening, setting off the Claymore mines they'd rigged up at the entrance as the troopers threw white phosphorous grenades and raked it with heavy machinegun fire from the patrol's GPMG, or general purpose machinegun. It had died, messily.
The patrol had been led by an officer, one Captain Roger Astbury. Consultation with a couple of other officers and NCOs in the Regiment, coupled with a chance meeting in a pub with a French lieutenant assigned to UNIT, had resulted in a group of SAS personnel, spread over all ranks, aware that the supernatural was only too real.
It had been good fortune then, that upon the success of the Borneo War in 1966 and the Regiment's triumphant return to Hereford that Astbury and certain other SAS personnel – officers, NCOs and troopers – were temporarily assigned to UNIT. A meeting had been arranged with the commanding officer of the UNIT forces operating within the United Kingdom, and an arrangement reached. A group of SAS troopers would work with the task force, then go on to establish a new sabre squadron, still ostensibly serving with UNIT. UNIT gained a steady flow of experienced jungle fighters for six years running, who were able to pass on knowledge and skills to the other personnel. The troopers established the new squadron, some fifty-odd troopers, three officers and various support personnel. It was regarded as an excellent trade, and had led to a relationship between the squadron and UNIT that had lasted well over the years. Rather curiously, Keats chosen not to divulge the squadron's existence to the Watchers' Council.
Major Harcourt was not having a good day, to say the least. He'd just received telephone calls from Hayes and Sir Samuel, both telling him he'd have to hold a meeting he'd been quietly hoping that he'd never have to attend ever since becoming J Squadron OC. He was, it seemed, to do something unprecedented; brief the Regiment's commanding officer on the squadron's existence. A CO who had not previously served with the squadron. Worse, a CO renowned for giving people the good news in a spectacular display of vitriol when they had failed him in some way.
He'd met Tooks before, and come away thinking rather well of him. Harcourt wasn't much of a traditionalist, but still there was something that made him a little uncomfortable about divulging the information to Tooks, despite the fact that, technically speaking, the man was his commanding officer.
The winds of change were blowing, and he was but one of many caught up in it.
It may have been just gone three o'clock in the morning, but the patrol had watched the footage from the security cameras of the attack non-stop. It didn't take a genius to guess the options that were being considered, and each man's feelings were mixed on the matter. The chance to actually do something useful instead of simply training and rehashing their existing skills was extremely appealing. But none of them was ever gung-ho about the prospects of combat, and the knowledge of the eight Black Watch men and three REMEs in the base's morgue served to show just how formidable a foe they'd have to go up against if a mission was authorised. It didn't matter that not one of the SAS troopers had ever met them beyond occasionally seeing them in the base's corridors or in passing at the surface entrance; they were fellow squaddies, and that counted for plenty.
The Pit, as it had been nicknamed by some unknown squaddie during the Fifties, had its briefing room located directly above the control room, with a window overlooking the Stargate in its hangar. The sight of the troopers took the scientists by surprise, but the former weren't especially bothered by the reaction. They just sat there at the far end of the conference table, talking among themselves.
Ash nodded in a vague greeting to the American astrophysicist, Sam Carter, as she entered. She herself hadn't exactly been burned into his memory: he mainly remembered her simply because escorting her to Benson had occurred on the same day he'd found out about what was without a doubt Britain's darkest and craziest secret. Unfortunately, Scudder noticed the gesture, and nudged him conspiratorially.
"Got yer feet oonder the t'ble 'en 'ave ya?" he muttered, flashing the sergeant a wink and a grin.
Ash rolled his eyes. "I delivered her on the day I got drafted into this shithole, is all."
Scudder sighed theatrically. "An' 'ere was me hopin' te be yer best man at th' weddin'," he lamented. "Ah, well, soomhoo ah'll soljer on."
"I've no doubt," Ash returned good-naturedly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention," Hayes called as the last couple of stragglers put in an appearance.
"For the benefit of those of you unaware, at twenty-two thirty-six hours yesterday nine individuals accessed this base via the Stargate, took two hostages – Doctor Marie Horrocks, one of our archaeologists, and Private Timothy Grant of the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers – shot up the Gate's hangar and the control room, killing three more engineers in the process, and then engaged a platoon of the Black Watch. In the ensuing battle, the Black Watch sustained eight fatalities for the loss of four of the intruders and the injury of one who seems to have been the group's leader before the surviving intruders escaped through the Stargate. We have good reason to believe these intruders were of extraterrestrial origin.
"The Prime Minister has been briefed on the Project and the details of the attack by the Minister of Defence." The SAS patrol, Ross included, exchanged glances at this. An operation like this was not something they'd expected to be kept classified from the PM, and this little revelation smacked of a power struggle. "Early this morning, the PM gave the following orders with regards to this project, to be implemented at the earliest possible time.
"One: we are to undertake manned operations through the Stargate with a view to attempt to recover the captured personnel.
"Two: the MOD has been ordered to form a detachment for the purposes of undertaking missions using the Stargate. Their duties will be to perform reconnaissance, determine threats, if at all possible to make peaceful contact with the peoples of other worlds and if not to undertake combat operations in the interests of the security of the United Kingdom – and to be honest with you, the world." Hayes paused and grinned tightly; the SAS troopers in particular were completely unimpressed with the melodramatic touch.
"This detachment will operate on a covert and top-secret basis. No one will know of its existence except the PM, the Minister of Defence, Director of Special Forces and the commanding officer of the Twenty-Second SAS Regiment, which will be providing the personnel for the detachment." This gained a lot of interest from the troopers; living in the pits of hell isn't so bad if you have good company.
Hayes looked specifically at the civilian consultants. "We've come a long way with this project, ladies and gentlemen. For that I thank you, and with the Project's continuation I should like to request your services once again." A variety of nods and other responses in the affirmative rippled around the table.
"Then I should like to introduce the team we have on hand for the purposes of our first mission." Assuming we can actually proceed with it. Ash frowned and exchanged glances with Scudder and Ross, confirming they'd picked up on Hayes' unspoken sentiments as well. "The gentlemen at the far end are Major Ross and his men from the SAS." Ash's opinion of Hayes went down immediately. Being in the Regiment was not something you bandied about casually. Troopers tended only to talk about their work among themselves, and were only legally permitted to reveal the identity of their regiment to extremely close relatives and long-term spouses. Granted, every civilian specialist in the room had had an extensive background check done to ensure they posed no security risks to the Project, but this was something else entirely.
"Now, what's our situation?" Hayes continued, ignoring a black look from Scudder. "Doctor Wilson?"
Major Laura Wilson, The Pit's CMO, was a tall Yorkshirewoman in her mid thirties and almost as strong as Scudder, a fact belied by her slight appearance. One of the first things anyone being ministered to by her found out was that she didn't take any lip or nonsense from anyone, without distinction of class, rank or background, and the second was that while her ministrations may cause discomfort, they also caused a swift recovery. About the only trooper she had any liking for was Nev, for reasons that were a mystery even to him. "I've been examining the corpses of the intruders," she began, opening the file before her on the table and handing around a few blown-up photographs. "They're essentially human but with a few differences as you can see. These slits are actually a pouch similar to that found in a marsupial."
Nev frowned at one of the photos that had reached him. "Any ideas what this snake…worm…thing is meant to be?" he asked.
"I haven't had time to do an autopsy on those yet. There's an unknown element that showed up in their bloodwork – I haven't managed to identify it yet."
Hayes nodded, satisfied with this news. No especially unpleasant surprises. "Thank you, doctor." He shot a brief glance at the SAS medic, eyes narrowed, before looking away again. "Doctor Gladstone, Doctor Carter, how's that dialling program coming along? We're going to need to track down the world these…aliens…people, whatever they are."
"Actually, general, we can follow them already," Sam jumped in before Carol could say anything.
Hayes frowned. "What do you mean, doctor?"
"Well, the security cameras and the video equipment Doctor Chessel had rigged up caught the symbols used on tape – we know the co-ordinates the…aliens…dialled when they left, and the symbols they used to get here. If they came here from the same place they went to, then we can get there as well and return again."
Ross had been growing steadily more and more disenchanted with the turn events were taking, and couldn't contain himself any longer. "Let me get this straight," he said, fighting to keep himself from verbally broadsiding the general. "You want my men and I to undertake a rescue operation on another planet billions of light-years away that we don't know even the most basic information about. We'll be going up against an enemy using advanced directed-energy weapons and possessing a superior knowledge of the local terrain, whose forces we know nothing whatsoever about in terms of size, composition, capability, equipment and disposition, not to mention we don't even know all that much for certain about their biology. And the device we have to use to get there was been buried in Egypt for four millennia, then in this base and various warehouses for another sixty-odd years, and we may or may not be able to successfully return to the correct planet – this one – provided that there is in fact a similar device on the other end. Am I missing something, or is that an accurate assessment of the proposed mission profile?"
The troopers, Hayes could see, were responding to this; it would seem they agreed with the assessment. Hayes shook his head. "Major, what I'm proposing is a reconnaissance mission only at this stage. Of course, should the opportunity arise to recover our personnel, I would hope that you and your men would take it."
"Oh, that's much better," Ash growled. "It's still likely we'll get killed inside five secs of stepping into that thing."
"Actually—" Carter spoke up.
"Can you honestly guarantee we won't, doc?" Gareth interrupted. "No offence, but we've had one probe and a bunch of aliens go through the bloody thing. Personally, I really hate the idea of being used like a guinea pig."
"Anyway, what if there's a problem with that pedestal – you know, the control device?" asked Froggy.
"We can use another robotic probe to ascertain if it's safe to pursue the aliens," Carol put in. "That would also confirm the presence of a control device and Stargate on the other end of the wormhole."
"'Coorse, th' prob wi' that's if the opposition's got guards oan their Gate, they'll know we're comin', wun't they?" Scudder offered his opinion. "So there goes the element a' surprise."
"So we send the probe through and if it all checks out we send you guys through straightaway?" Carol suggested. Eight pairs of eyes regarded her as if she'd suggested they perform a specific sexual act with a chicken.
"Are you deliberately tryin' to get us killed or something?" Ash asked in a withering tone of voice. "You need the right kit and clothing depending on the terrain, and that'll take a while to get sorted out and for us to get loaded up properly. If we go off half-cocked, the ones that don't get shot'll die of heatstroke or hypothermia or something. Is that what you want?"
The computer specialist shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. Suddenly, it wasn't hypothetical anymore. The Gate worked; that wasn't the problem any longer. The problem was that people had died. And if the planning was messed up, these soldiers could die, entirely needlessly. "Sorry," Carol mumbled.
Scudder sighed. "'S not your fault, pet," he allowed. "No one ever trained ye in battle strategy, m'I right? Right. Nae harm done."
"If there's guards on the Gate at the other end, we can scrub the plan right away," said Nev. "That armour's something we don't want to have to go up against unless we're the ones calling the shots about terrain, timing and positions, not them. If they've got bunkers or any kind of prepared defensive positions, just forget it."
"Howsabout we chuck a few grenades through first, or hose 'em down with a coupl'a gimpies?" Sid Vicious offered.
"Don't be daft, man," said Scudder. "Ye're limited in yer field o' fire, the grenades wun't go far 'nough, 'n' if there's someone beyind the Gate, ye're stuffed then, in't ya? Can't do nowt then, can we?"
Sid Vicious shrugged. "Fair 'nough."
"If we're serious about doing this, I reckon we should take a look at the weaponry of the aliens the Black Watch downed," Jimmy mused. "It'd be handy if we could use them in a pinch."
Hayes nodded. "I'll arrange for you to have access to them," said he.
Ross glanced at his team. "Are we seriously considering doing this then?" he asked.
A few shrugs met this line of inquiry. "If we can sort out the probe situation, it might be doable," Gareth finally ventured.
"Anyone got objections to doing this?" Ross asked. There were no takers. "Okay, let's get on with this properly, then."
"Step one: we've sent the probe through," Ash began. "It reports back the air's okay, the gravity checks out, the control pedestal's there, there's a Gate, and there's no hostiles in the area. What then?"
"We can't go straight through – we're gonna have ta get kitted up proper-like first," Scudder offered his opinion.
"How long would you need to get sorted out – would four, maybe five hours do?" Carol asked.
The patrol exchanged looks, and eventually Ash nodded. "That ought to be enough."
"So," Carol grinned victoriously, "we send the probe in, get the data on the target Stargate and its surrounding area and then let the wormhole shut down. You lot get your kit sorted out, and when you're ready to go through we power up the Gate, dial the target, and download everything the probe recorded and review it. If it doesn't look as though there's been any activity, we send you through."
"Do all of us go through though, or do just one or two go to check if we can get back home?" Jimmy asked.
"If you do that and we haven't got the right symbols, we've then got one or two guys on the wrong planet with no good way of getting back home and hostiles around – that ain't good news by anyone's standards," Sid Vicious said. "If we all go, then if the dial code doesn't work we might, just might be able to find the right one – we can search further with eight of us on the job, maybe get it out of the opposition somehow."
"Damn sight easier for eight lads to build a wooden horse than two," Froggy grinned. "Worked on the Trojans after all."
"Ah don't think these lads'll fall fer a wooden 'oss somehow," said Scudder. "All right. We go through the Gate. First off, we get a perimeter set up, then try diallin' the symbols them aliens used. What if the pedestal don't work? Boss, Gareth, Sid, could any of ye figure out hoo ta get the bleeder workin' agin?" Having trained in signals and electronics for their primary patrol skills, these troopers were therefore the closest the patrol had to scientific experts.
The troopers and major exchanged glances. "If the scientists here had problems with sorting our one out, there's no way we'll manage it, with less resources, less knowledge and in enemy territory," Ross said finally.
"So if the pedestal doesn't work, we're completely stuffed," said Jimmy, neatly summing things up.
"Uh…I've been looking at our pedestal from time to time while we were compiling the dialling algorithms, and if I took a laptop and the right equipment I might be able to repair any damage and get it operational."
Simultaneously, the patrol members turned and stared at Sam Carter.
Scudder was the first to break the silence. "Could ye run that past us one moor time, pet'l?" he asked gently.
Sam bit her lip nervously. "If I went with you, then if there was a problem with the pedestal I might be able to repair it. And if you encountered any – well, alien technology – I might be of some use to you there as well."
"No offence, Doc, but do you have any military or survival training?" Ash asked. "If you climb mountains or go hiking for a hobby then in time we might be able to get you trained up to a point where you'd be able to work with us, but we can't afford to get slowed down."
Sam shrugged. "My dad was in the Air Force, so I picked some stuff up. I'm a pretty good shot with a sidearm, and I went on a camping trip this one time with some friends for a couple of weeks – I can rough it."
Jimmy winced. "Let me guess: you and your mates slept in tents, lit fires, swapped stories, maybe smoked some fags?" Sam shrugged: aside from the smoking, he was accurate so far. But she didn't understand: what was wrong about having a fire and using tents? "And roughly how much were each of you lugging around?"
"Around thirty, thirty-five pounds of supplies and equipment," Sam admitted.
"Usual load for us is about eighty, ninety pounds, maximum of around a hundred twenty, hundred thirty tops," Froggy said. "But some guys've been known to carry even more on 'em."
"If you were to accompany Major Ross and his patrol," Hayes put in, interrupting the interrogation, "how confident are you that you would be of use with regards to operating the Stargate and possibly other technology, Doctor?"
"Quite confident," Sam admitted.
"How long before we begin the op?" Ash asked.
Hayes looked at the sergeant critically. "As soon as possible. I can give you perhaps three days; no more."
"Ash?" Ross asked. "What do you reckon?"
Ash rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Doc? You still interested in doing this?"
This was too good an opportunity to pass up. "Sure," Sam replied.
The sergeant shrugged. "Do you fancy putting her through the wringer, Boss, or do you want me to do the job?"
"She's all yours, Ash," said Ross.
"'Kay. I've got one condition though," Ash said, looking pointedly at Sam. "We'll have a go and I'll do what I can for you – but if I feel at any point you won't be able to keep up and will be a liability, Doc, I'm reserving the right to scrub you, alright?"
Sam nodded.
Ash turned to the major. "I'll see what we can do then, Boss."
"We'll need to carry on with the training – I'd like to get to the Brecon Beacons for the final prep," Ross addressed the general.
Hayes nodded. "Agreed."
"Obviously we can't discuss how we'll be doing the actual recce until we know something about the terrain. Is there anything else?" Ross asked the patrol. Various shrugs and comments of a negative persuasion were made. "Guess that's it then. Lads, Doctor Carter – we have a meet-up at seven thirty, 'kay? Get your sleep, guys, 'cause you're going to need it."
