21: Anchorpoint

Often, when the teams were away, General Janssen would worry about them. Especially if it was an unusual assignment, and the one he had sent Colonel Sheppard and his team upon was certainly 'unusual'. For one, they were playing ball with their makalvari allies for it, and through doing so were likely helping fulfil whatever self-serving agenda they had in mind. Not an ideal set of circumstances, and Janssen wondered if he had done the right thing in sending SG-1 along on it. And SG-21 for that matter. They had gone into a warzone on some far away planet, and God only knew what awaited them there. How many of them would not return home from this one?

Janssen had been standing at the windows of the conference room for the past several minutes, looking down upon the embarkation room and the dormant stargate within. His mind worked through all these concerns, and his gut told him things would probably go wrong. Especially with SG-1, it seemed they always got in the most trouble.

He heard the phone ringing from his office then. His reverie interrupted, he moved at a brisk pace, crossing the conference room and heading into his office where he saw that it was the black internal line that was ringing. Pausing by the desk, he picked up the handset.

"Janssen." He listened, his eyes narrowing into a slightly bemused frown as he listened to the voice on the other end. "All right, I'll see him. Send him up." He put the phone down and then moved around his desk, settling into the expensive and comfortable leatherbound chair. He did not have to wait long for his latest visitor to appear, and once again General Janssen was a little surprised to see him, and certainly concerned.

The man who appeared in his doorway was one he had met before: of average height and build, the man was dressed in a black suit and tie, although what stood out most about him was the moustache. Not many people sported carefully tailored moustaches like that these days, or at least, certainly not many people Janssen knew. The General might have assumed this man to be a bureaucrat, someone like Woolsey, yet he knew better in this case. Director Thomas Banachek of Homeworld Command was not some mere penpusher; rather, he was a hard-line intelligence veteran who had ascended to his job through experience and a spotless record.

Janssen had looked into the man's files some time ago, after their first encounter. Banachek had been in the Defence Intelligence Agency for much of his career, and his appointment to Director of Homeworld Command about a year ago had seen a change in that organization's normal operations. Previously, it had been a military officer, a General or some such, who served as Director. This time around, they had an intelligence operative in charge, the kind of man who no doubt had previously worked in various off-the-record assignments, the kind of 'black ops' stuff that made an officer like Janssen shiver. There was something cold about Banachek's gaze even now, although that was likely from the fact that Banachek had been placed at a significant disadvantage when Stargate Command had been put back into full working order roughly eighteen months ago, when all that business with the alien Field Marshall and his infiltrators had gone down.

"Director Banachek," Janssen said, offering his visitor a half-baked smile. "What a pleasant surprise. Slow day at the Pentagon, I take it?"

Homeworld Command had its headquarters in the basement of the Pentagon. For the time being, they coordinated Earth's growing starship fleet and organized the ongoing construction of more of those vessels. It was not a pleasant job, simply because of the various other nations involved who were always squabbling amongst themselves. Some would believe that a common, extra-terrestrial threat would unite the nations of Earth. This had proven to be far too idealistic a notion.

"It's not 'pleasant', you and I both know that, General." Banachek stopped before his desk and set his briefcase upon it. "The diplomatic situation is always evolving and often volatile. I have the Russians threatening to break off from the fleet initiative, I have the Chinese constantly pressuring us for greater control over the fleet as a whole and I even have the French demanding a bigger slice of the action. You, on the other hand, have roughly thirty fulltime teams at your disposal, most of whom are comprised of members from within the United States and our closest allies. The level of political, backstabbing nonsense you have to deal with is significantly less than what I have to contend with on a daily basis." Banachek looked almost relieved to have gotten this off of his chest.

Janssen cocked a brow, wondering if he would continue.

"So, not a slow day?"

"We are trying a very delicate balancing act here, General. Conflict could break out any time."

And yet, despite all the aggravation, Janssen knew that Banachek wanted the SGC under his control. For now, it was its own operation, another result of the incident with the alien Field Marshall. Of course, Banachek would be manoeuvring however he could to try and change these circumstances. He would keep up the pressure on the politicians in Washington from his end. Janssen, on the other hand, had enough pull with the President to ensure that the SGC remained under a separate banner.

"Did you come all this way to tell me about your many problems?" Janssen asked him. "Because I have plenty of my own."

"No, General." Banachek, still standing, popped open his briefcase. "I came here to brief you on something, believe it or not. Specifically, on Anchorpoint station."

"Anchorpoint?" Janssen frowned. He had not expected to hear anything of that project soon, a project that he had had some passing knowledge of that concerned a station capable of servicing and maintaining Earth's starships. It had been in its early stages last he had heard, although that had been some years ago. The starships at Earth's disposal, primarily the BC-304 models, were very much a money sink for all the nations involved. They were expensive and time-consuming to build, and they were just as expensive to keep running, more so than any aircraft carrier (and those were not cheap). Anchorpoint was intended as the one-stop all-purpose station where these ships could be repaired with greater efficiency, as previously the more demanding maintenance works had needed to be conducted on a case-by-case basis that was not always practical. Anchorpoint would be a naval port in space, likely somewhere close, such as near Earth's moon. There, it would serve as the port of call for any and all of these spacecraft, stocked with materials and parts and complemented with fulltime personnel. However, they had elected to start building the thing in a high orbit, which Janssen supposed was more convenient if a little more dangerous.

"It's being commissioned in the coming days," Banachek said. "Representatives from all nations involved are going to be there for the ceremony."

"Commissioned?" Janssen raised his brow. This was news to him. "I had no idea it was so far along."

"And now you do." Banachek delivered this as bluntly as he could. He pulled a sheet from his briefcase and slid it across the desk to Janssen. "Take a look, General. That's the layout. The largest orbital construction ever conducted. At least, under our official purview."

Janssen looked down at the diagram. He saw a lot of rectangles, joined by narrow corridors, with multiple sets representing the half a dozen or so levels on the station. On the outside, it would appear as a somewhat utilitarian cylindrical shape, and joined to it were the many intended docking tubes for the BC-304s. There were two hangar bays present for use by smaller craft such as fighters and shuttles. It would be Earth's first proper space-station since Midway, not including the much larger Broadsword that had been constructed in secret by people that neither Janssen nor Banachek could determine the identities of. Now that had taken years to put together, but Anchorpoint? They had slapped it together in a much shorter timeframe. Janssen had not been informed of its progress, as it had fallen under Homeworld Command's umbrella of operations, and Banachek had not been too forthcoming when it came to inter-organisational cooperation.

"Looks kind of small," Janssen commented, if only to annoy the Director.

"Overall, we're talking the size of a football stadium in terms of personnel space. More if you include the hangar bays and docking yards. All of it powered by naquadria generators."

"No zero-point modules?" Janssen inquired, looking back up to the Director.

"Those are in short supply, General. We would prefer those, we all would, but until we can find some more we have to make do with what we have."

There was a pause. Janssen supposed he should be impressed, given the speed of the work. However, that suggested the kind of frantic pace that often led to mistakes being made.

"The commissioning ceremony will be in a few days," Banachek said. "As I said, representatives from all nations involved, as well as the international press, will be present. We hope that this multinational effort will help temper the diplomatic climate."

Another thing Banachek likely resented was the fact that the stargate program was still under wraps. The starships, however, had become public knowledge. Again, it was an example of that 'delicate balancing act' Banachek had mentioned. While the Director had to contend with public opinion, Janssen had no such quandary.

"You want me to be there?" Janssen disliked such pomp. He had joined the Air Force to fly planes and protect his country (and, in the case of the SGC, protect the planet as a whole). Ceremonies, parades and whatever other public relations stunts one could devise were not something he had ever enjoyed. A commissioning ceremony on an orbital space station with politicians, UN representatives and a whole slew of reporters present? It sounded like a nightmare for General Janssen, and his distaste of the whole affair became visible in the look he gave, which only spurred Banachek to reply to his question with a much firmer tone.

"You are part of the program, General. I didn't plan on inviting you, but apparently the President has a higher opinion of you than I do. So, you're supposed to go and make yourself known."

"I get the feeling your people slapped this place together in record time," Janssen said. "Are you sure it's not going to fall out of orbit or something?"

"It uses state-of-the-art technology. Anything and everything reverse-engineered through the stargate program is on board."

"Yes, and we all know how safe some of those things are." Janssen did not try to hide his doubts. A worrisome thought occurred to him then: "I won't have to give a speech, will I?"

"A speech?" Banachek shook his head. Janssen thought he noticed the traces of a smirk at his mouth. "Only if you want to, General. I wouldn't dream of forcing you into giving one."

Banachek appeared to be enjoying this. Janssen sighed, still not at all looking forward to the affair. He did not want to rub shoulders with politicians and journalists, and yet it appeared that would be exactly what he would end up doing. He figured he could call in sick when the time came, as childish as that seemed. Still, part of him wanted to see the finished product. Anchorpoint had been a hastily drafted idea that had been put into action just as quickly. And now they were ready to unveil it to the world, the largest and most advanced orbital station ever built.

"The BC-304s are going to be putting on a bit of a show," Banachek added. "They'll be buzzing major cities across the world in a show of international unity."

"Sounds real charming," Janssen remarked, very much thinking the opposite. It sounded more like a recipe for mass panic. The world was still reeling from the revelations that aliens were real and Earth had its own starships. Showing them off in this way just seemed to Janssen as akin to rubbing salt on a wound.

"You don't approve of fireworks, General?"

"I approve of giving the people time to adjust to these things," Janssen said. "This seems a little too on-the-nose."

"The plans have already been made, General. You simply have to be there, smile for the cameras and shake a few hands. Don't worry, the stargate program will still be kept quiet for the time being. But since you are a part of this united Earth defence effort, you are expected to attend the ceremony. We would even request the presence of Colonel Sheppard as well, even Daniel Jackson, but evidently they are away on assignments."

"Yes, they are. And I don't think they would want to go, in all honesty." Janssen mulled over the inevitable commissioning ceremony, and he hoped to God that something would come up that kept him from needing to go. He did not like Banachek's attitude, and his gut instinct told him that Banachek intended to use the whole thing to further his own ends. Banachek wanted control of the SGC, and if he could arrange to make Janssen look bad in front of some very important people then he may just get what he wanted. So, Janssen could excuse himself from the whole thing and likely help Banachek's agenda, or he could still play right into it by going.

"I don't know if I'll be going, Director," Janssen said, if only to test the waters. "I'll have to relay my concerns about this whole matter to the President. Thing is, I know what you want, and I don't really want to help you get it."

"What do you mean?" Banachek frowned, and it was a mean one at that.

"You know exactly what I mean, don't play coy. You have suggested in the past that the stargate program is no longer necessary, because we have these ships instead. At the same time, I know you want the program under your control. You and your cohorts. As long as I'm around, Director, that won't happen." It was Janssen's turn to frown, and he met the Director's gaze firmly, making it clear that he would not back down. This was the way it would be, no matter what Director Banachek tried to do.

"Now, if the President wishes me to go, I will go. Until I hear it from him directly, you'll just have to get by without me." He smiled up at Banachek, the kind of smile that was purely intended to annoy someone. Banachek's expression was little more than a stony mask, betraying no emotion, even if Janssen thought he could sense the mounting aggravation beneath it.

"We're on the same side, General," Banachek said, finally.

"Indeed we are. Although, sometimes I think you're trying to change that."

Another pause followed, as either man gauged the other. And then, much to Janssen's surprise, Banachek added something he had not been expecting:

"You may not trust me, General, but surely you trust the person I put in charge of Anchorpoint?" He followed this with another brief pause, and Janssen found himself leaning his head forwards slightly, awaiting the rest with an expectant look.


"They built this place on the cheap, didn't they?"

When one did an inspection, they did not expect to find things in perfect order. Certainly not in a newly commissioned space-station, the kind that would not have been out-of-place in an episode of Star Trek. However, unlike that highly idealised fictional view of the future, Brigadier General Cameron Mitchell was firmly stuck in the real world, spending what was his first hour on board Anchorpoint station touring the halls with the help of a young airman who was supposed to be his aide during his time aboard commanding what was essentially a glorified naval port. Of course, being in orbit and not on the Earth's surface was certainly novel, yet Cameron could find little to truly intrigue him about that. This was not like the old days, when he had charged headlong through the stargate and gotten his hands dirty. This was a General's work, which meant a lot of management and paperwork and dealing with problems he had never really needed to deal with before.

Senior Airman Nolan Cruz spoke quickly and moved at a brisk pace, which forced Cameron to work himself a bit harder than he would have otherwise preferred in order to keep up. The corridors about them were of the expected shades of grey and blue, with the odd computer terminal set into the wall, some of which displayed interactive maps of the station. Several workmen were still present, with a pair off to their left currently in the process of screwing a grille onto part of the wall to cover an open hatch. Within would be the maze of ducts that snaked their way through every corner of the station, barely large enough for a man to crawl into.

Cameron felt the carpeted floor under his shoes, thin as it was. Cheap stuff, like so much of what he was seeing around him. They had slapped this place together quickly, building it section-by-section down on Earth before sending it into orbit. Once there, it was joined together like a Lego set, gradually leading to the creation of Earth's first 'space dock'. That was what a lot of people were calling it, even if the actual term was yet to be made official. 'Anchorpoint' was its individual name, and it did strike Cameron as apt, given that they were 'anchored' above Earth in some delicate gravitational dance.

They were in a high Earth orbit, the station itself comprised of one central structure that appeared cylindrical in general shape. Three more additional sections were attached to it, and from each one extended a long 'arm' complete with docking tubes, clamps and whatever else was necessary to keep a large spacecraft secured against it. A shield generator, based off of technology found in Atlantis, was being tuned to the station's overall mass. Once active, it would encase the station in an airtight bubble capable of withstanding even the most devastating energy weapons they knew of. That meant someone could step outside and not have to worry about all those awful things that happened when exposed to vacuum, such as asphyxiation and death, for the shield would be keeping the station's atmosphere within that bubble.

Cameron was fifty-three, and until recently he had sported a sizeable beard that had contained flecks of grey within it. However, as per instructions from those higher-up in Homeworld Command, he had been instructed to 'tidy up' per regulation and so had given himself a thorough shave, leaving his features with a smoothness they had not known for some time. His dark brown hair was short, if a little scruffy, something that no amount of combing had rectified. His navy-blue General's uniform had been ironed and dry-cleaned a few days before, so it appeared as good as new, spotless even. Again, the higher-ups had stressed to him the importance of appearing presentable in the face of all those important politicians who would be coming about in the next few days. The commissioning ceremony was set to draw world attention, a display of international unity that Cameron knew full well was a farce in itself.

The world's political climate had been in upheaval since the events of nearly two years ago, when an alien Field Marshall and his followers had spilled the beans to the world about the existence of extra-terrestrial life. Whilst the former 'conspiracy theorists' had given the world a big 'told you so', world leaders had been up in arms all over, especially those in nations who had been left out of the stargate program. And even those with significant involvement, such as the Russians and Chinese, had attempted to use the unrest for their own ends. This display of 'international unity' was simply a half-baked front, all while the usual politicking and backstabbing continued behind the scenes. The Russians wanted to break off and take the couple of starships they had with them, make their own 'Russian space fleet'. The Chinese wanted full control of the whole affair, not that it would ever happen, especially as Earth's alien allies were unlikely to play ball with them. That was going back some way, to when a certain Asgard Supreme Commander had made it very clear to representatives from China, Russia, France and so forth that any change in the leadership of the stargate program would directly affect the alliance. No one had bothered to tell the governments of those nations that the Asgard had gone extinct since then. Was a lie a lie if nothing had been said? Cameron distinctly remembered hearing something of the sort in an episode of Star Trek. If it was okay with Spock, then it was okay with him.

Thinking about that show now only suggested the full extent of how bored he was listening to the airman prattle on. Cameron had taken note of where the mess hall was located, as well as the bathroom. After all, those were two very important places. The pair traversed the corridors of the central structure, and as they went on they passed by a large window that looked down upon one of the long docking platforms. There, nestled hard against it and connected by large clamps and a docking tube was the cruiser Apollo. Beyond it, parked at another section, was the very much identical cruiser Sun Tzu. Soon, all of Earth's ship would be here, something that Cameron felt was perhaps unnecessary. He would inquire with the bosses at Homeworld Command whether or not they could keep one on patrol, although he knew already that they would write him off as paranoid.

Cruz had brought them to a main hall, where a handful of airmen and technicians were busy raising decorations. A row of flags was down the far end, hanging over a stage on which a podium was situated. With that podium, flanking it at both sides, was a row of seats. LED lights cast a bright, healthy glow upon the entire hall. Further rows of seats were being arranged before the stage, intended for the important guests and the press. Cameron remembered the good old days of covering everything up and keeping the reporters far and away from anything stargate-related. Apparently, those days were long over.

"This is where the main ceremony will take place, sir." Cruz, a young dark-haired man of average build, stopped partway down the aisle between the rows of seats. Cameron stopped with him, looking about the hall with only passing interest. They expected him to give a speech, something he was not looking forward to. Standing up there, before all those politicians, world leaders and the like whilst pretending they were one big happy family? It felt so dishonest to him. He had not even written a speech yet, and a thought occurred to him then that struck him as a way out of that particular predicament.

"Cruz?"

"Yes sir?" The young airman looked to him expectantly.

"Do you write speeches?"

Cruz appeared surprised for a moment, but he quickly composed himself and nodded.

"Yes, sir. I always got good grades when it came to public speaking."

"That's good, because I need you to write me a speech." Cameron continued walking then, not giving Cruz a chance to reply. The airman hurried after him, making a note on the tablet computer he carried at one arm. 'Write a speech for General Mitchell', jotted down amongst other important reminders.

"Nothing fancy, just something that talks about unity through strength or some other bullshit," Cameron added, as they walked by the stage.

"Would you like me to show you your room, sir?" Cruz asked.

"Yes, please. That would be good." Cameron followed Cruz to an elevator, which took them up a couple of floors to where the officer's quarters were located. More grey carpeted corridors awaited them. Cruz took Cameron to a room at the far end of the main corridor, showing him into a sizeable room complete with the necessities, from bed to bathroom. Someone had already brought up Cameron's luggage, comprised of a suitcase and a smaller briefcase. There was a desk at one corner, adorned with lamp and laptop computer. By the immaculately made bed, there was a small circular window that looked down upon Earth. The sight of the sweeping blue mass, covered in swirling white clouds, was enough to make Cameron feel small. There was no denying the beauty of the sight, a reminder of what they were all fighting for, despite the problems that were rife upon its surface.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Cameron turned around to face Cruz, who loitered near the doorway.

"Well, sir, there's a few things pertaining to the ceremony…"

"And?"

"And there was a mix-up with some of the shipping. We have an alarmingly low supply of toilet paper."

Cameron rolled his eyes. A typical mix-up, he supposed.

"The caterers also want to know if they should supply some purely vegetarian foods, for those attendees who may be vegan."

Cameron frowned. Cruz seemed to notice his disdain and was quick to brush the matter aside.

"Of course, I can sort that out. And I can call the suppliers and see to it that we get more toilet paper."

"That's good, airman. That's good." Cameron nodded his head in agreement. "Now, if anything actually serious happens, you call me. And by 'serious', I mean alien attack or black holes or something. In the meantime, I'll be in here, pondering my life choices." He motioned for Cruz to leave. The airman got the hint and left the room, the door sliding shut behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Cameron sat down at the desk and switched on the computer. It greeted him with the symbol of Homeworld Command, complete with an automated female voice: "Good day, Brigadier General Cameron Mitchell. It is eleven-hundred-and-thirty-seven hours Eastern Standard Time."

"Play me some music. Classic rock. And try and make it appropriate for the current setting."

Cameron leaned back in the chair, having to wait a few seconds before his talking laptop settled on a familiar track. At the same time, he wondered just what had driven him to accept the position here. Sure, it beat what he had been doing down on Earth, but it still paled in comparison to gallivanting around the galaxy. That was what he should be doing, and yet here he was, playing desk jockey. Still, he knew he should be grateful for the opportunity. Just how many people were put in charge of a space station, anyway?

He looked towards the window again, mind wandering whilst the music played from the computer and the speakers about the room:

"Ground control to Major Tom…Ground control to Major Tom…"