Chapter 4
I dedicate this chapter to Don S. Davis, 1942 -2008. Godspeed dear friend.
"We have a scheduled radio contact with SG-1, General." Sergeant Walter Harriman said as General Hammond made his way down the staircase.
"Dial it up, Sergeant."
"Yes sir."
One by one the chevrons spun into place as Walter counted them off. "Chevron seven, locked." The great blue wave raced forth and then disappeared. "Go ahead, sir."
"SG-1, this is General Hammond. Please come in."
Static.
"Colonel O'Neill, what's your status? Please respond."
No one returned his call.
"Bring up the camera on the M.A.L.P.," George ordered, frowning.
"Yes Sir." Fingers flew across the keyboard, and within seconds an image appeared on the monitor. But there was no large face looking close into the camera.
"Pan around and see if you can find them or anything that may indicate what's going on."
The image might as well have been a photograph of a nature lover's paradise. There were no signs of life save for the birds in the sky in the distance, but there were no signs of trouble either. The weather was perfect beyond the puddle. The sun was shining. The temperature read 58 degrees. The pure white sand was marked only by four sets of footprints, all headed towards the small structure 20 meters away, but not a soul was seen.
George was becoming concerned. Even though he knew by now that his flagship team could handle just about anything the galaxy could dish out, it also wasn't like the Colonel to miss a pre-arranged radio contact without good reason . . . and the good reasons were never something you could just shake a stick at. Irrepressible and irreverent he was, but unreliable and irresponsible, he was not. Something was up.
"Inform Major Griff. I want him and his team ready to go within the hour," he ordered, expertly masking the worry in his voice as he climbed back up the stairs.