The EMT men worked calmly and methodically although to the trash men it seemed frantic. When they rolled the man over his chest was a sea of blood and his left lower leg seemed almost severed at the knee. They helped the medics scoop him up onto a stretched and watched as they sped off to the hospital and the local police arrive to begin the investigation. "This really bites, it's gonna wreck the whole day. We've got a route to finish and we've barely started."

"Yeah, and anyway we did see anything and didn't hear anything. Did ya ever ride in one of these babies with the compacter on?" the driver of the garbage truck said as he pointed his thumb toward the truck. "I spend most of my time making sure I don't run over trash bags in the street, school kids and my own men, not looking at the scenery."

The police asked many questions which received no answers because the men in fact did not know what happened. They were sympathetic with the man whose trash they collector for years, the man who leaked most of his blood on the end of his suburban driveway.

Jack surfaced from the dark well in the ambulance. All he could remember was his knee being ripped apart and, as he fell to earth, it felt as though a horse kicked him square in the chest. He struggled to see, to breath, to take hold of the situation. He could hear some one talking to him but it made no sense. Where was he? Were they Goa'uld? Must have been staff weapons. He couldn't go back to Ba'al, not again, not ever again. Jack felt the drug flood through his system. Was his team safe? What little strength he had faded as he tried desperately to get free, only to be held down and put in restraints. They were bringing him to the sarcophagus again so Ba'al could play.

The medics chatted as soon as they had him stabilized and quiet.

"This guy is a train wreck."

"No, I don't think it so bad. The chest wound or wounds seem repairable. The bullet hit something in his pocket, so instead of one gapping hole in his chest, he has a chest full of shrapnel. Maybe some other chest trauma."

"You getting enough fluids in."

"Just about as much as running out."

"Well what about his knee."

"That's a problem for orthopedics."

"You think they can begin to put that back together – I don't think we even have all the pieces."

"I think someone hates his guts. Unless the shooter was a lousy shot, the knee was meant to hurt, then the chest was meant to kill."

"Okay Sherlock, what's with the dog tags – that old guy in the service?"

"Don't know? Says O'Neill, John J., poor bastard."

As Sam drove into the sentried gates of the Cheyenne Mountain complex an ambulance and accompanying vehicle sped out. "What's going on?" she asked the sentry.

"Not quite sure ma'am."

Sam was walking through the corridor to her lab when she ran into Daniel.

"Hey, you're early too; don't have the briefing for PX9-147 till…"

She stopped speaking when she noticed the grim expression on his face.

"What is it?"

"It's Jack. We weren't told much beside he's in Memorial Hospital and they were asking for next of kin."

"Are they going to transfer him to Academy or bring him here?" Somewhere in her mind she refused to recognize the dire message.

"Sam, they asked for next of kin. Dr. Warner went over to access the situation but I think we ought to get over there if some decisions have to be made."

"No, Daniel, this has to be some mistake. He's in good shape. It's probably just his knee. Oh God, you don't think he could have had a car accident?"

"I just don't know. Come on, let's go find out okay."

Sam changed from disbelieving to truly frightened in a matter of moments. Daniel drove to the hospital while Sam composed herself becoming the hard assed Colonel who could deal whatever life and one Jack O'Neill threw at her. Pete Shanahan never came to mind.