A/N's: surprise, surprise, I am early today. I'll get company tonight, so I figured I better get this published before I forget ;-)
Another extra long chapter... have a great weekend! I didn't respond to all the rv's yet... I will, I promise, but I figured you'd want to read the next chapter first...
They had reached Adana on Thursday, 1600 local time. Daniel's first job was to obtain suitable clothing for the whole group, allowing them to blend in with the local population. The linguist had done a remarkable job, collecting all kinds of clothing and accessories on the local market. He'd dressed himself in some pale green wide cotton pants, wearing a simple bleached tunic over it. Some old open leather sandals over his already dusty bare feet and a white cover over his head completed the transformation.
Daniel had managed to gain the trust of the local couple on the market he bought the clothing from, and had managed to persuade them to help him and his friends. The Turkish man and his wife had accompanied Daniel to the base where the woman's job was to teach Carter and Fraiser how to wear the khimar and the hyab, the typical Islam dressing for women. While the women were busy, Daniel simply handed a pile of clothing to Colonel Bayfield and signaled that the white turban was meant to cover Teal'c's tattoo. Next, the Turkish man took off with Daniel in his car and they returned only fifty minutes later, Daniel now driving an old jeep that looked as if it could fall apart every minute.
The women were ready as well, and when they came walking outside, Daniel really had no way of knowing who was who. They were both covered completely, the hyab leaving just a small opening for the women's eyes to be able to see. The fact that Janet was tinier than the other two women gave her away, but that was about it.
Carter revealed her identity by speaking up. "Well, this is, uhm, different."
Giggling, Janet tried to walk around with some modicum of dignity, something that was hard to do since she was wearing a dress that was scraping the ground and she couldn't see her own feet through the small opening of her hyab.
Carter followed her example, knowing she needed the practice, and almost tripped over her dress, cursing softly but loud enough for the men to hear.
"Ah," Colonel Bayfield said teasingly. "That's no language for a woman."
"Well, Sir," the Major complained, "why don't you put this on and try for yourself. Sir."
Bayfield smiled and turned to Daniel, who was thanking the couple for their help. The Turkish people left, leaving the others staring at the old jeep in surprise.
"This…" Daniel pointed at the vehicle, "…this is our transportation to Gaziantep. We won't attract any attention with the way we are dressed and driving this typical old car. If necessary, I'll find us something else. I've been asking around and there is a bus going from Gaziantep to Cizre. We could drive to Gaziantep and then take the bus; I don't think anybody would notice us. I could find some other transportation in Cizre for the last part of our trip," he looked questioningly at the Colonel.
Colonel Bayfield was impressed by the man's ability to arrange all that on such a short notice. He was glad he'd decided to take the civilian on the mission. "That's a good idea. We'll drive to Gaziantep and jump on the local bus. Well done, Doctor Jackson. Now it's time to arrange some false ID's, with pictures in the right clothing. Follow me, please."
Daniel and Teal'c were on his tail immediately; Janet and Sam had a little bit more trouble keeping up the pace.
"Guess that's why Muslim women always walk behind the men," Sam murmured under her breath, having difficulty walking straight without being able to see where she had to put her feet. She turned her head aside, attempting to look at her friend, who was walking next to her, but couldn't find her either through that small opening. "Damn…" Sam cursed, "… and Janet, stop giggling!"
Finishing the false ID's took almost an hour. By then, they were all tired and hungry, but Bayfield didn't give them a chance to rest yet. He arranged for some food to take along on their journey, and after stuffing their gear in the jeep, they all got in, the two women sitting uncomfortably in the back, the three men crowded tightly together in front.
Colonel Bayfield drove for the rest of the evening until it became too dark to travel any further on the unknown, uneven territory. They found a spot to set up their camp, taking the vehicle off the road, parking it behind some high rocks, partially out of sight. It wasn't great, but all they could do at the moment.
Their camp was ready in no time and soon the five rescuers took their seats around the small campfire, all tired from the flight and long drive. They had made good progress, and would reach Gaziantep early the next morning, where they would find the bus station.
"We'll be on that bus tomorrow morning. That means we'll arrive in Cizre in the evening. Doctor Jackson will need some time to get us another vehicle, so we'll be entering Tyberia on Saturday. From there it's still a long way, people, I don't think we'll reach Camp Ockeloen before Sunday night."
"Hopefully that will be fast enough, Sir," Carter answered worriedly.
"I know it isn't fast enough, but it's the best we can do, Major," Bayfield answered shortly. "Hopefully we can take the shortest way out of Tyberia. I've set up another schedule of pick ups for us, starting on Tuesday morning, similar to the ones Colonel O'Neill had scheduled last week. These spots are as close to the non-flying zone near the Turkish and Syrian borders as we could get them. We'll have to try to catch one of them."
"I've got another part covered, too," Daniel added hesitantly.
Colonel Bayfield turned his head, looking questioningly at the younger man.
"I've managed to track Abdul Radzir down, while I was arranging the clothes. Talked with him for a while, and he'll be waiting for us along the Tyberian border on the North side from Tuesday, too. He said he owed Jack a great deal and he was glad to be able to do something in return."
Colonel Bayfield nodded in approval. "Good job. So we've got several options for getting out. The first part is up to us, though. We'll have to hike back through the mountains, but it's good to have different directions we can go."
Looking around at the tired people around him, he decided to call it the day. "Teal'c, you can have the first watch. Major, you take second. I'll take the last watch," he ordered.
"What about us?" Fraiser asked, not wanting to be spared because she was less trained.
"Doctor Jackson needs to be wide awake tomorrow to talk for us on that bus. You need your sleep, because I don't think you'll be getting much from Sunday night on," the Colonel explained. "Got it?"
"Yes, Sir." Janet shivered; stunned by the way the man was planning ahead based on worst-case scenarios. She had never given it a second thought she wouldn't get any sleep later on, although she undoubtedly would have realized it the moment that it became necessary. She rose to her feet, heading towards her tent. "Goodnight, Sir."
Major Marc Crook couldn't sleep. He'd managed to re-open the infected areas on his friend's arms and legs and had cooled the abraded skin with some of the water. He'd checked O'Neill's brow many times, wiping him off, and wasted some of the remaining water to place a freshly wet cloth on the Colonel's forehead.
O'Neill had been shifting and tossing restlessly, plagued by delirious dreams as his body fought the burning fever. Although Marc had hardly been able to understand what the drifting man had mumbled, he'd been able to make out a couple of phrases.
Sara. Charlie. Simple plain American curses and similar sounds in Arabic. Stating his name and rank.
Damn.
Crook had been on the same team as Jack when they went on that fateful mission to Iraq. He'd been a Captain, Jack a Major. He could picture the whole fucking mission, recall it scene for ugly scene. He'd had a hard time forgetting it, ever since he'd seen his friend die out there.
Except, Jack hadn't been dead.
Jack somehow always managed to do the impossible.
Damn. Marc remembered the shock that overtook him when he saw O'Neill catching that bullet in the chest. The blood that flowed, the way the man went down, his body smacking hard against the desert rocks…
The enemy had been too close, but he already jumped, moved, rushing forward to reach his friend, unwilling to believe the harsh truth.
Then, Colonel Cromwell called him back. "Captain! Pull back! He's dead. We've got to go, now!"
The words woke him up in the middle of some nights, even years after that terrible day. They'd left; Marc with tears running down his cheeks, mourning for a buddy who had just died in action. It had been a close call and the remainder of the team barely made it back to safety.
Crook absently wiped O'Neill's face and neck, whispering soothingly at him to calm the restless man down. He knew exactly what his friend was reliving now, under the influence of a high fever. If only he could make this all go away. If only he could turn back time…
What's happened, happened, Marc. Nothing you can do about it.
He knew that, but it didn't make things easier. They'd come home from their mission, all stunned and shocked at losing one of their team-members. They'd mourned, grieved and had held a memorial service for him. He could still see Sara sitting there, a desperate crying toddler on her lap, whom she was unable to calm down.
How could she explain to her son that his daddy wasn't coming home anymore? No mother on Earth should be forced to do so, nor did any kid need to grow up without one of his parents. It just wasn't natural and it most definitely wasn't fair.
Colonel Cromwell had given a speech, saying some really nice things, and then had offered Sara the flag. Marc had cried then, had cried with Sara, and with Charlie. It was the worst day of his life. At least, that's what he thought back then.
Until the United Nations contacted the Forces, telling them about a prisoner in that Iraqi prison.
Cromwell had nearly lost it, when he'd found out. He'd almost risked his career by wanting to go AWOL, alone, going behind the enemy lines to get O'Neill out. Marc himself had been thrilled by the fact that his friend was still alive and yet he was shocked at the same time. They weren't supposed to leave anyone behind. Apparently, that was exactly what they'd done. Left him there, seriously wounded, in the hands of those bastards…
Crook hit the ground with his bare fist. Shit, shit, shit.
At some point during those terrified and terribly long months he'd wondered whether O'Neill wouldn't have been better off dead. When the man finally came home, and Marc visited him for the first time in that hospital, he'd been convinced that that would have been better indeed, not only for Jack, but for everybody else as well. The physical wounds were severe, but Marc had mostly been afraid that the psychological damage done to his friend and his family with it would prove to be irreparable.
Fucking bastards. He'd have dropped an A-bomb on that country if he could, that's how mad he'd been. Outraged, down right furious.
Plus incredibly guilty.
They had left him there, hadn't they?
Now, O'Neill was back in another stinking prison, and all because of him. How was the man ever going to forgive him for the same mistake twice? Could he?
Marc shifted uncomfortably on the floor and looked at O'Neill. Studied his features, the lines of his face. Had Jack ever forgiven him? Had he ever blamed him at all, he suddenly wondered. Come to think of it, the only one Jack had really blamed was Colonel Cromwell. Not him, not Lt. Silver. Just Cromwell. He'd been the team-leader and that made him responsible according to Jack O'Neill's rules. It had been hard on Cromwell, as the man was probably forced to live through a greater burden of guilt than Marc had.
No, Jack hadn't blamed him then and he wouldn't blame him now, Marc knew. Well, that was good, 'cause he blamed himself. He couldn't stop that growing, nagging feeling of guilt.
Three airmen, one civilian and a Jaffa reached Gaziantep with a jeep that was almost falling apart around 0800 on Friday morning. Daniel got out, walked over to two men, sitting outside on their porch, and started talking with them.
One of the men got up, walked with Daniel to the road and apparently gave him directions on where to go, given the way he was pointing with one outstretched arm in a northern direction.
Daniel seemed to be thanking the man, then came back to the jeep and jumped in. "We take this road, take the third to the right, then make a left turn just after crossing a brick bridge. After that it's the second street left. We should see the bus station on the left side of that road."
Bayfield started the engine and drove with Daniel repeating the directions as they went. They found the bus station without trouble. Daniel jumped out again. "I'll be right back," he said and left.
A couple of minutes later he returned, handing five bus tickets to Bayfield. "The bus leaves at 0930." Daniel motioned for the others to get out of the jeep. "I'll see if I can sell this jeep to somebody. You can get inside and wait for me. There are plenty of benches there." With that remark, the linguist handed some of their gear to Sam while Teal'c and Bayfield gathered the rest, and left.
The others waited for him in the bus station, trying to keep a low profile, without attracting any attention to themselves. Although he tried not to show it, Colonel Bayfield was worried when the linguist hadn't returned at 0915.
Shortly before it was time to get on the bus, SG-1's only civilian finally returned. "Sold," he softly reported to Bayfield. "Now it won't look suspicious to anyone. Let's get on the bus." With that, Daniel motioned the others to follow him and they all climbed into the bus.
Soon, the bus was completely overloaded with people and their luggage. Although lots of luggage had been tied securely on the roof of the bus, it was still too crowded. There were hardly any places to sit, and they had to stand close together, holding on to the bars above their heads to stop them from tumbling as the bus took turns and hit potholes in the old dusty road.
It was an exhausting, long ride.
They arrived in Cizre at 1720, stiff and sore from all but standing all day in a hobbling old bus. Jumping off, the team gathered their gear, made some painful movements that vaguely mimicked exercise in an attempt to bring some life back in their stiff muscles, and then patted their dusty clothes.
Daniel left the others waiting once again, while he took off, using his language skills, easily adjusting to the slightly different accent the people spoke in this area.
He quickly managed to make some contacts, and in no time he came back with an old gray pick-up truck.
Colonel Bayfield once more sat down behind the wheel, Teal'c jumped in the back, assisting the women who still wore the uncomfortable long clothes in climbing up there as well. Daniel sat down on the passenger's seat, a map on his lap, directing the Colonel where to go.
They changed seats after five hours of driving over old unpaved roads, full of potholes, bumps and curves. Bayfield directed and Daniel drove them further into the night, until they were forced to stop again, as it became too dark.
Marc Crook guessed it was early in the morning. Although he'd lost count of the days, he still tried to determine what part of the day it was and he used the small beam of light entering their cell to do so.
He shifted, moaning softly as his ribs protested the movement. He was stiff from lying down and exhausted. He'd drifted in and out of some semi-sleep, but something had awakened him several times so he had been unable to truly rest. One of the things awakening him had been his friend, who was tossing and turning in his feverish nightmares. Other than that, he didn't know and quite frankly didn't care either.
Taking the canteen, he sipped some water, swallowing it too fast and started coughing.
Shit.
The movement hurt his broken ribs and Marc pressed one arm against them for support, using the other to lean his body forward in order to ride it out. When it finally subsided, he leaned backwards, tired, spent and sore.
"You okay?" A soft voice startled him. Crook looked up to see O'Neill staring worriedly at him. The Colonel's upper body was lifted from the floor and he was leaning on one elbow.
Marc smiled encouragingly. "I'll be okay. Coughing just hurts, you know."
"I know. No blood coming up yet?" the Colonel asked, concerned about some undetected internal bleeding.
Crook crawled closer, taking the canteen with him and handed it to his friend. "Nope. As I said, I'll be all right. How 'bout you?" He'd already noticed that Jack's eyesight was clearer than before. He checked his friend's brow. "The fever has come down a little, that's good," he concluded.
"I hope I haven't been giving classified information away," Jack said. "I feel like I've been rambling on without knowing what I've said."
"That's true," Crook admitted. "But don't worry, the Air Force is safe. I think they'll forgive you for some swearing and sarcastic remarks."
"Don't they always?"
"Not with me they don't," Marc complained. "I don't know why, but they seem to take it from you, though."
"I think they like me," the Colonel joked weakly, gratefully placing the canteen to his dry mouth and sipping the lukewarm liquid. "So, what's our situation? Have I missed a lot?"
"No, you haven't. The guards kept coming to check on us, but so far they've left us alone," Marc said, wondering whether the Colonel remembered the threat that there would be another interrogation session. Realizing that that moment was coming dangerously close, he shivered involuntarily. "I think they won't leave us for long now."
O'Neill leaned backwards after sipping some more water, mentally preparing himself for the next round. He knew his condition was far from optimal, that he had been in and out of it with fever caused by the multiple infections on his legs and arms. He was only still alive because of Marc's good ministrations and although he was very grateful for that he feared that he would become Marc's weak link. The enemy counted on that as well, knowing that taking care of each other created a bond; one that was hard to ignore and the commander would most likely use that against them. "What ever happens, don't give them anything, Marc," he said, his voice deadly serious. "Give them nothing at all."
Marc nodded in silence, but he didn't like it a bit.
They got up early, well before sunrise. Bayfield was pushing them hard; he didn't want to waste any more time than absolutely necessary. Now that they were entering the mountains, not planning to make any further contact, Bayfield allowed the women to wear their own comfortable clothes. Carter was happily moving around, appreciating her 'freedom' as she could easily climb on and off the truck without being hindered by the long dress and scarf covering her face.
The old pick-up truck bumped and groaned its way over the roads that were actually just unpaved trails, uneven with rocks and holes. They left a curtain of dust behind them. They were all wearing their sunglasses, protecting their eyes from the fine dust and the already strong rising sun.
It was around eight in the morning as they crossed the border entering Tyberia. Colonel Bayfield had marked their route on the map and he'd planned to move south first, then leave the truck behind and hike to the west, into the direction of Camp Ockeloen. It would be a rough hike; they had to cross several mountaintops and deep valleys, which would slow them down, but it was inevitable. At least the Elite Forces wouldn't expect them coming from this side, he hoped.
Teal'c drove the first part, being the one who needed the least rest. Bayfield, who'd taken last watch in the morning, tried to make himself comfortable in the back of the truck, forcing himself to relax and rest.
Daniel sat next to him, the map on his lap, plus a compass for navigation in case the map failed to provide them with sufficient directions. He was lucky he'd been paying attention when Jack had taught them the ins and outs about compass navigation. The former black ops officer knew all there was to know, and wouldn't get lost anywhere, but he hadn't been too sure about the younger linguist and he'd taken great effort in making sure that Daniel would be able to manage, in case he ever needed to.
Sam and Janet sat in the back, talking softly, while making sure no luggage was being thrown out of the truck.
Sam hadn't failed to notice her friend sometimes fell silent, a concerned expression showing in her eyes. "We'll get them back, Janet," she said encouragingly. Sam herself had to keep her spirits up by promising herself they would manage to get her CO and his friend out.
Janet kept quiet for a long time, lost in her worries, as she stared at the scenery passing by. Then she just nodded, running her hand wearily through her brown hair. "I know. It's just…" she didn't finish her sentence.
Sam stared at her, wondering. "Just what?" she asked gently.
Janet let out a deep sigh, rubbed her eyes, lifting the sunglasses with the back of her hands then turned her head to look her colleague and friend honestly in her eye. "I'm frightened, Sam. Really, really frightened," she admitted quietly.
"It's okay to be frightened, Janet," Sam said, thinking she meant being on a mission, something the diminutive doctor wasn't trained for.
"I mean, I've read his file. I know everything that has happened to him…" Janet continued, shivering slightly at the memory of certain parts in that file. "The physical damage; it is all listed in detail, giving me a pretty good idea what had happened when and where. The emotional damage is something else, though. As we all know, and his file proves it too, he's not great at talking, better at burying the hurt deep down inside, stocking it away, as if it's not there."
Sam moved closer, gently placing her arm around the female doctor's shoulder.
"He's been assigned to shrinks before, Sam. It's all listed, and it all ended up nowhere. How on Earth the Colonel managed to live through all of it, refusing all available help is a mystery to me. I know he's more than strong, but…"
"Why are you frightened then, Janet?" Sam asked, knowing there had to be something else at stake here. "If there's anybody the Colonel trusts, it's you, you know that."
"Exactly," Fraiser nodded. "I've put him back together many times, luckily successfully, too. That is, however, something different than what we're about to deal with here. I've never dealt with torture, Sam. I've never dealt with prisoners of war, or anything coming close. I don't know what to do, except for repairing the physical damage. Yet, *he * trusts me, counts on me. But I'm not qualified for the rest."
"Do you think you need a diploma to listen?" another voice surprised the two women. Colonel Bayfield, who seemed to be resting, apparently had overheard the conversation and was leaning on one elbow, looking at them. "Do you need to be qualified to be there for someone?"
"Sir?" Janet asked, frowning.
"If O'Neill really trusts you, Doctor, and I think he does, than you are the first physician on Earth who has earned it from him, and believe me, Jack O'Neill doesn't trust one easily. So yes, you are the one he counts on." Colonel Bayfield pushed himself into a sitting position. "Don't make the same mistake as other physicians who tried to qualify him as a certain type of patient, with a prescribed treatment. Jack O'Neill is far from your ordinary patient."
The women both smiled, thinking of the person in question and how he behaved when stuck in the infirmary. Fraiser then eyed the man from Special Forces. "We'd figured that out long time ago. It still doesn't take my fear away, though."
"I know. That's all right. Just remember this. O'Neill is usually pretty good at telling what he needs. You just have to look for it instead of wanting to hear him say it. If he needs to be left alone, let him. If he doesn't tell you to leave him alone, stick around and stay with him. If he needs to move around, help him. Let him punch the sack in the gym. Let him be quiet when he wants to. Don't force him to talk. He'll talk eventually, when he's ready. Not much, but he will. You don't need diplomas for that, do you, Doc?"
Fraiser shook her head, thinking it over. While she knew that what Bayfield described was the way O'Neill would want it, she wasn't too sure if that would be enough, however. "I don't know if that's enough. How do I know how he's handling it? If he needs additional help?"
Bayfield shrugged. "He trusts you, doesn't he?"
Fraiser nodded.
"Then I think you just have to trust him as well."
A/N's... and ain't that the truth...