Chapter 5 - New Beginnings all around

Gate Room
Level 28
Stargate Command

Three months after the Battle of Antarctica

It's been a long while since he had put on the monkey suit. It was stiff, restrictive and felt not quite right. It was too tight or too loose in some places and awkward in others. He wondered if the extra chest candy he had earned during his last dog fight had anything to do with the discomfort. The new silver oak leaf that announced his promotion certainly added more weight of responsibility than he was accustomed to for the last couple of years.

Now, don't get him wrong. He was damned proud of his accomplishments. He had earned his medals and paid for them with blood, sweat and the agony of having witnessed the deaths of his comrades. He would have even become one of the statistics if not for the intervention of an undisclosed operative who had been there at the right place at the right time.

In fact, the only reason his promotion was not clipped into a flag wrapped around a sealed coffin was because his fallen fighter and three others had been ringed directly into McMurdo's backyard by the guardian-fucking-angel in that rogue Al'Kesh.

No one knew what happened to that Al'Kesh or the Jaffa who had commandeered it. He had asked around, but nobody could give him any answers apart from blank looks and polite inquiries about his post-surgery memory and mental health.

He let those unanswered questions fade back into a corner of his mind when he finally came to a stop before the Stargate - the techno wonder that was responsible for all their current troubles.

Okay. That wasn't fair. The Stargate had granted them unlimited access to worlds upon worlds and opened their eyes to a gazillion possibilities, new friendships, new cultures, and advancements in science and technologies. Then again, as a teeny weeny side effect, it had also exposed them to mass-murdering lunatics hell-bent on conquering and enslaving worlds and galaxies.

Newly minted Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchel walked up the ramp and stared up at the massive Silver Gate, standing cold and dormant in the Embarkation Room on Level 28, buried deep within the Cheyenne Mountain. Then, on impulse, he crouched down and touched the smooth surface, tracing his fingers over the intricate carvings on the ring. He wondered what type of adventures, new worlds and most definitely troubles, awaited him at the other side of the Gate.

The Gate Room door opened to his left while he was still contemplating his possible future missions. A short, balding non-com walked in with a purposeful gait and a smile.

"Chief Master Sergeant Walter Harriman," he introduced himself with a no-nonsense tone as Mitchell straightened from his crouch and walked down the ramp. "The General's ready for you, Colonel."

"It's bigger than I thought it'd be," he said, walking past him with a nod towards the Gate.

"Yes, sir," Harriman said, joining him. "Welcome to Stargate Command."

General's Office
Level 27

He only smothered his smile when he entered the General's office which was located only a floor above the Gate Room, at level 27. Harriman opened the door to an office that was still in the process of welcoming its new occupant. Boxes were stacked on the floor, and a basketball hoop with the Air Force insignia on the backboard had already found a home on the nearest wall.

"Feel free to have a seat. General Landry will be with you shortly. He's just finishing up a briefing with SG-12," Harriman informed him before leaving.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

He glanced around the office when the sergeant departed, looking through the star chart etched window into the briefing room, where General Hank Landry was standing, talking to members of the off-world recon team.

"Cocky sons of bitches. Marines," Landry declared, entering the office. "Never liked them. You must be Colonel Mitchell?"

He picked up Mitchell's service record and aimed him an inquiring look.

Mitchell moved away from the window and faced the Colonel with an appropriately uptight look that was usually expected in this type of conversation. "Yes, sir. It's good to be here, sir."

Landry made a show of flipping through the pages of his file. Mitchel concentrated on not squashing the life out of the uniform cap he had tucked under his armpit.

"Your service record's impeccable, Mitchell. What's wrong with ya?" Landry fired a shot, a curve ball he didn't see coming.

"Sir?"

"Nobody's perfect. Everyone has some sort of character flaw. What's yours?"

Was he trying to psychoanalyse him? Was this the General's funny way of practising his Dr Phil skills? What the hell?

"Sometimes, I can be impatient…sir," he muttered, hoping it was the right answer.

Landry scoffed. Okay. So it wasn't the right answer.

"Well, all pilots have type-A personalities. I'm talking about your kryptonite."

Ha. Well. Thank you for clearing that up, sir. Mitchell stayed silent. This was not a minefield he was going to be able to navigate without blowing shit up.

"Don't worry. I'll figure it out," the General sounded sure. Then he looked up and kind of barked. "Walter!"

Harriman's voice filtered through the intercom, not the ceiling as the General seemed to expect.

"The files on your desk are the personnel folders you're about to request, sir," Harriman revealed his mind-reading powers.

"About to request?" Landry scrunched up his fat face and glared at the phone. "Walter, I'd appreciate it if…"

"You need to push the button to talk, sir."

Mitchell made a mental note to enrol himself in Harriman's classes; especially the one he taught baby officers the mysterious ways of putting their superiors in their place without getting fired and sent to military prison.

Landry swallowed back a retort and sighed. "Thank you, Walter," he said to the phone, defeated and humbled.

It was a marvellous thing to witness. Maybe he should take Harriman out to dinner, bring him doughnuts… Mitchell made more mental notes.

Landry tossed Mitchell's service record on top of another pile and moved around his desk to get some coffee at a table near the window. "You know, the thing that's hardest to get used to around here is how good everybody is at their job. The fact is, I like yelling at people. Never get the damn chance."

Yeah, figured it out myself, thank you again, sir.

"I'll try not to lower the average, sir," he murmured quietly.

"Oh. A self-deprecating sense of humour. You think it'll make people like you despite your outward perfection."

Jesus fuck! What was with this guy and his psychobabble?! How was he supposed to answer? Was he supposed to answer? Ah, well, when in doubt…

"No."

Landry waited for him to add more. He moved back to his desk when Mitchell didn't. Then he shoved the largest stack of files from the right corner of his cluttered desk towards Mitchell.

"Here you go, son. Get started."

Mitchell eyed the leaning tower of folder Pisa with trepidation. He was under the impression that leading the flag team of the Gate Operations meant stepping through the Gate to go on off-world missions. Not do…paperwork. Eww!

"Sir?" he hoped his voice didn't tremble…much.

Landry picked up a framed certificate from the desk and moved to hang it on the wall. He looked like he was done. Mitchell frowned, confused.

"You heard the disconnected voice of the little sergeant with psychic powers," Landry said, turning back. "Those are personnel files. Start picking your team."

What the actual fuck?! Was he joking? He didn't look like he was. But then again, the man had already proved he was a full box with different brands of colouring aids shoved in together to fill up the space.

"General, I'm here to join SG-1." he reminded him, just in case. SG-1 did not need to be interviewed by the likes of him!

"Colonel, you're here to lead SG-1."

Yeah, that's what he just said. Or, was it? Wait…can it?...No.

"Uh, what about Lieutenant Colonel Carter?" he asked, hesitantly.

"She's taken command of Stargate's R&D out of Area 51."

Okay. Not good. "Since when?"

"Last week."

"And Daniel Jackson?

"Doctor Jackson put in for reassignment. Teal'c left the program over a month ago. I'm surprised General O'Neill didn't tell you."

This was bad. Very bad. Would the General be delighted to find out that Mitchell could potentially burst into tears upon receiving horrendous news? Probably not. Pull up your big boy pants and hold 'em tight, Cam, you got this.

"No." He apparently reduced to monosyllabic answers when he was shocked and upset. Who knew?!

Landry, the asshole, chuckled and hung more certificates on the wall. Mitchell idly wondered if General O'Neill would look pretty hanging by the ceiling in this office as well. Again, probably not.

"Well, that's Jack for you. You know, I looked for the key to that desk for a week before I finally got him to admit he never had one. The man never opened a drawer the whole time he was here.

"I'm sorry, sir. The reason that I requested this post…Why…Why I worked so hard…"

Landry picked up a file and tossed it loudly across his desk, cutting his stammering off. Then he picked up another stack of files and started shuffling about in the office.

"Expresses himself poorly when faced with unexpected challenges?" he shot back sarcastically when he found a box to shove the files in. "Your sheet says that you have 'outstanding' leadership skills. Take the files, Colonel. Choose your team before I start to question the accuracy of that claim."

Only, poor communication came into play when a boiling rage took over his higher functions. He was also capable of breaking fat and ugly smug faces when this kind of abuse continued. He figured it was best to make an exit with as much dignity as he could muster before that little tidbit found space on his service jacket. And possibly led him to prison.

So he took the files, mumbled a 'Yes, sir,' and beat a hasty retreat.