Chapter 23, part 2.

A weird feeling of serenity passed over her. She was going to die. There was no escape now. For a moment she wondered if the priests from her childhood might have been right: maybe there was some sort of afterlife after all. Maybe she could see Karim there—and her father… Oh, god, this will break mom, she thought sadly, but she remained strangely calm. There was a bit of poetic irony in the fact that, after all these years risking her life on alien planets, she was going to die on Earth, and in a plane. Just like her dad… I'm coming to you, daddy.

"Major," a familiar voice yanked her out of the morbid musings: it was Carter. "The USS Carl Vinson is about four hundred miles south-west from your current position. Can you get there?"

Alice's heart began racing again. She'd already made peace with death… could it be that she'd been too hasty? Was there a chance? The USS Carl Vinson was a Navy carrier, a floating platform with a runway and a number of mechanisms designed to help slow down an incoming aircraft. Alice had never been aboard, but she knew of it: it was the carrier her father had served at, and crashed into before dying three days later.

"I don't have enough fuel for that," she answered after checking the fighter's status. "Maaaybe two hundred miles… but if I can get higher, I might be able to glide there," she added doubtfully. Fighters were not meant for that, and although it wasn't unheard of, landing without engine power was difficult under normal circumstances. Alice had never tried to land on a carrier before, and the weather wasn't the best, either: she couldn't quite feel the gusts at this speed, but the high seas beneath her betrayed that wind must have been quite vicious. Not to mention that, aside from fuel and engine problems, the spacecraft controls were highly uncooperative at the moment.

"I have all the confidence in your abilities, Major," Carter replied, her voice colored with emotion that Alice was too tense and preoccupied to recognize or analyze. "I won't make it an order, but if you want to try it, I'll let the Navy know to prep the deck."

Alice swallowed hard. What was the alternative? She could go into the water with the plane thousands of miles off shore—her body would probably never even be recovered. Or she could try and, at worst, fail and crash, just like her dad had. The chances of actually pulling it off were minuscule, but then again she'd been in tight spots before—never quite this desperate, though… except maybe for that moment in the future timeline when she was aboard the Hive Ship, her escort unconscious, Wraith swarming around—and the only reason why she'd survived was because the Ancient, Viviane, had helped her, shielded her from harm. She would certainly not do that now—Alice could rely only on herself in this. But that wasn't new to her, either.

"I'll try," she replied, her throat parched and lips dry under the breathing mask.

There was just a moment of silence. "Godspeed, Alice," Carter said simply and then went quiet.

Alice felt the sudden urge to cross herself, and for a fraction of a second puzzled at this odd comeback to faith. She had never been religious, except for a short period in very early childhood when she'd still believed in everything her parents had told her—Santa Claus, tooth fairy and god equally. Her parents were both Irish Catholic, but neither was very devout and after a certain point, they stopped making their kids go to Mass or going themselves altogether, though they still said grace and occasionally mentioned prayer. Alice didn't really think about it until her dad's death pushed her to fully embrace atheism and forsake any form of spirituality. It was peculiar that it would come back to her now—she'd been at the brink of death before and yet never experienced anything similar.

She shook her head, dismissing these thoughts and focusing on the task at hand. Once again she increased speed and altitude, turning southwest, guided by the Command. Her mind was churning, calculating distance and speed, glide ratio of the 302, angle of descent, fuel capacity with the current rate of loss—it was still leaking steadily… In its current condition the plane could not exceed six hundred knots nor go higher than thirty thousand feet, and that factored in how far it would be able to glide. Things like the force and direction of the wind would also play a big role; in this part of the Pacific, trade winds blew generally from the east towards the west, or southwest, and therefore could help push her towards the carrier.

"Tinkerbell, go to tree-oh-one decimal eight for Vinson's CATCC. We'll continue to monitor but they will take over the guidance," the person in Command she'd been communicating with said, and then added, after a beat: "Good luck."

"Thanks, Command, moving to tree-oh-one decimal eight," Alice confirmed switching the dial. She had no idea what CATCC meant, but she assumed this was the carrier's Air Traffic Control. "USS Carl Vinson, this is Air Force fighter Tinkerbell, do you copy?"

"Tinkerbell, this is NCVV, reading you loud and clear," someone replied. "We've got the story from your Mission Command and we're about ready to take you in. Can you confirm your status?"

"I have one engine down, I am about to lose the last of my fuel in the other one, and my controls are sluggish at best," she said matter-of-factly. "My ejection seat malfunctioned so you guys are my only chance."

"Have you ever landed on a carrier before?" The controller asked, a bit of doubt in his voice.

"Not exactly," she admitted, and thought: unless you count a space battlecruiser as a carrier. Landing on a BC-304 was much different than on land, and Alice was hoping that the experience would help her now. "But hey, what could go wrong?" She added with heavy irony.

"Do you have a tail hook?" He asked, ignoring her gibe.

"Yes, but my landing gear is severely compromised," she warned. "It's more than likely that I won't be able to release the hook. It's possible I won't be able to lower the landing gear, either."

There was a moment of silence at the other side and she wondered if the controllers were consulting with their superior officers—or perhaps swearing to themselves. "Roger that, Tinkerbell. We'll have the barricade ready."

"Get the AFFF ready, too," she instructed grimly. "Water might not be enough."

"Tinkerbell, why do you need AFFF? You said your fuel's almost gone."

It was a good question, but she did not have neither the time nor patience to explain that her aerospike and rocket boosters had enough fuel—though of different kind than the traditional jet propulsion engines used—to make a very pretty and very large fireball if she crashed. Just because she could no longer access them didn't mean they weren't still there—and dangerous.

"Just trust me," she said instead.

He kept speaking, but she didn't hear him: she had to momentarily focus on the controls in front of her.

"NCVV, I've just lost engine two," she announced a minute later. "I am now gliding, I repeat, I have no more power and am gliding towards you. If the winds hold, I estimate I'll be at around a hundred knots by the time I get close. ETA nine minutes."

"We've got you on radar, Tinkerbell, we're adjusting course and speed accordingly," the controller replied. "One of our pilots is standing by to give you a quick rundown on how to land on a carrier. You ready to listen?"

"Ready and eager," she confirmed. Another person got on the radio and started explaining the procedures; she only kept part of her concentration on him, though, the other one occupied with fighting against the aircraft, still very slow to respond—though, she thought, it was a little bit better now that the power to the computer came from the battery instead of the unstable engine.

The carrier was equipped with visual aids to help in landing: an amber light at the side of the deck that informed the incoming aircraft if it was too high or too low for the ideal glideslope, and another light at the stern that turned green when the jet was coming right of the lineup and red when it was left. Despite the overcast sky and high winds, the visibility was very good and as she approached the hundred thousand feet long floating runway, she could clearly see the white lines on the deck that were supposed to guide her to safety. She didn't have enough altitude anymore to do a turn that Navy jets usually did as part of their landing procedure; she had to try to do this directly, and she only had one chance.

Before extending the flaps she tried to lower the gear—but, as she had predicted, it did not move. There was just too much damage. For a fleeting second she wondered how did her 302 look like now—with holes and twisted metal everywhere, most probably, which was one of the things that increased drag and reduced her maneuverability—and then she deployed the flaps and continued her descent. This was the crucial moment: a couple seconds of delay in reaction from her could make the difference between life and death.

Her heart was pounding, her breath quick and shallow and her hands trembled as she pulled up the nose of the spacecraft to slow down and align to the right angle of attack. Then she noted the amber light ahead of her, realized she was too high, dived frantically to get lower, and then leveled up again; and then she was above the deck. With her heart in her throat, she made the last adjustment, the barrier stretched ahead of her like a volleyball net.

She wasn't sure what came first: the loud bang of the downward-pointed wings breaking off the hull at the contact with the hard surface, or the violent heave she experienced inside the cabin as the force of the impact first squashed her into her seat and then jerked her out; only the safety harness kept her from splashing against the canopy. She felt pain rip through her chest and neck, but the next events came in so quickly she barely had the time to register it.

The plane bounced off the deck like an incredibly huge, metal ball, dragging the barrier behind it; ten feet off the ground, it careened to the left—probably because the remainder of the right wing was a bit larger than the left one and still created a bit of lift—and came down hard once again, almost at its side; this time, it didn't bounce. Instead, with a deafening screech, it slid down the runway, teetering this way and that for a couple seconds, and then it listed to the left and thumped to the ground, upside-down.

Alice felt the bounce as another wave of pain; then, as the aircraft tilted to the left, she slid that way in her seat, held by the harness; the last thing she registered was the sound of the canopy breaking into pieces as the immense weight of the fighter crushed it into the deck.

When she came to, she was hanging upside-down, held in place by the straps that buried themselves into her chest painfully. Her back and neck hurt, too, and so did her head; in fact, her entire body seemed to ache with various degrees of intensity. Her arms were laying on the ground above her head, so she pulled them down and felt another stab of sharp pain. She tried to eye the place where it hurt, but she couldn't see it—there was something wrong with her visor, and she realized belatedly that it was cracked in the middle.

She thought she heard distant voices, but she ignored them for now, instead focusing on the biggest problem: she seemed to be having trouble breathing, and for a couple seconds, she didn't know why. Did the force of the crash crack her ribs? A broken rib could puncture a lung and that would definitely account for breathing problems. And then she realized she still had her oxygen mask on her face, but no oxygen was coming in; with difficulty, she managed to remove it and gasped wildly; the air tasted acrid for some reason, but it did its job: she could breathe.

She fought with the visor for a moment and finally got it off. The surroundings were dark, but there was a little bit of light coming from somewhere above her and she craned her neck to trace its origin. The plane was lying on its back, but it wasn't completely level—it was listing to one side, creating a pocket of open space on the other. It was fifteen, maybe twenty inches, but it was enough to let in a little bit of muted brightness.

Looking up, she noted the surface of the deck seemed to glisten a bit—she extended her hand and touched it. It was wet and she realized the carrier's firefighting team must have doused the crashed fighter with water. She focused on the voices coming from outside—they were shouting orders to each other and she realized with horror that they were going to try and turn the jet around. This could be extremely dangerous—if there was a hole, or even a crack in the aerospike or rocket fuel tanks, the force of the turn could lead to more damage, and then even one spark could mean the kind of explosion that would pulverize the plane, herself included, and anything or anyone in the vicinity. She had to stop them.

She tried to call, but her throat was completely parched; it seemed like there was not a drop of saliva in her mouth. She coughed and tried again, and this time a hoarse cry did come out, but it was in vain; they didn't seem to hear her. With nothing else to try, she pursed her lips, used her left arm to prop herself up against the deck above, hooked her legs under the dashboard in front of her as best she could, and then fumbled with her straps. Finally, they released her and she slid to the ground, head-first, gracelessly and painfully. It was a good thing she still had her helmet on, because her arm gave out and her head thumped on the steel deck. Thankfully, the impact was of relatively low force. She threw an angry look at her left hand and noted a triangle transparent shard sticking out of the forearm—apparently, a piece of the shattered canopy had cut into her and she hadn't even noticed. The sleeve of the flight suit around the injury was sticky and red from blood, but it didn't seem like there was too much of it and she didn't feel too faint, so it probably didn't hit any major arteries or veins. Either that, or it was keeping the vessels plugged—if that was true, it would be stupid to take it out, but Alice couldn't crawl with a piece of shrapnel sticking out of her arm, so she ground her teeth and pulled at it. It slid out pretty easily, leaving the place where it's been pulsating with pain, but no sudden fountain of blood. Good enough, Alice thought, flung the sharp triangle away from herself—there were more jagged pieces of the shattered canopy around her on the ground—and half-crawled, half-dragged herself towards the opening. It was just wide enough for her shoulders and head to go through—if she kept it sideways—and she pushed herself maybe third of the way (scratching her cheek on the edge and cutting her hands on the shrapnel on the floor, despite the gloves she was wearing) and then there were hands, grabbing her and pulling her clean out.

They let her go a few paces away and she rolled onto her back, seeing the cloudy sky above her and almost crying with relief. In the past half hour she'd thought she was done in multiple times, and now it was hard to believe that she was, in fact, still alive. And how alive did she feel! How real! For the first time since coming back from the future, since losing Karim, she felt completely, fully, wonderfully real and alive and present. She couldn't help a joyous laugh that came out a little hysterical. That it took such a surreal incident as this succession of events—from hearing about the planned attack while staging a performance to swindle the Lucian Alliance on another planet, to using the Chair to take down five Ha'taks, to going against Gliders in a 302 once again, to getting hit, to crash-landing on a carrier… it seemed absurd, but it was true: she could not deny the feeling of immense relief in her chest, as if it wasn't just about surviving. And perhaps it wasn't—but she did not want to analyze this right now. She breathed deeply, ignoring the pain in her chest, in her back, neck, and head, the pulsating throbbing of her forearm, the pricks on her palms… none of it mattered—she was alive!

It took her a moment to calm down, and before she did, men in white uniforms were leaning above her, talking to her in soothing voices. She stopped laughing, took another deep breath, and then pushed herself off the floor, trying to sit up—but they stopped her.

"Please, don't move, ma'am, you may have a spinal cord injury!" One of the corpsmen shouted over the roar of the wind.

She shook her head, demonstrating that there was nothing wrong with it—except that it still rang with pain. "No, I'm fine," she replied, swatting away his hands and this time she managed to sit up. Her head did swim a little, but she deemed it normal under the circumstances—and then she tried to get up and failed.

"Ma'am, please, don't!" The corpsman urged her. "We'll take care of you."

"Sure, but I gotta do something first," she told him. "Will you please help me up?"

He reluctantly did, and then steadied her as she teetered on her feet.

"Thanks," she murmured, though it was too low for him to hear, waved his hands off again, and took a few steps to look at her poor 302.

It was really no longer a fighter, but a heap of twisted metal. Wings broken off, canopy shattered, engine exhausts cracked and collapsed in; with the hull weirdly bent and fractured all over, clear indications of fire on the underside, and the remainder of the net-like barrier covering part of the body, it didn't even resemble a plane anymore, really. It was a miracle that it stayed largely in one piece.

There were people in red shirts crowding around, the urgency gone from their tones and they no longer seemed to be working at turning the wreck around, but they stood way too close to Alice's liking. She waved at the one nearest to her and he jogged up to her.

"That was an incredible landing, ma'am!" He called to her.

She ignored the compliment. "Who's in charge here?" She asked, straining her voice to be heard. "Tell everyone to step back! Clear the area of anyone who doesn't absolutely have to be here! This thing might still explode!"

He looked at the remains of the fighter. "But there's no more fuel in it!" He protested.

"There's no more jet fuel—plenty of rocket fuel, though!" She pointed at the deformed engine exhausts—there were three, two for jet propulsion engines and aerospikes and the third one for the rocket booster. "Extreme caution is necessary!"

"Aye, aye, ma'am!" He replied, the puzzlement clear on his face, but he jogged away to start getting his people off the deck.

"Now can we please get you to the sick bay?" The corpsman asked from behind her.

"I need to speak to my Mission Command," she said, turning around to face him, but then she realized that whatever was happening in the fight above the Pacific, there was nothing more she could do—and the Navy would have surely already informed them of her crash-landing and the fact that she'd survived it. "But it can wait," she agreed, a bit grudgingly, and followed them across the deck, insisting on walking on her own.

The corpsmen looked relieved when they could pass her over to an actual doctor; they must have thought she was an especially tough customer. It amused her, but she decided to be more docile with the doctor and allowed him to wrap her injury and do all the examinations without complaint.

"You're incredibly lucky," he told her after looking at her X-rays for a while. "There's no damage to your spinal cord. You've got two ribs cracked, but not fully broken. Concussion and whiplash, both of relatively low degree—you'll be in pain for a few days, maybe up to two weeks, but no signs of intracranial bleeding or cerebral contusion that I can see. You should get a CT scan as soon as you're on shore, though, to confirm. Bruising and abrasions on your chest, and of course the laceration on your arm. I'd say it was impossible to get away with such light injuries after the kind of crash you've experienced if I didn't see it myself. You're incredibly lucky," he repeated.

"It's mostly great engineering," she contradicted, waving at the side table where her helmet lay—not a crack on it. The doctor didn't know, of course, that it was trinium-reinforced, or that the fighter was made of Naquadah composite which helped keep it mostly together despite the immense forces at play. "And a bit of luck," she admitted.

"Remarkable." The doctor shook his head. "I—"

He was interrupted by a uniformed sailor who came in from what Alice assumed was an internal office, or perhaps a different part of the sick bay.

"Excuse me, sir, Captain Roland would like to know the status of Major Boyd and when he can come down to talk to her," he said politely.

"I'll come to him," Alice answered quickly and got an exasperated look from the doctor in response.

"No, you won't," he contradicted, a frown on his face. "I still need to stitch up that arm laceration, and you'll need antibiotics and pain relievers…"

"You can do the stitching but I don't need painkillers," she protested. "I'm gonna be reexamined by my own doctor as soon as I'm back anyway," she added with grim certainty. She'd spent way too much time in the infirmary over the past few years and was not very fond of the idea of Doctor Lam or one of the other physicians at the SGC putting her on bed rest and taking her off active duty for any period of time again.

"Yeah, but that won't be for a while," he contradicted. "We're out of helicopter range and our Greyhound is on a supply run."

Alice shrugged and immediately grimaced in pain. "The Air Force will pick me up," she said.

He raised his eyebrows doubtfully, but then shook his head. "The point is moot, anyway. You need rest."

She sighed. "Doctor, this is not my first rodeo. I already have three Purple Hearts, I know the drill—and I know my own body. I'm fine. I'm still riding the adrenaline high and I'd like to use it to talk to the captain of this ship and to my own Mission Command. I need to know how many casualties we've had," she added, the last sentence spoken more softly and quietly.

He pursed his lips, but apparently it made the right kind of impression. "Fine, but I'll send a corpsman with you just in case. And stitching and treatment first!"

"Fine," she agreed and then addressed the young sailor who still stood there patiently waiting: "Please tell your captain that I'm fine and will be there within half an hour."

"Oy, I didn't sign off on that timeline," the doctor grumbled while the kid disappeared to relay her words.

"I have faith in your abilities," she told him with a smirk. She was still pumped—and it wasn't just the adrenaline. She was still awash with the overwhelming high of relief at being alive and the resulting feeling of realness.

The doctor continued to grumble under his breath, but she ignored him and watched patiently as he injected her with local anesthetic and then sewed up the deep cut on her forearm.

"It's gonna leave a scar," he warned as he was tying up a bandage.

"Great, I'll have one more for the collection," she quipped and he raised an eyebrow at that, but stopped puzzling after she stripped off the hospital gown she was wearing so an ointment could be applied onto the abrasions on her chest—now he could see the scars on her shoulder, left breast and both arms.

"There's two more on my left leg," she informed him with gleeful sarcasm. "I only need one on the right leg and I'll have a full set!"

He shook his head, again muttering under his breath. He pulled the little jar with the ointment, but thankfully he handed it to her so she could apply it herself—it would be awkward if he wanted to do that, and, frankly, Alice wasn't sure if she would have been able to endure it without the unwelcome and paralyzing images of Jareth's fingers on her skin.

She shook her head when he tried to give her pills.

"It's just Tylenol, Major," he told her, exasperated. "And an immunity booster. Please don't make me make it an order."

The doctor was a lieutenant—which was the Navy equivalent of an Air Force captain—but Alice knew that in medical matters he had the authority. She rolled her eyes and took the medication without further discussion. Afterwards, she was finally permitted to get dressed. Her own flight suit could not really be re-used—it was dirty, soaked with sweat and blood, and had a torn sleeve, but the Navy generously lent her a pair of coveralls—without any patches or insignia, of course—that she could put over her own underwear and t-shirt. It was too big for her size and she felt a little bizarre in it—not least because it was unlike anything she'd normally wear. She shrugged it off, though, and, accompanied by a corpsman and a young sailor as a guide, she made the trek through the narrow drab corridors with walls covered in pipes and tubes and vents of various design and mysterious purposes—well, at least, mysterious to her. A BC-304 might have been a carrier in one sense, but its structure was much different from that of ships that actually floated on water.

She was led to the bridge—to her eyes, it looked very low-tech, but she held her tongue on that comment. At least it was pretty high up, inside the 'tower', so it provided a great view over the vastness of the ocean around them, the clean horizon only disturbed by the Carrier Strike Group's accompanying destroyers and cruisers.

Alice was brought to two high-ranking officers in blue uniforms—others on the bridge wore khaki ones, instead of a working uniform or coveralls that she'd seen elsewhere inside; the crews out on the deck wore color-coded shirts which, Alice presumed, were supposed to make it easy to recognize who was supposed to be doing what in the chaotic and loud environment in the open air.

It took her a second to discern the officers' ranks as the insignia on their sleeves were somewhat similar—they both had a little gold star, and the only difference was that, in addition, the younger man had four thin stripes, while the older's was a single broad one.

Alice stood in front of them at attention—or as much as was possible with her body still aching all over—and nodded respectfully.

"Major Boyd, I presume," the admiral said jovially, extending his arm. She shook his hand, hiding a grimace as he squeezed a bit too tightly and the little cuts she'd gotten while crawling on pieces of shattered canopy screamed in pain. "I'm Read Admiral Sean Winston, I am the commander of the Carrier Strike Group One, and this is Captain Jeffrey Roland of the Vinson itself."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sirs," Alice replied politely, shaking with the captain as well—thankfully he was a little more gentle.

"The pleasure is ours, Major," he assured her. "We've watched your fight on the radar ever since you've come in range. That was some incredible flying."

"Thank you, sir. I'm just glad to be alive. Though it's a pity about my fighter," she added with a little sigh. The 302 cost over a hundred million dollars to build so losing one was a big deal.

"Indeed, though it served you well. When I heard that you've lost your landing gear, I was sure you were gonna crash," the admiral admitted.

"Well, I did," she acknowledged. "It was only thanks to the sturdiness of the construction that I survived."

"What is that plane, anyway?" Winston asked, raising his eyebrows. "I've never seen it before."

"No, sir, you have not," she agreed, throwing him a significant look.

"Ah." He understood immediately. "I see. Sounds like our friends in the Air Force have a leg up on us, Jeff," he added, addressing the ship's captain. "They're just not telling us about it."

"That is very unlike them," Roland commented with a smirk. "They're usually the first to brag about anything new they have. No offense, Major."

"None taken, sir." She shrugged and immediately regretted it: the gesture rippled through her back and neck with a wave of pain. "I would appreciate, though, if you could relay to your crew that they should not be talking about it, either. To anyone, even amongst themselves."

"So we shall," he acquiesced easily. "Now, we should get it out of the deck, but my people claim you told them to keep away because it could still explode—that there was rocket fuel in it?" He and the admiral both raised their eyebrows again.

Alice sighed. "Yes, sir. I am not at liberty to divulge any details of the fighter's composition or structure, but it's important that nobody touches it, in fact it would be best if you kept the deck clear of all personnel until we can take it off your hands."

"Well, we can't wait to dock to remove it—we've got a Greyhound on the way, it's gonna need to land, so we have to clear the runway," the captain protested.

"You can't, sir. I'm sorry, but this is too much of a risk—one spark is all that's needed for an explosion that could rip the deck apart, much less any people in the vicinity," she warned him gravely, and then added carefully: "And I don't think you'll have to wait until you dock—we can pick the fighter up directly, I think. Permission to speak to my Mission Command, sir?"

He seemed puzzled, and Alice couldn't exactly blame him for that; but he threw a look at the admiral at his side and they both nodded.

"Permission granted," he confirmed and then turned to ask one of the people on the watch to connect them to the Air Force frequency the SGC Mission Command had been using.

"Command, this is Major Boyd, do you copy?"

It was Carter who replied: "Alice, it's so good to hear your voice!"

"And vice versa, ma'am," she said with a little smile. "It was close this time."

"I know, we've been watching it here—it was remarkable, what you did. Excellent flying."

"Well, I crashed," Alice reminded her, raising an eyebrow. As glad as she was to be alive, she didn't think it was a particularly well-executed mission.

"You crash-landed," Carter corrected. "You had no gear, no engine power, and reduced maneuverability, and not only did you make it over four hundred miles, gliding half of the way, but you still managed to touch down on a carrier, something you've never done before, and survive. As always, you're too critical of yourself. Better tell me how you feel?"

"Been worse," she replied, restraining the urge to shrug again—it would be painful. "A couple cracked ribs, some cuts and bruises, a mild concussion—all in all, nothing special." She caught the incredulous look the ranking officers exchanged; they were, of course, listening in to the conversation. She decided it was time to bring it to the more important topics. "Ma'am, do you have the ETA on the closest 304?"

"Two hours away," the general replied. "Anxious to get home?"

"It's not that, ma'am. There is still plenty of rocket fuel in the tank and it's dangerous to just leave it there—and moreover, the Navy would like to clear the runway, they've got a Greyhound incoming. How long till it gets here, sir?" She turned to the captain.

He frowned. "Less than two hours."

"The Greyhound will be here in less than two hours," she repeated to the radio. "It would be good if we can take what's left of the 302 as soon as possible. If I remember correctly, the Greyhound's range is something like fifteen hundred miles with a full load—I doubt it's carrying that, but it can't just turn back by this point, and with the wreck in the middle of the runway, it can't land, nor can they launch another aircraft to refuel it. I know it's a security risk, but leaving the 302 here is an actual physical risk."

"I agree, we'll take it to the President," Carter concurred. "By the way, O'Neill briefed him on the mission and he was very impressed with your exploits. I think you have a fan." Her tone was half-mocking and half-serious.

Alice rolled her eyes. "That's just because he wasn't around when you were in the field, ma'am," she responded lightly. "He's got no point of comparison."

The general chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. Anyway, I'm sure he'll agree with your assessment, so expect a lift in about two hours or so. We'll let you know in advance. And explain to Admiral Winston and Captain Roland what to expect."

"What can I tell them?"

"Just what they need to know. I'll leave the details up to you," Carter said in a remarkable display of trust. Anything Stargate-related was so deeply classified that usually only the highest command could decide what to say to whom—or, if they were delegating that responsibility, they were typically very specific. Alice wasn't sure if she deserved that level of trust—she wasn't exactly selling the official cover story onto her family and friends; she always kept it very vague, of course, but it was still technically not allowed.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"I'll speak to you in a couple hours. Carter out."

Alice turned to the Navy officers, both of whom wore identical expressions of confusion.

"Is there a place we could speak more privately, sirs?" She asked politely.

"Why don't we go to my stateroom," the admiral suggested—and, because he was the admiral, they soon found themselves inside his cabin. Walking in gave Alice a flashback to that moment in the future timeline when she first saw the other Alice's private quarters; after walking through a maze of drab corridors, they suddenly entered a different world: leather couches, lush carpet on the floor—it had the ship's emblem on it—a mahogany coffee table, paintings on the wall. It was a stark contrast to the strictly utilitarian spaces Alice had seen so far.

A steward came in before they even settled onto the couches and the admiral asked him to bring coffee and snacks. It was afternoon already, but Alice decided, due to special circumstances, she was allowed to have a cup of coffee, though she did not feel like eating.

"So, Major, care to let us in on what is going on?" Winston asked, a little grumpily. "Seeing as we're the ones in command here."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir, I cannot tell you the whole thing—my entire mission and anything related to it, really, is deeply classified."

"We both have the highest clearance," he noted.

"Yes, sir, but this is codeword," she explained with a small sigh. "And strictly need-to-know."

"Well, I think we need to know now! Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, sir—part of it, anyway." She smiled apologetically. "I cannot divulge anything more about my fighter, for example, because it is not relevant to our current situation."

"A 302, you've called it," Captain Roland noted. "I've never heard of such designation."

"No, sir, the very existence of the plane is classified," she agreed. "What you need to know is that it remains a threat to anyone on board if it explodes, because of the rocket fuel still in the tank."

He shook his head, but it was the admiral who asked: "Why would a fighter need rocket fuel?"

"That's the part I cannot tell you, I'm afraid, sir."

"Does it have anything to do with the fact that you and the hostiles seemed to appear on the radar in the middle of its effective range, as if out of nowhere?" He questioned shrewdly. "It looked like you were coming from above, chasing the bad guys."

"Again, sir, I'm really sorry, but I can't speak to that."

"And let me guess, you can't tell us who the bad guys were, either?" He grimaced.

"No, sir, I'm sorry," she repeated. She was beginning to feel tired—the adrenaline had kept her up for much longer than usual after the end of a mission, but it was now slowly being replaced by fatigue which, coupled with the pains and aches of her beat up body, was stripping her from her earlier feeling of joyful relief. No! She thought desperately. Why does it have to go away? I want to feel like that just a bit longer! But there was nothing she could do at this moment to stop it from happening: and so, bit by bit, the elation began leaving her, too. "I would suggest you don't put a lot of thought into trying to divine their identity. I can guarantee your guess won't be correct."

Both Navy officers raised their eyebrows at that, but they were then interrupted by the steward bringing coffee and a plateful of small, single-bite sandwiches. Alice welcomed the hot, invigorating drink with gratitude.

"So what about the airplane, then?" Roland asked, a bit harshly, when the three of them were again alone. "How does the Air Force plan on retrieving it without us moving to the shore?"

She thought for a moment on how to phrase her answer, but could not figure out a good, believable story for it. "It's difficult to explain without telling you much more than you need to know," she said finally. "Essentially, the Air Force is in possession of technology that will allow us to pick the craft up without us having to set foot on the deck. I think it would be best if there was no one there at the time—first, because it's still an explosion hazard, and secondly, because the fewer people see what's happening, the better. That technology is strictly classified, too."

"Are you telling me the Air Force has a plane that can hover over a carrier and somehow pick up the wreck while in mid-air?" The admiral shook his head disbelievingly.

"No, sir, that's not exactly how it works."

"But there is a plane, right?" He insisted. "You called it 304 in your conversation with your Mission Command."

She sighed. "Yes, sir, except it's not exactly a plane, either." She paused for a moment, and then continued carefully: "The technology I'm talking about is extremely advanced. Again, I can't explain how it works or anything—but what will happen is that, as soon as the 304 is close enough, it will pick up the fighter. It will take no more than a few seconds and you will not see how it's done—all you'll see will be a burst of white light."

They exchanged a doubtful look.

"It sounds like science fiction," the captain opined. "Very beam me up, Scotty!"

Alice hid a smirk at the accuracy of his remark. She didn't confirm nor denied it, though, instead focusing on drinking her coffee for the moment.

"Well, I guess we'll know soon," the admiral remarked. "None of what we've seen so far or what you've told us makes any sense, but when this 304, whatever it is—if not a plane—comes in, we'll have our answers."

"I wouldn't expect to see much," she cautioned him. "Neither visually, nor on radar."

"Are you saying it's a stealth—whatever it is?"

"Not exactly," she replied and then sighed again. "I realize this is frustrating, but I really can't tell you anything more."

"You know, I've heard rumors that the Air Force's got something big cooking, but I hardly expected it would be this ridiculous," Winston grumbled. "I am not used to being shut off like this." Then he eyed Alice, his gaze measuring. "And you! Your aerial exploits aside, you've been pretty cavalier about your injuries. Most people I know would be happy to stay in bed after what you've been through."

She shrugged and suppressed a grimace when the movement sent another wave of pain through her back, shoulders and neck. "It's not new for me, sir. I've been injured before, and much worse—this is, relatively speaking, a minor inconvenience. I can walk, I'm not bleeding out and I can breathe pretty normal, which in my book constitutes a victory," she quipped. It wasn't that it didn't hurt—in fact, her head was pounding, her neck and back smarted, the scraped skin on her chest stung, and every breath felt like a sharp stab; but, somehow, she had gotten used to feeling hurt and it just wasn't a big deal for her anymore.

The older officers did not take it so lightly.

"You have a habit of crashing fighters, then?" The admiral asked, somewhat belligerently, which surprised her.

"No, sir. This was my first time," she answered, trying to sound calm, though his aggressive question rattled her. "My other injuries were not flying-related."

"Injuries, plural?" Captain Roland noted. "How does a pilot get injured multiple times if not while flying? Unless you were in multiple car accidents or something."

She smiled thinly. "No, sir. Technically I'm Space and Missiles now, though I've got over twenty-two hundred hours of flight time under my belt. This—" she waved around her "—is merely a detour from my day-to-day."

"And what is your day-to-day?"

"I work for the space program. Mostly I sit in my lab and stare at data, but from time to time my expertise is needed in the field—hence the injuries," she explained, using her new cover story.

"There are field operations within space program?"

"Obviously, I can't divulge any details," she responded, raising her eyebrows significantly.

They exchanged another doubtful look.

"How did you end up flying a fighter now, then?" The admiral inquired.

"A pilot was needed and I was around."

"They didn't have anyone better qualified?"

The question irked her, since it implied that she wasn't well qualified herself, so she took a deep, painful breath to calm herself. It didn't entirely work. "Not at that moment, no, sir. And I splashed five hostiles, so it's not like I'm an amateur!" She said hotly, and immediately regretted it: they couldn't have seen the entire fight on radar and it wasn't a good idea to share just how many bad guys there had been.

"Five?!" The admiral whistled. "We've only seen two."

The captain was shaking his head. "Most of my guys don't have a single kill, and you've got five!"

I've got more than that, she didn't say, miffed by his disbelieving tone. But then she took another achy breath and told herself that it was nothing to proud of: these kills weren't just machines shot out of the sky; there were real people inside them—people who'd be alive if not for her… of course, if not for her, at least three Gliders would have made it to the coast of the United States and who knew what kind of mayhem would they have caused.

"You are quite remarkable, Major," the admiral said, his tone conciliatory now. "It's almost hard to believe."

"Maybe it'll make it easier to forget." She forced a smile. "After all, nothing happened, right?"

"Right." He nodded acquiescence. "Well, Major, is there anything else you want—or can—tell us? Otherwise I'd suggest you go back to sick bay to rest, and we need to resume our posts."

"With due respect, sir, I would prefer to get to the bridge where I can await the signal from my Mission Command that the transport is ready," she protested.

"If you insist," the admiral agreed with a sigh. "I'll be at the flag bridge, but you can go with Captain Roland."

"Thank you, sir."