The Weakest Link
By OughtaKnowBetter
Obligatory disclaimer: all theirs, nothing mine. Heavy sigh
The roiling blue of the Stargate wormhole reached out hungrily, consuming anything that came close to its grasp.
But the personnel of Stargate Command by now were used to the ways of the alien technology, and ready to cope. Technicians gave the event horizon plenty of space, monitoring the energy emissions, checking the point of origin and a dozen other details that could turn from mundane to lethal in a heartbeat. Klaxons blared, and armed men in flack jackets hustled into the Embarkation Room to take a ready stance, helmets down and weapons up and looking for trouble to wander in.
"Incoming travelers," echoed through the room, courtesy of the loudspeaker. The troops prepared themselves. The closed iris would protect them from most—but not all—of their enemies. Then—
"Code for SG-3," came the reassuring announcement, and the armed men relaxed. But only barely. The iris whirled open.
"Stay awake, people." It was General George Hammond, in the control room, safely behind three inches of plate glass and wishing for the fortieth time—and that was today alone—that command would allow him to be down on the main floor brandishing a weapon with his men. "They may be coming in hot."
It was not an idle observation. SG-11 had been the original reconnaissance team and when they were overdue, the marines of SG-3 and –6 were sent in to investigate.
A battered body and a tersely worded ransom demand was all that returned.
George Hammond was not a man to throw good money after bad, and had accustomed himself to making far more hard decisions than any man should. But neither was he a leader who would leave any man under his command behind if there was anything he could do about it.
SG-1 went in.
Hammond forced himself to relax the knuckles that had turned white on the back of Davis' chair as the results trickled out from the blue event horizon: tired men, dirty and limping but intact. One fondled the railing of the embarkation ramp as if he'd never thought he'd ever see it again, and another looked as though falling to his knees and kissing the floor would be an appropriate gesture of relief. Hammond counted: all of SG-3. All of SG-6. Yes, all of SG-11 as well. And, finally, SG-1. Major Carter was first, her P-90 held casually across her chest in readiness but no sign that their departure from P29J4-2 was anything but planned. Dr. Daniel Jackson came through next, the blue flood releasing him only reluctantly and followed by Teal'c and Colonel O'Neill, the latter limping and pretending that he wasn't holding onto the Jaffa's shoulder in order to keep his knee from dumping him to the floor. The Stargate closed.
All of them. All four teams, back and safe. Hammond looked forward to the de-briefing that he feared he might never hold. He leaned over the microphone. "Welcome home, people."
The next phrase from Hammond's lips halted as Major Urbanecek of SG-6 straightened himself with an effort, still on the ramp with most of the returnees. Urbanecek pulled his tattered uniform tight in a semblance of dignity.
"Atten-hut!"
Hammond stared. Damned if every single member of SG-3, -6, and –11 didn't hoist themselves up tall. Some clutched at the railing of the ramp to keep from toppling over, another surreptitiously used a team mate to help hold his head up high, but every single man there snapped a crisp salute and held it, eyes riveted on one Dr. Daniel Jackson.
Urbanecek pushed himself forward, his own salute as military as if he were facing his Commander in Chief. "On behalf on my men, and of SG-6 and –11, I'd like to thank you, Dr. Jackson, for our lives. You and the rest of SG-1."
"I—" Daniel looked around, blushing to the roots of his fair hair.
O'Neill grinned, and pushed him forward to receive the accolade. "You earned it, Daniel."
"You kicked their ass, Dr. J!" one man called out.
Daniel looked around helplessly, the red creeping up past his ears as he, civilian specialist and geek extraordinaire, accepted the tribute of over a dozen grateful Marines.
In a room located some hundred miles north of the impromptu celebration of Stargate homecoming sat a group of men. Looking at them individually and as a group would invite no comment; simply a small gathering of like-minded men together to discuss plans for some business venture or perhaps even a joint fishing trip. They sat around a large table, the excess chairs dumped with overcoats that protected each wearer from the chill September air. Refilled coffee cups sat in front of each. Only one took his coffee light.
The man in charge plunged the room into semi-darkness, and adjusted the picture on the wall, bringing it into sharp focus. The entrance to a military base dug into the side of a mountain sprang into clear relief, the soldiers on duty frozen in an instant of time. The camera had caught a hawk in mid-flight over the parking lot, looking fruitlessly for a mouse or something larger to bring back to its nest. A dusting of red and yellow leaves edged the road beyond the base.
"Cheyenne Mountain Base," he instructed the group. "Nominally Air Force, but all the armed services have contributed personnel and hearsay evidence suggests that the general in charge of this endeavor reports almost straight to the President and not many levels in between. That would be George Hammond, a man decorated in 'Nam for bravery and several not so well-known accomplishments thereafter. The word is that he could have retired years ago and had his pick of plum jobs in industry. Obviously he has not, was hand-picked to head up this operation. This is one clever officer to steer clear of, gentlemen. He is the link between the base and Washington. His job is to make sure that the base has enough reams of paper and coffee on hand, and keep the in-house geniuses working and productive. That may sound trivial, but my sources say the position is anything but. He is not who we want, and he could be trouble if he gets wind of what's going on."
"Who do we want?" asked one of the shadowy men.
"Let me pull this lecture back a little further." He dodged the question. "The cover story is that these people are involved in a project on deep space telemetry. Amusing, but patently false."
"And the truth is—?"
"Unknown at present. But I have some outside speculators who think that they know what the real story is and that they can profit by this. They're willing to pay to take a gamble on this project."
The shadowy man nudged his neighbor. "I'm thinking we don't need to know who these buyers are. Safer that way." His neighbor nodded his agreement.
"And we don't need to know what they're doing in Cheyenne Mountain, either," the first man informed the men around the table. "That's someone else's problem. Our task is going to be facilitating the re-deployment of key personnel. Not necessarily with their blessing or approval or that of the military."
He changed the picture of that of an attractive blonde, lithe and slender. "Major Samantha Carter, PhD in astrophysics, military brat with a family history in the Air Force. Super-genius type, had a couple dozen patents to her name about ten years ago, and nothing since. My guess is that the Air Force is keeping wraps on all of her work. Too classified to get them patented. Lives in a little place just outside of town."
"Not even any outside security at her place," an onlooker commented. "Looks easy enough to take down without a problem."
"Don't count on it. I did a little research on our fair major, here, and there's more to this package than you might think. About two years ago she got mugged. Let me re-phrase that: someone tried to mug her. He ended up with a three month stay in a rehab hospital and thinks he got off lightly. Don't underestimate this woman. You'll need to take her out as a group."
The next picture flashed onto the wall: a large dark-skinned man with brown expressive eyes almost over-shadowed by the knitted cap that he wore. The picture was grainy, as though enhanced a few too many times. The features on the man were blurred to the point of being unrecognizable.
"Geez, that the best picture you got? That's crap."
"Yes, this is the best picture we've been able to get. This man rarely appears in public. We've identified him as Dr. Murray Tilk, but there we lose the trail. Given what's going on, my backers think the guy's got a background in some field of physics and is working with Carter on the Cheyenne Mountain project. Like Carter, he probably has a PhD somewhere, although we can't find any trace of him in any college or in any business venture. A recent name change is probably what has muddied the trail, suggesting that this man is upper level expertise. Enough that the military won't let him out of their sight without some high-powered bodyguards to prevent exactly what we're being well-paid to do. Regardless, my backers want him and want him badly. Unharmed, like Carter. Neither one will be worth a nickel if they're damaged goods."
"I don't know," one of the others said doubtfully. "Look at the muscles on this guy."
"Steroids," another scoffed. "Weights. Guy like that, likes kissing his own biceps. Wouldn't know one end of gun from the other. He'll crumble, the first head lock I put on him, go whimpering to mommy." He turned back to the first man. "Anybody else?"
"So glad you asked." Another photo arrived, that of a gray-haired man who looked ramrod stiff in his dress blues, striding across the tarmac, a jet puffing behind him. "Colonel Jonathan O'Neill, recently retired and now hauled out of retirement. This is one wicked-ass man, gentlemen. His service record includes Iraq the first time, some 'training' for certain South American government troops on the cocaine routes, and a number of missions so dark that one of my informants got blown out of the water just for asking. Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate this man. If even half the things they say about him are accurate, he could take all six of you down in under thirty seconds and have time for a second cup of coffee. His job is to play bodyguard for Dr. Tilk, which says how highly Dr. Tilk is regarded by the military. Nobody gets a bodyguard like O'Neill without reason. In order to get Dr. Tilk, we have to get O'Neill."
"And these are the folks your people want?" One of the men whistled. "The first babe, okay, but that O'Neill sounds tough to get through, especially if that scientist doesn't come out to play in public where we can get at him. You got a plan on how to get to this Tilk guy? How to get around O'Neill?"
"Fortunately, I do." The last picture arrived on the wall, that of an earnest looking young man with glasses, sandy hair clipped short and blue eyes staring intelligently out at the camera. "Dr. Daniel Jackson, Ph.D. in Archeology and Egyptology. This man is O'Neill's Achilles' heel. Jackson was laughed out of the archeology world with his cockamamie theories of aliens building pyramids and hasn't held a job in his field since. Because he speaks several languages, the Air Force took him on as a translator, to translate the research articles that are pertinent to their project for use by Drs. Carter and Tilk."
"You said Achilles' heel," came the reminder.
"Right. Normally a man of Tilk's importance would have a sergeant or two as a personal assistant. Instead, we think Jackson fills this role; there's some evidence suggesting that O'Neill got him the job. A glorified secretary, if you will. In addition," and the man paused significantly, "we've seen both Jackson and Tilk stay the night at O'Neill's on more than one occasion."
"You think—?"
"'Don't ask, don't tell,'" the first man quoted. "Wouldn't be the first after hours liaison that the brass has overlooked in favor of getting the job done." He dollied in on Jackson's face. "Achilles' heel, gentlemen. The weakest link. Grab this one, and O'Neill will follow like a moth to a flame. And once O'Neill is hooked, we'll have Tilk."
"You okay to drive, Daniel?" Jack leaned on a pair of crutches outside of Scotty's, searching the archeologist's face for signs of inebriation. "How many beers did you have tonight?"
"Only one, mother." There was no irritation in Daniel's voice. He'd gotten used to Jack's need to mother-hen his team and tried not to let it bother him. Most of the time it didn't. It was Jack's way of saying, 'I care' without getting all mushy over it. "Yes, I'm okay to drive. Better than you, in fact, Jack. You've got some of Janet's finest little white pills in you, and a few beers on top of that. Didn't Janet say to take it easy?"
Jack sniffed. "I've got a designated driver. Ready to go, Teal'c?"
The smile the Jaffa gave had a great deal of anticipation in it. "I enjoy piloting your vehicle, O'Neill. More so than DanielJackson's. His vehicle lacks power as well as speed and has neither spaciousness nor luxury to recommend it. The sonic blaster in his vehicle is ineffective."
"Horn, Teal'c. It's called a horn. And it's not a weapon."
"Does it not cause your enemies to alter their course?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then it is a weapon. Non-lethal, but a weapon nonetheless." Matter settled. Teal'c folded his arms.
"Okay, just take it easy. Okay, Teal'c? Wouldn't want any of the cops around to try to give you a ticket. Might be a little tough to explain why you don't have a driver's license."
"Then I shall not attempt to explain. I will proceed straight to fisticuffs, as I have observed in your videos."
"Uh, Teal'c…" Jack started to say, when Daniel interrupted, spewing forth several phrases in Goa'uld that sounded instructional in nature.
They were. Teal'c looked startled, then the light of understanding lit his chocolate eyes. "Thank you, DanielJackson. I understand completely and will comply."
Jack looked from one to the other. "Daniel?"
"Just…" Daniel searched for a way to put it in terms that Jack would accept. "Just making a comparison. A little explanation."
He was saved from further discussion by Major Urbanecek and some of his men drifting out after them. The impromptu gathering at the bar was breaking up, and there were a lot of relieved soldiers who had insisted on showing Daniel and the rest of SG-1 just how grateful they were for the events of the past mission.
"Dr. Jackson," Urbanecek said, beer on his breath but appearing perfectly sober, "you don't know how good it feels to be drinking the piss water that passes for beer on good ol' Earth. If there's anything that any of us can do for you—"
"I was just doing my job, Major," Daniel said hurriedly. "You'd do the same for me."
"Yeah, but you haven't trained for this kind of stuff," another chimed in. Danzig wasn't as clear as his team leader and seemed on the verge of a sloppy drunk. Urbanecek, ever the good team leader, deftly relieved him of his car keys. Danzig stumbled on, oblivious to the theft. "You're just a civilian geek, and you sure pulled our fat out of the fire. I was sure we were goners."
Daniel winced. The man meant the term kindly. "It wasn't a situation that called for a military solution, sergeant. That's all."
"That's all, he says." The sergeant from SG-6 turned to his fellows, and then back to Jack, suddenly stone sober as soon as it suited him despite the tears leaking from one eye. The other eye looked close to following suit. "Colonel O'Neill, I and the rest of us would take it as a real favor if you'd give us the honor of going after you the next time you need some help."
Urbanecek nodded in agreement. "We mean it, sir, Dr. Jackson. There are a lot of us going home to the wife and kids tonight because of you."
This had gone on long enough. Daniel looked to Jack, clearly begging for a rescue, and Jack was happy to oblige. "Don't go getting all gushy on us, Major," Jack chided his fellow team leader. "Like Daniel said, it wasn't a situation that called for a military solution. That's why we have Daniel."
"And we don't," Urbanecek mourned. "Dr. Jackson, you ever decide you want a transfer to another team, you come talk to me. We'll pamper you more than Colonel O'Neill ever would. I know this little coffee joint…"
"Watch it, Major," Jack grinned. "That's my civilian you're stealing."
"Jack…!" The message got a little clearer. Daniel wanted an end to this little scene. All this gratitude was getting uncomfortable. Since Jack wasn't responding fast enough to his cry for aid, Daniel seized on another source of distraction. "Sam! Ready to hit the road?"
"All set, Daniel." Sam belted her leather jacket over her civvies. "Colonel, you're sure Teal'c can get you home all right? We can all fit in Daniel's—"
"Don't even suggest it, Carter," Jack said hurriedly, looking disdainfully at Daniel's little foreign economy job that barely qualified as having four seats. He turned to Teal'c. "Home, James."
A frown beneath a black knitted cap. "ColonelO'Neill, my name is Teal'c—"
"I know, I know! Just get the truck, okay?"
"Thanks for the lift, Daniel. I should get my car back sometime tomorrow." Sam unhooked her seat belt as Daniel pulled smoothly into the driveway in front of her house. The streetlamps were in full bloom, the moon a slender sliver of reflected glory. Gravel crunched under the tires of Daniel's car. "I really didn't expect it to go on so long at Scotty's. SG-11 can be pretty rowdy when they get going."
"I know what you mean," Daniel chuckled. "For a moment there I thought that Schmidt was going to start crying into his beer."
"No, he started crying into my beer," Sam giggled. "Ruined the flavor. Hey, who's that?" she wondered as a long dark sedan pulled up behind them, blocking the driveway.
"Idiots—" Daniel started to say. "How am I supposed to get out—"
"Daniel, down!" Sam caught on a lot faster than the civilian did. Something shattered the windshield, and Daniel yelped in dismay, dusting off the shards of glass.
"Move!" Carter yelled, ramming into high gear. She shoved her house keys at Daniel. "Get to the house and call for back up! I'll cover you! Move!" She wrenched the car door open and shoulder-rolled out onto the lawn, not waiting to see if her team mate followed her instructions. Her revolver, hastily pulled from her purse, snapped into position and she fired a couple of rounds at the men advancing on her.
One went down, screaming.
"Get her!" another yelled. "Shoot!"
Carter ran for the side of the house for cover, pulling as many assailants away with her, seeing Daniel huddled at the front door of her house fumbling with the keys. She willed him to hurry. She fired off another round one-handed, not hitting anyone but making them keep their distance.
"Shoot! Shoot!"
Carter felt a sudden burn in her shoulder. What? The burn spread, and her thoughts turned foggy.
What? She pulled a small feathered dart from her shoulder
Daniel turned the doorknob just as they reached him. One of the men grabbed his shoulder; Daniel's hard won lessons in self-defense at the hands of Jack and Teal'c came into play, and he reached over and around and yanked.
The arm came out of its socket. An odd feeling, Daniel thought crazily, knowing that he had just caused the startled gasp of pain. Jack was right. That move does work. He lashed back with a kick, intending to force them back so that he could get inside and call for help.
The two remaining men were expecting that. After Daniel's unanticipated demonstration of skill, they changed their tactics. One blocked, and swept Daniel's feet out from under him. The other pounced on him, shoving his arm around Daniel's windpipe and his other pulling back an arm. A knee in the small of his back, and the capture was complete.
"You little SOB," the man with the dislocated arm snarled. "You weren't supposed to give us any trouble." He kicked Daniel in the head.
The lights went out. The last thing Daniel heard was, "ease up, Red. We need him—"
It took more than a couple of Frasier's little white pills to completely knock Jack out, and a couple of beers on top of it still wasn't enough, which was why O'Neill was awake and sober by the time the phone completed its third ring. That, and a certain amount of training leftover from his Black Ops days that had left him on a permanent state of alert.
First things first: the time. 0237. Possibly a crank call, but also the time of night when the most disastrous problems arose, usually necessitating a fast trip into the SGC. His knee barked at him; O'Neill would need to haul his designated driver Teal'c out of kel'no'reem if he needed to go anywhere. That was okay; anywhere they needed Colonel O'Neill, they'd probably need Teal'c as well.
O'Neill felt ready. He leaned over and picked up the handset. "O'Neill." With a this better be good growl.
"Colonel?"
"Carter?" He sat up. Carter wouldn't call him on a whim. Not at this hour.
Her voice was replaced by a rough male one. "Colonel O'Neill, listen very carefully. We have Major Carter, and we have your little boy Jackson. We know that Dr. Tilk is spending the night at your house. We saw him go in, and he hasn't left yet. Hope you're enjoying yourselves."
"Who?"
"Don't play games, O'Neill. Dr. Murray Tilk, the scientist who is spending the night at your home. The same guy who spends most of his time on the base. The two of you have fifteen minutes to get dressed, get into your truck, and go to the pay phone on the corner of Main and Lexington. Do you know how hard it is to find a working pay phone these days? Damn phone companies think the entire world has gone cellular," the voice added conversationally. Then: "don't be late. And don't call for back up. You won't like the consequences." Click. The man hung up.
O'Neill contemplated the call for less than two seconds then yelled, "Teal'c!"
Teal'c jerked the truck to a halt in front of the pay phone which stood outside an all night diner. O'Neill jumped out, crutches in hand, cursing as his bad knee refused to cooperate. He swung the crutches into position, hobbling over to the pay phone and snatching it up on the first ring.
"O'Neill." Out of breath. Teal'c at his back.
"You made it. Good."
"Where's Carter and Daniel?" O'Neill snarled. "What do you want? Let me talk to them."
"Not yet. Drive north on Route 73. Start now. And turn your cell phone on. You'll be contacted."
"Wait!" O'Neill jumped in. "Let me talk to them!"
"Did you call Cheyenne Mountain?"
"No," O'Neill lied. "There wasn't time."
"Liar. Start driving. You'll be contacted shortly." Click.
O'Neill looked angrily at Teal'c. "Get back in the truck. We've got our itinerary set out for us." He set the crutches under his arms, hustling. Damn rotten timing for his knee to be out. He needed all of his parts in working order, not just his head.
"MajorCarter and DanielJackson?"
"I don't know," O'Neill was forced to admit. "But this doesn't sound like a joke. And I'm not laughing." He hoisted himself back into the passenger cab of his truck, pulling the crutches in after.