The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay

Chapter Five: The Art of Misdirection

Standing silently in the early morning light, Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey shivered. Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson, deep in hushed conversation with the Majors Davis and Kearney ignored her.

It was early, a haze of mist hung over the mountain adding a surreal aspect to the already macabre scene before her eyes.

Teal'c, his massive muscles bulging, cradled a body bag in his arms as he trudged up the last steep incline and gained the roadway. Beside him, a stone-faced Jon O'Neill plodded along, apparently unaware of his grisly appearance; naked from the waist up, his lean arms, face and torso glistened with morning dew, mud and streaks of blood.

General O'Neill, her mentor, her leader, the man who never quit and never gave in, lay inside that hideous black plastic receptacle. Not twenty minutes ago the gathered company clearly heard the reverberating sepulcher tone of the big Jaffa as he'd imparted sad news over his radio; they'd found General O'Neill - dead.

Stricken as she felt, Jennifer knew Jon must be devastated. What must it be like to search for 'oneself' only to find a broken and battered body? She'd only known Jon less than a day, yet she instinctively understood him; at least she thought she did.

It was odd, he was so very much the general and yet, so very different. This incarnation of O'Neill seemed less guarded, more introspective and frankly gentler than the original. Was it his deceptive youth or the last year of freedom from the uncertain world of the SGC that made him so?

Jon discerned Hailey's bleak expression. Avoiding her eyes, he focused on the group of officers and enlisted men surrounding her and the rest of SG-1. It had been a while since he'd witnessed such naked pain; it was patently clear that Jack's command truly loved and respected him. Somehow, this knowledge made Jon proud and vaguely envious.

In what amounted to a blink of an eye, Jon O'Neill, clone and outcast had lost much more than he'd known. Swallowing, he hardened his resolve to find the rat bastard behind the plot against the O'Neill's.

As one, Daniel Jackson, Major Kearney, Major Davis and four burly SF's rushed forward to assist Teal'c with his burden. The big warrior's intimidating scowl stopped them cold.

Turning his gaze to Colonel Carter, Teal'c bowed his head. "I shall convey my warrior brother home."

Nodding, her eyes filled with tears, Sam Carter quietly opened the passenger door of the general's big Ford truck.

Jennifer Hailey grabbed a blanket and moving forward determinedly, wrapped it around Jon's shoulders. "Are you injured Jon... you're covered in blood..."

Shaking his head, Jon answered bleakly. "It's not my... that is... this is Jack's blood."

Cognizant of his audience, Jon allowed his horror over their find to wash over him and his voice broke. "He looked so still lying there Jennifer... I've never seen him so..."

Jennifer wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against Jon's blanket covered chest.

Jon rested his chin on Jennifer's head, returning her trembling embrace. "I... I need to go with Teal'c."

Shaking off her despair, Jennifer looked up into Jon's dejected face. "Of course you do." Taking him by the hand, she led him to the truck.

Teal'c laid the body bag containing O'Neill out on the backseat of the truck. Jon climbed in and lifted the head of the bag upward, settling himself into the seat, lowering his burden, he lay it carefully across his lap; the Jaffa slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Slowly, the truck pulled away as the assembly saluted, bidding their general a somber goodbye. Following Major Kearney's lead the entire company maintained their gesture of respect until the Ford rounded a bend in the road.

Once it was out of sight the major relaxed his stance. Employing his cell phone, he swiftly alerted the guard on duty at the front gate of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, instructing the stunned SF to wave the general's truck through without the usual delay.

He then notified Dr. Brightman, advising her to standby to receive the general's remains. Discharging that sad duty, Kearney refocused on the last facets of the mop up efforts, wondering how the SGC would survive the loss of the much-admired General O'Neill.

Sam Carter stood rigidly beside a visibly disturbed Daniel Jackson and a miserable, but contained, Lieutenant Hailey. Long years of restraint and denial masked her grief, affording her a measure of control.

Allowing Teal'c and Jon the lonely task of conveying the general back to the SGC rankled, but Sam respected and understood their need to perform this act alone.

Colonel Carter made eye contact with Major Davis. "Perhaps you'd be good enough to accompany Dr. Jackson, Lieutenant Hailey and myself; I'd like a private word."

Davis, his mask of detached concern firmly in place, addressed his driver. "I'll be riding along with Colonel Carter, airman. Lend what assistance you can here."

Returning the man's salute, Davis followed the colonel to her sedan. "Allow me to drive Colonel; it's been a long night."

Grateful for the chance to collect herself further, Sam acquiesced. "Thanks."

Daniel trailed mutely after Sam, Jennifer Hailey at his heels. Climbing awkwardly into the rear of the vehicle, he numbly curled himself against the seat.

Settling herself beside Daniel, Jennifer slid her small hand across the smooth leather and clasped his clenched fist, offering a measure of comfort. 'Where did they go from here?'

***

Captain Kris Martin took another bracing sip of rich black coffee; pulling off the main road, she parked the dark van beneath the trees. Switching off the headlights, Kris turned the heater up and shifted into park, allowing the engine to idle.

Crawling over the seat into the back of the windowless Chevy, She flipped on the dome light and rechecked her supplies.

Teal'c's brief description of the general's injuries painted a sketchy picture at best, and included at least one gunshot wound. In addition, Jack's long fall insinuated the very real possibility of head injury. Kris could not help wishing for more time to gather supplies, not to mention some assistance. Unfortunately, the situation demanded stealth and absolute secrecy; therefore, she was essentially on her own.

Borrowing an expletive from her favorite patient, friend and superior, Kris muttered an explosive - "Crap! Jack, why can't you just once turn up with a paper cut?"

Patching up an injured and ornery Jack O'Neill was not a job for the faint of heart; few were as capable as the seasoned charge nurse was. Years of managing his abject dislike of helplessness made Kris the perfect choice for this covert assignment. The fact that both she and Teal'c chose to keep the true nature of this little mission from Dr. Brightman gave her pause - albeit briefly. Thankfully, her shift ended just as the Jaffa's urgent call, via her private cell phone, came in.

Commandeering the van filled with supplies proved risky, requiring long unused training in espionage, but Kris pulled it off. This van's existence was the result of a contingency plan first employed by the deceased Janet Fraiser following one of SG-1's many brushes with death. Luckily, its upkeep was relegated to a select few and one of her many duties.

Spiking a liter each of Lactated Ringers and O-negative whole blood, Kris primed a length of IV tubing and selected several large bore needles. Jack's need for fluids and blood replacement would be priority one.

The sound of a car engine drew her attention, snapping off the dome light; Kris opened the rear door of the van and said a little prayer.

Teal'c jumped quickly out of O'Neill's Ford truck. "Captain Martin, we have little time."

Dragging a bulky body bag from the floor of the van, Kris responded dryly. "Teal'c, you are the absolute master of the understatement."

Jon pushed the Ford's heavy door open and breathed a sigh of relief. He remembered the captain's wit and compassionate care lightening more than one of his (or rather Jack's) forced confinements in the infirmary.

"Kris, Jack is in sorry shape... he's barely breathing!" Jon cradled Jack's head in his lap; the zipper of the hideous body bag wrapped around his inert form gaping open to reveal most of his blood stained torso.

Dropping the cumbersome bag at Teal'c's feet, Kris hustled over to Jon's side her eyes riveted on Jack's inert form. "Move him into the van Teal'c. Jon, there is a CPR dummy on the floor of the van, put it in the other bag..."

Allowing Teal'c to remove Jack from his arms, Jon interrupted her. "Understood." Hopping down, he retrieved the dummy and stuffed it into the regulation body bag left on the ground, adding a few stones for weight. Pulling it up and into the backseat, he settled it over his lap.

Teal'c and Kris Martin peeled the plastic away from O'Neill's body, and then laid him out on the gurney inside the van. Kris immediately set to work starting an intravenous line in each of Jack's forearms. "Go Teal'c, I can handle it from here."

Turning hastily, the big Jaffa secured the van's rear door, sealing his warrior brother and the captain inside. Returning to the Ford, he shifted into drive and sped off. Kris stripped Jack's clothing from his battered body taking in each injury. Packing a pressure dressing against the gunshot wound beneath his left ribcage, she rolled him slightly noting the exit wound on his back. "Bullet went right on through... and hopefully missed any major organs."

Securing an additional pressure bandage to the rear wound, she laid him once more on his back and applied oxygen via a nasal cannula. His breathing remained shallow and slightly labored; Kris snapped a quick set of electrodes to his chest, attaching a portable monitor.

Running a careful hand over Jack's mud encrusted head, her fingers came away bloodied.

An uneven gash beneath a large hematoma covered the back of Jack's head and could be indicative of a skull fracture. Unhappily, any underlying fractures would be difficult to detect without an X-ray. Ugly scrapes, bruises and deep scratches covered most of Jack's lean body, evidence of hazards encountered during his fall down the rugged mountainside.

Wrapping Jack's body in blankets, Kris inserted hot-packs between the folds of the wool covering and secured him to the gurney with several straps.

Searching his discarded clothing, she removed his wallet, dog tags and any item, which might betray his identity.

Checking Jack over once more, she reassured herself that his condition was as stable as possible.

Easing back into the driver's seat of the van, Kris pulled slowly back out onto the main roadway and headed down the mountain, away from the SGC.

Airman Jefferson saluted and then waved General O'Neill's truck through the gate.

Jon stared straight ahead in the hope of perpetuating their ruse. Appearing troubled was easy; abandoning Jack in his current condition was definitely not. Teal'c glanced at the younger O'Neill in the rearview mirror sharing his distress. Driving away from the van and its precious cargo required all of his Jaffa training. "We must not waver in our resolve, Jon O'Neill. Your life and that of O'Neill depend upon the success of our plan."

Jon grimaced. "Let's just hope that come tomorrow, Jack has a life to save."

***

Malcolm Barrett pounded down the stairs, his coattail flying, heading for sub-level one. He needed Ned's expertise. There had been no answer at the dedicated hacker's home. While many would have found this an oddity given that it was barely 0700 hours, Barrett was fully aware that Ned Drew, consumed by his work, often slept nestled up to one of his many computer screens.

Sure enough, the lights were all ablaze and Ned lay bent over his keyboard, face pressed against the flat-screen, drool gently seeping from the right side of his sleep-slackened lips.

Although Barrett had found the younger man in similar repose before, it never ceased to amaze him. Not wishing to startle Ned unduly, Barrett moved to the coffee maker. Evidently, the timer had gone off; a fresh pot stood ready and waiting. Pouring out two cups, he set the pair near the sleeping man and reached out to nudge him awake.

Ned was in heaven: ten naked super models surrounded him, each offering the very latest high tech upgrades... 'Hey, stop pushing me girls, there is enough of me for all of you.'

'Great, they could drop an A-bomb and Neddy boy would sleep right on through the chaos!' Barrett resorted to shaking Drew roughly. "Drew, wake up!"

Ned cracked a heavy eyelid. "Mom, it's Saturday..." Focusing on the irritated face of his boss, he sat up quickly, fully awake. "Ah, sir, I was... guess I fell asleep again..."

Barrett suppressed a grin. "No kidding? Look Ned the O'Neill situation has heated up. I need you to..."

Ned's fingers were already flying over his keyboard. "Coffee... need lots and lots of coffee."

Sliding one of the steaming cups closer to Ned's elbow, Barrett patted him on the back. "I'll just step out and find us a sweet roll or two."

***

Teal'c stoically transported the counterfeit body directly to the morgue - and a grim faced chief medical officer.

When the call came in from Major Kearney, the doctor, dismissing the notion that she needed assistance, made her way to the cold room alone. Her staff, assuming she was distraught, did not interfere.

Captain Brightman M.D. reached out to open the bag concealing the mortal remains of her commander, swallowing back a tear.

New to the SGC, the soft-spoken doctor did not know the general well and yet, she had grown fond of the gruff and irreverent O'Neill. "I'll need to ascertain the exact cause of..."

Jon reached out quickly staying her hand. "Please doctor, can it wait a bit?"

The look in the teen's eyes brought her up short.

Kearney's report alerted Brightman that the general's nephew accompanied the Jaffa. She had expected to encounter grief, but this lad, wrapped in a blanket, his legs and arms liberally splattered with mud and dried blood, was entirely too composed. Something all too familiar shone from those deep brown orbs of his.

Teal'c stepped forward offering a brief incline of his head in a gesture of respect. "Doctor Brightman, O'Neill's remains have been secreted elsewhere."

Shifting her gaze to the dignified Jaffa, Dr. Brightman raised her brows in surprise. "Please explain, Teal'c."

Bowing more deeply this time, Teal'c began his litany of half-truths and deception.

Jeff Prost stood in the doorway of his bucolic office drinking in the fresh early morning air. The tranquil setting suited him. He'd endured entirely way too much turmoil in his forty-five years: first, as just another punk trying to survive the inner city of Chicago and then, as a young medical officer in the bedlam of the Gulf War.

Stationed in the Colorado Springs area on his final tour, Dr. Prost, camping out on a three-day pass, met up with an elderly physician, whose practice encompassed this rural community and the two found they had a great deal in common.

A firm and lasting friendship developed. Therefore, it seemed only natural that on the eve of his retirement the older man handed his practice, along with this tiny clinic, over to the recently discharged Prost; secure in the knowledge that his patients would be safe in Jeff's capable hands.

The role of country doctor came easily. Barring the occasional backwoods accident, Jeff relished the lack of excitement his little community afforded him.

Saturdays were usually quiet. Actually, lately most days were quiet. 'Your fault ya know Jeff, you are the one who insisted on educating everyone. Thanks to your passion, you've got the healthiest group of regulars in the county.' Smiling, he leaned over to pet his frisky Sheltie, Mischief. "What do you say girl, shall we put up the gone fishing sign and head up to Leprechaun Falls?"

Mischief circled and yipped. Laughing, Jeff made to turn and head back inside to do just that, but the little dog's keen hearing caused her to take off down the porch steps and onto the gravel drive, barking in earnest.

Sighing, Jeff followed the mini-collie as she made her way down the drive a ways. "Looks like we'll need to abort our mission pal; someone needs our services after all."

A dark van wound its way around a copse of pines barreling toward them at break-neck speed.

Jeff grabbed Mischief's collar and backed up a few paces out of the path of the vehicle.

Kris caught sight of Jeff and slammed her foot on the brake. Jumping down, she rushed toward the back of the still rocking van, throwing open the rear door. "I've got a man in critical condition Doc, hustle!"

'What the...?' Shifting into full trauma mode, Jeff covered the ten paces in less than a second. Climbing onboard behind his old flame, he took in the interior with surprise. Inside, it looked like any other ambulance, complete with a patient strapped to a gurney. "Kris... ?"

Taking the double intravenous set up down from long poles, Kris laid the quarter full IV bags on the blanket covered form. "I'll fill you in later Jeff, trust me, we don't have time for chatter right now."

Pushing curiosity to the back of his mind, the seasoned physician gave the injured man a quick once over. 'Jeez, I haven't seen anyone in such sorry shape since the Gulf!'

Thanks to almost two liters of volume expanders and Kris's TLC, the gray haired stranger appeared to be stable, well, stable enough for a quick transfer into the clinic for further care at least.

Jeff grabbed the head of the gurney and together he and Kris lifted the aluminum contraption to the ground. "Once we have him set, I want a full and I mean full explanation, you got me Martin?"

Pushing the portable stretcher ahead of them, Kris nodded. "Sir, yes, sir." She snapped, unconsciously reverting to military protocol.

A slip, which gave the perceptive ex-major an idea just what sort of situation he was getting himself involved in.

Dr. Brightman realized her jaw was gaping open and snapped it shut. "Teal'c you are asking me to conduct an autopsy on a manikin, falsify a death certificate and authorize an immediate burial of the... remains?"

Jon rolled his eyes in disgust. The new doctor's voice echoed in the small cool room despite her soft tone. "Listen up Doc, we need your cooperation."

The good doctor dug in her heels. "I don't think you understand what it is you are asking me to..."

Jon raised his hand in the universal gesture of silence. "I know precisely what it is I am asking of you Captain Brightman," he told her, his tone ominously low and strikingly familiar. "I am asking you to participate in a plan to uncover the scum sucking pigs that just killed my uncle, Jack O'Neill, your C.O."

Noting her hesitation, Jon swooped in the kill. "He'd do it for you."

Swallowing back any further protest, Brightman considered their insane plan. "A cover up of this magnitude will take more than just we three."

Teal'c's highly attuned hearing detected the sounds of several footsteps rapidly approaching the door to the morgue.

Opening the heavy portal, he agreed. "Indeed Dr. Brightman, it will require at least seven of us."

Colonel Carter, Major Davis, Dr. Jackson and Lieutenant Hailey moved rapidly into the dimly lit room and secured the door behind them.

Daniel Jackson, his body tense, moved closer to Jon and engaged the younger man's intense gaze. Jon shifted his eyes toward the bulky bag lying on the morgue table and shook his head no. Something unspoken passed between them; stepping back, Jackson wrapped his arms around himself in a familiar gesture of self-containment.

Colonel Carter cleared her throat. "I assume Teal'c has filled you in on the situation Dr. Brightman." Taking in the other woman's nod, Sam continued, "Good then I trust we'll have your full cooperation." Catching the look of reluctance in the physician's eye, Major Davis jumped in. "This operation has been fully sanctioned by the Pentagon, Captain. General Jumper is personally acting as liaison to the President in this matter."

Smiling wryly, Brightman capitulated. "Understood."

***

Clare shifted painfully in bed. Ignoring her newly acquired bruises, she reached for her ringing cell phone. "Hello?"

'Sounds like you woke her O'Neill.' Clearing his throat Jon stammered. "Clare? Hi, it's Jon O'Neill... I'm afraid... I need... I need to postpone our library date."

Jon affected a muffled sob. "My uncle... Clare, my uncle is dead, he was killed in a car crash late last night."

Clare's voice held just the right amount of horror and concern. "Oh my God! Jon, I am so very sorry."

Jon's voice sounded strangled. Clare's empathy caught her unaware. That she could feel sympathy for her prey amazed the girl whose heart had long ago chosen to shrivel up and die.

Of course, she already knew the elder O'Neill was dead. Altering the plan was a given, perhaps Jon himself was the key to a new course of action.

"The thing is..." Jon hesitated, allowing a hint of guilt to tinge his next words. "I would still like to see you... it's just that today is... there is just too much going on..."

Catching on, Clare interrupted him. "Of course I understand. I am here for you Jon. Just tell me what I can do to help."

"The funeral is tomorrow, at noon." Jon lowered his voice. "I hate wakes, so I'll slip away; I doubt the general's unwanted nephew will be missed," he added bitterly. "Meet me at the park across from the high school at say... two o'clock."

"You're not alone in this; I'll be there for you Jon." Clare assured him gently; ironically, she meant it too.

***

Sergeant Walter Davis shuffled along the interminable corridor dejectedly.

His general was dead. Never in his eight years of optimistic zeal had he felt so betrayed.

O'Neill was indestructible; at least it had seemed that way.

Now his hero, his knight on the white horse, his John Wayne was no more.

Disheartened, Walter grieved; he grieved as only those who believe in legends grieve - selfishly and wholeheartedly, ignoring those around him who also moved with lassitude and despair.

Wrapped up in his own little world of hurt, Walter bumped into a rock solid body.

Airman Jefferson steadied the little technician with a gentle hand; the Sergeant looked as if he had been crying. "You okay Walter?"

Walter focused his red-rimmed eyes upward. "Oh, sorry Ben, I was just..."

The look in Ben's eyes reflected his sorrow. "...scuttlebutt is the general's body was grotesquely shattered by its endless plummet down the mountainside..."

Tearing up once again, Walter's voice shook. "I mean... he's been shot, tortured, burned, knifed, frozen, possessed by aliens and well the list is endless, and he dies in an auto accident."

Gulping, Jefferson bit back his own outraged tears. "I hear it's so battered that even his closest friends must forego a last viewing to say goodbye. Instead, interment will be immediate, with only his nephew and SG-1 allowed at the graveside. Base personnel will have to be content with a memorial service later this week."

Walter offered a doting smile. "You know the general; he never did like a crowd."

Jefferson chuckled fondly. "Nope he sure didn't. I guess wherever he is he's fishing alone by some lake and sucking back a few cold ones."

Clapping Ben on the back, Walter agreed. "Damn, you got that right. I think that is just how he would prefer to spend eternity."

Walter's smile grew pensive. "Yes sir, Ben, you've sure got that right."

Ben Jefferson returned his smile. "I've got an idea Walt; I'm going off duty now, what say we collect Siler and a few others, and then head over to Al's bar. We'll throw back a few tall ones in honor of the general."

"In honor of Jack O'Neill, hero, soldier and fisherman." Walter agreed wistfully.

"Hero, soldier and fisherman." Ben echoed. "I think the general would have liked that epitaph. Yep, he would have liked it just fine."

***

Major Davis paced back and forth restlessly. "I'm still not comfortable with this strategy of yours Jon; there are way too many variables for my liking."

Jon O'Neill set the phone on the gleaming oak desk. Leaning back in Jack's comfortable leather chair, he cocked an eyebrow, his mouth curved ironically. "Admit it Davis, what disturbs you isn't the plan; it's the man implementing it."

Davis lowered his eyes. There was no use denying the obvious; this O'Neill spooked him - and more than a just little. "Look Jon, you're just a kid and..."

"Jon O'Neill is more than capable Major Davis." Teal'c cut in coldly. "His stratagem is sound; General O'Neill would approve."

Daniel, sitting dejectedly in the corner of his dead friend's office, roused himself in support, offering Jon a sad smile. "Jack would have liked this plan."

When Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson filled Davis in on this outlandish idea earlier this morning he'd been shocked.

The general, their leader and friend, was dead. Yet, it was painfully clear that they'd accepted their loss, had in fact pushed the sad fact aside and thought beyond it.

Is this what came of risking your life daily, the ability to seal off your feelings with such calculated determination? He understood the solid Jaffa's ability to perpetuate the clone's authority, anything an O'Neill, even this counterfeit one, did had his support; still, the whole escapade gave the Pentagon's liaison pause. He wondered how they could manage to put their sorrow over O'Neill's loss on hold; or was their need for revenge a driving force?

Taking in Jon's intractable expression, Davis accepted defeat. "Fine, then at least allow me to arrange..."

The door to the office opened briskly, stifling the beleaguered major's next thought. Sam Carter, her shoulders slumped in misery, stepped inside and closed the door.

Taking an empty seat, she directed her weary gaze to Jon. "I sent Hailey off to her quarters to rest. The poor girl is beside herself with grief. I never realized how attached she was to the general."

"What about you Sam?" Daniel asked gently.

Taking a page from the O'Neill book of denial, Sam brushed his concern aside. "I'm fine Daniel. Hailey, Dr. Brightman and I made the funeral arrangements."

A ghost of a smile curved her lips. "Of course the Marines aren't pleased, Colonel Delaney insists that no 'Irishman worth his salt would approve of so meager a sendoff' and I can't help but feel he's right."

"I spoke to the President, Colonel Carter; he insists that the memorial be as he put it, 'one hell of a farewell.'" Major Davis spouted, in an erstwhile effort to comfort her. "I believe General Jumper and half the joint chiefs are planning to attend, that should pacify the base personnel somewhat."

Feeling less than charitable, Sam snapped. "The only thing that might possibly pacify this command, Major Davis is the head of the bastard who did this to our general."

Teal'c smiled coldly, the need for vengeance made his warrior's blood sing. "Indeed."

Jon contemplated her statement quietly, his eyes on his fidgeting hands. Nothing less would satisfy him - it was time to unleash the dogs of war.

Sharing a look of understanding with Daniel, Sam reconsidered. "Actually, not even that will mollify us Major."

Wishing he could retract his last statement, Davis colored visibly. Perhaps the old maxim 'silence is golden' applied here.

A pall of gloom hung over the deathly silent room.

Glancing at his watch, Jon wondered how Jack was faring; clearing his throat, he rose unsteadily from the chair, his fatigue evident. "I believe I'll catch a few winks myself. Think it'd be okay to bed down in Jack's quarters?"

"Indeed." Teal'c exchanged a perceptive look with the younger version of his brother of the soul, bowing his head slightly. "I too need a bit of respite Jon O'Neill, I shall accompany you."

As the two unlikely companions left the room, Daniel couldn't shake the peculiar notion that they were up to something, something he was not going to like. Nope, he was not going to like it one little bit.

***

Jeff snapped the last film into the light clip and studied the array of x-rays illuminated in front of him with dismay. According to the evidence revealed here the Unknown Soldier currently fighting to stay alive inside his tiny clinic had been to hell and back - more than once.

In addition to his current skull fracture, visible signs of old traumas taunted Jeff with the man's identity; nearly every bone in this seasoned warrior's body appeared to have sustained some kind of damage at one time or another.

Taking a moment to check the man lying comatose on his treatment room table, Jeff assured himself that his patient was in no immediate danger and then strode out onto the front porch.

Kris, Mischief snuggled up at her side, sat on the porch swing staring off into space. Jack was finally stable and God willing, out of the woods. "How severe is the skull fracture?" Sighing audibly, Jeff sat next to her, running a loving hand down the little Sheltie's flanks. "It's straightforward and non-displaced; our patient is a very lucky man." Snorting, Kris ran a restless hand over her eyes. "I'd hardly call what he's been through today luck, Jeff. Thank God that bullet passed right on through and missed his spleen or we'd be pronouncing him dead."

Jeff took her delicate chin in his hand and turned her heart-shaped face to his, staring deeply into her red rimmed eyes. 'Lord she's a beauty. This guy means more to her than she will let on.'

Kris allowed him to delve into her soul for just a moment then lowered her eyes; Jeff always could read her like a book.

"Yep, I'd say he is a very lucky guy." Jeff whispered wistfully, allowing the past to invade the present briefly. Reverting to concerned physician mode, he continued, "In addition to the bullet wound, loss of blood, hypothermia, multiple contusions and lacerations, not to mention the latest skull fracture, there is clear evidence of multiple incidents of past traumas. Want to fill me in?"

Kris wrapped her arms around her waist and stood up. "I can't tell you much. He fell over a cliff and it took some time to find him..."

"Come on Kris, this isn't some country bumpkin you're snowing here - this is me." Impatient, Jeff jumped up and spun her around to face him. "Either the man lying in my treatment room is a soldier; most likely a career man or he is Evel Knievel. I haven't seen a body in this kind of shape since I treated several special ops officers following a helicopter crash in Desert Storm."

Grasping his shoulders, seeking support, Kris drew in a deep breath. "I... I'd tell you if I could Jeff, but this is a need to know operation."

Searching her face once more Jeff squared his shoulders, this wasn't his first campaign. "Understood; are we in danger?"

Kris laid her head against his broad chest. "I honestly don't know."

***

Jon carefully closed the heavy door to Jack's base quarters and plopped his tired body onto the regulation cot. Somehow, he had always assumed that once a man made general said cot would be a tad more comfortable.

Teal'c rested against a wall, his arms crossed over his burly chest. "I have disabled the security devices in this room as well Jon O'Neill, no one will overhear our conversation."

Cocking his head to one side, Jon grinned. Always could count on old Teal'c to be one-step ahead of the herd when the chips were down. "You're a good man T."

"Disabling the security system in the general's office proved to be quite revealing," Teal'c lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes, anger simmered beneath his placid façade. Opening his palm, he exposed a crushed microprocessor of some kind.

"Crap, knowing Jack, that wasn't there yesterday." Jon frowned. Jack was too cautious.

"Indeed." Teal'c confirmed. "O'Neill requires a sweep of his office and quarters every twelve hours."

"Well then, we've definitely got a mole somewhere on the base and one who has access to the general's office." Jon stood up and began to pace. "A fact which makes me feel a bit less guilty about keeping Jack's ah... condition just between us."

"It is not the first time you have perpetrated a false perception Jon O'Neill." Teal'c assured him, alluding to another time and place when Jack O'Neill had allowed his team to think he'd betrayed them. "It is the correct course of action, as it was then.

"Tell that to Daniel and Carter when the time comes, will ya." Jon sighed. Pulling his cell phone from his borrowed BDU pocket, He dialed Kris's number.

***

Kris tucked another warm blanket around Jack's abused and fever wracked body. Barely an inch of the general's taut flesh escaped injury. A night spent outdoors hadn't helped his condition, pneumonia was a very real possibility; auscultation and x-ray confirmed the existence of congestion in his left lung.

Once he'd addressed the bullet wounds, infusing four additional units of whole blood into Jack's veins, Jeff's gifted hands stitched a significant number of the larger jagged cuts, leaving the smaller gashes to the magic of steri-strips.

Janet would certainly approve of Jeff, but would she approve of Kris's decision to perpetuate Jon and Teal'c ruse? Kris wasn't so sure. By bringing the general to this makeshift facility, she'd further risked his life going against her Hippocratic oath. Still, Jack couldn't be in better hands.

Jeff injected the broad-spectrum antibiotic into the intravenous rider. "That little mock ambulance of yours is a veritable cornucopia of modern medical supplies Kris. My clinic's staples are woefully inadequate in comparison."

"The credit goes to a dear friend of mine who is no longer with us Jeff." Kris told him in a sad whisper.

'Damn!' Taking her by the hand, Jeff led her from the room. "Come on, I'll make us a bite to eat." Flipping on the intercom, he continued on to the rear kitchen. "We'll be able to hear the monitors quite clearly via that handy contraption. I occasionally have an overnight patient or two."

Squeezing his sturdy hand, Kris followed reluctantly. "You know Jeff you've got a sweet set-up here; more of a mini-hospital than clinic. I'm grateful."

Pushing Kris into a chair, Jeff set a glass of milk in front of her. "Drink that, and don't thank me yet, our mystery man is still not out of the woods. Every one of those wounds may yet become infected, just what kind of bog did he fall into anyway?"

Disgusted with the whole 'need to know' principle, he continued, "A coating of slimy mud might slow the rate of a bleeding wound, but it's an incredible source of bacteria."

Sipping the milk, Kris's eyelids drooped with fatigue. "Let's hope scrubbing those wounds with disinfectant and pumping him full of antibiotics will do the trick."

Cracking a couple eggs and pouring a touch of milk into a frying pan, Jeff beat the mixture aggressively. "Yeah well, lying in the rain all night sure didn't help."

Rolling her eyes, Kris slumped in her chair. "Please don't remind me."

The sound of twittering birds filled the air.

Ignoring Jeff's mocking laughter, Kris pulled out her cell. "I'll have you know the sound of birds singing is preferable to the jagged screeching of most cell phones." Flipping the device open, she placed it to her ear. "Martin."

Throwing a sidelong glance at the chef of the day, Kris rose from her chair and left the kitchen. "Hang on a sec."

Moving out to the front porch, she settled on a step. "Okay, go ahead."

Jon tried to keep his impatience in check. "Kris how's the package?"

Ah yes, Kris thought, typical O'Neill, right to the point. "Damaged pretty badly..."

"Salvageable?" 'Crap! Reduced to calling Jack a parcel - damn it!' "I mean, how badly..."

The angst in the young O'Neill's voice added to her guilt. "It's still too early to tell Jon. Might I speak with Teal'c please?"

Placing a calming hand on Jon's shoulder, Teal'c took the offered phone. "Captain Martin, you may speak freely we are secure."

"Basically, the package is in critical but stable condition and as yet, unconscious." Kris whispered pointedly, choosing to withhold the exact extent of injuries. "Technically however, this particular bundle has been in much worse shape in the past."

"Then we shall leave its care in your capable hands." Teal'c told her solemnly. "And attempt to reestablish contact again at eighteen hundred hours."

"Right, I'll hang tough. Oh, and Teal'c, be careful." Kris cautioned.

"Indeed we shall." Smiling fondly, Teal'c severed the connection.

Stuffing the cell phone back in her jeans, Kris peeked in on Jack. He hadn't moved a muscle and both his intravenous sites appeared to be intact.

Satisfied that his condition remained unchanged, Kris returned to the kitchen. The heady aroma of bacon and eggs greeted her, causing her empty stomach to growl and her mouth to water in anticipation.

Jeff scooped a healthy portion onto a plate and set it before her. "Eat."

"I suppose you think I find bossy men sexy?" Kris teased. Actually, Jeff's Yiddish momma side always did give her a warm fuzzy feeling. Relaxing slightly, Kris dug in.

Watching her appreciatively for a minute, Jeff remembered another breakfast they'd shared. 'Get over it Prost, that was years ago. Maybe the macho type in the treatment room is fixing her breakfast these days. It's a sure bet she'd wouldn't go to all this trouble for just anybody. A clandestine call, an unidentified man in critical condition, need to know; just what the hell am I mixed up in anyway?'

Refusing to allow his inquisitive side control, Jeff filled another plate for himself and sat down. "I'm not going to ask who that was on the phone; I just hope that the call was secure."

Smiling grimly, Kris patted his hand. "That makes two of us, Jeff."

***

Ned's eyes blurred with fatigue, they'd been at it all day without any luck. His deft surfing of the web uncovered many an obscure site filled with hidden Easter eggs of cryptic information, but not one of the vague references revealed anything concrete. Ned's latest find however, alluded to someone called the Marquis.

Intrigued, Ned typed in the keyword Marquis and a list of historical figures popped up on his screen. One of the names on the short list seemed to jump out at him; a sudden errant and perverse thought entered his mind. Glancing over his shoulder to where his superior sprawled in a chair, he entered the keyword 'Marquis de Sade.'

An outrageously sadistic site filled his screen, a site so vulgar in its perversion that the professionally sophisticated hacker cringed. Despite his exposure to the darker side by way of his work for the NID, Ned was essentially a naïve farm boy from Iowa.

Guiding his cursor over a portrait of the infamous Marquis, Ned turned up another Easter egg. "Ah, sir?"

Malcolm Barrett, unable to stand the glare of the computer screen one more second, was 'resting his eyes,' his body draped in a chair. The strident urgency in Ned's voice jolted him back to full awareness. "What have you found, Drew?"

Ned's normally pale face looked flushed and strained. "I think you'd better take a look at this, sir."

'Hell the kid looks like he just walked in on his parents in the throes of passion.' Barrett quickly scooted his chair over to peer at the image displayed on Drew's computer screen. Whistling softly, Malcolm read the information with growing alarm.

Picking up the phone, he dialed the airfield. "Drew, I want this data copied to a cruzer mini drive immediately, you and I are taking the first available flight to Colorado."

***

Daniel found Sam sitting in her dark lab alone, the light from the empty hallway illuminated her silhouette. "Sam?"

Sam fingered the general's discarded patch absently, tracing the stitched SG-1 insignia lovingly. "I should never have left him behind, Daniel."

The subtle nuance of her statement was lost on the heart sore archeologist; he too felt as if he had somehow let Jack down.

Moving to her side, Daniel placed an arm around Sam's shuddering shoulders, sharing her guilty sorrow. "Come on Sam, it's late."

Guiding her gently into the brightly lit hall, Daniel caught sight of the object in her hand. "You know Sam, I think Jack missed going through the gate with us more than just a little."

"Ya think?" Sam quipped, mimicking their missing sarcastic friend.

Tucking the patch carefully inside her breast pocket, next to her heart, Sam hooked an arm around Daniel's waist as they walked along. "Things just won't be the same around here without him."

Daniel tightened his hold on her shoulder and nodded. "Our universe won't be the same Sam, not the same at all."

On to Chapter Six