The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay

Chapter Six: Web Of Deception

Dr. Jeff Prost checked on the two fat chicken breasts wrapped in foil roasting in his oven, then padded back to his treatment room. Like many a country doctor before him, his clinic was adjacent to his home.

While living virtually in his workplace might seem overwhelming to some, he found it cozy and convenient. His current situation was very different from the urban world he'd spent much of his adult life trying to escape.

With his pup, Mischief, following at his heels, Jeff entered the mini operating/treatment room concerned about the status of his unknown patient. Over the past several hours said patient's condition remained relatively stable. Still, he showed no signs of waking and Captain Kris Martin, R.N. insisted on hovering over him for the better part of the day, refusing to rest. Clearly, her devotion to this man was more than that of a nurse for her patient.

Despite her resolve, it would appear that fatigue finally caught up with her. Kris was asleep in a chair next to the narrow bed where the battered man lay beneath crisp white sheets.

Jeff was confident that this man was military or at the very least, ex-military of some kind; his body betrayed quite an extensive history of past and present trauma, the kind usually restricted to career military types. The fact that the man remained an enigma fascinated him.

From early childhood, his idols wore a mask of some kind. Zorro, Batman, The Lone Ranger, even Superman hid their real identities from the world. It amused Jeff to add his mystery man, his unknown soldier, to this mix. After the bedlam of the first Iraqi conflict, the young doctor counted career military men amongst his list of venerable warriors, champions of the most basic kind.

Yes, Jeff knew in his gut that this man lying so helplessly in his tiny clinic was some kind of hero.

Kris sighed in her sleep. For the first time today, she looked peaceful.

Taking a moment to enjoy her unpretentious beauty, Jeff wondered how it was she'd chosen him to assist in caring for her injured mystery man. Frankly, he'd given up hope she'd ever speak to him again.

He met Kris during the insanity of Desert Storm and she'd become more than just a friend. Unfortunately, after the conflict ended, duty and career separated them. When she posted to Cheyenne Mountain, they reconnected briefly. An argument caused a rift between them just before Jeff retired from the military; he'd not heard from her since.

Still, once she roared into his drive this morning demanding help, memories of what they'd once shared together came flooding back, washing any hard feelings away like a tsunami; he'd let her go too easily.

Initially, he'd been too busy saving the 'unknown soldier' to sort through his tumultuous emotions. Then later, Jeff was preoccupied with checking the man's dressings and vital signs every few minutes. Slowly, the day faded and the fellow's chances for recovery improved.

At eighteen hundred, Kris's cell phone rang once more and a cryptic conversation with someone called 'Tilac' followed. Jeff, unable to persuade Kris to fill him in on just who it was they were treating and why, became downright angry. Not wishing to argue, he'd headed to the kitchen to prepare supper.

Mischief butted his leg with her little body, and then hopped up on the bed beside the unconscious stranger and hunkered down; resting her head between her front paws.

Smiling, Jeff ran a loving hand over the astute Sheltie. "Don't worry girl, I won't neglect him."

Getting down to business, Jeff gave his patient a thorough once over, pleased to find him none the worse and perhaps, a tad improved.

Changing the rate on the dual intravenous fluid pumps, he reset the monitor's alarm volume.

Thanks to Kris's unidentified van/mini-ambulance, he still had several more bags of Lactated Ringers, three liters of 5 Dextrose and another unit of whole blood.

Hanging another rider of antibiotics, he patted Mischief. "Watch over him girl."

Scooping the sleeping Kris into his muscular arms, Jeff carried her to a spare room. Hoping she would sleep through the night, he slowly laid her down. Kris slept on.

The oven timer demanded his attention. Returning to the kitchen, Jeff removed the cooked fowl from the oven. Settling for a quick glass of milk, he placed the meal into the refrigerator. Checking on his patient once more, the good doctor adjusted the volume on the intercom. Then, propping the door ajar, settled in his office, flipped on the television and chose a local news channel hoping for some information.

He would let Kris sleep a while and then, if she stirred, make sure she ate. The mystery man in his clinic might be of foremost importance to her, but her health mattered just as much to him.

***

Molly 'Sassy' O'Connor bustled about her day with a song in her heart. She'd spent her afternoon offering what friendship and comfort she could. Her role as one of Norfolk General Hospital's Pink Ladies was a fulfilling one; she relished her ability to elicit a smile from those who had little reason for joy.

Pulling her Jeep carefully into her driveway, she retrieved her bag of groceries from the back seat.

As she approached her back door, the sound of the phone ringing hastened her stride. Breathless, Sassy snagged the phone just as her answering machine revved up. "Molly O'Connor here."

"Sassy, it's me, Daniel." Daniel was unable to keep a slight tremble from his voice. "Sassy, I don't know how to..."

Molly O'Connor, ex-military wife, knew that tone all too well; her glad heart sank. "Just give it to me straight Danny. What's wrong?"

"Jack's dead." Daniel's voice broke.

Jonathan was gone. In the twinkle of an eye, she'd lost him; her world shifted on its axis. Sassy sat down and swallowed hard. "What happened?"

As Daniel quickly and brokenly filled her in, Sassy's mind raced. "I will catch the first plane out Danny and..."

"I'm sorry Sass. The funeral tomorrow is strictly military." Daniel told her sadly. "No civilians allowed."

"Nonsense!" Sassy protested. "I'm a military widow that should count for..."

"It counts, Sassy." Daniel told her sadly, his heart bleeding for the woman who'd lost a military son, her husband and now her 'adopted laddie' as well. "And if it were up to me..."

"It's not up to you though, is it my boy?" Sassy replied with equal sadness. "I understand. Lay a rose on my Jonathan's casket for me then, Danny Boy." Unable to contain her tears any longer, Sassy ended the call.

***

Something warm and wooly nestled against his side, distracting him from his silent prison of torment.

He'd been floating in a dark, empty abyss - devoid of sound or sensation. Floating for God knew how long, an eternity perhaps.

Then quite suddenly, searing pain filled the void with white-hot agony. Pain was no stranger. No, rather it was a form of release from the prison of the unknown, an almost welcome mixture of searing agony and blistering ache.

Fragmented flashes of memory ricocheted inside his scrambled skull, nightmares too often endured; he knew the routine.

The soft, squirming bit of fuzzy warmth stirred against his naked torso; something cold and definitely wet nuzzled his hand.

Startled, he sluggishly hoped that whoever or whatever beastie sought his warmth meant him no harm.

A warm, wet and slightly rough tongue caressed his abraded fingers and wrist. He found it rather pleasant.

A word entered his still muzzy brain, a word that never failed to bring him a sense of peace - dog. A dog was fussing over him. On the other hand, he thought with a shard of alarm, maybe it was a wolf. Nope, this creature offered comfort and sought nothing in return, so then, not a wolf.

With effort, Jack's fingers tangled in the fur and the little ball of fluff snuggled in closer.

Sounds invaded his awareness. Beep, beep, whoosh... ah crap, sounds he knew all too well.

The pungent bite of alcohol and sickeningly sweet scent of iodoform filled his nostrils. Another word, this one less pleasant, entered his bleary head - infirmary.

Brightness blazed beyond his closed eyelids, lids he found too heavy to lift at present. The consoling warmth of the little dog crept closer still. Despite the abject misery his body now suffered, Jack no longer faced it alone. Blackness claimed him once more.

***

Jeff stood abruptly, peering at the photograph behind the newscaster. As the newsflash ended, he snapped off the television and returned to the treatment room to check on his not so 'unknown soldier.' Taking a moment, to check over the monitors and intravenous fluids, he then looked closely at the bruised and swollen face of the 'mystery man.'

Lying limply on his back, with Mischief cuddled up at his side, O'Neill appeared far less formidable than his photograph. Nonetheless, he was the supposedly deceased brigadier general.

Rocking back on his heels, Jeff whistled softly. "Hello, General." Placing the earpieces of his stethoscope thoughtfully into his ears, the intrigued ex-major set about performing his umpteenth assessment of the day.

Kris startled awake. A dim light shone in the hallway. 'Damn! How long have I been asleep?' Jumping up, she rushed back to the room where her general lay.

Kris took in the small dog protectively asleep next to her commanding officer -- her cherished friend. She gratefully noted Jack's abused right hand tangled in the sheltie's fur and the relieved expression on the face of the empathetic physician hunched over him. "Thank God."

Moving forward, Kris placed a thankful hand on Jeff's shoulder. "He woke up alone." She whispered with regret. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep."

Bothered by Kris's deception and yet, elated the general would live, Jeff ran his fingers lightly over Mischief's flanks. "So it would seem." He rasped.

The risk she'd taken bringing O'Neill here in his condition was staggering.

Ignoring the alarm bells going off in his head, Jeff confirmed her speculation. "Our patient's lungs are clearing and his level of consciousness has improved, but it'll be some time before he truly wakes up."

Mischief gazed at her master with soulful eyes, still entangled in O'Neill's grasp.

Turning to Kris, Jeff captured her hand and ushered her from the room. "Mischief will watch over General O'Neill, it's time for the truth."

Stunned, Kris allowed him to pull her into his office. How in God's name did he learn the general's identity? "I've already told you all I can Jeff, this is a need to know situation."

"So, then if you won't talk, listen." The perturbed physician pushed the stubborn woman into a chair.

Gathering her reserves, Kris sat back and nodded.

Leaning back in a chair opposite from hers, elbows planted, his long fingers forming a steeple, Jeff sighed. "Here is what I know. According to the news, a General Jonathan O'Neill died last night. Supposedly, the car he was traveling in went over a cliff and both he and his driver were killed on impact."

"Really?" Kris asked feigning innocence.

Jeff stood up and leaned over her. Staring into her face, he did his best impression of Perry Mason. "Then, early this morning you turn up with a critically injured man asking for my help. An unidentified man, a man whose injuries just happen to be consistent with a rapid uncontrolled descent of some kind, like say, oh, a tumble over a cliff?"

Refusing to react, Kris, set her jaw. This secret was not hers to divulge. Regret was not a luxury someone in her position could afford. She understood very well that lies and misconceptions were necessary to protect Jack's life; and quite possibly, the life of both the incensed man standing before her, and her own.

"A man who looks very much like the supposedly deceased General O'Neill." Jeff continued pacing back and forth in front of her chair, hands clasped behind his back. "And, said general is an Air Force officer. You, my dear old friend, are also an Air Force officer and, coincidentally, assigned to the same command as O'Neill, Cheyenne Mountain Complex."

Jeff squatted down alongside her chair and stared directly into her eyes.

Kris took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of juniper pine and desert winds.

"Need to know." She bit off tersely, her body rigid.

Jeff's frustration grew. Damn it, didn't she know she could trust him? "Look, we both know I've got... rather I had, high enough clearance at one time. That man in there is Brigadier General Jonathan O'Neill. I just saved his life and I am guessing, your butt as well. Don't you think I deserve to at least know what the heck is going on?"

"You are right, you do deserve to know." Kris responded flatly, her green eyes hard. "I, however, do not have the right to tell you."

Jeff stood up, running his hands over his face, trying to control his temper. "Okay, then who the hell does?"

Thinking fast, Kris came up with an answer she knew would stall him, at least for the moment. "General O'Neill."

Dropping into his chair, Jeff leaned an elbow on his desk, rested his chin in his hand and covered his mouth.

Damn, she knew him all too well. "I'm guessing that he won't have very much to say for a while."

He never could beat her at poker, but then she played a lousy game of chess. "Suppose you pick another voice of authority, like say, this Tilac fellow? He's called at least twice. It would seem he has a lot to say in the matter. "

Raising her eyebrow, Kris smiled ironically. "I don't think he will enlighten you either."

Reaching into his back pocket, Jeff pulled out Kris's cell phone. "We'll see. You've got till 0900 hours to come to your senses, and then, I call the number displayed in this little contraption's memory."

Refusing the bait, Kris snorted, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest with a sneer.

"Hah! I deleted the number." She bluffed.

Jeff played with the small buttons on the cell panel. The last several calls had come from the same number. Quickly memorizing them, he re-pocketed the phone smugly. "Checkmate."

***

Visibly attempting to gather his last shred of control, Barrett stared impatiently at the hapless man standing rigidly before him. "What do you mean all flights are grounded?"

Lloyd Dooley maintained his composure. "All flights are delayed due to the weather, Agent Barrett. If you'd like to wait in the terminal lounge, I'd be happy to alert you as soon as we receive clearance."

"I'm not sure you understand the gravity of..." Barrett began stubbornly.

"I assure you Agent Barrett, I do." The seasoned customer service representative replied firmly. "The lounge is down this corridor to your right."

Malcolm Barrett was not generally a man given to using foul language. However, the words currently flowing freely from his angry lips startled the young computer wizard waiting by his side.

Unimpressed, Dooley returned Barrett's unyielding stare. "I repeat, once the weather clears, I will notify you. Until then, I suggest you make yourselves comfortable in the lounge." With that, he returned his attention determinedly to the papers scattered on the counter before him.

Effectively dismissed, Malcolm, realizing further argument would be fruitless, turned to look at his companion.

Ned's cheeks were flushed, his eyes thoughtful. "Perhaps, if you call Colonel Carter..."

Moving swiftly away from the counter and toward the lounge, Barrett silenced him with a curt shake of his head. "Too risky. This information needs to be relayed in person."

"But, sir, no one will fly us out of Washington in this weather." Ned Drew protested.

A look of revelation altered Agent Barrett's annoyed features. "Not out of Washington, no. Let's take a little drive."

Thirty minutes later, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of his boss's black sedan, Ned Drew tightened his seat belt and wondered if this was a good idea. His boss drove like a bat out of hell!

Okay, so the weather in Washington D.C. was rough, what guarantee did they have that the weather would be any less of a problem in Virginia? "Ah, sir? If it's raining this hard here in D.C. it is most likely also raining in..."

"Not necessarily, Ned." Barrett cut him off. "I've got a hunch we'll be able to get off safely. If not, then at least we're doing something besides sitting on our hands."

"Okay, there is that..." Ned conceded.

"Relax kid; believe it or not there is a method to my madness." Malcolm smiled grimly.

The information he and Ned uncovered this morning might mean the difference between life and death, if they could get it to Colonel Carter in time. They had already lost General O'Neill; he would not have the boy's loss on his conscience too.

A computer-generated ditty filled the air. Amused, Ned recognized the strains of an old song, Secret Agent Man.

Ignoring Ned's smirk, Barrett answered his cell phone. "Barrett."

"Malcolm Barrett?" A woman's voice asked.

"Yes, to whom am I speaking?" Barrett barked. This was a secure line; he used it only for matters related to his work.

"Malcolm, its Molly O'Connor." Sassy intoned confidently. "Remember that favor you promised me? Well, I'm calling in my marker."

***

As the shiny black sedan pulled onto the wet suburban street and parked in front of a red brick ranch, Ned breathed a sigh of relief. The storm that had socked in the airports in Washington D.C. moved northward.

The Norfolk, Virginia skies were clearing. It looked like the boss's hunch paid off. "Boss, are you sure about this? I mean this is a government..."

"Zip it, Drew. We've been over this already." Barrett snapped. Okay so the kid had a point. This was government business and no place for a civilian, but he owed the woman big time.

Gulping, Ned pushed. "No sir, I beg to differ. All I know is that you owe the lady a favor. Forgive me, but that is not enough information for me to break the regulations."

Malcolm Barrett snorted wryly, what a time for the kid to grow a backbone.

Engaging the sedan's brake, he switched off the ignition. "You're right."

"I am?" Ned squeaked.

Rolling his eyes, Barrett confirmed, "Yes you are."

"So then..." Ned ventured.

Rubbing his chin with discomfort, the special agent began his explanation. "About nineteen months ago, Mrs. O'Connor saved both the then Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson's butt."

"Really? Isn't she like seventy-five years old?" Ned asked incredulous.

Smiling, Barrett nodded. "Probably, in his report O'Neill referred to her as 'savvy, and spry,' and labeled her 'better back-up than an entire platoon of marines.' "

"Okay..." Ned began, dubiously.

"I have to admit his description was apt." Malcolm told him quietly. Drew's huff and shocked expression, illuminated by the streetlights, seemed to mock him. "Using her dead husband's naval issue pistol the little lady took out two bogies like a pro. O'Neill took credit for the kills."

Barrett's tone betrayed his approval. "He didn't want Mrs. O'Connor getting into trouble."

Whistling with admiration, Ned prodded. "I understand why O'Neill would owe her, but why you boss?"

"Because Ned, she did my job." Barrett told him tightly. "One of the bogies was a rouge NID agent."

"Ah." Ned understood completely. One of Malcolm Barrett's priorities was to make sure the NID stayed clean.

"And I've got a sneaking suspicion," Barrett continued thoughtfully, "That Mrs. O'Connor just may be the solution to one of our problems."

Eyeing his superior knowingly, Ned agreed. "Well then, we give the lady a ride."

Once the trio arrived at Norfolk Naval Base, it was another four hours before they were airborne. They would be lucky to make Colorado Springs by late morning.

Sitting back in his seat Ned Drew, computer genius and Iowa farm-boy admired the fortitude the petite Mrs. O'Connor exhibited. Clearly, she was distraught, but she kept her grief carefully to herself, making polite conversation.

Ned found she had a knack for gleaning information; he'd unwittingly told her his entire life story. Somehow he didn't mind her inquisitiveness, she reminded him of his great aunt. Using the same cajoling technique he often used on his dear auntie, Ned encouraged her to tell him about General O'Neill.

Ned was a computer geek, a behind the scene type. Thus, he never met the deceased general and yet, after spending a few hours with his 'foster mother,' felt as if he knew O'Neill rather well. He was glad the boss owed her a favor.

For his part, Malcolm worried about the bizarre and sinister plans of the devious cabal Drew's persistence had uncovered.

O'Neill's death was a damn waste. Clearly, a breach in base security was a primary factor in his untimely demise. Someone had screwed up royally. Barrett was confident the Air Force would be less than thrilled about his involvement in uncovering their glaring omission.

Thinking it over, he thought it best to present his arrival merely as a gesture of respect for O'Neill. Then, when the opportunity presented itself, he'd speak with Colonel Carter alone.

Once the plane landed, Barrett attempted to make contact with the colonel and learned of the impending funeral arrangements. The service was at noon, they had just enough time to get a bite to eat, formulate a plan and attend.

While Ned kept Mrs. O'Connor company, Barrett arranged for a proper car.

Insisting they have a healthy breakfast, he instructed Ned to drive to a local restaurant. Then, while the lady freshened up, he filled Ned in. "I understand that the service is private, so you and I will wait in the car. Once it's over, I'll find some way to speak with the colonel."

"What if they won't let Sassy attend?" Ned worried. "It'll break her heart."

Malcolm Barrett eyed the lady in question as she maneuvered determinedly through the crowded restaurant. "Well Ned, I'd sure hate to be the man who tries to stop her."

***

Teal'c woke the younger O'Neill at 0830 hours and presented him with clean clothing.

Jon held the slacks and dress shirt up for measure; they would fit just fine. "Where did you get these T?"

"Of late, Daniel Jackson keeps several modes of dress here at the base for diplomatic meetings." The Jaffa explained handing him a matching blazer. "These will fit you quite well, Jon O'Neill, you have not yet attained your full height."

Jon eyed the clothing sourly. "I hate funerals Teal'c." He whispered.

"As do I." Teal'c agreed. "However, it is necessary."

"Right then, I'm off to get the kinks out." Clamping a lid on his melancholy, Jon stumbled off to shower.

Teal'c's cell phone rang, flipping it open he checked the digital displayed. The number was that of Captain Kris Martin's cell phone; however, his Jaffa training made him cautious. "Hello?"

"Tilac?" A strange man's voice asked.

Teal'c hesitated, his body poised for battle. "To whom am I speaking?"

Jeff heard the caution in the other man's voice.

"Don't hang up. My name is Jeff Prost. I've been helping Kris repackage your item."

Teal'c spent years learning the art of deflection from the master -- O'Neill. Assuming a reasonable imitation of the general's light and subtly mocking tone, he began the game. "You are a postal worker then?"

"No, as I said, I am involved in the care of your package." Jeff replied, stressing the word package.

"Ah, you work for UPS." Teal'c queried, enjoying the diversion.

"No..." Jeff began irritably. He knew this maneuver.

"Fed Ex?" Teal'c volleyed.

"Look, stonewalling me is a waste of time." Annoyed, the earnest physician pinched the bridge of his nose in disgust.

"I don't understand. Perhaps, your assistant would be more adept in communicating what it is you require?" The Jaffa suggested blandly.

"Okay, you win, I'm handing this over to Kris." Shaking his head, Jeff tossed her the phone.

Catching the small device one handed, she pursed her lips, wagging a finger at the belligerent doctor. "Teal'c, its Kris Martin. I'm afraid we have a situation. My assistant knows the identity of the package and demands it be delivered ASAP."

"Has the package become damaged beyond repair, Captain Martin?" Teal'c demanded using his Jaffa bark.

"No." Kris assured him. "But..."

Gratified that O'Neill was in no further danger, Teal'c deduced that the man had seen the newscast.

Regrettably, the release of the information contained in the news bulletin had been essential. Following his earlier conversation with Captain Martin, Teal'c made it his business to access Major Jeffery Prost's file.

The information contained in that file assured the seasoned Jaffa that the ex-major was trustworthy.

"Tell him that the delivery must wait." Teal'c instructed. "I shall contact you again, later this afternoon. Until then, do what you must to insure the package remains safe."

Funeral for a Friend

Sassy clutched the small bouquet of red roses, staring out the rain-spattered window, her mind filled with sorrow. As the car pulled into the cemetery, she could see the military Honor Guard gathered before a freshly dug grave and the flag draped coffin lying forlornly on its stand. A small group of mourners stood to one side as a bugler played taps.

As soon as the vehicle halted, she grabbed her umbrella and slid out of the passenger seat in a rush, attempting to make her way to the gravesite. A solemn airman stopped her cold. "I'm sorry ma'am, this is a closed service."

"You'll not oppose me young man!" Sassy ordered. "Step aside! I've come to bid my Jonathan a proper goodbye."

Swallowing back a tear, Airman Stokes raised his arm, preventing the older woman's progress. "I am very sorry ma'am. I have my orders."

Unmoved, Sassy raised her umbrella and shook it at the muscular airman. "Stand aside or I shall be forced to crack your thick skull with my umbrella!"

Her angry protest carried to the group gathered at the grave. Sam Carter recognized the enraged voice and knew in an instant just which member of SG-1 had informed the general's foster mother of his demise.

Exchanging a knowing look with Daniel, she nodded her consent.

Flushing slightly, Daniel made his way swiftly to Sassy's side and wrapped a protective arm around her trembling shoulders. "It's alright airman. This lady was dear to General O'Neill."

Startled, Airman Stokes lowered his arm. "My apologies ma'am, I... I was not aware."

Patting the airman's sleeve, Sassy's sad smile offered absolution. "Of course not young man. Forgive me, I 'm a bit overcome."

Nodding, Stokes watched sadly, as Dr. Jackson led the now visibly shaking elderly woman to the grave.

Jon watched Sassy's approach with remorse. A sudden biting wind created a whirlwind of wet leaves around his feet. 'Damn it, Daniel couldn't you for once be a thoughtless bastard!' It was bad enough the entire base was in mourning. Now a sweet and loving old woman was suffering as well. 'Crap!'

Teal'c, sensing the young O'Neill's mood, caught his eye and lifted his chin with a mixture of dignity and determination.

Jon could almost hear Teal'c's deep bass voice cautioning, "It is necessary, stay the course."

Teal'c was convinced all would be well. Nevertheless, Jon's angst kept him from getting more than a couple hours of much needed sleep.

Worry over Jack's injuries nagged at him constantly. He hated leaving him behind. Oh, he understood that Kris would make damned sure Jack received the best of care and she'd assured them by phone that his condition was stable. Still, it rankled.

Now surrounded by so much grief, his guilt escalated. Jon tuned out the sound of the mourners, the bugler and the Honor Guard's rifle volleys. Clenching his jaw, he focused distressed eyes on anything except the coffin draped in the stars and stripes.

Sassy's tearful gaze traveled hungrily over the small group of mourners. A young man, a stripling really, caught her attention. Curious, she studied him intently between her sobs.

The lad's jaw was set, his body stiff, his eyes dry and yet clearly aggrieved. He bore a striking resemblance to another lanky individual of her acquaintance, one who'd made a habit of hiding his feelings. She knew those poignant sable eyes.

Jonathan's son was deceased. His headstone, glistening with rain, stood clearly visible beside the open grave. Exactly who was this young man?

Jon, felt her interest and returned her stare. Recognition flared briefly behind his haunted mask. A deep furrow creased the previously unmarred flesh between his eyebrows; he looked away.

Daniel clutched Sassy's hand tightly as a tear rolled unchecked down his cheek. Her motherly presence gave him comfort.

This was his worse nightmare realized. After so many near misses, he had finally lost his best friend. His straining ears would never hear another inane joke told with Jack's acerbic wit. Nor would he enjoy arguing with anyone just for the pure joy of it, ever again.

Wrapping his arm around Sassy more securely, Daniel wept.

Sam Carter, her eyes unnaturally dry, bit her lip until it bled. This man, this warrior, possessed of a boundless capacity to persevere, who gave all of himself expecting nothing in return, was gone.

She would never feel secure again. A chill ran up her rigid spine; she felt as if she were being hunted, watched, and stalked. Refusing to bow to a grief-induced sensation of dread; she concentrated on maintaining a strict military bearing.

As the echo of gunfire faded away, Jennifer Hailey, saluting along with the Honor Guard, relaxed her arm slowly.

Wearing the camouflage of military indifference, she moved to take Jon's hand, enclosing his icy fingers, hoping to instill warmth. "It's over." She whispered with despair.

This then, was the end. They'd said goodbye. Or, was this morbid affair some kind of macabre and surreal joke destiny played on those who trusted, needed and loved Jack O'Neill?

What kind of higher power would reward such a noble, self-effacing hero in this way; duplicated without his knowledge, forced to beg mercy, despite his uneasiness, for that very same unwelcome carbon copy. Then, in order to maintain his sanity, and to protect his younger 'self,' discard his clone - never to look back. And finally, confronted by a plot, which necessitated the retrieval of this source of discomfort, lose his life as a by-product? How strange and cruel the twisted hand of fate!

Jon welcomed the warmth of her small hand, drawing strength from her open acceptance. Hailey alone seemed to comprehend what Jack's death would cost him; he cursed the need to deceive her.

Outside the iron fence of the graveyard, behind a large hedge, a lone watcher stood huddled in the rain. There was nothing more for him to see here, it was time he moved on. Keeping the foliage between himself and the congregation beside the grave, he hurried to a gray Jeep parked beside the church and drove away.

***

Kris leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass, staring sightlessly outward, summoning the courage to do what she must. Dark clouds and icy rain heightened the gloomy mood of the day while she pondered the challenge before her.

Jack's condition, while stable, remained grave. Just as Jeff feared, his wound was infected.

Gunshot wounds are never pretty, but an infected wound, now that is something requiring a very strong stomach. Changing Jack's dressings shook her resolve.

While the jagged exit wound on his back looked clean, the smaller entry site displayed angry red streaks that wove their way outward from the neat stitches. Further, it appeared bruised and puffy with unreleased purulent matter.

The little sheltie, still keeping watch over her new charge, whined softly, her animated face worried.

Kris found the creature's sensitivity touching and her intellect astounding. "Go get Jeff girl."

Washing her hands, she returned to the window and directed a fervent prayer skyward asking for assistance from above. A shiver of dread ran through her. Losing this man was not an option; he meant too much to too many, including her.

A voice she knew all too well swelled inside her head... 'Suck it up Captain.' Smiling grimly, Kris obeyed.

Tearing open a suture removal set and iodoform swabs, she laid out a set of sterile gloves for Jeff and then donned another pair.

A determined Kris was cleaning the wound liberally with the antiseptic as Jeff, following his canine companion, joined her. Without a word, he washed his hands and applied both mask and gloves.

Finishing her preparation, Kris removed her soiled gloves, rewashed, masked and re-gloved.

Jeff assessed the wound quickly. Taking a set of small scissors, he cut several stitches, releasing a stream of yellow and bloody pus. Re-swabbing the area liberally, he then applied gentle pressure forcing more of the vile fluid to leave the confines of O'Neill's flesh; that done, the two medical experts redressed the wound.

Removing his gloves and mask, Jeff washed, pondering his next move. "This infection isn't responding to the medications we have on hand. He is going to need a stringent course of third generation antibiotics, Kris. I just don't stock anything like that here..."

Placing a staying hand on his arm, Kris agreed. "I'll make a call. I have to warn you, this may lead to our discovery."

Understanding the implication, Jeff grinned crookedly. Following their bizarre conversation with the man Teal'c, she laid the entire scenario out for him. "It's been awhile, but I'm pretty sure I can take out any unfriendly types should the need arise. I still have my sidearm and a hunting rifle or two somewhere around here. Make the call."

Visions of an old western movie filled her head. "Ho, there hombre, I doubt it'll come to a standoff." Kris quipped as she moved to the phone hanging near the door. "Least, I hope not." She muttered under her breath.

Checking the time, she noted it was 1230 hours. The mock funeral would still be in progress.

Punching in the numbers that would put her call through to Dr. Brightman's office, she glanced back at Jack with a worried frown.

A soft voice responded after the first ring. "CMO office, Captain Brightman here."

Captain Brightman, only recently posted to the SGC, remained a bit of a puzzle. Kris was unsure of either the gentle doctor's fortitude or her willingness to venture beyond regulations, even for a good cause.

Captain Kris Martin took a deep steadying breath, wishing Janet were still alive. "Dr. Brightman, Kris Martin here. I need your help."

***

Airman Stokes eyed the black sedan suspiciously. The fact that it conveyed the general's 'dear lady' here for the services mitigated his suspicions slightly, but until he got a visual on the driver, Stokes planned to scrutinize the car closely.

Thus, he paid little attention to preparations taking place at the very periphery of the old churchyard. After all, this was a burial ground.

Damien Wellington, dressed in rough coveralls, guided a backhoe easing it alongside an old and crumbing headstone. Manipulating the controls, he began the arduous process of digging a fresh grave.

His assistant, Charles Duff, maintained his guise of directing the process, all the while gazing through incredibly thick eyeglasses.

Damien congratulated himself once again on his genius. Old Charles actually had twenty-twenty vision. His 'spectacles' were, in reality, a pair of cleverly disguised binoculars. Charles, deaf since birth, possessed a unique talent. Lip reading came naturally to him, as did the art of ignoring the screams of those who had the misfortune to annoy his idol, Damien; it required only that he remove his hearing aids.

Satisfied that both he and his guide remained virtually ignored and undetected, Wellington shut off the heavy machine, jumping down beside Duff, tapping him lightly. "Well then Charles, have you learned anything of value?"

Pulling his cap low, Charles turned around. Removing his 'visual aid,' he read the question in his boss's expression. Duff's slack lips formed a feral grin exposing crooked and nicotine stained teeth. The light of insanity gleamed in his eyes. He nodded.

Wiping the rain and spatters of mud from his face, Wellington's thin lips formed a semblance of a smile. "Well then, my dear fellow let us adjourn to a more congenial spot for a hot toddy."

Malcolm Barrett lowered his opera glasses and handed them to his companion. "Take a look Drew; recognize either of those two over there next to the backhoe?"

When his boss pulled the tiny flat boxlike device from his inner breast pocket, Drew thought it was a cigarette case. Once the contraption was unfolded, he smiled ruefully, leave it to the boss to come prepared.

Placing the small lenses over his eyes, Drew peered through the smoky glass of the windshield and studied the pair.

Rain and mist warred with his vision. The smaller man, wearing thick eyeglasses, was a stranger. Spotted with mud, the face of his companion appeared distorted. "I'm not sure... "

The grimy man pulled a large red bandanna from his pocket and swiped at the dirt. "Wait a minute... oh my God. Boss, I think that is the Marquis!" Excited and afraid at once, Drew made to get out of the automobile.

Barrett stopped him with a firm hand. "Sit back, Drew!"

"But..." Drew questioned, releasing the door handle.

"Now we have a lead." Barrett told him coldly. He took note of the group of mourners leaving O'Neill's grave. "Hop out and see if Sassy will catch a ride with Jackson and tell the colonel I'd like a word."

"Why..." Drew began.

"Because, you've never been in the field before and, if this Marquis is as clever as we think, he may recognize me!" Barrett snapped. "Just be natural."

Swallowing, Ned slid the door opened and walked over to Sassy, still leaning heavily on Jackson's arm. "Mrs. O'Connor? Perhaps, you'd be more comfortable riding along with this fellow here?" He whispered, gently taking her hand. "I'll come along later if you like and collect you."

Thinking the young man was her driver Daniel quickly acquiesced. Sassy's presence was welcome. "That is a good idea Sass; we are getting together over at Jack's house for a final goodbye."

Sassy's red-rimmed eyes looked up into Drew's earnest face. What was he trying to tell her? Under the pretext of hugging Ned, she whispered. "I don't know exactly what you and Malcolm are up too, but I'll comply." Patting his shoulder, she pushed back. "I'll call the number on the card when I'm ready to return to the hotel then."

Bowing his head slightly, Ned agreed. "Yes Ma'am."

As Daniel and Sassy moved off, Ned angled his stride alongside that of the colonel. "Colonel Carter." He rasped softly. "Agent Barrett would like a word."

Preoccupied with controlling her grief, Sam at first ignored the driver, until he hissed her name. Raising a brow, she nodded slightly and moved to inform Teal'c. "Teal'c, I've arranged alternate transport. I'll meet you at the general's in a few minutes."

Teal'c followed her gaze to the dark rental car and took note of the license plate. The window opened slightly and a familiar pair of hazel eyes stared back. "I shall await you at O'Neill's." Teal'c intoned quietly.

Sam followed the unknown driver calmly and slid into the rear of the sedan, piercing Barrett with an intense frown. "I take it either you've uncovered something or you've missed me, Agent Barrett."

Barrett returned the frown, ah sarcasm, an O'Neill legacy. Shifting over behind the wheel he motioned for Ned to get in the backseat with the colonel. "Ned here will explain everything while I drive."

Pulling slowly out of the cemetery, Barrett edged his dark vehicle discreetly behind a few lush bushes. Within seconds, the dilapidated truck carrying the Marquis and his minion came into view. Hanging back, he began a surreptitious pursuit.

***

Captain Brightman slipped a dozen small intravenous bags filled with antibiotic solution into the large pockets of her raincoat.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath. Then, made her way causally to the elevator, and hit the button for the mouth of the mountain where the sentry post awaited.

Following O'Neill's death Major Kearney tightened security. She hoped her bulging pockets wouldn't alert the guard.

Airman Jefferson greeted the staid doctor as she hurried from the final elevator. While the captain seemed competent enough, Ben missed the fiery Dr. Fraiser. Handing her a clipboard, he requested she sign out. Something nagged at him about the usually composed Captain's body language. "Are you okay, Doc?"

Keeping her eyes on the clipboard in her hand, Brightman tried intimidation. "I was going over your files earlier Jefferson. It would appear you are due for quite a few vaccinations."

Slapping the board into his hands with an unconcerned smile, she continued, "Come see me at, oh say, 0900 Monday and we'll make sure you're properly covered."

Stifling a groan, Jefferson saluted, snapping to attention. "Ma'am, yes Ma'am.!"

Brightman left quickly before the airman regained his composure.

Pulling his gray Jeep into the visitor parking lot, he caught sight of Dr. Brightman's hasty departure. The slender woman's raincoat pockets seemed unnaturally full. He watched her awkwardly climb into a silver Ford coup, head out of the parking lot and off the base. Curious, he followed.

***

Kris remained a bit stunned. It took less persuasion than she would have thought to coax Dr. Brightman into agreeing to remove a dozen doses of very expensive antibiotics from the base without proper clearance and meet her with the contraband.

Oh, Brightman objected stringently at first. Kris hated to lie, but lie she had, all the while knowing that she might very well be throwing her career away. Jack's life was worth whatever it took.

Jeff offered Kris the keys to his motorcycle and a shiny red helmet, shaking his head ruefully. "That, was one huge whopper you told that lady doctor. Bankrupt clinic, orphans in need... Remind me to enlist your help for the next charity auction, will ya?"

"Oh, shut up and give me those keys." Kris nudged him over with her elbow, straddling the bike's saddle.

"Watch yourself." Jeff told her worried. "And do me a favor; try to stick to the speed limit."

Making a face, Kris stuck out her tongue. "Don't suck the joy of it out for me." Sobering, she tried the helmet on for size and continued, "Leave the driving to me. You take good care of our patient."

Jeff gave her a short salute. "Roger that, oh and Kris, be careful."

Kris rolled her eyes, glanced at her watch, cranked the engine and then sped off, spaying gravel behind her.

Peering through the gloom of the waning afternoon, Elizabeth Brightman recited the directions Kris had given her. The sign over the less than agreeable establishment read: The Blue Harbor. 'Surely, this seedy bar wasn't the right place?' Locating the address, posted beneath filthy neon lights, she pulled her coup under a streetlamp.

Wary, she slipped her side arm into her hip pocket. It never hurt to be prepared.

Gravel crunched loudly beneath her heels as she made her way hesitantly inside the rough building. Smoke and the stench of stale beer assailed her sensitive nostrils. The interior was as at least as dismal as the exterior. 'Why would Kris request a meeting here?'

Sitting at the bar, she scanned the faces reflected in the mirror behind a rather sexy, but dangerous looking bartender, mostly male, except for one lone female, whose hair obscured her features.

The barkeep leaned on his elbows and stared into her eyes with a roguish grin. "What'll it be gorgeous?"

Looking up at him through her lashes, Liz offered him a brief smile. "Whiskey, neat."

Raising a brow, the barman pursed his lips. Nodding, he placed her order on the bar. "Anything else..."

"Back off, she's with me." A husky, yet, very feminine voice barked. Kris swaggered over and sat next to Brightman, throwing an arm over the other woman's shoulder. Leaning over she whispered, "Play along Doc, this is a rough crowd."

Catching on quickly, Liz rested her head against Kris's shoulder. "Is there somewhere we could be less conspicuous?"

"I've got a table in the corner doll." Kris paid for Brightman's drink and then led her over to the table indicated. "Sorry about this, I wasn't aware of this place's reputation."

Relived, Liz hung her raincoat over a chair and took a gulp from her glass. Coughing slightly, she caught her breath and hissed. "Orphans huh? Suppose you tell me what is really going on here, Captain Martin?"

Shaking her head regretfully, Kris tried deflection. "It's a need to know operation Captain. I would tell you everything if I could. Just be assured, you will be very glad you stuck your neck out this way."

"Not you too?" Liz muttered. She'd known her posting to the SGC required her to walk in the shadowy world of secrecy, but she never guessed the long fingers of intrigue would draw her in so deep.

Studying Kris critically for a long minute, she came to a decision. "Okay, for now I trust you. I've got to get back to the SGC."

Tossing the remainder of her whiskey back, Liz Brightman wiped her mouth delicately on a napkin and then left, leaving her medication-laden topcoat behind.

Staying in character, Kris watched her backside as she sashayed out the door. Then finishing her beer, she scooped up the coat and left by the rear door.

The watcher waited a moment and then followed; he slid behind the wheel of his Jeep. Smiling grimly, he kept an inconspicuous distance and followed the red motorcycle up the road and into the backcountry.

On to Chapter Seven