The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay

Chapter Ten: Man in the Shadows

Kris Martin snapped her mobile phone shut; her green eyes apprehensive. "I've been ordered to report to the base." Glancing at Jack's still form surrounded by monitors and intravenous tubing, she lowered her voice. "The general's nephew, Jon O'Neill, has been shot. He's in critical condition..."

"What the...?" Jeff Prost finished assessing his patient's condition.

Mindful that the man lying unconscious in the bed was still capable of overhearing, the empathetic doctor stepped away from the bed and lowered his voice; his handsome face registering confusion. "I thought Jon was just a kid?"

Kris swallowed the lump in her throat. If Jon died, Jack would blame himself. Never mind that he was incapacitated at the time. The fact that the younger O'Neill tried to take his place in this whole mess would be enough. She'd seen the protective side of the general on more than one occasion and although he hid his true feelings behind a tough cynical facade, she knew he died a little each time one of his 'kids' did. How much more grief would the death of his young clone cost him?

"The entire medical staff has been recalled." Kris ran a regretful hand over Jack's moist forehead, gently ruffling his short hair. "I'm sorry to dump all this on you Jeff, but I have to go. If I don't show..."

"No worries. I've got your six. The general is safe here with little Mischief and me." Jeff understood. If she didn't report immediately, her career was definitely over, but more than that, a security team might investigate her whereabouts and their secret would be discovered. "What about our uninvited guest?"

"Crap, I forgot about him." Running exasperated hands over her face, Kris resisted the urge to scream. "Once I am able, I'll scan the base computer. If he is Air Force, then he'll have a file."

"All right then, I'll keep our guest 'occupied' until I hear from you." Jeff nodded, returning his attention to his patient. "As for our 'mystery man' here, his condition has improved. His temperature is down to 101 and I'm pretty confident he'll regain consciousness soon."

"Well, that at least is good news." Leaning down, Kris released a soft sigh of relief and bussed Jack's stubble-roughened cheek. "Listen to me Jack O'Neill, I think it's time you got your lazy butt up and out of that bed. Do you hear me?"

Somewhere in the fog, Jack heard, he heard it all. And despite his own debilitated condition, his ever-determined subconscious mind began a desperate quest.

***

Jeff Prost watched the van carrying Kris move away and mumbled an expletive. Secure in the knowledge that the general's physical condition was no longer life threatening, the weary physician headed back to the room where they'd tied their unwelcome intruder securely to a chair; wondering for the hundredth time exactly how it was he'd gotten mixed up in this insanity.

Entering the small treatment room, Prost looked his 'guest' over speculatively. Was he a double agent or just an innocent snoop? Moving to a cabinet, Jeff prepared a large dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics. Pushing resolutely against the syringe's plunger, he forced a small amount of viscous liquid toooze forth from the long silver needle.

The bound man eyed him suspiciously, lips twisted in a smirk, his jaw clenched in defiance.

Jeff shook his head ruefully. The prisoner's expression reminded him of Bruce Willis in the film Die Hard. "So tough guy, think you can handle a shot in the butt?"

***

Kris eased the Chevy van through the security gates, parked it in its usual place and hustled toward the front entrance.

A waiting SF fell into step beside her as she moved inside the complex and signed in. "Good to see you Captain Martin."

"Any word, Everett?" Kris acknowledged him with a nod.

Ushering her to the waiting elevator, the tall airman shook his head. "No ma'am, nothing on the kid." Stepping inside, Everett filled her in briefly. "Dr. Brightman asked me to personally escort you to the infirmary, Captain. They are bringing Dr. Jackson in by chopper."

Kris leaned wearily against the elevator's rear wall. "By helicopter, why is that?"

Everett kept his eyes on the control panel, his tone carefully bland.

"He's been shot ma'am. Apparently, there was an incident at the general's home. The local paramedics wanted to take Jackson to the civilian facility, but the sheriff called Colonel Carter and she arranged for him to be transported here."

"And the colonel?" Kris asked dreading the response. When one of her team was down, Colonel Carter's cheery side took a powder and her hard-nosed military persona took over.

"En-route, along with an Agent Barrett, NID." Everett stepped aside allowing the captain to exit the conveyance first. Noting the captain's pallor he became concerned. "Are you okay ma'am?"

"Peachy." Kris countered. "Yep, I'm just peachy."

***

Inside the SGC operating room, Dr. Kyle 'Kit' Carson ran an ultrasound probe carefully wrapped in a sterile glove over Jon's betadine stained chest, attempting to get an echoed visual of his battered heart muscle.

Meanwhile, Dr. Elizabeth Brightman needle aspirated Jon's collapsed left lung. Once the excess air was removed, the pneumothorax began to shrink and his breath sounds improved markedly.

Taking a deep breath, she whispered a silent prayer and probed the kid's shoulder wound looking for his leaking subclavian artery.

Locating the damaged vessel, Brightman use a small vascular clamp to temporarily seal off the bleeding. "Okay Carson, that's got it, we don't have much time..."

They needed to crack the young man's chest in order to get inside for a proper look-see, but that would have to wait while Carson relieved the pressure around his heart muscle.

Ignoring his colleague, Carson held out his gloved right hand. The circulating nurse slapped a long intra-cardiac needle attached to a large syringe against his waiting palm.

Without a word, the confident physician plunged the twelve-inch needle into Jon's tender flesh, just left of his sternum. Keeping his eyes on the ultrasound screen, he eased the needle into the sac surrounding Jon's heart and gently pulled back on the hypodermic's plunger; dark red blood filled the 60cc cylinder.

As the device greedily sucked up its load, the stranglehold of pressure caused by the blood trapped within the membrane surrounding his heart muscle eased, and Jon's condition improved rapidly.

"Thank God." Brightman muttered. Using a gloved hand, she lightly probed Jon's left wrist.

Noting that the outline of Jon's heart appeared normal, Carson removed the needle. "How's his left radial pulse?"

Peering over her mask Brightman responded resolutely. "Weak, we need to get in there fast, Kyle."

Grasping a scalpel, Carson prepared to slice through the center of Jon's chest wall. "Okay, people nice and easy."

***

Jack traveled the convoluted pathways of his mind and found the place he was seeking. Drawing his essence deeper into the maze of ancient knowledge and experiences hidden within, he used the power lying dormant there to reach outward.

Mischief, still at her post beside the general, raised her head and whimpered softly.

Jack's body began to glow, like a firefly in the shadows. His spirit floated out and beyond. Drifting over the miles, he finally located Jon.

Summoning Jon's life-force, Jack merged with his clone.

The body of Jack O'Neill rose upward, hovering above his sickbed and it's collection of monitors, stretching the intravenous lines attached to his forearms taut. His inner light enfolded him and increased in intensity.

Mischief, jumped down from the bed barking in alarm. Backing away from the brightness, she turned and ran to find her master.

Jack's spirit embraced that of his double, forcing his compliance.

Emerging from his place of sanctuary, Jon's essence sensed the wisdom in Jack's spiritual entity and acquiesced. Delving deeply into the veiled recesses of his separate self, Jon found a similar power - and the two became one.

Jon O'Neill's draped body was suddenly surrounded by a powerful pulsating white radiance, forcing the medical team to step back shielding their eyes.

Engulfed, Jon's body floated upward, rising toward the ceiling, ripping the intravenous tubing and monitor leads from his flesh. The endotracheal tubing in his throat disconnected from the respirator setting off its alarms and the drapes around his nude body fell away. The small silver clamp, which had stopped the bleeding in his damaged shoulder, clattered loudly as it hit the floor.

As the brilliance increased in intensity, illuminating the entire room, Jon's body seemed to disappear.

Behind the observation room safety glass, Major Davis stood beside a transfixed Sergeant Walter Davis. "Holy mother... It looks like he transformed into a ball of lightening!"

Shaking off his stupor, Walter ventured a guess. "Or an Ascended Ancient...?"

Suddenly, the dazzling glow faded. It was several minutes before the assaulted eyes of the medical team and the two observers were able to focus. Finally, the black spots of residual glare faded revealing the nude body of Jon O'Neill lying once more in silent repose on the operating table.

Dr. Carson recovered first and rushed to his patient's side, reconnecting the endotracheal tubing. Scanning the young man's naked torso, he realized that the wound in Jon's shoulder no longer existed. Stunned, Kyle ran the ultrasound probe over Jon's sealed flesh unable to locate the bullet that had so recently done so much damaged. "Every one of his organs appears normal... there is absolutely no sign of injury."

Elizabeth Brightman ran a critical eye over the sedated youth and reapplied the pulse-oxygen monitor. "Vital signs are stable and he is saturating at 100 ."

Overwhelmed, Corpsman Dimato genuflected, hands moving fluidly to form the four corners of the cross, his downcast eyes fixed on the discarded vascular clamp. Frank's round eyes dilated with wonder as his finger seemed to move of their own volition to scoop up a misshapen lump of metal. Rising, he opened his gloved palm and displayed the missing bullet still covered in Jon's blood.

Speechless, Carson stared into the equally amazed face of Dr. Brightman.

Elizabeth slowly took in the rest of the dumbfounded medical team. "Well folks, I don't have a clue what just happened here, but my brother the priest would say we've just witnessed a miracle."

***

Following his little dog's lead an anxious Jeff Prost burst into his patient's room and found the general's deep-set brown eyes boring into him.

"At the risk of uttering a cliche... where am I?" Attempting to rise, Jack managed to lift his shoulders about eight inches from the sheets and then fell limply back against the bedding.

The unknown man moved to offer assistance, but Jack stayed him with a growl. "Stay right where you are. Don't let this naked and helpless act fool you, I'm far from harmless."

Hearing the deadly earnest in the general's tone, Jeff backed up a space and waited silently.

Summoning his last vestige of strength, Jack O'Neill's mind commanded his feeble body to sit up and swing his trembling legs over the side of the bed. 'Crap, I'm as weak as a newborn! Yeah right, a newborn rattler!'

Understanding O'Neill's need to gather his dignity, Jeff resisted the urge to assist him.

Adjusting the thin sheet over his pride, the ever-tenacious O'Neill affected a sneer and added dryly, "Yep, I've been known to snap a man's neck in my sleep."

Mischief let out a happy bark and jumped up beside her charge. Jack allowed the small bundle of fur to lave him enthusiastically with her wet tongue. Recalling the little animal's comforting presence during his struggle in the midst of torment and pain, he found himself suddenly overcome with bittersweet joy. Sensing his acceptance, the mini-collie snuggled closer, bringing a smile to his parched lips.

Jeff noted the effect his sheltie had on the obviously confused, yet defiant general and spoke up. "No need to kill me just yet, General O'Neill. You're quite safe here with my dog Mischief and me. I am Dr. Jeff Prost and you are a patient in my clinic."

Jack looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings and then back at the man claiming to be a physician. "How... ?"

Jeff crossed his arms and cocked his head toward the thick dressings scattered over O'Neill's arms and left side.

"Well, I'm a bit sketchy on a few of the particulars." He began carefully.

"But..." Jack's long elegant hand motioned for him to get on with it.

Clearly the general had little tolerance for long dissertations. Jeff got to the point. "Suffice it to say, someone posing as your driver shanghaied you. Evidently, you resisted and were shot, then took a nasty fall down a mountainside."

That, at least, explained his thundering headache. "Okay... and I ended up here why?" Jack's thick gray brows rose in consternation.

"Well, as I understand it, your nephew and someone called Teal'c found you and ah..." Exactly how did one tell a general that he'd been found in critical condition, stuffed into a body-bag, declared dead, hidden inside a van/ambulance and hustled to a backwoods clinic by a lone woman hoping to save him from a band of unknown evil-doers?

Prost's hesitation didn't bode well. Jack ran an exasperated hand over his aching forehead and moaned audibly. "Apparently, someone thought I'd be safer here than back at the base infirmary, right?"

"Well, it's a tad more complicated..." Jeff began sheepishly.

"It always is, Doctor... Prost is it?" Jack asked his voice suffused with irony. "Look Doc, I'm a big boy, what's say you just start from the beginning and spill it?"

Jeff tucked his fists into his jeans and rocked back on his heals thoughtfully. Kris's description of O'Neill's flair for sarcasm had been right on.

"How's about I check you over while we talk?" Jeff approached his patient cautiously. Kris warned him emphatically that the general could be a tad unpredictable and he wasn't sure he'd earned his trust quite yet.

Inhaling deeply, Jack eyed the good doctor for a moment. Then nodded gingerly and grimaced. "Crap, feels like some joker used my head for batting practice."

"Oh, that's most likely due to the skull fracture." Jeff held up two fingers and then moved them slowly back and forth in front of the general's eyes. "How many do you see?"

"Two." Jack snapped. Reaching out, he snatched the man's penlight before he could shine it into his sensitive eyes. "Stop that, you're making me dizzy."

"Sorry." Prost's face reddened slightly. Changing tactics, he placed his stethoscope against Jack's chest and listened intently.

Impatient, Jack removed the cold bell of the device from his naked flesh and spoke into it loudly. "You were saying?"

Squelching a smirk, Jeff tossed his stethoscope on the bedside table and checked the general's forearms. Thanks to Kris's warning regarding the injured O'Neill's tendency to become combative in unknown surroundings, he'd applied extra tape and dressings to both intravenous insertion sites. "Well, as I said General O'Neill, you were shot. The bullet thankfully passed right on through the soft tissue missing your vital organs. However, they didn't find you for quite some time and you lost a good deal of blood."

Satisfied that both IV lines were intact, he continued with his explanation, "And unfortunately, due to pieces of cloth and the muck they found you lying in, that wound became grossly infected. It took a massive dose of antibiotics and no small amount of luck, but it looks like we managed to pull you through successfully."

Jeff removed the thick blood stained dressing covering the general's left side, only to find an uneven pale red scar. His carefully inserted sutures protruded from the angry flesh like frayed threads in a tapestry.

"That's strange." Arching a curious brow, he gently removed the corresponding dressing on O'Neill's back, and gasped.

A similar fresh formation of scar tissue had somehow miraculously formed overnight, replacing the large and gaping exit wound, which had robbed his abused tissue of so much blood. Something more than luck, good medicine and skill, had healed his patient.

Flabbergasted, Jeff began to remove several other smaller dressings covering various portions of the general's anatomy.

In each case, the lacerations and cuts appeared several weeks old.

Jack ran a questing palm over the raised and slightly sensitive pink and puckered flesh just below his ribs. A vague memory tickled his mind. "Just how long have I been out of it?"

"A little overt thirty-six hours, general." Jeff struggled to keep his astonishment from coloring his voice; this was surreal!

The observant physician caught the fleeting signs of understanding in the general's expression. O'Neill didn't seem at all surprised by the unusually rapid regeneration of his tattered flesh. "If you feel up to it, I'd like to get another set of x-rays. And then, I suppose we should remove all these unneeded sutures."

Uncomfortable with the dawning revelation flooding his mind and the deceptively calm timbre of the young doctor's tone, Jack calmly patted the sheltie still resting against his side and encouraged Prost to continue his saga. "You still haven't told me how I came to be here in your care."

Darting out into the hall briefly, Jeff returned with a wheelchair. "My x-ray machine is just next door."

Ignoring his patient's groan of protest, he helped the still weakened O'Neill ease into the low seat of the chair.

Panting slightly, Jack's long fingered hand reached down and engaged the wheelchair's brake.

"I'm not budging until I get a full explanation." He barked irritably.

Seated alongside his chair, Mischief cocked one ear, tilted her delicate head inquiringly and whined.

"Kris Martin is an old friend of mine." Jeff squatted down beside the little canine offering her a reassuring pat.

Adjusting the sheet over O'Neill's trembling legs, he busied himself with hanging the general's IV fluids on the pole attached to the chair. "We served together in the gulf. As I said, you were in pretty bad shape. In order to protect you, she had to act fast."

"Why?" Jack interjected quietly.

Rising, Jeff considered the blunt question. Pulling up a chair, he crossed his arms and leaned back. "That was my first question."

Jack raised one brow. "So?"

The physician's face clouded briefly. "Your nephew and the man Teal'c informed everyone that you were dead. They hid you inside a body-bag and spirited you to a waiting Kris, who loaded you inside an unmarked Chevy van and then hustled you here for emergency treatment."

Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, Jeff's fingers entwined, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands together. "It's been an eventful weekend."

"So, I'm dead?" Jack parroted softly his face devoid of emotion.

Jeff pressed his lips together and nodded. "Um, yes, and buried, as of this morning."

Running an absent hand over the little dog's soft head, Jack digested that tidbit for a moment.

The pieces fit. If someone wanted to perpetuate the idea of his demise, a funeral would be the icing on the cake. "Go on."

"Kris, ah, Captain Martin was recalled to the base for an emergency about an hour ago. She left you in my charge." Jeff's eyes avoided the general's stare, his tongue darted nervously over his lower lip.

"And?" Jack knew the doctor was holding something back. A vague memory tickled him once more.

"We ah, well... there is this man, supposedly an Air Force colonel, tied up down the hall." Jeff hedged.

"Ah!" Jack's wry grin caught the uncomfortable physician off-guard. "An Air Force officer you say? Yes... tying the 'supposed colonel' up would be my first choice too."

"We caught him sneaking in earlier and well, we had no way of knowing if he was one of the ones responsible for your predicament!" Jeff rushed on defensively. "And, we were concerned about keeping you a secret."

"Of course you were." Waving his hand dismissively, Jack coughed lightly. "What is this hypothetical officer's name?"

Fishing in his pocket, Jeff found the man's wallet and held it out for O'Neill.

Jack set the leather billfold in his lap and flipped through the identity cards nestled within. Looking up, he assumed his command voice. "Take me to him, airman."

Startled, Jeff jumped to his feet assuming a military stance. "How did... ?"

Excited by her master's manner, Mischief spun in a circle barking enthusiastically.

Stifling a grin, Jack released the wheelchair's brakes. "Prost, I've been a senior officer for over twenty years, I can peg one of my own a mile off. Now hustle."

Shushing the little pup, he started to propel himself forward. "I want to interrogate your prisoner."

"I have to warn you general, Mischief attacked him and well, she did a bit of damage." Jeff grasped the handles of the wheelchair and guided it through the door and into the hall. "She's quite a watchdog." He added proudly.

"I can see that Doc." Covering his mouth to hide his amusement, Jack admired the sheltie as she pranced beside his chair. "Good girl, Mischief."

***

Searching for tranquility, a woozy Jennifer Hailey fought the cold, silent darkness. Bound as she was it was difficult not to give in to the rising panic that threatened to sap her of her sanity. How long had it been? Was Daniel alive or dead? What about Sassy?

Cursing herself for a fool, she struggled against the tight bonds securing her small wrists behind her back. Her stiff knees and ankles were trussed up as well, making finding a comfortable position here on the icy dank floor impossible. Distorted visions of Jon's face at the graveside flooded her mind, giving in, she collapsed.

***

Malcolm Barrett sat back and calmly watched an impatient Sam Carter pace the hall just beyond the infirmary. "Sam you're wearing a hole in the floor. Relax will you? Jackson is gonna be fine. And, according to that arrogant surgeon Carson, once the anesthesia wears off the kid is going to recover completely."

"Yeah, weird isn't it?" Ned Drew tilted his chair back allowing it to rest against the wall. "I mean, I don't mean to sound insensitive, but I thought the kid was a goner."

Feeling off-balance, Sam ignored the pair. When Sheriff Dalton reached her by phone, she'd insisted on proceeding immediately to O'Neill's home.

En-route she'd contacted the SGC and ordered a medical flight crew to meet them there by chopper.

***

Crouching over Daniel's battered and unconscious form, Sam was deeply affected. Attempting to regain her composure, she fell back on her ingrained military guise of indifference.

Casting a glance upward into the somber and watchful face of Andy Dalton, she demanded details. "Have you or your men discovered anything of value, Sheriff?"

Dalton rubbed the back of his neck, affecting an aw-shucks stance, annoyed by her uncompromising tone. "Well, ma'am..."

Sassy wasn't fooled by Samantha's coldness. Enfolding the younger woman's chilly hand within her own warm and comforting grasp, she interrupted Dalton. "Samantha, Daniel wasn't able to tell us much... he passed out soon after Sheriff Dalton arrived."

Sassy's sympathetic tone threatened to shatter Colonel Carter's fragile façade. "But, he did tell you something didn't he?" Releasing the older woman's hand, Sam abruptly stood.

Dismissing the civilian paramedics, she directed the newly arrived flight team to evacuate Daniel STAT.

Once Jackson and the flight medics were away, she refocused her concentration on Dalton and Sassy's recollection of events. "I need to know Daniel's exact words."

Taking his cue from Mrs. O'Connor's encouraging smile, Dalton was concise. "My men, responding to a 911 call, found the lady here hovering over a wounded Jackson. Noting that Mrs. O'Connor had a handle on first aid they checked the house and the perimeter..."

"And?" Sam interrupted.

"There was no sign of an intruder or the missing woman." Dalton continued, "I arrived shortly after and Jackson requested I phone you. He said this Hailey had been abducted by three men. One of whom he recognized from the base."

"Did he give you a name?" Sam pressed.

"I don't think he knew the man's name." Andy shook his head thoughtfully. "He really wasn't up to much of a discussion. Once he passed out I nosed around some."

Scanning the man's face, Sam tilted her chin upward with a small smile. "You found something."

"I found signs of a struggle out here on the deck... that got me thinking. Why out here?" Returning her smile, Dalton reached for the plastic bag nestled safely in his fishing vest. "And when one of the paramedics injected Jackson with a hypodermic, I gave into a hunch. I found this in the bushes just beneath the deck."

Inside the evidence bag, lay a small syringe, a broken needle protruding from its end. "I figure they drugged the girl when she came out here for some air. My guess is she put up a fight. Jackson came to her rescue and after they shot him... well, he's not superman."

"You'd be surprised." Sam whispered. The once bookish Daniel Jackson she knew and loved had come a long way in the past eight years.

"He said they wanted to make a trade." Sassy said softly. She was weary. Despite her feisty disposition and razor sharp intellect, the events of the past several days were taking their toll.

"Jackson mumbled something about a plot." Dalton concurred. "He said someone called the Marquis kidnapped Hailey in order to exchange her for Jack's nephew."

His shrewd eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Mrs. O'Connor told me this Jon is a teenager. Why would they want a kid?"

"Dad!" Travis Dalton's adolescent squeak heralded his breathless arrival. "Hey, did you see that chopper?"

Chasing after him, Ned Drew grabbed the youngster and gently restrained him.

"Does he look like a threat to you special agent?" Exasperated, Dalton moved to intercept his son. "Travis, I told you..."

"I got tired of waiting." Shrugging the man's hands from his shoulders, Travis scuffed a shoe against a deck stair.

Dalton hid a smile of indulgence. Throwing an apology over his shoulder, he hustled the lad back to his truck. "Excuse me a moment."

"Samantha," Sassy plucked at Sam's sleeve to gain her attention. "I'd like to be there for Danny, but someone needs to stay here in case the kidnappers call."

"Agent Barrett is arranging for a crack team of negotiators." Ned told her gently.

"You are coming with me to the mountain. It's not safe here for you. I've no way of knowing what this so-called Marquis' plan is." Sam tucked the evidence bag inside her uniform pocket. "And, the temporary base commander will want to debrief you."

Striding up the walkway, Malcolm Barrett overheard. "Drew, why don't you assist Mrs. O'Connor in gathering her things. Then escort her to the sedan."

As the pair moved inside the house, Malcolm waylaid the returning sheriff and filled him in. Promising his department's full cooperation, Dalton agreed to Barrett's plan.

Mrs. O'Connor insisted on hugging Andy before she'd allow the young special agent to bundle her into the dark sedan. During the interminable drive to Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Ned did his best to distract her from her worry over Jackson and Hailey.

Once inside the base, he insisted on escorting Sassy to the visitor's quarters. His soothing words and promise to keep her informed seemed to allay the lady's immediate concerns.

An ex-military wife, Sassy understood the phrase 'need to know' and agreed to remain safely ensconced in her temporary quarters.

Major Davis and his new sidekick, Walter, met the colonel and Barrett as they exited the elevator just outside the infirmary.

Handing off the hypodermic, still encased in plastic, to Sergeant Davis, Carter efficiently briefed the unusually quiet and preoccupied major.

"I need to interface with the Pentagon. I'll check in later after Dr. Brightman has finished treating Dr. Jackson." Paul Davis, still shaken by the amazing events in the operating theater, needed some time to gather his thoughts and regroup. "Sergeant, I trust you'll see that the contents of the syringe the colonel brought us are analyzed immediately."

"Yes, sir." Walter responded promptly. Nodding to the colonel, he retreated to the lab.

"Well then if you'll excuse me." Major Davis turned to leave and hesitated. "I've asked the doctor to apprise you both of Jackson's condition as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Major." Sam replied softly. As he moved away, a visibly smoldering and barely restrained Teal'c, trailed closely by Ned Drew, joined them.

Moving to Sam's side Teal'c placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I have been informed that Jon O'Neill's condition has improved remarkably."

Weighed down by her grief and apprehension, Sam bit back an angry retort. Now was not the time for reprisals. However, once Jon fully recovered, she planned to take both the venerable Jaffa and the errant clone to task; relying on Daniel to add a thing or two, employing his gift for diplomacy to take the bite out of her reprimand.

Moments later, a harried Dr. Brightman and a self-possessed Dr. Carson, heeding the major's request, spared the group a quick word.

"Kris Martin is prepping Dr. Jackson for the OR." Brightman lightly squeezed Sam's forearm. "He's lost a good deal of blood, but thankfully the bullet went through the meaty portion of his thigh."

"Well that's good news." Malcolm spoke up. "How's the kid?"

"And, you would be?" Kyle Carson gave the unknown man an arrogant perusal.

"Barrett, Special Agent, NID." Unruffled, Malcolm returned Carson's stare.

"The boy will be fine." Carson replied brusquely, Barrett's self-possessed attitude kindled his grudging respect. However, he wasn't about to share the unusual 'incident' in the OR with a stranger.

"He's recovering from the effect of the anesthesia." Elizabeth added informatively.

Sam had the uncomfortable feeling the two were hiding something. "I'd like to sit by him..."

"No, I'm afraid he's not up to company just yet." Brightman responded sharply, shaking her head.

Carson made a show of checking his watch. "Now if you'll excuse us we need to return to the operating room."

With that the two physicians strode off.

"I too must take my leave." Digesting the news that his charge and his friend were out of immediate danger, Teal'c reluctantly hastened off to the brig, leaving the colonel behind to stew; relishing the imminent interrogation of the airman who'd killed Clare Wellington and critically injured young Jon O'Neill.

***

"Why did they take Hailey and leave Daniel behind?" Sam stopped pacing, fixing her troubled eyes on Barrett.

Malcolm thought the question over. "Simple, she's an attractive young woman."

Frustrated, Sam snorted. "You've lost me."

Malcolm cocked his head and looked up into her gorgeous blue eyes. Taking her arm, he stood up and gently pushed her into his chair. "Now, I know you are exhausted."

Ned picked up his boss's thread. "Sure, the rat likes to use women. Case in point, he used Clare to get to Jon... so..."

"Oh yes, that was so very successful." Sam interjected jadedly.

"Think about it Sam." Malcolm coaxed. "We know that Wellington was a close observer at the funeral."

Sam shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "All right, but..."

"Even I could see that Jon and Hailey were close." Malcolm continued. "I mean, she took his hand and hovered over him..."

"You've got a point." Sam agreed.

What was wrong with her? She was usually the first to see the obvious. "I'm just amazed they got to the lieutenant so easily. Don't let her stature fool you, she's tough and capable. The general took particular pride in training her."

"I'm sure she's a paragon." Malcolm conceded easily. "However, this Wellington is no ordinary threat. Remember, he took out the legendary General Jack O'Neill."

'That's something I'll never forget.' Sam thought despondently. "Still, I'm anxious to hear what Daniel has to say about it."

"Well, that lady doctor made it very clear we'd have to wait a while." Ned groused. "Man oh man, she's bossy. The woman's a regular dictator!"

'Napoleonic power monger!' Jack O'Neill's voice seemed to ring eerily in the distance.

Sam turned her head sharply. Holy Hannah, she was losing it. "Look, I think you're right."

"I am?" Ned squeaked. Jeez, he'd been trying to make her smile.

Sam patted Ned's arm reassuringly. Smiling wryly, she stood up, focusing blearily on Barrett. "About me, I mean. I am exhausted. I'm going to check in on Sassy in the V.I.P. quarters and then grab a quick nap. Let me know if anything..."

Malcolm nodded. "Ned and I will stay right here just in case... "

"Thanks." Casting a wistful glance toward the infirmary door, she turned and moved away, desperately missing Janet - and a certain irreverent Irishman.

"Ah, sir?" Ned whispered tentatively.

"Hmm?" Malcolm watched Sam's delectable bottom sway gently up the hall.

"Do you suppose the general and the colonel...?" Ned hesitated. "That is, I know it's technically against regulations, but could they have been more than... well, friends?"

"You've gotten to know the colonel a bit today Ned. What do you think?" Malcolm countered mildly.

"I think if they were just friends, then O'Neill must have been blind or..." He'd been about to say dead, but somehow it seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. "Or something."

Malcolm, his eyes still glued on Sam, merely smiled; giving Ned the distinct impression that as usual, his boss knew more than he was willing to share.

***

The enormous Jaffa sat rigidly in the small folding chair, his exotic face emotionless. Kearney would later liken his stance to that of a panther ready to pounce on his prey. Standing off to one side, the major kept his own counsel. Given the circumstances, this interrogation belonged entirely to the man from another world. Besides, the ordinarily level-headed security chief wasn't sure that he'd interfere even if Teal'c completely lost it and crushed the little bastard's skull between his meaty bare hands.

Trent Stokes did his best to appear impassive as a trickle of telltale sweat zigzagged slowly down the center of his muddy forehead and ran into his eyes. Staring blankly back at his tormentor wasn't easy, but then Stokes was one of the best. At least, his superiors thought so. Frankly, Trent was having his doubts right about now. At this point, his mission could only be described as FUBAR.

Glancing at the stoic major leaning casually in the corner, the errant Stokes wondered if he should come clean. It was doubtful Kearney would allow the alien to truly harm him - the man was a bit of a boy scout. Still, Stokes had his doubts. Straightening his shoulders, he found a spot on the wall above the Jaffa's dark head and fixed his attention on it.

Canny as ever, Teal'c recognized Stokes moment of doubt. "Perhaps you would excuse us, Major Kearney." He rumbled ominously.

Offering the object of the Jaffa's wrath a look of abject pity, Kearney nodded and left the room. Allowing the cell door to clang loudly closed, he noisily locked it behind him.

"Now we are alone." Teal'c allowed his rusty baritone to convey his malice. Leaning forward, his massive body seemed to quiver with glee. He smiled coldly. "In this time and place you have entered my world, Shol'va. Here we play be my rules."

Despite his best effort to appear unmoved, Trent gulped.

***

Twisting against his bonds, he ignored the throbbing agony of his ravaged left hand. It had been at least twenty minutes since the vicious little dog had led her misguided master off somewhere. He could hear the indistinct sound of at least two male voices somewhere down the hall. Wriggling slightly, he winced as the tender spot on his rump where the decidedly sadistic doctor had injected him met the hard wood frame of the chair.

It was no use. Mere brute strength was no match for the thick surgical tape the crazed biker woman used to secure him in his seat. Cursing softly, he allowed his body to go limp and noticed that the tape around his left wrist seemed to be a bit loose. Leaning over, he used his teeth to widen the gap.

He'd just succeeded in working his bandaged hand free, when the voices moved closer.

"Are you sure about this, sir. I mean..." Jeff Prost questioned as he pushed the general's wheelchair through the open door.

"Sheesh, pipe down would ya, you're not helping my head any ya know." Jack O'Neill threw petulantly over his shoulder.

"Mother of... what the hell?" The prisoner declared loudly. Smiling broadly, he chortled. "General O'Neill, you're alive!"

"Ya think?" Jack quipped snappishly. Clucking his tongue, he added. "I hear the pooch here whipped your butt, Colonel."

"I knew you two were up to something!" Snarling, the colonel fixed a jaundiced eye on the thunderstruck physician, fighting against his bonds. "I demand you release the general immediately!"

"Tone it down will ya?" Squinting slightly, O'Neill scrunched his shoulders.

"I appreciate your concern Karl, really I do, but the only prisoner here is you." He added dryly.

Karl Draymak's mouth gaped as he digested the general's words. "I don't..."

"Understand?" Jack supplied his tone wary. "Well that makes two of us. What are you doing here, Draymak?"

"I... that is General O'Neill, sir... after your ah, funeral... ," Karl began uncertainly. "I thought I'd do a little investigating of my own. The circumstances surrounding your death seemed dubious."

O'Neill leaned his aching head in the palm of his right hand. "Go on."

"Well, general your death in a mundane motor vehicle accident struck me as... shall we say perplexing."

Eyeing the doctor, Karl chose his next words carefully. "Especially, given the nature of our last conversation, sir."

Shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair, Karl continued his narrative. "I arrived just outside the SGC and spotted one of the medical officers leaving with a suspiciously overstuffed topcoat."

Jeff Prost rolled his eyes and released a long-suffering sigh.

"Well sir, to make a long story short..." Karl continued.

"Yes, let's keep it short shall we?" Jack muttered. The conga line dancing in his head picked up the tempo.

Karl suppressed a grin. "Well sir, the trail led me here and regrettably, the doctor's ferocious canine took an instant dislike to me."

"She was defending the general from an intruder, namely you!" Insulted, Jeff Prost objected. "Frankly, you're lucky you got off so easy!"

"Stuck your hand out didn't you?" Jack took in the colonel's bandaged left hand and raised a knowing brow.

Flushing, Karl's eyes dropped to inspect the toes of his shoes. "Yes sir, I did."

"Let me guess, you had a pet cat as a child." Jack surmised mildly.

Draymak looked sheepish and shrugged. "Mom was allergic."

"Ah." Jack responded simply.

Cocking his head with a smirk, he added, "Dr. Prost, I think it's safe to release the colonel, don't you?"

"I'm satisfied if you are." Jeff snatched up a pair of bandage scissors and set about cutting the beleaguered officer free. "Just keep in mind; my dog doesn't particularly like you, colonel. Step out of line and..."

On cue, Mischief peeped out rom behind the general's wheelchair and growled softly, baring her teeth.

"Dogs are some of my favorite people." Jack beamed. Leaning over, he patted Mischief once more.

Karl stood up slowly and stretched his tight muscles, keeping a wary eye on the dog at the general's feet. "If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to know precisely what the heck is going on, sir."

"I'd like to oblige you Draymak, but I'm feeling a tad off at the moment." Dizzy, Jack closed his eyes and covered them with both hands.

Recognizing O'Neill's difficulty, Jeff slowly pushed the general's wheelchair back into his room. "Help me get him back into bed, Colonel."

Karl followed along behind, careful not to disturb the escorting sheltie. The two managed to get the wincing general back into bed quickly.

Jeff wet a cloth with cold water in the nearby sink and laid it over O'Neill's sweaty brow. "Hang in there, sir. I'll give you something to help ease the pain and vertigo."

Battling the screaming pain in his head and the whirling dizziness, Jack merely grunted.

Mischief jumped up on the narrow bed alongside him, resting her soft head against his arm, she once again assumed her role as protector.

Administering a hefty dose of medication, Prost put a finger against his lips and motioned for Draymak to follow him down the hall.

Leading the colonel into the kitchen, Jeff filled two cups with strong coffee. "Now, suppose we swap stories and grab a bite. The general will be out of it for a while."

"Why not?" Sliding gratefully into a chair, Karl accepted the proffered cup. "How's about we start with a proper introduction? I'm Colonel Karl Draymak, United States Air Force Flying Thunderbirds... and you are?"

"Sorry about the hand, Colonel." Leaning against the kitchen counter, Jeff smiled and tipped his coffee cup toward Draymak's gauze covered left limb. "Name's Prost, Major Jeff Prost, M.D. United Sates Air Force, retired."

"Forget it, I've had worse." Karl snorted relieved. "I'm just grateful the general is in the capable hands of one of our own."

Sipping his coffee, Jeff mutely accepted Draymak's confidence.

***

Colonel Samantha Carter rounded the bend in the corridor expecting to find an SF or two standing post just outside the visitor's quarters.

Consequently, she was taken aback to find the door standing open and Mrs. O'Connor holding court just inside.

Airman Rowan Thompson was the first to spy the colonel peering into the room. "Ten hut!" Jumping from his chair, spilling his tea in the process, he stood rigidly at attention.

Across from Thompson, Airman Phillip Hauser choked on his last sip of the hot beverage and followed suit.

Unperturbed, Sassy dabbed at the spilled fluid marring her small table and offered Sam a welcome look. "Oh Samantha, you're just in time. The tea is still hot. Have a seat and join us, won't you?"

"At ease." Arching her left eyebrow, Sam directed her gaze at the two errant airmen and pursed her lips sourly, preventing the smile that threatened proper military discipline. "If you're both quite finished here, perhaps you'd like to assume your posts?"

"Ma'am!" The two responded as one. Nodding their thanks to Mrs. O'Connor, the blushing pair rapidly left the room.

Stepping inside, Sam closed the door and took a seat across from Sassy with a frown. "I suppose you know you're a bad influence?"

"Forgive me dear, I was feeling rather lonesome." Contrite, Sassy folded her hands in her lap. "And the boys... well, I think Jonathan's death has taken its toll on many of the youngsters in his command."

Hearing the longing and sorrow in the older woman's voice, Sam relented. Realizing she was thirsty, she hefted the plain porcelain teapot and poured herself a cup of the rich caramel colored brew. "I thought you were resting."

"It's difficult to rest when people you care about are hurting." Sassy whispered.

Silently sipping her tea, Sam had to agree. 'It's next to impossible.'

Understanding Samantha's need for a moment to collect her thoughts, Sassy sat back quietly for a time watching the unconscious play of emotions cloud the younger woman's face.

Lost in contemplation, Sam stared at her cup. Memories of one of the general's famous backyard barbecues and his penchant for charring the steaks flooded her mind.

She could still hear O'Neill and Daniel's affable banter and Teal'c's corresponding rumble of mirth.

"How is Daniel?" Sassy inquired softly breaking the spell. "And, my dear, I'd appreciate knowing if young Jon O'Neill is going to recover."

Startled, Sam's mouth gaped. "What?"

"Ned informed me of the lad's injury." Sassy continued. "I must say this whole affair is rather fantastic. And, I must confess I'm incredibly angry."

"Angry?" Leaning forward, Sam eyed the woman intently.

"Yes dear." Sassy returned Sam's searching gaze steadily. "You've all been keeping me very much in the dark and frankly, I am not going to tolerate it further. Someone, has killed one of my boys, kidnapped that sweet little lieutenant and injured both Danny and young Jon. It's time we got busy."

"Busy, how?" Sam parroted perplexed.

"First off, you'll need to acquaint me with everything you know." Sassy demanded confidently. "My husband was a naval commander during the cold war; I know a thing or two about keeping a secret."

Rocking back in her chair, the elderly virago continued with enthusiasm, "Then, we formulate our strategy and I deal with the kidnappers..."

Smiling indulgently, Sam shook her head. "No ma'am, you're..."

"Poppycock!" Slapping a hand against the table petulantly, Sassy grinned wryly. "I'm the perfect operative. Who would ever suspect me?"

***

Sixteen months of hard work and what did he have to show for it? One dead general and a dying teenager, that's what!

Jefferson cursed the day that his contacts chose to involve the infamous 'Marquis' in their convoluted scheme.

Privy to information that Kearney and his contingent had deployed to parts unknown, he knew it was time to abandon his pretense. And, when word came that Jon O'Neill was near death, he'd slipped virtually undetected out of the SGC. A feat many would have found daunting, but then, the man known as Ben Jefferson was far from ordinary.

The role he'd chosen to play required subtlety, stealth and above all, an ability to remain in the shadows. Young though he was, Ben understood the definition of elusive - it was a difficult and yet heady thing, secrecy. He'd lost his boyhood illusions of honesty and truth long ago.

In what amounted to a blink of an eye, he'd discovered that his parents traveled the twisted paths of the covert, experiencing first hand the heavy consequences of a life burdened by intrigue.

Fraught with deception, his teenage years were lonely, teaching him to trust no one, to rely wholly on his own superior strengths and intellect - to endure.

In order to survive, 'Ben' manufactured his own distinctive, distorted, form of armor: a mix of integrity, honor and cynicism.

And then, he became a part of Stargate command.

Watching the interactions, the bonds forged amongst the elite group, he'd been thrown off balance.

A person who'd known true security, raised in a protected environment, would no doubt be at home in such surroundings. Unfortunately, Ben's newfound emotions confused him.

Especially troubling were his feelings of allegiance and deep respect for the focus of his assignment – General Jack O'Neill.

Torn between continuing his ruse and choosing to transform himself into his newly forged persona, he hesitated too long.

The bastards who'd originally engaged his 'talents' had grown impatient and in turn bowed to the Marquis' methods. Hoping his twisted mind would facilitate a swifter completion of their mission.

Now it would appear that the secret assembly behind GEOM would never achieve their nefarious goal.

Ben refused to indulge in self-recrimination. He had a decision to make and a difficult decision at that. It was interesting really, kind of like ripples in a stream after one threw in a pebble. Life had its little wrinkles. Sighing, Ben turned his car toward his altered destiny.

On to Chapter Eleven