SGA (SG-1?) WIP
December 2008 edit: This story has been completed as Orpheus.
Current air temperature (2200hrs): 94 F, which is 34 to the rest of the world.
I think I mentioned earlier that it was hot out. (Heat index is 98, btw.) It's not that NYC gets hotter than other places that makes summer in the city so much fun. It's that it doesn't cool off after dark.
***
edit: glossary at the end.
August 2005
"-- in luck. It's only ninety-five at 1030," Major Breibauer said with a remarkably straight face as they passed the thermometer attached to one of the the HESCO barriers outside the office. "Means it should only be hundred-ten, hundred-fifteen by the time we're spinning up."
John smiled; laughing would expend too much energy and make him sweat. Everyone lied -- nobody ever really got acclimated to the middle-of-the-oven heat of southwest Iraq in summertime. It got better the longer you were there, but Air Force rotations were short enough that there were very good odds that he still wouldn't be used to it by the time they were redeployed back to Japan. A move that was coming up sooner than later; they already knew who was coming in to replace them and even had a tentative date.
John hadn't spent too much time thinking about Japan, though, beyond having his stuff sent from Colorado to Okinawa. He'd shown up two weeks before his new unit's mobilization date and it had been all he could do to focus on assuming command of his squadron and remembering that he was back on Earth and back to flying ships that didn't anticipate your thoughts. Airmen instead of marines, hours of flying to get around one planet instead of near-instantaneous galaxy-trotting, and a group commander who didn't know what to make of the circumstances behind his newest officer. Well, that part wasn't too different, except for the fact that his predecessor here had simply gotten appointed to a Pentagon sinecure instead of getting the life sucked out of him by alien vampires.
"Almost a cold front," John finally replied because he was trying to work on talking more. His headquarters staff had largely gotten used to him not saying much and realizing that it wasn't coldness or displeasure, but John didn't want to get a rep for being too much in his own head. He hadn't meant to turn into one of those silent types, but it was still easier to listen than to speak because, even four months after returning to Earth, he had to watch what he said.
Almost everyone knew that he'd come to the unit from some classified project, but the assumption was that he'd been working for the CIA and even if he was in a position to correct them, he probably wouldn't. Thinking about Atlantis still hurt too much. He refused to speculate what might be going on back in Pegasus, whether Rodney and Teyla were following someone else around the galaxy, or how the fight with the Wraith was going. He could keep control of his thoughts during the day -- life was just too busy here to daydream -- but at night, he still dreamed of Atlantis, still missed falling asleep with the quiet, comforting buzz of her in his head and in his bones.
But that was a galaxy away. Here and now, Breibauer was content to carry the conversation as they walked -- slowly, because in this heat even a stroll felt like running through hot water -- toward the DFAC. In this way John caught up on the state of the maintenance crew (cranky, overheated, undersupplied, and probably the best at what they did of everyone currently in country), the weather report (possibly it might stay under 100F on Thursday), and the latest rumors of who the USO was going to send over (nobody John had ever heard of; Iraq was an unpopular war and nobody wanted to come).
It had been a quiet day relatively speaking; there'd been an attack that morning, the crump of incoming mortars getting everyone not already up moving at 0620 and then the louder noise of outgoing return fire making sure no one went back to sleep. But their assailants were almost comical in their bad aim and persistence; two weeks of daily attempts and the biggest target they'd hit had been an empty fuel tank while the good guys had blown up their position -- and possibly their mortarmen -- every day. John hadn't seen the report of today's activity, but he was sure it was more of the same. Nevertheless, there was a mission scheduled for 2100 with his helicopters flying support for an Army raid intended on putting an end to the morning mortars. Because even a blind squirrel finds a nut sooner or later and that was the moment it stopped being funny.
There were Army privates at the security check in front of the DFAC making sure everyone cleared their weapons before entering. John was replacing his in its holster when he heard someone calling his name.
"Colonel Sheppard," Airman First Class Robinson was calling as she ran toward them. It made John sweat just to watch someone else run in this heat.
"We forget a meeting, Mike?" he asked Breibauer, who was standing next to him and watching Robinson's approach. She was the headquarters staff's living calendar, the one who remembered everyone's schedule no matter what.
"I know I didn't, sir," Breibauer replied. "Phone call?"
"Hell, I hope not," John said. Because he didn't have anyone who would be calling him, at least not with good news. He'd already had to send one pilot home on emergency bereavement.
"Sir," Robinson half-gasped as she drew herself up before him. "There's someone here to see you. Said it couldn't wait until later."
John looked over at Breibauer, who shrugged. "Did they give you a name, Airman?"
Robinson blinked the sweat out of her eyes. "Major General O'Neill, sir."
John chuffed out a laugh that had nothing to do with being amused. "Tell him I'll be right there."
He got back to his office to find the usual sort of best behavior that would be expected with a two-star in the room. He almost wanted to tell his staff not to bother, that Jack O'Neill really didn't care and was probably more unnerved by the silent efficiency than they were by the stars on his shoulders.
"Sheppard," O'Neill drawled as he spun around in John's chair to face him. "You have a thing against temperate climates?"
There were plenty of answers to that, but none that he could repeat in a room full of airmen and officers desperately trying to look like they weren't hanging on every word.
"I kinda like it here," he said instead.
"Of course you do," O'Neill replied sourly, then stood up. "Got someplace private we can talk?"
John thought it was kind of a stupid question. In the middle of a crowded, busy FOB, privacy didn't extend past the cozy confines of the port-a-john and, even then, only if you were quiet. His quarters were probably as close as they'd get.
"Yeah," he said, gesturing for O'Neill to precede him. Passing through the maze of desks and equipment and computers and crap that accumulated, he paused in front of the sergeant sitting at the banks of computers and phones. "If anyone's looking for me, I'll be in my CHU."
Gone were the days when he had an earpiece seemingly grafted in place. Most of the time, it was a good thing.
O'Neill had his sunglasses on and was waiting just outside the door, next to the thermometer, which still showed ninety-five degrees, except now it was in the shade.
"This way," John said, turning right. It was a ten minute walk if you didn't want to sweat through your undershirt, but he figured O'Neill hadn't shlepped all the way to Iraq to chat about the weather, so he walked faster. He hadn't parted with the SGC on very good terms and sending someone to him -- and that it was O'Neill instead of some flunky or whoever they'd finally gotten to take over SG-1 -- was a bad sign.
"You live in a conex?" O'Neill asked as they turned the last corner before the rows of shipping-containers-turned-housing began. "What happened to tents?"
"Nicest housing on the base," John replied with a shrug, because it was. Pilots always got better accomodations and the guy in charge of pilots got the best of that. His shipping container home had a power source, an air conditioner, and indoor plumbing courtesy of a shared bathroom. The walls were thin enough that he could hear LTC Friesen turn magazine pages, but that was a negligible downside.
He flipped on his AC -- it had two settings, "arctic" and "off," so it wouldn't take long to cool down the stiflingly hot room -- and did a quick check to make sure that Friesen wasn't around. Satisfied, he turned back to O'Neill, who was sitting in the chair by the desk in the corner of the small room.
"The Daedalus is missing," O'Neill began without preamble.
"Okay." John sat down heavily at the foot of his cot. He didn't know yet why this concerned him. At least in a professional capacity.
"It never made it back to Atlantis," O'Neill elaborated. That got John's attention and O'Neill knew it, smirking as John leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs.
McKay, Elizabeth, and Beckett would have been on board the initial trip back. As would have Caldwell (the new military commander) and some of the scientists and marines they were bringing back to expand Atlantis's mission, plus supplies and various items for the ones who had stayed behind. He'd been party to some of the logistical discussions before it became clear that Elizabeth was going to lose the fight to get his appointment pushed through.
"Last communication came from the edge of our galaxy two weeks into the voyage, then nothing. It should have reached Atlantis four days later, but never did. We sent the Prometheus out there to check, but she didn't find anything."
He'd left without saying goodbye to anyone, too angry and hurt to even wish them well. If he had any regrets about how he'd parted ways with the SGC, that was it -- he had no reason to take out his humiliation and pain on the only ones who'd been on his side from the start. It wasn't their fault, not even Elizabeth's.
"Thank you for telling me, sir," he said. Because it wasn't his right to know anymore and the odds are that he'd never have known otherwise.
O'Neill sighed loudly. "I didn't fly out here to be a casualty assistance officer, Sheppard. I came out here because we're up shit's creek and we need your help."
John sat up straight. Part of him wanted to agree to whatever O'Neill asked before O'Neill even said a word. Anything that would put him back in Atlantis. But the rest of him was still the same man who'd consistently chosen being right over being happy.
"I don't know what you think I can do for you, sir," he said slowly. "But I have responsibilities here now."
Atlantis had prepared him for command in a way ACSC never could. And now he had people here who relied on him just as much as anyone in Atlantis ever had to keep them safe and to look out for their interests. His squadron had already lost one CO this year. O'Neill had would need a damned compelling reason -- beyond him being the most convenient solution to the SGC's problem -- to make it two.
"You have responsibilities here," O'Neill agreed. "But what about the ones you left behind?"
"You thanked me for my service and wished me well, sir," John replied simply.
With his disgrace in Afghanistan, he'd thought that the life he now led would be forever denied him. And then he'd wound up in Atlantis and it hadn't mattered. But he'd lost Atlantis and chosen this second chance as a consolation prize and he was determined to make the most of it. He didn't love his job -- the layers of bureaucracy that came with being an O-5 were a sharp contrast after the freedom of movement he'd enjoyed in Atlantis -- but he loved that he was doing something to make a difference, that he was among people who felt the same way. This, not chasing alien artifacts, was why he'd joined the Air Force in the first place.
O'Neill ran his fingers through his graying buzz cut. "Look. I'm not knocking what you're doing here -- it's damned important. But the fact is that other people can do it. The Air Force can replace you here, Sheppard, but you're the only one left who knows Atlantis and the Pegasus galaxy well enough to make a difference there."
He was about to say something to the effect that he wasn't sure how much good he could do when the SGC hadn't thought he could make a difference four months ago, but O'Neill waved him off.
"The Wraith want to come here, right?" O'Neill asked. "Their 'new feeding ground.' If they have the Daedalus, then it's just a matter of them figuring out how to make it work. And you're the one who told us that they adopt new technology quickly."
"I'm not denying the problem, sir." Just the requirement that he be part of the solution. The SGC had gotten on just fine without him for years and had been sure that they could get on just fine without him for years to come.
"Our best case scenario is that Atlantis's entire command element has been wiped out in an accident that destroyed one of our two ships capable of crossing galaxies," O'Neill said. "Every other scenario involves information, technology, and people falling into the hands of the Wraith or some other unfriendly power. If they have McKay... McKay's an ass, but he's a brilliant ass."
The scientists on board the ship might be lunch for the Wraith, but McKay would be a gold mine of information if they questioned him before they fed off of him. He'd known that before he had even decided that he wanted Rodney on his off-world team; he'd been sure enough of his own ability to protect McKay (and Teyla's and Ford's) that he'd convinced Elizabeth that the risk was outweighed by the reward. That didn't change the fact that Rodney in the hands of the Wraith -- because in the end, everyone talked -- was the worst possible thing that could happen to either Earth or Atlantis.
"You know we're not prepared to take on the Wraith, too," O'Neill went on. "We've got enough trouble already in this galaxy with the Ori. And the Goa'uld haven't gotten the memo that they've been replaced as Scariest Bad Guys."
"What do you want me to do, sir?" John asked with a sigh. He'd known when they'd acquiesced to his request to transfer back to the regular Air Force that they'd find a way to recall him. And he knew now, even if he wasn't prepared to admit it, that he wouldn't fight it. Forget wounded pride or bitterness at how he'd been tossed aside in favor of a shinier toy; how could he leave people he lived with -- lived for -- in the hands of the Wraith? The SGC honchos had known how he felt, so they'd let him have a length of leash with the confidence that they could yank him back when needed. "I don't have anything more to offer than I did four months ago. And it wasn't enough then."
O'Neill rolled his eyes. "You not getting the job had nothing to do with whether you were qualified to do it," he said. "You know that. It had everything to do with the fact that Steven Caldwell wanted it and he was qualified to do it, too. And he has far more friends than you do. Not to mention a record that doesn't give commanders heartburn."
John remembered Elizabeth coming to him, tears in her eyes. They'd made her an offer: she could have everything she wanted for Atlantis -- the personnel, the equipment, the budget -- if she accepted Caldwell as her military commander. If she kept him instead, as she wanted, then she'd get nothing. It was not a choice and while he was grateful to Elizabeth for trying to make it one, he'd known better.
O'Neill stood and John rose as well. The room had cooled enough that the blast of cold air on his face was an annoyance instead of a relief.
"We need Atlantis safe, we need the Daedalus back before it can be used against us, and we need our people back," O'Neill said. "And I need whatever you can give to get me those things."
John met O'Neill's gaze; it was the kind of confident, demanding look that the best commanders gave their subordinates, the kind of look that inspired men to try harder because you never wanted to see disappointment in those eyes. John didn't think he had it yet, didn't know if he ever would. O'Neill did and he felt himself standing a little straighter for it.
"This isn't about second chances," O'Neill said, reaching into his pocket to hand him a flash drive. "I'll be in touch."
John accepted the tiny drive and watched as O'Neill stepped away from him, tapping something on his chest. "One to beam up, Scotty."
There was a bright flash and rings that he knew were teleportation-related only because Rodney had babbled on about the Daedalus not needing them and O'Neill was gone, presumably on board the Prometheus.
John looked at the flash drive in his hand, then went over to the small lockbox he kept hidden away. He'd look at it later. He had a mission to focus on, at least one FRAGO sitting on his desk by now, and a whole lot to think about that didn't involve Wraith, missing friends, or a galaxy he'd left behind.
"One war at a time."
continued here
Glossary
There will be a real glossary when this story is done, but for the time being:
HESCO barriers: fancy sandbags. http://www.strategypage.com/gallery/articles/hesco.asp
DFAC: Dining FACility. Chow hall. Mess tent. Commissary. Place to eat.
FOB: Forward Operating Base. Base camp without some of the bureaucracy. Fobbits are those types who never leave the base -- the ones with office jobs, etc.
CHU: Container Housing Unit. Yes, they live in converted shipping crates.
ACSC: Air Command Staff College: http://wwwacsc.au.af.mil/ Major School.
FRAGO: Fragmentary Order. A change to an existing order, one that leaves everything else intact.
Pogs: just what you remember them being. Cardboard discs used as coin money because it's too expensive and heavy to ship nickels, dimes, and quarters around the world. No pennies.
AAFES: Army and Air Force Exchange Service (official site). The base/post exchange -- one-stop shopping center, mostly.
HUMINT: Human Intelligence (see Wiki
Current air temperature (2200hrs): 94 F, which is 34 to the rest of the world.
I think I mentioned earlier that it was hot out. (Heat index is 98, btw.) It's not that NYC gets hotter than other places that makes summer in the city so much fun. It's that it doesn't cool off after dark.
***
edit: glossary at the end.
August 2005
"-- in luck. It's only ninety-five at 1030," Major Breibauer said with a remarkably straight face as they passed the thermometer attached to one of the the HESCO barriers outside the office. "Means it should only be hundred-ten, hundred-fifteen by the time we're spinning up."
John smiled; laughing would expend too much energy and make him sweat. Everyone lied -- nobody ever really got acclimated to the middle-of-the-oven heat of southwest Iraq in summertime. It got better the longer you were there, but Air Force rotations were short enough that there were very good odds that he still wouldn't be used to it by the time they were redeployed back to Japan. A move that was coming up sooner than later; they already knew who was coming in to replace them and even had a tentative date.
John hadn't spent too much time thinking about Japan, though, beyond having his stuff sent from Colorado to Okinawa. He'd shown up two weeks before his new unit's mobilization date and it had been all he could do to focus on assuming command of his squadron and remembering that he was back on Earth and back to flying ships that didn't anticipate your thoughts. Airmen instead of marines, hours of flying to get around one planet instead of near-instantaneous galaxy-trotting, and a group commander who didn't know what to make of the circumstances behind his newest officer. Well, that part wasn't too different, except for the fact that his predecessor here had simply gotten appointed to a Pentagon sinecure instead of getting the life sucked out of him by alien vampires.
"Almost a cold front," John finally replied because he was trying to work on talking more. His headquarters staff had largely gotten used to him not saying much and realizing that it wasn't coldness or displeasure, but John didn't want to get a rep for being too much in his own head. He hadn't meant to turn into one of those silent types, but it was still easier to listen than to speak because, even four months after returning to Earth, he had to watch what he said.
Almost everyone knew that he'd come to the unit from some classified project, but the assumption was that he'd been working for the CIA and even if he was in a position to correct them, he probably wouldn't. Thinking about Atlantis still hurt too much. He refused to speculate what might be going on back in Pegasus, whether Rodney and Teyla were following someone else around the galaxy, or how the fight with the Wraith was going. He could keep control of his thoughts during the day -- life was just too busy here to daydream -- but at night, he still dreamed of Atlantis, still missed falling asleep with the quiet, comforting buzz of her in his head and in his bones.
But that was a galaxy away. Here and now, Breibauer was content to carry the conversation as they walked -- slowly, because in this heat even a stroll felt like running through hot water -- toward the DFAC. In this way John caught up on the state of the maintenance crew (cranky, overheated, undersupplied, and probably the best at what they did of everyone currently in country), the weather report (possibly it might stay under 100F on Thursday), and the latest rumors of who the USO was going to send over (nobody John had ever heard of; Iraq was an unpopular war and nobody wanted to come).
It had been a quiet day relatively speaking; there'd been an attack that morning, the crump of incoming mortars getting everyone not already up moving at 0620 and then the louder noise of outgoing return fire making sure no one went back to sleep. But their assailants were almost comical in their bad aim and persistence; two weeks of daily attempts and the biggest target they'd hit had been an empty fuel tank while the good guys had blown up their position -- and possibly their mortarmen -- every day. John hadn't seen the report of today's activity, but he was sure it was more of the same. Nevertheless, there was a mission scheduled for 2100 with his helicopters flying support for an Army raid intended on putting an end to the morning mortars. Because even a blind squirrel finds a nut sooner or later and that was the moment it stopped being funny.
There were Army privates at the security check in front of the DFAC making sure everyone cleared their weapons before entering. John was replacing his in its holster when he heard someone calling his name.
"Colonel Sheppard," Airman First Class Robinson was calling as she ran toward them. It made John sweat just to watch someone else run in this heat.
"We forget a meeting, Mike?" he asked Breibauer, who was standing next to him and watching Robinson's approach. She was the headquarters staff's living calendar, the one who remembered everyone's schedule no matter what.
"I know I didn't, sir," Breibauer replied. "Phone call?"
"Hell, I hope not," John said. Because he didn't have anyone who would be calling him, at least not with good news. He'd already had to send one pilot home on emergency bereavement.
"Sir," Robinson half-gasped as she drew herself up before him. "There's someone here to see you. Said it couldn't wait until later."
John looked over at Breibauer, who shrugged. "Did they give you a name, Airman?"
Robinson blinked the sweat out of her eyes. "Major General O'Neill, sir."
John chuffed out a laugh that had nothing to do with being amused. "Tell him I'll be right there."
He got back to his office to find the usual sort of best behavior that would be expected with a two-star in the room. He almost wanted to tell his staff not to bother, that Jack O'Neill really didn't care and was probably more unnerved by the silent efficiency than they were by the stars on his shoulders.
"Sheppard," O'Neill drawled as he spun around in John's chair to face him. "You have a thing against temperate climates?"
There were plenty of answers to that, but none that he could repeat in a room full of airmen and officers desperately trying to look like they weren't hanging on every word.
"I kinda like it here," he said instead.
"Of course you do," O'Neill replied sourly, then stood up. "Got someplace private we can talk?"
John thought it was kind of a stupid question. In the middle of a crowded, busy FOB, privacy didn't extend past the cozy confines of the port-a-john and, even then, only if you were quiet. His quarters were probably as close as they'd get.
"Yeah," he said, gesturing for O'Neill to precede him. Passing through the maze of desks and equipment and computers and crap that accumulated, he paused in front of the sergeant sitting at the banks of computers and phones. "If anyone's looking for me, I'll be in my CHU."
Gone were the days when he had an earpiece seemingly grafted in place. Most of the time, it was a good thing.
O'Neill had his sunglasses on and was waiting just outside the door, next to the thermometer, which still showed ninety-five degrees, except now it was in the shade.
"This way," John said, turning right. It was a ten minute walk if you didn't want to sweat through your undershirt, but he figured O'Neill hadn't shlepped all the way to Iraq to chat about the weather, so he walked faster. He hadn't parted with the SGC on very good terms and sending someone to him -- and that it was O'Neill instead of some flunky or whoever they'd finally gotten to take over SG-1 -- was a bad sign.
"You live in a conex?" O'Neill asked as they turned the last corner before the rows of shipping-containers-turned-housing began. "What happened to tents?"
"Nicest housing on the base," John replied with a shrug, because it was. Pilots always got better accomodations and the guy in charge of pilots got the best of that. His shipping container home had a power source, an air conditioner, and indoor plumbing courtesy of a shared bathroom. The walls were thin enough that he could hear LTC Friesen turn magazine pages, but that was a negligible downside.
He flipped on his AC -- it had two settings, "arctic" and "off," so it wouldn't take long to cool down the stiflingly hot room -- and did a quick check to make sure that Friesen wasn't around. Satisfied, he turned back to O'Neill, who was sitting in the chair by the desk in the corner of the small room.
"The Daedalus is missing," O'Neill began without preamble.
"Okay." John sat down heavily at the foot of his cot. He didn't know yet why this concerned him. At least in a professional capacity.
"It never made it back to Atlantis," O'Neill elaborated. That got John's attention and O'Neill knew it, smirking as John leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs.
McKay, Elizabeth, and Beckett would have been on board the initial trip back. As would have Caldwell (the new military commander) and some of the scientists and marines they were bringing back to expand Atlantis's mission, plus supplies and various items for the ones who had stayed behind. He'd been party to some of the logistical discussions before it became clear that Elizabeth was going to lose the fight to get his appointment pushed through.
"Last communication came from the edge of our galaxy two weeks into the voyage, then nothing. It should have reached Atlantis four days later, but never did. We sent the Prometheus out there to check, but she didn't find anything."
He'd left without saying goodbye to anyone, too angry and hurt to even wish them well. If he had any regrets about how he'd parted ways with the SGC, that was it -- he had no reason to take out his humiliation and pain on the only ones who'd been on his side from the start. It wasn't their fault, not even Elizabeth's.
"Thank you for telling me, sir," he said. Because it wasn't his right to know anymore and the odds are that he'd never have known otherwise.
O'Neill sighed loudly. "I didn't fly out here to be a casualty assistance officer, Sheppard. I came out here because we're up shit's creek and we need your help."
John sat up straight. Part of him wanted to agree to whatever O'Neill asked before O'Neill even said a word. Anything that would put him back in Atlantis. But the rest of him was still the same man who'd consistently chosen being right over being happy.
"I don't know what you think I can do for you, sir," he said slowly. "But I have responsibilities here now."
Atlantis had prepared him for command in a way ACSC never could. And now he had people here who relied on him just as much as anyone in Atlantis ever had to keep them safe and to look out for their interests. His squadron had already lost one CO this year. O'Neill had would need a damned compelling reason -- beyond him being the most convenient solution to the SGC's problem -- to make it two.
"You have responsibilities here," O'Neill agreed. "But what about the ones you left behind?"
"You thanked me for my service and wished me well, sir," John replied simply.
With his disgrace in Afghanistan, he'd thought that the life he now led would be forever denied him. And then he'd wound up in Atlantis and it hadn't mattered. But he'd lost Atlantis and chosen this second chance as a consolation prize and he was determined to make the most of it. He didn't love his job -- the layers of bureaucracy that came with being an O-5 were a sharp contrast after the freedom of movement he'd enjoyed in Atlantis -- but he loved that he was doing something to make a difference, that he was among people who felt the same way. This, not chasing alien artifacts, was why he'd joined the Air Force in the first place.
O'Neill ran his fingers through his graying buzz cut. "Look. I'm not knocking what you're doing here -- it's damned important. But the fact is that other people can do it. The Air Force can replace you here, Sheppard, but you're the only one left who knows Atlantis and the Pegasus galaxy well enough to make a difference there."
He was about to say something to the effect that he wasn't sure how much good he could do when the SGC hadn't thought he could make a difference four months ago, but O'Neill waved him off.
"The Wraith want to come here, right?" O'Neill asked. "Their 'new feeding ground.' If they have the Daedalus, then it's just a matter of them figuring out how to make it work. And you're the one who told us that they adopt new technology quickly."
"I'm not denying the problem, sir." Just the requirement that he be part of the solution. The SGC had gotten on just fine without him for years and had been sure that they could get on just fine without him for years to come.
"Our best case scenario is that Atlantis's entire command element has been wiped out in an accident that destroyed one of our two ships capable of crossing galaxies," O'Neill said. "Every other scenario involves information, technology, and people falling into the hands of the Wraith or some other unfriendly power. If they have McKay... McKay's an ass, but he's a brilliant ass."
The scientists on board the ship might be lunch for the Wraith, but McKay would be a gold mine of information if they questioned him before they fed off of him. He'd known that before he had even decided that he wanted Rodney on his off-world team; he'd been sure enough of his own ability to protect McKay (and Teyla's and Ford's) that he'd convinced Elizabeth that the risk was outweighed by the reward. That didn't change the fact that Rodney in the hands of the Wraith -- because in the end, everyone talked -- was the worst possible thing that could happen to either Earth or Atlantis.
"You know we're not prepared to take on the Wraith, too," O'Neill went on. "We've got enough trouble already in this galaxy with the Ori. And the Goa'uld haven't gotten the memo that they've been replaced as Scariest Bad Guys."
"What do you want me to do, sir?" John asked with a sigh. He'd known when they'd acquiesced to his request to transfer back to the regular Air Force that they'd find a way to recall him. And he knew now, even if he wasn't prepared to admit it, that he wouldn't fight it. Forget wounded pride or bitterness at how he'd been tossed aside in favor of a shinier toy; how could he leave people he lived with -- lived for -- in the hands of the Wraith? The SGC honchos had known how he felt, so they'd let him have a length of leash with the confidence that they could yank him back when needed. "I don't have anything more to offer than I did four months ago. And it wasn't enough then."
O'Neill rolled his eyes. "You not getting the job had nothing to do with whether you were qualified to do it," he said. "You know that. It had everything to do with the fact that Steven Caldwell wanted it and he was qualified to do it, too. And he has far more friends than you do. Not to mention a record that doesn't give commanders heartburn."
John remembered Elizabeth coming to him, tears in her eyes. They'd made her an offer: she could have everything she wanted for Atlantis -- the personnel, the equipment, the budget -- if she accepted Caldwell as her military commander. If she kept him instead, as she wanted, then she'd get nothing. It was not a choice and while he was grateful to Elizabeth for trying to make it one, he'd known better.
O'Neill stood and John rose as well. The room had cooled enough that the blast of cold air on his face was an annoyance instead of a relief.
"We need Atlantis safe, we need the Daedalus back before it can be used against us, and we need our people back," O'Neill said. "And I need whatever you can give to get me those things."
John met O'Neill's gaze; it was the kind of confident, demanding look that the best commanders gave their subordinates, the kind of look that inspired men to try harder because you never wanted to see disappointment in those eyes. John didn't think he had it yet, didn't know if he ever would. O'Neill did and he felt himself standing a little straighter for it.
"This isn't about second chances," O'Neill said, reaching into his pocket to hand him a flash drive. "I'll be in touch."
John accepted the tiny drive and watched as O'Neill stepped away from him, tapping something on his chest. "One to beam up, Scotty."
There was a bright flash and rings that he knew were teleportation-related only because Rodney had babbled on about the Daedalus not needing them and O'Neill was gone, presumably on board the Prometheus.
John looked at the flash drive in his hand, then went over to the small lockbox he kept hidden away. He'd look at it later. He had a mission to focus on, at least one FRAGO sitting on his desk by now, and a whole lot to think about that didn't involve Wraith, missing friends, or a galaxy he'd left behind.
"One war at a time."
continued here
Glossary
There will be a real glossary when this story is done, but for the time being:
HESCO barriers: fancy sandbags. http://www.strategypage.com/gallery/articles/hesco.asp
DFAC: Dining FACility. Chow hall. Mess tent. Commissary. Place to eat.
FOB: Forward Operating Base. Base camp without some of the bureaucracy. Fobbits are those types who never leave the base -- the ones with office jobs, etc.
CHU: Container Housing Unit. Yes, they live in converted shipping crates.
ACSC: Air Command Staff College: http://wwwacsc.au.af.mil/ Major School.
FRAGO: Fragmentary Order. A change to an existing order, one that leaves everything else intact.
Pogs: just what you remember them being. Cardboard discs used as coin money because it's too expensive and heavy to ship nickels, dimes, and quarters around the world. No pennies.
AAFES: Army and Air Force Exchange Service (official site). The base/post exchange -- one-stop shopping center, mostly.
HUMINT: Human Intelligence (see Wiki