Enemies and Allies
*****************

March 6, 2006
Remote Viewing Program
Mount Garnet, Vermont
1430 hours

The man in the observation room was tall, broad through the shoulders and thinner at the waist. He wore jeans and a wrinkled gray dress shirt and walked with a slight limp when he entered. His pale skin was tinted pink about the mouth and eyes and his short, blond hair was beginning to gray at the temples. He kept his large hands clasped firmly on his knees. The whitening of his knuckles was the only visible indication of anxiety. Overall an unremarkable figure: except for his eyes, which were a startling cerulean blue. Haunted and solemn, they moved constantly, investigating every centimeter of the room within view but studiously avoiding the one-way mirror directly in front of him. Their gaze was as sharp and cool as a razor grazing the skin.

An armed guard entered the room and took up a position in the corner behind and to the subject’s right. The man did not turn around but his attention suddenly focused on the mirror.

“First impressions?”

Colonel Jack O’Neill rubbed pensively at his chin. The man in the room seemed to catch and hold his gaze, which should have been impossible given the nature of the mirror. “Kind of creepy,” he admitted.

The image of General George Hammond frowned at the Colonel’s assessment. “What do you know about the Remote Viewing Program?”

Jack turned toward the portable monitor pushed against the wall. He hated video conferencing but it was necessary in this case. The General could not leave Cheyenne Mountain nor could he blatantly ignore agent Malcolm Barrett’s unsettling phone call.

“The CIA officially shut the program down back in 1995. Called it an ‘embarrassment’.” Jack answered with a bemused smirk. “There have been rumors ever since that the NID took control and relocated operations to Vermont.”

“Fact, not rumor,” the General corrected quietly. “Some impressive intelligence has been attributed—unofficially of course—to the psychics involved in the program. Including this man, John Smith.”

Jack sat down and let his eyes be drawn to the top of Smith’s blond head. Like most things military, knowledge of the Garnet Mountain facility was released on a need to know basis. He had met briefly with Colonel Burt Halsey, commander of the facility, and special agent Harriet Stone. The latter had been in charge of Smith’s initial recruitment. He still knew nothing of the program’s daily operations or any of the other personnel on site. The Remote Viewing Program was an Army operation with civilian NID oversight. “Explains how Barrett knew so much about him.”

“Yes, it does.”

Ten years of service to the SGC had taught Jack a few things about being open-minded but he was a skeptical man by nature. He believed that psychics belonged in the purview of late night cable television or fanatical housewives seeking signs of the divine in family heirlooms. The extensive NID file on John Smith had been compiled in the two years since his brief association with the Remote Viewing Program. A variety of independent sources: church leaders, law enforcement officials and successful businessmen had corroborated an impressive list of accomplishments. The evidence was compelling. Jack still questioned the wisdom of bringing Smith to Cheyenne Mountain. He volunteered to fly to Vermont and assess the situation in person. In an unprecedented display of interagency cooperation, Barrett had agreed. Jack did not bother to ask why.

“You’ve had a chance to do a more thorough analysis of Smith’s file,” Hammond assumed.

Jack nodded. He had spent the majority of the four-hour flight from Colorado to Vermont doing just that.

“Good. I’ve spoken to Colonel Halsey and Harriet Stone since your departure.”

“What were your impressions?” Jack prompted. Hammond’s opinion carried more weight than a ten-minute briefing.

“They believe John Smith is the real thing.”

“Whatever the ‘real thing’ is.”

“This is not the first time we’ve encountered people demonstrating paranormal abilities, Colonel.” Hammond pointed out.

“True.” Jack refrained from the obvious caveat. The people Hammond referred to usually had a snake embedded in their spines. The NID was not known for playing it straight up. Jack could not be sure who was listening in on their conversations and the less they knew the better.

He could not resist a bit of taunting however. “The NID have their fingers in all kinds of pies and not everything they do has a basis in reality.” Jack leaned to one side and picked up the thick file resting on a nearby table. “Harry Maybourne worked for these guys for years. What does that say about their credibility?”

“Barrett is reliable,” Hammond stated.

Jack tilted his head, conceding the point. Malcolm Barrett had helped uncover the rogue elements within the NID and assisted Major Samantha Carter in clearing Jack’s name during the faux assassination staged by Senator Kinsey’s associates. He had proven his loyalty. As a man, Jack could be forgiving, even kind. As an Air Force Colonel, he was obligated to be suspicious.

“What do your sources have on this Malcolm Janus guy?” Jack asked as he thumbed idly through the pages of the report. He knew Smith was sweating at the delay and a part of him was happy to let the man squirm. If his abilities were genuine, a bit of discomfort could work in Jack’s favor.

“Malcolm Janus is a rogue element. Barrett refused to tell me anything beyond the fact that he has corporate and political connections in Maine.”

“Assuming he knows more,” Jack qualified for the benefit of those that might be listening.

Hammond smiled enigmatically at the jab.

“So Barrett is convinced that Janus is a threat to national security and is aware of or in possession of certain classified materials?” Jack summarized.

The General’s features dissolved into an impassive mask.

Jack rubbed wearily at his stiff neck. How Malcolm Janus might have come in contact with Naquadah, let alone incorporated it into a WMD, was the question of the hour. If Smith was really on to something, they did not have time to consider the sensibilities of Halsey and his associates. The widening circle of those who knew about the Stargate program made Jack more nervous then he cared to admit to Hammond or anyone else. This was not the first time, and Jack doubted it would be the last, that the Goa’uld had attempted to establish a foothold on earth. Incidents with Set and Osiris came readily to mind and he fought down a reflexive shudder. “Time to get down to it then.”

“I’ll be monitoring the interview from here,” the General advised. “And Jack, you should know that I’ve spoken to agent Barrett since you left. He will be watching the interview as well and has been given the list of key words. Should Mr. Smith mention any of them during his interview, you will be given full authority over the situation.”

“Halsey will love that.”

“Not my problem,” Hammond replied blandly.

“Yes, Sir.” The list of ‘key words’ the General referred to was short and committed to Jack’s memory. Barrett was the only person in the facility that should have knowledge of them.

Jack squared his shoulders and walked out into the short hall, which lead to the observation room. He pressed a button on the panel beside the door and announced himself to the guard inside. A low hum sounded and the door popped. Jack walked in and rounded the end of the table. He stopped with his back to the mirror and sized Smith up for the first time in person.

The subject’s eyes raked over Jack’s civilian wardrobe of jeans, muted blue and green flannel shirt and lined leather jacket. He did not bother to hide his doubt or disdain. “Why am I being held?”

Jack masked his unease with a faint smile. “Because you seem to have a very vivid imagination.”

Smith laughed mirthlessly, “You don’t know the half of it.”

“You told some friends of mine an interesting story. Care to repeat it?”

“Friends? Funny, they’ve never mentioned you before.”

Jack pulled out a second chair from the table and sat down. “We go back.”

“I haven’t slept since Saturday night.”

“Really?” Jack folded his arms. “Sleep deprivation will do wonders for the brain.”

Resentment shadowed Smith’s features. His large hands moved to his lap and clasped tightly together. “From the beginning?”

“That’s usually a good place to start.”

“I’m sure you’ve read a report detailing what I’m about to say.”

“I like to draw my own conclusions.”

“You think I’m a fake,” Smith’s eerie blue eyes caught and held Jack’s, “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Really?” Jack challenged.

“Really.”
*****

March 4-5, 2006
Fort Kent, Maine
*****

John Smith had always loved dogs. His mother’s allergies had prevented him from having one as a child. Adult life was too busy with work and social activities before the coma. He had interacted with animals several times since the onset of the visions and concluded that the imagery was simply too chaotic for a sentient mind.

Attending the start of a sled dog race had been a long-term ambition for John. Made more imperative by the realities of his situation. Walt and Sarah’s 9th wedding anniversary coincided nicely with the kick off of the 12th annual Can Am Crown International Sled Dog Race in Fort Kent, Maine. John had jumped at the chance to share the novel experience with his son and best friend Bruce.

The trip was a big step that John had been reluctant to take completely on his own. An afternoon at the lake or an overnight at the mansion, that was different. Walt and Sarah were a phone call away or a car ride across town. Fort Kent was a solid six-hour drive. Walt and Sarah were driving to Boston for the weekend, putting an even greater distance between them all. John was nervous but resolved and Bruce’s tactical withdrawal at the last minute had provided the final push. The race would be the first full father and son weekend since revealing JJ’s paternity a year and a half earlier.

John picked up JJ just after 8 a.m. Friday morning and kept his personal anxieties at bay with a constant dialogue about sports and the latest video games. JJ finally laid his mind to rest with an unexpected pronouncement that dogs were his favorite animals and that the trip was ‘a really cool idea’.

Fort Kent in Aroostook Country was located at the top of the state. It was markedly colder than Cleaves Mills, which benefited from coastal breezes. The frost in the air and the intermittent snow flurries did not distract JJ. His enthusiasm allowed John to temporarily forget the pressures of Greg Stillson’s campaign and the looming threat of Malcolm Janus.

Race day dawned bright and clear. The crowd was boisterous, the dogs energized by the excitement in the air. JJ was usually a quiet child, his mother’s protests notwithstanding. John saw a different person emerge as the afternoon waned. His son was as curious about the sport and the people who participated in it as John had ever been about science. JJ eagerly spoke to mushers and spectators alike. He absorbed every nuance and shared his observations with John in the motel room late into the night. Neither father nor son was eager to leave the next morning. They lingered in Fort Kent until mid-afternoon. The drive back was leisurely and pitted with stops to observe local wildlife and stretch their legs.

The sun had long since set when Hogan’s Quickstop, an ordinary looking building sided white with blue trim, appeared around a bend. A flashing neon sign slung in the window advertised fresh sandwiches, soup and coffee. John sighed wearily and eased off the road. The asphalt beneath the thin layer of powdery snow was cracked and an orange road cone sat in a large hole on one side of the driveway. John steered his Rover beneath the awning and stopped.

“Mom says this thing is a gas pig, Johnny.”

John grimaced. He agreed but he kept the large vehicle on the assumption that he would need the power and off-road capability in the future. “She’s right,” he said as he slid off the seat. “You want to get a hot chocolate?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay. Let me fill up and we’ll go inside.”

John’s watch read 8:03 p.m. as he spun the Rover’s gas cap into place and closed the hatch. They were about half way home. Walt and Sarah would be expecting a call. He winced, struck by the selfish urge to ignore common courtesy. The weekend had been such a pleasure. The realities of Cleaves Mills and his place in it hung like a shroud, drawn close and falling in heavy folds as if to suffocate the fragile connections strengthened between himself and JJ. For a moment John resented—hated—what the Bannerman family unit represented.

He huffed a sigh and forced the belligerent musings to the back of his mind. Viewing this time with JJ as anything less than his right would be unfair to both of them. This was his life and, despite appearances, no one had ever tried to steal it.

“Johnny?” JJ asked timidly.

“Yeah, let’s get that hot chocolate!”

His son scrambled out of the truck wearing a huge grin on his round face. “Maybe a sandwich?”

“Bottomless pit?” John teased as he pulled open the door of the store.

“That’s what mom says!”

The inside of Hogan’s was a sharp contradiction from the dilapidated exterior. Clean, high shelves defined several narrow aisles and a Deli counter formed the back wall. A variety of staple household products were interspersed with packaged foods. Pet food and cleaning products shared the last row with a small selection of home repair items. John smiled at the rolls of duct tape stacked neatly beside a tray of fishing lures and a display of wrenches. Hogan’s was a general store in the truest sense of the word.

“Dessert?” JJ hinted as they approached the Deli.

John noticed the stack of brownies sitting on a plate behind the glass. “Sandwich,” he reiterated in his best paternal tone.

JJ grinned. “I won’t tell.”

“Uh huh. Come on, what do you want?”

“Can I help you fellas with something?”

John nodded to the woman behind the counter. “Yes, I’ll take a medium container of the tomato macaroni soup.” He looked at JJ.

“A small turkey sandwich with mayonnaise and lettuce.”

“No tomato?” John asked, already knowing the answer and waiting for the disgusted scowl with secret pleasure.

“Ick!” JJ declared.

The woman shared a laugh with John. “Be ready in a minute.”

“JJ, stay here and wait for the food. I’ll get your hot chocolate.”

“’kay.”

Still chuckling, John made his way towards the row of coffee urns and the cappuccino machine at the front of the store. Soup and coffee sounded very appealing in light of the dropping temperatures and the long drive still ahead.

A middle-aged man dressed in a long oilcloth coat and a blue wool ski cap stood to one side of the urns. He pinched his chin with a forefinger and thumb as he contemplated the choices available over the thick metal frames of his glasses.

“Tough decision,’ John casually remarked as he reached for a small cup.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.”

John filled the cup with hot chocolate from the cappuccino machine. He grabbed a larger cup for himself and turned to the urn marked ‘Southern Pecan’.

“Any good?” the man asked.

“Yes. One of my favorite flavors actually.”

“I see.”

John filled his cup and reached for the pitcher of half and half. The man stepped forward, his shoulder brushing against John’s upraised arm.

***The room felt large and open. The harsh, white light that fell from the ceiling panels high above was centered over a table crowded with an assortment of folders, notebooks and writing implements. On the verge of the pool of light two computers with glowing amber keyboards shared a countertop, which was bolted to the wall. Numbers and words scrawled across one screen in seemingly random patterns. The other displayed a rotating 3D image of an electronic device. One end of the two-part cylindrical construct was studded with antennas and wires. A digital display at the opposite end read 00:00.

John stepped forward and bent to study the materials on the table. A door slammed and he instinctively stepped back into the shadows.

The innocuous looking man from Hogan’s Quickstop walked out of the murky depths of the room. A large, unmarked metal case rested heavily in his arms. He deposited it with a hearty grunt on the cleanest end of the table. Whistling faintly, he pressed both thumbs on one corner of the case. A faint snap sounded and a small panel popped open to reveal a keypad. The man punched in a series of numbers and a sigh of air hissed out.

John walked around behind the man and looked over his shoulder.

The lid of the case tipped back on silent hinges. The man smiled and ran light fingers over the silver cylinder nestled in the black foam padding inside the case.

John looked to the computer screen, confirming that the object displayed digitally was identical to the one in the case. The sole difference being that the wires and antennas were neatly concealed behind several panels set into the smooth, silver skin.

Leaving the lid open, the man crossed to the computer terminal displaying text and began to type. The screen flickered and the text and numbers vanished. Top Secret: Eyes Only flashed in bold, red letters and a box appeared. The man snorted beneath his breath as he clicked the cursor into the box and typed. Asterisks filled the box and the screen changed again. Area 51 flashed above a list. He scrolled down and hit enter. A spinning logo and another password box appeared in the center of the screen. “Ha! Gotcha!” the man chortled. He typed and the spinning logo faded into a list of text in neat boxes.

“Progress?”

The voice was familiar. Low, carefully measured tones with just a hint of arrogance to sharpen the query. John’s blood ran cold.

The man in front of the computer turned and peered over his glasses at the new arrival. A frown pulled at his lips and his hands moved to clasp neatly behind his back. “Yes, Sir.”

Malcolm Janus strolled into the pool of light and stopped beside the table. He flipped through two of the folders and paused to study a diagram in one of the notebooks. His expression remained neutral as he turned and examined the device in the box. “You were successful in accessing the SGC inventory using the passwords I provided?” he inquired without looking up.

“Yes, Sir. Just now in fact.” The man restlessly shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I’ve located the Naquadah and our man should be able to affect transfer within the next 24 hours.”

“On schedule then.” Janus’ long fingers glided over the cylinder and rested on the blank digital display. “The device will be ready.”

It was not a question. “Yes, Sir.”

“Have faith, Dr. Martin.” The smile that slid across Janus’ thin lips lacked humor or warmth. “I do.” ***

John dropped his coffee and stumbled back against the cappuccino machine.

Dr. Martin stared at him, a curious and vaguely alarmed expression clouding his features. “Hey, are you okay? Did you burn yourself?”

John blinked rapidly to clear the latent image overlaying the reality of the brightly lit room. He pulled in a shaky breath, fighting the icy thrills of panic. Janus was close, too close. The stranger holding out a wad of napkins to sop the coffee off of his coat cuff was somehow linked to an evil John was only beginning to understand. The urge to protect JJ was overwhelming.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dr. Martin touched John’s shoulder.

***Alone now, the doctor smiled as his hands caressed the cylinder in the box. His fingertips touched the digital display and numbers glowed to life, staining the flesh blood red. The color seeped out of the box and tinted everything on the table. It dripped onto the floor, growing brighter as it raced across the concrete and into the darkness. A low hum filled the room and John looked up to discover the wall behind the computers pulsing deep amber. It blew apart in eerie silence.

John raised his arms in an unconscious attempt to shield himself from the blast. Chunks of concrete, glass and molten metal flew past and through his body. He jerked spasmodically and spun in place, gaping in horror as the room disintegrated. Through the haze, he glimpsed the outline of the Washington Mall. The reflecting pool evaporated and the Lincoln Memorial disappeared completely behind a cloud of steam. The monolith of the Washington monument reached a stoic finger into a sky of crimson and burnt umber. Flames climbed higher as stone and metal melted into a pile of slag…***

“Johnny, what’s the matter?”

The sound of JJ’s voice brought reality crashing down over John’s consciousness in a chilly wave. He wiped shaking fingers across his mouth. Armageddon. The imagery was unmistakable, the crescendo of his racing pulse adding another layer of certainty. Tiny stars scattered across John’s vision, the familiar harbingers of a migraine he had not experienced in over six months. He swallowed a desperate moan and forced himself to stand up straight. “Fine,” he whispered.

Dr. Martin eyed him dubiously. “You better clean off your coat. I’ve got the floor.”

“Thanks.” John looked at JJ, who was holding their food and watching him very closely. “All set?”

The boy opened his mouth, shot the doctor a sideways glance, and closed his lips without a word.

John willed JJ silent gratitude for his discretion and gestured him towards the cash register. He could not look at Dr. Martin. There were too many questions spinning through his pounding skull. He had to get away and think.

“Sorry about the mess,” John muttered to the cashier.

“No harm done. How’s your hand?”

“Fine.”

“You want another coffee? On the house.”

“Uh, no, thank you.” John shrugged away an involuntary tremor and turned to JJ. “Did you get your hot chocolate?”

“I’ve got it here.” Dr. Martin appeared near John’s elbow and slid the cup across the counter.

“Thanks!” JJ enthused.

“You’re welcome.”

John carefully avoided touching the hot chocolate cup and paid the bill. He smiled politely at the clerk and the doctor and hustled his son out into the cold without a backward glance.

JJ did not speak until they had pulled out of the parking lot and Hogan’s Quickstop had disappeared into the darkness. His words were muffled by a bite of sandwich but the concern was clear. “Johnny, are you sure you’re okay?”

The promised headache had eradicated John’s appetite. The soup sat untouched in the cup holder, the Styrofoam container a painfully bright blob in his peripheral vision. John swallowed down nausea and concentrated on the road. “No,” he managed dully. Not even close.
*****

March 6, 2006
The Remote Viewing Program
Mount Garnet, Vermont
1501 hours
*****

The retelling of his fantastic tale had altered John Smith’s appearance. A thin sheen of sweat dampened his temples and upper lip. The pasty skin was tight around his mouth and his eyes had lost their peculiar glint. His large hands rested on the tabletop and he stared, unblinking, at the folded fingers.

Jack considered his next move. If the story were a hoax, then Smith was one of the finest actors Jack had ever seen. Nervous, irritated and plainly disturbed by the events he described, John’s performance ranked right up there with Teal’c’s during the height of his brainwashing by Apophis.

The story contained references that no one outside of the SGC or Area 51 should know. Like the Mount Garnet facility, both installations were classified to the highest degree. Security was tight but not impenetrable, as evidenced by several incidents involving rogue scientists and NID operatives. How much did Smith actually know and how much was supposition based on conjecture? So far only one of the ‘key words’ had been mentioned but Jack’s instincts were screaming that there was more information to be had.

Malcolm Barrett’s file included a full work up of John’s family and friends, home and haunts. This was standard operating procedure for any subject being monitored by the NID. It would be easier to question Smith’s credibility if JJ Bannerman had not been part of the incident. Jack unfolded his arms and stood up. Easier but not impossible. He paced around to the front of the table and put his back to the mirror. “What did you tell JJ after you left Hogan’s?”

“Nothing,” John answered stonily.

“You sat in your car for three hours and never said a word to your own son?” At John’s silent denial, Jack lunged forward and slammed his palms down on the table.

Smith gasped and sat back. A strangled moan vibrated deep in his throat and the strange blue eyes glistened with tears. He blinked and the emotion abruptly vanished. “You know all that I know,” he breathed.

What the hell was that? Jack kept his features carefully neutral as he picked out a pen from the jar on the table. He walked the length of the room, twirling the implement between his fingers and keeping John’s reflection firmly fixed in his periphery. “Why did you call Harriet Stone when you got home?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” John snapped, all trace of distress gone. “It probably wasn’t one of my better ideas.”

Jack smiled cynically as he turned and leaned into the corner of the room. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Why did I call?” John dragged a hand down over his face. The laughter seeping between his fingers was tinged with hysteria.

Jack suppressed an uneasy shiver. According to Barrett’s file, Smith had ‘witnessed’ accidents, murders and unimaginable destruction. How much could one man take and stay sane?

“What would you have done?”

Jack pushed off the wall. He saw little harm in admitting the obvious. “I would have asked questions.”

“I did.”

“Why today? Why not a dozen times since your previous stay at this facility?” Jack took a step forward. “If you are what you say you are, then this isn’t the first time you’ve seen something unusual, is it?”

“WhatIsay…” John repeated, an odd little smile lifting his lips.

The characterization had tasted wrong in Jack’s mouth but he could not afford to be distracted. He crossed to the table and stopped just short of touching it. “Why did you call Harriet Stone at 12:32 this morning?”

“Because I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. I know what Area 51 is supposed to contain but the weird little logos, top Secret clearances, passwords, diagrams...” John sighed. “You know what I told Harriet.”

“And you know why I’m asking again,” Jack countered.

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger and sat back. His shoulders sagged visibly. “Consistency. Yeah, I got it.”

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

Jack looked to the guard stationed at the door. “Have your med facility send something down.” He glanced at John and added. “Something strong.”

“Yes, Sir.” The guard slipped out the door.

“Thanks,” John muttered.

Jack shrugged. “So you thought that whatever you saw was important enough to get Harriet Stone out of her warm bed and into her office in the middle of the night.” Smith shot him an irritated glare. Jack ignored it. “Are you ever wrong?”

“It’s a matter of interpretation,” John corrected after a lengthy pause. “I see what will happen. An accident, a fire, a murder…”

“The outcome of March madness?”

John groaned at the sports reference. “No.”

“You have kind of a one-track mind.”

“Not by choice.”

Jack frowned. “No stock options or lottery numbers?”

“No.”

The door hummed and the guard entered carrying a nondescript bottle and a plate with a sandwich on it. “Doc says he shouldn’t take these on an empty stomach.”

“Set it on the table,” Jack ordered. The man complied and returned to his post by the door. Jack gestured to the pitcher of water and the wrapped plastic glasses sitting at the opposite end of the table. “Bon appetit.”

Smith finished half the sandwich before popping two pills in his mouth and chasing them down with a sip of water. His pallor was off, his body language radiated tension and pain. Jack pressed the advantage in spite of an instinctive surge of compassion. “So you’ve been wrong before.”

“There is a bomb. I saw it.”

“What is Naquadah?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then you could have misunderstood.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” John pounded his fist on the table and the guard’s hand dropped to his holstered weapon.

Jack signaled the guard to stand down. “You’ve been wrong, Mr. Smith,” he persisted. “Isn’t that the truth?”

“No!”

“Alison Conover.”

John froze at the name. Sweat beaded his forehead and his voice dipped to a strained whisper. “I didn’t understand what was happening back then and…someone else did die that night. A lot of people have died since then.” A whistle of air escaped his white lips. “I have misinterpreted things on occasion but,” he looked up and a shiver crawled down Jack’s spine at the shadows lurking behind the clear, blue irises. “What I see is the truth. Every single time.”

The NID file backed up the declaration. Jack believed him but he would not openly concede. Not yet. “Did you see anything else?”

“I didn’t have a chance.”

“You still had the hot chocolate cup. Or did your son take it with him when you dropped him off last night?” The expression on John’s face was eerily reminiscent of Jack’s own when Aunt Martha caught him ‘tasting’ the pecan pie with his fingers on a long ago Christmas Eve. It faded quickly but Jack was quicker. “What isn’t in that report, Mr. Smith?”

“Who, or what, is a Goa’uld?”

Naquadah and now Goa’uld. Jack felt the small, hard lump of anxiety in his gut grow just a little bit larger. He held the other man’s eyes for several seconds. John turned away first but the point had been made. “Classified,” Jack replied.

“Where have I heard that before?”

“What did you see when you picked up the cup?”

“I didn’t touch the cup until after I had spoken to Harriet and she asked me to drive here to Vermont.” John pushed the plate into the center of the table and took another sip of water. “Halfway here I had to stop. The headaches…the headaches are bad when I see images like that.”

“Like what?” Jack pressed.

“Armageddon.”

In another time and place, Jack might have laughed. Nuclear winter, mushroom clouds and shelters in the basement: all of it paled in comparison to what he had learned in ten years of service to the SGC. John’s sincere assertion was a powerful reminder that Earth-bound politics could easily destroy the Stargate program. Not all of their enemies were as obvious as Senator Kinsey.

Jack retook his seat. “Go on.”

“I slept for a while and woke up around 6 a.m. I got to the mountain just before eight and stopped at the bottom of the access road.”

“The report said you logged in at,” Jack thumbed through the paperwork, “8:32 a.m.”

“I know.”

“What did you see when you touched the cup?”

“Malcolm Janus talking to Dr. Martin. It looked like the same large room where the bomb had been. The computer displays were different though. One had a schematic on it. I’m not sure what it meant. The other had a 3D image of a multi faceted crystal. It was long and pale green.” John looked up, apparently gauging Jack’s reaction before continuing. “Dr. Martin seemed concerned about something on the diagram and Janus told him that the Goa’uld depended on crystal technology and that was all that he needed to know.” John’s eyes fell to the tabletop. “Dr. Martin protested and I heard a muffled popping sound. He dropped to the floor and the vision ended.”

“A gun with a silencer,” Jack concluded. “I’m guessing Dr. Martin had served his purpose.”

John nodded.

Jack could almost hear Colonel Halsey scrambling the phone lines over Smith’s revelation. The subterfuge was certain to complicate matters and Jack silently cursed Smith’s naïveté.

An electronic bleep alerted the guard. He shared a brief, whispered conversation through the intercom before turning to Jack. “Sir?”

“What?”

“You’re needed outside.”

“Fine.” Jack looked at John. “We’ll continue this later. For now, I’ll see about some quarters for you.”

“A room with a view?” John quipped weakly as he stood.

Jack admired anyone who could hang onto a sense of humor in the face of stress. He smiled wanly and headed for the door. “I doubt it.”

He walked quickly back to the observation area and slipped inside. Harriet Stone stood in the shadows beside the monitor. She glared balefully at the now empty interrogation room. “I didn’t think he was holding anything back. I’m sorry for the deception Colonel.”

“Not your fault,” Jack excused. “But I’m afraid Smith’s confession has opened up a rather large can of worms.”

“How so?”

“Ms. Stone, I will be taking over this investigation from this point forward. All materials, written and recorded, will be turned over to Area 51 under the authority of General George Hammond.”

“Now wait just a minute! This is an Army operation with civilian oversight by the NID…”

Jack shook his head. He felt sorry for Harriet. Being a hard ass was not his favorite past time, Daniel’s claims to the contrary aside. “Malcolm Barrett contacted my superior and initiated our involvement. Mr. Smith is now under my direct control and his disposition is subject only to General Hammond’s approval. Do you understand me?”

Harriet’s jaw worked spasmodically. She came to attention and tossed off a sharp salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Jack let the attitude pass. He would have felt the same way in her position.

“Colonel?”

He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and turned to the monitor. “Sir?”

General Hammond stood in front of his desk holding a single sheet of paper. “The icing on the cake, Colonel.”

“What?”

The paper crinkled loudly in Hammond’s tightening grip. “One hour ago an unknown party or parties smuggled a sizable portion of classified material out of Area 51. If this material were to be combined with a nuclear device the resulting explosion would cause worldwide devastation.”
*****

March 6, 2006
Remote Viewing Program
Mount Garnet, Vermont
1537 hours
*****

John lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He attributed the persistent headache to stress as much as the Armageddon vision. For whatever reason, he was being allowed to sleep it off. He was grateful for the reprieve but leery. There had been no sign of Harriet or Halsey since his initial interview. Had he destroyed their trust by withholding information? How long would it take to verify his claims and what precisely did Malcolm Janus have to do with Armageddon?

John rolled over and cradled his stomach as a wave of nausea washed over him. The vision he received from the tall, gray haired man had been deeply disturbing. He recovered quickly but the man was a keen observer, not easily deterred by bluster or surprise. A moment’s hesitation proved that he was aware that John had seen something important and personal. Trust, like respect, had to be earned. The knowledge garnered in the vision could help John get the answers he needed or bury him deep enough that no one would ever find him. Speculation was pointless at this juncture and only made his physical symptoms more acute. John shut off the lamp and concentrated on relaxing his muscles and slowing his breathing. Gradually, the nausea and pain subsided.

He dozed. Outside, the complex echoed with the sounds of men and equipment. Conversations nipped at his consciousness, their meaning lost in ricochet along miles of corridors. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and felt altogether too short. John was jolted fully awake at the sharp rap of knuckles on his door. He turned on the lamp and dragged a hand through his hair, relieved that at least the headache had dissipated. “Yes?”

The gray haired man stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click. He walked over to the chair pulled up to the desk in the corner, turned it around and straddled the seat. “How does Malcolm Janus tie into Armageddon?”

“What?”

“You saw D.C in flames. What’s Janus’ connection?” the man repeated impatiently.

John swung his legs to the floor and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I think I do.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“You’re the psychic.”

John bit back a curse. “If I had all the answers, don’t you think I would have done something about it?”

“Like?”

“Are you serious?”

“When I have to be.”

John barked a laugh and was rewarded by a tight-lipped smile. It was a start. “Do you know anything about Senator Harlan Ellis and what happened to his daughter late last summer?” he ventured.

“Chappaquiddick for the new millennium?”

John smirked at the description. “Malcolm Janus has taken control of Congressman Stillson’s political career. I believe he orchestrated the engagement of Miranda Ellis and Stillson. She tried to break off the relationship but Janus’ people stepped in. I don’t know what they said or did but…”

“Is there a point here?”

“Yes,” John said patiently. “Janus contacted me the day Stillson announced his engagement.”

“How?”

“He broke into my home and left a bible for me to find. When I touched it I received a vision of Janus himself. It’s the first and only time I’ve seen him.”

“Vision?”

The skepticism was anticipated but it grated nonetheless. John strove for calm. “Janus read a bible verse. It was an invitation to join Stillson and himself. ‘Thou shalt be the third ruler in the kingdom’. I don’t know what Janus has planned but the second time I touched the bible…” He let the sentence dangle and watched the embers of understanding spark to flames in the older man’s dark brown eyes.

“Armageddon,” he whispered more to himself.

John nodded. “I’ve been trying to sort this out for three years. The possibility that I may have stumbled on the key is as much of a surprise to me as it would be to you,” He rose and crossed to the desk, which held a pitcher of water, several glasses and a bowl of fruit. “Drink?”

“A good stiff one would be nice.” The man stood up and turned to face him. “Water will have to do.”

“I hear ya’.” John passed him a full glass.

***The colors and textures of the room vanished in a brilliant white flare. John lay on a hard, smooth surface. His retinas burned from the light and pain arcing across his nerves. Sudden twinges spawned convulsions and he bit his tongue to stifle a scream. A low, throbbing hum spread from beneath him. Crawling up and over his body and singeing the skin like flame. He writhed and scratched but the light hid a solid wall and a low ceiling. His fingers curled into grasping claws and fell down onto his chest. The sound level increased without warning. Higher, sharper until he heard two distinct pops. Suddenly there was silence and wetness oozed from his ears and soaked his hair.

The platform began to vibrate, harder and faster with each heartbeat. John’s head pounded heavily against the unyielding surface and his limbs thrashed beyond control. The breath was jerked from his lungs and his fingernails tore as he struggled to hold still. The light flashed rapid-fire blinks in conjunction with the motion, each pulse brighter than the last. He screamed and the light faded abruptly to a deceptively warm orange.

He lay on the floor. The walls around him rose seamlessly up to an opening shaped like an octagon. A man stared down. His features were aristocratic, cool and clean beneath a thin mustache. John stared back, hypnotized by the dark eyes. The man smiled and raised a hand bejeweled by an intricate metal bracelet with a ring centered in his palm.

“We will begin again.”

Flame blossomed in the ring and John heard the words over and over as it arced down and erupted in his chest… ***

John reeled backwards. He hit the wall hard and slid to the floor, gasping painfully into his palm.

“What the hell?” the older man exclaimed as he stepped forward and held out a hand. John waved off the assistance and sat very still. His heart slammed heavily in his chest and blood roared a throbbing cataract in his ears. The remains of the images painted the room in shades of crimson and umber. He blinked rapidly, hoping the shadows and light would settle into focus as the nightmare receded.

Torture? Who possessed a weapon like that? The man with the bracelet looked Middle Eastern or possibly European. What kind of cell had he been in? It seemed to defy gravity itself. The light, the noise and the pain! John looked up, horrified and humbled by the vision and what it could mean to the man who had lived it.

“You okay or what?” the man asked from his seat on the bed.

Using the wall for support, John stood up and made his way back to the desk. He poured a glass of water and drained it, not speaking until the chilly liquid had spread a comforting numbness across his chest. “I think so.”

“What was that all about?”

“I saw something. I’m guessing it was a vision of your past.” John swiped a hand across his damp lips. “I can’t begin to describe it.”

“Don’t bother.”

John turned the chair around and sat down. He sensed a thin bond of trust underlying the cryptic reply and hoped it was enough to open the door. “Would you tell me your name? ‘Hey you’ just doesn’t sound right.”

“Colonel Jack O’Neill, United States Air Force,” Jack offered with the hint of a smile.

The clothes and unpredictable behavior were meant to spawn confusion and had succeeded handily. John silently accepted the accomplishment. “Nice to meet you, Colonel.”

A moment’s hesitation and then, “Jack is fine.”

“Then call me John.” He grinned sheepishly. “Mr. Smith sounds a bit false even to me.”

“Fair enough.”

“So something must have happened or you wouldn’t be back here so soon.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Soon? You’ve been sleeping for 12 hours.”

“What?”

The smile briefly touched Jack’s eyes. “It’s already been a hell of a long day, lighten up.”

“I left my sense of humor in my other pants.”

“It’s 1720.”

“I might have gotten an hour and a half,” John mused. He smothered a yawn. “So what’s next?”

“You’ve gained some credibility. How much and whether it will last is up to you.” Jack stood and paced to the door.

Now that the cat was out of the proverbial bag, Jack O’Neill’s bearing and manner indicated that he was a career officer. His choice to stand in shadow was deliberate camouflage. John respected the process but the irritating sensation that he was caught in a trap persisted, making it hard to keep an even tone. “What does the Air Force want from me? I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Know?”

The word was bait. John dismissed it out of hand and dropped his eyes to the floor. “Dr. Martin said that this Naquadah would be smuggled out of Area 51 within 24 hours. I’m assuming there has been some sort of security breach?”

Silence.

“You know I’m not making that part of the story up at least?”

More silence.

“Look, I didn’t ask for this information to fall into my lap. I sure as hell didn’t ask to be deprived of a decent night’s sleep and held without due process.” John glanced to the side. Jack had not moved. “I didn’t tell Harriet about the vision off of the cup because I honestly didn’t know what it meant. I was hoping she would give me some feedback about what I described in the first two visions. Something I could add to what I already know about Stillson and Janus.”

“Your own private war?”

Put into words the concept sounded foolish at best. “Not exactly what I had planned for my life,” John confessed.

“Best laid plans.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” He knew the answer even before the almost imperceptible shake of the Colonel’s head. “Given what I just saw, I’m not surprised.”

“Need to know.”

The words were laced with regret. John nodded into his palm, acknowledging the sentiment. “The longer I stay here, the bigger the chance that I’ll find out information I shouldn’t.” He stood up but kept his distance. “I made a mistake in not speaking up but I apparently said enough to raise the right set of eyebrows.”

“You did.”

“So now what?” John asked carefully. “Do I just disappear?”

Jack snorted beneath his breath. “We’re not the CIA and this is not a police state.”

“Well, I need to go to Area 51 if you want me to help track the Naquadah.”

“Unnecessary. Two of my team are already en-route.”

“Okay, fine, then how do I prop up my credibility? My ability works by touch.” He tried to catch Jack’s eye but the older man would not be pinned.

“If you were in my place, John, what would you do?”

He would have laughed but for the Colonel’s somber tone. “I would listen,” John counseled softly. “After all, what do you have to lose?”

The Colonel did not reply. Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped back into the light. “You and I are going back to northern Maine and try and come at this situation from both ends.”

John forced frustration to the back of his tired mind. He eyed the officer from sole to hairline and slowly shook his head. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“A better question might be, do you trust me?”
*****

Somewhere over northern New England
2040 hours
*****

The atmosphere outside the jet’s windows was alive with snow-heavy storm clouds. A spate of turbulence caused the floor to shudder and dip beneath Jack’s feet. He braced his hands against the wall for balance and waited for the plane to level out. The necessity of reporting in to General Hammond had compelled him to abandon the security of his seat for the small office suite behind the cockpit and now he was forced to wait a full five minutes before crossing into the wider passenger cabin. The chartered Leer was nicely appointed and well stocked. The snowstorms disturbed what would have otherwise been a very pleasant trip.

Jack sank into his seat with a heavy sigh and looked across the aisle at the sleeping John Smith.

“How do you feel about airplanes?”

“The same as most people, I guess.”

Jack rolled his eyes. The question had been the first and only attempt either of them made at casual conversation on the drive from Garnet Mountain to the Rutland regional airport. He had anticipated a pronouncement of disaster or the reassurance of a safe trip—not a casual statement of the obvious. John did not seem distressed at the prospect of boarding the plane or the idea of reliving what had to be a very difficult experience. Instead, he appeared resigned to wait and Jack wondered just how much patience one man could possess. The trait had always been in short supply in the O’Neill household.

Smith shifted in his sleep and coughed. Jack looked away, flush with embarrassment that he had been caught staring even though John had not cracked an eyelid. The realization that he had any expectations regarding Smith’s behavior disturbed Jack almost as much as John’s reticence. Jack hated being kept off balance and the psychic seemed to do so without effort or even awareness. In contrast to the discomfort was an indisputable aura of sincerity, fear and sympathy. John wore his heart in plain sight, which elicited a greater degree of trust than anything he had actually said. The man was a schoolteacher in his former life. One of billions of innocents Jack had sworn to protect. A soldier did not need to know the details in order to accept the necessity of sacrifice. In his own way, John had taken a similar oath. Jack respected him for doing so but he was left with a quandary. John was no longer an ordinary civilian and under the right circumstances, he could become a valuable asset to the SGC.

Delving into a stranger’s personal life went against Jack’s nature but he was duty-bound to investigate the possibility. Just who was John Smith? Did he have the ability to grasp the complexity of the war with the Goa’uld? The stamina to utilize his unique abilities when interacting with alien races? The will to let go of everything and everyone should things go wrong as they nearly had for him on Edora? Jack rose and crossed to the front of the cabin. He poured a shot of whiskey and leaned against the oak bar, appraising the sleeping man over the rim of the glass.

He could not say precisely when he started to believe Smith. The theft of the Naquadah certainly helped but talking to Stone and Halsey while transportation to Maine was arranged had been more revealing than his interview. John shouldered his fears and responsibilities without complaint. He absorbed and processed information with the efficiency of a professional and the logic of the innocent. His crisis of conscience ultimately averted a situation Halsey would only describe as disastrous. Harriet claimed that John knew more than he cared to share with any of them and that knowledge was the biggest reason he walked away.

Jack swirled his drink and took a healthy swallow. The similarities between Smith and himself were impossible to ignore. Jack depended on his team. Their mutual affection and respect carried them forward in the face of tremendous odds. He knew their fears and dreams from countless conversation shared over campfires and backyard barbeques. Bruce Lewis and the Bannerman family were a small group of devoted individuals—a team—inextricably bonded to John by fate and love. Jack understood the value of intimate relationships, platonic or otherwise. Unfortunately, he understood solitude far better. His feelings for Major Carter went beyond friendship into a place he rarely allowed himself to dwell. He wondered when or if it would ever be the right time to lay down arms and let her in. Was it the same for John?

“Is there any more where that came from?” John murmured groggily.

The question snapped Jack from reverie. Shaking off his surprise, he gestured for John to stay seated while he topped off his own glass and filled another. “Get any sleep?” he asked conversationally as he handed John his drink.

The younger man’s fingers curled around the glass and tightened. His gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Jack’s left shoulder and held for a few seconds before sliding down to the floor. “Some,” he answered eventually. He swallowed a mouthful of liquor, “Thanks.”

Jack took note of the lapse and sat down. “I’m surprised you drink.”

“Once in a while.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“You would be surprised.” John rose and disappeared into the lavatory at the back of the plane. When he reappeared several minutes later, his face was damp and his hair neatly combed. The freshening did little to mask the haunted look in his eyes.

“Jack, you asked me a question earlier.”

“Uh huh.”

“The answer is yes.”

” A better question might be, do you trust me?”Jack’s mind spun backwards, reliving the earlier incidents in the observation room, John’s quarters and now the plane in a few frenzied seconds. “Why?” he demanded, unwilling to completely hide his confusion.

John sighed raggedly. “Because of what I saw and felt when you touched the table during my interrogation.”

Jack looked away. The implications of the statement ran deep and wide. He could not explain any vision John might have had regarding his professional life. His personal life was none of the psychic’s business and he instantly resented the intrusion, however inadvertent if might have been.

“I’ve seen part of your hell, Colonel,” John continued softly. “It looks too much like mine for you to lie.”

Jack had little patience for riddles and John seemed oblivious to the hint of silence. He shifted in his seat and refused to meet the psychic’s restless gaze.

John sat forward. “I saw your son Charlie. I saw him take the gun out of your closet in the bedroom.”

Ire frothed bile into the back of Jack’s constricting throat. He focused on John’s chin, afraid of what he might say—or do—were he to meet the other man’s gaze.

“It looked like he was just curious to see how it worked.” A sigh shuddered through John, “I can’t imagine…”

No, you can’t. Jack forced his jaw to unclench and took a bracing swallow of liquor.

“I almost lost JJ once to a virus…”

“Charlie is dead!” Jack exploded. “JJ isn’t! Why the hell are you telling me this?”

Sorrow glinted in the ice-blue eyes. “I can’t control what I see.”

“Does that lack of control extend to your mouth?”

“I’m telling you this because I made a mistake earlier and the only way I can correct it is to prove that I’m a human being—a father—just like you are!”

The retort was vehement and bold. John clearly recognized the risk of bringing up Charlie and he seemed prepared to take the consequences. Jack doubted he would ever realize how close he had come to having his cheek stove in by a vicious mid-western jab. Jack’s relief at not having to explain the Stargate program did not mitigate the pain the subject caused. He accepted the sentiments of John’s explanation but the effort and the anger were exhausting.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your son,” John added quietly.

A part of Jack yearned to be decisively cruel. The reaction was patently unfair however and he squelched it without quarter. “I read about your accident,” he murmured into the weighty silence.

“And?”

“I know what you’ve missed.” Jack looked down into his empty glass. “Don’t miss anything else.”

“I may not have any choice.”

He looked up and waited for Smith to explain.

“Up until last night I had no idea how Armageddon came about. Two years ago I met…” John paused, frowning deeply, “I saw a man named Christopher Wey. He promised to explain the details in exchange for some help in protecting his family. Everything turned out fine for them but not for Christopher. In the end, he couldn’t tell me anything except that I might somehow be responsible for some future atrocity.”

Jack pressed his back into the seat, grateful for the change in subject. “Go on.”

“I’ve seen the bomb and I know Malcolm Janus is controlling Congressman Stillson. I think he has been ever since James Stillson’s death.” At Jack’s puzzled expression, John elaborated. “James Stillson is Greg’s father and he was found dead in his hotel room ten months ago.”

“Not an accident?”

“No.”

Jack swallowed the urge to ask how John knew the truth. If there were proof available, he would have heard the details on the evening news long ago. “So, Janus’ influence extends where and to whom?”

“He’s behind The Faith Heritage Alliance’s recent expansion into the global broadcasting markets.”

“Friends of yours?” Jack guessed.

“Yes. Reverend Gene Purdy has known my family for…a very long time.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow at the hesitation and filed it away for future reference.

John drank the rest of his whiskey and stared hard at the floor. “I believe Malcolm Janus is directly responsible for Alex Connors’ death at Portland Chemical and why no one has seen his assistant Trey Walters since the funeral.”

“Who is Alex Connors?” Jack interjected. He was willing to go along as John sorted out the scenario but he needed a scorecard for all the unfamiliar names and places.

“A former student of mine.”

“And how do you know his assistant is missing?”

John went to the bar and poured half a glass of liquor. “I asked around.”

“You think Walters sold a copy of Alex’s research to Janus?”

“Yes.”

Jack contemplated the tan, short knap beneath their feet. John had a remarkably suspicion mind for a layman. “What does this have to do with the current situation?”

John drank half the liquor in his glass and sighed, visibly shaken. “I had a vision of the future before Alex was killed. In that vision an Air Force general revealed that research done at Portland Chemical had enabled the military to develop polymers capable of containing the core of a tactical nuclear weapon.”

“You think Dr. Martin used Alex’s research to construct the device you saw in the warehouse?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“Anything is possible,” Jack noted with a depth he knew would confuse Smith. The events surrounding Malcolm Janus and Alex Connors partially explained how an explosive device capable of incorporating Goa’uld technology could be developed in the private sector without the knowledge of anyone at Area 51 or the SGC. The Air Force’s involvement in this possible future did not faze Jack. He was intimately familiar with the pros and cons of the military world.

The oak cabinet creaked loudly as John shifted his weight against it. “I was a science teacher but the stuff in those diagrams and on the table was far beyond anything I ever taught my students.”

“I know the feeling,” Jack commiserated, his thoughts turning to a hundred one-sided conversations with Major Carter. He shook himself, disturbed at how easy it was to become distracted and not liking the pensive glint in Smith’s eyes. “What?”

John pointed to his empty glass. “Refill?”

Jack looked at the proffered hand and stood up. “I’ll get it.”

“It doesn’t always work.”

“You must be a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.” John poured a finger width of whiskey in his glass and set the bottle down with a deliberate thump.

Jack waited until the psychic was seated again before picking up the bottle. He poured half a shot and put the liquor away. “We’ll be on the ground in less than an hour,” he explained.

John nodded into his glass.

“So,” Jack sank into his seat, searching for the right word and finally giving up with a shrug. “ This power or whatever, it’s random? You have no idea when you’ll see something? You can’t control it?” The questions made Jack feel like the kind of miscreant cultured by the rogue elements of the NID. He suddenly wanted a long, hot shower to wash away the stench.

“I’ve learned how to navigate through my visions. I can touch an object more than once and with rare exceptions, I never get the same vision twice.” John’s eyes wandered around the cabin as he spoke in a low monotone. “I’ve tracked down missing people and objects this way. Learned a lot of secrets I wish I didn’t know and gotten more questions than answers when it comes to people like Janus.” His restless gaze centered on Jack. “Sometimes there is a correlation between a conversation and a vision but I can’t predict that.”
*****

Northern Maine
2210 hours
*****

John hated the feeling of being under a magnifying glass. It set memories of teenage curfews and School Board review sessions loose and tearing about his fretful brain. He knew exactly why Colonel Jack O’Neill USAF was asking such pointed questions about his abilities. The man was as subtle as a 2x4 to the brainpan. He was also direct and honest—to the extent he was allowed to be. The circumstances could have been worse but that did not make them any easier to bear.

“It’s 60 miles to Hogan’s Quickstop,” Jack announced as he stowed a laptop in the backseat of the maroon Chevy Blazer parked outside the gates of the small, private airstrip. He slid behind the wheel and scouted the unfamiliar controls with a glance before starting the engine.

John buckled his seatbelt and leaned back in the seat. He was mentally and physically exhausted. Too much had happened in the last 24 hours. Three years of constant pursuit could be nearing its end. He expected to feel relief, rage, even a perverse sense of joy.

He felt nothing at all.

The Blazer’s tires spun a rooster tale of snow as they powered through the drift edging the road. Jack turned left and stepped hard on the gas. The big V6 roared and the lights of the field disappeared into the haze of fresh falling snow.

“You should get some more sleep. If this weather keeps up we’ve got at least an hour and a half ahead of us,” Jack advised as he thumbed the power button on the radio. “I’ll keep it low.”

“Can’t sleep,” John rubbed his gritty eyes and stared at the swirls of snowflakes aglow in the headlights. His head ached and his right leg was shooting pains up into his hip. The closer they got to Hogan’s, the more his body seemed to rebel. “The store will be closed when we get there,” he said, falling back on the practical for distraction. “I won’t necessarily be able to get a hit from the door and I don’t know if Dr. Martin pumped any gas.”

Jack’s smile was glacial in the green dash lighting. “B and E, John.”

“Huh?”

“Breaking and Entering.”

“Why?”

“Because the purpose of this little jaunt is not something the Air Force would like to talk about, which lets out using my credentials. And I really don’t expect the local to keep their mouths shut if I turn up on their doorsteps at midnight either.”

“The store owner could sign a non-disclosure statement like I did when I left the Remote Viewing Program.”

Jack scowled. “I don’t think we have the time.”

John gave up the argument and let his eyes close halfway. The dashboard lights were bright, the darkness a comfort against the dull throb at the front of his skull. His mind drifted to the memories of the visions he had received from Jack. Fatigue had dulled the images but the lingering emotions were inexplicably poignant and sent tiny shocks shimmying down his spine.

The unbridled pain of Charlie O’Neill dying in his hospital bed as his parents held his small hands. The fear and desperation elicited by the unknown figure wearing the gold bracelet and the incongruities of the cell. The longing and regret as the tall, blond officer walked through the door in front of him and took the hand of another man.

Three different kinds of hell. It was not fair that one man should know so much so intimately. John felt a touch of pity for Jack and a unique kind of kinship. “Harriet told you I quit the Remote Viewing Program after my first assignment?” he whispered.

“She told me.”

The affirmation was tinged with disappointment but not surprise. John swallowed a sigh. “You were fishing earlier.”

“Part of the job.”

“You don’t strike me as the recruiter type.”

“I’m not.”

“So, why?”

Jack spared him a quick glance. “You don’t really expect an answer.”

“I was fishing too,” John conceded with a shrug.

“I know and now it’s my turn to ask why.”

“Human nature.”

“You must piss a lot of people off.” Jack observed.

“Only the ones that matter. My friends usually take it in stride.” John wondered at the truth of the statement even as it rolled off his tongue. Bruce, Sarah and especially Walt, had all voiced their unease at his inadvertent probing. Sometimes he hated the affect his unruly brain had on their lives.

“Patient bunch.”

“Usually.” John hit seek on the radio and paused it on an oldies station. Marvin Gay’s “I heard it through the Grapevine” poured out of the speaker. The irony of the title forced a shiver down his spine.

“I would like to tell you more, John.”

“Because I could be useful?” Shadows chased across the Colonel’s stony features, making John instantly regret the acrid rejoinder. “Sorry.”

“I think you could handle it and I think you deserve to know,” Jack clarified quietly. “You’ve been going at this alone for a very long time.”

“I’m not alone.”

Jack’s eyes sought John’s in the mirror. His lips moved, seeming on the verge of speech and then pressed into a thin, pale line as he looked away.

The Colonel’s point was obvious. Friends, family, the world, stood apart from both of them. Held at bay by circumstance or fate. A quote from a long forgotten source flitted through John’s mind as he stared moodily out the window. “We all die alone.”

“Yes.”

John blushed into his cupped palm, embarrassed to have spoken aloud. He had reached the conclusion long ago and never shared it, not even with Bruce who knew and saw more than anyone else. He believed that he would face Stillson and Janus alone when the end finally came. It was frightening to hear that same type of certainty inflected in the Colonel’s reply. John felt the familiar, insatiable urge to fix the situation. To concentrate on something smaller, but no less complex, than the puzzle of Armageddon. “I saw a woman when you passed me a drink on the plane earlier,” he ventured. “Tall, blond, late 30s. She was sitting on a bed talking to a dark haired man and you were watching.” He chose his next words carefully. “She means something to you.”

“You’re a nosey bastard, I’ll give you that much.”

“Maybe we don’t all have to die alone,” John contradicted gently.

“You’ve never served in the military and I don’t have the time to explain to you just how dangerous this conversation is. I suggest you drop it.”

The Colonel’s gravelly voice was thick with sorrow beneath the skim of anger. John empathized but he refused to let emotion get in the way of truth. “You told me not to waste the second chance I’ve been given with JJ. Now I’m telling you the same. I pulled a Rip Van Winkle and when I woke up the only woman I have ever truly loved was married to someone else. Waiting is just not worth the risk!”

“Sometimes we don’t get a choice,” Jack’ reminded, his voice unnaturally soft. “If you had the chance to go back and change the past, knowing what you know now, would you?”

The question sucked the air from John’s lungs. He swallowed hard and whispered, “No.”

“Neither would I.”

John shifted position to ease the ache in his hip and stared out the window. His attention turned away from the muzzy patterns of falling snow and inward to the sharper reality of his admission. No one had ever asked him point-blank if he would rewrite history given the opportunity. Hearing the question from a total stranger gave it a different kind of weight and immediacy than hearing it from a friend would have.

He had envisioned an alternate life twice since awakening from the coma. The first experience was still painfully vivid after four, long years. The stress of an impending explosion at the Old Town Mall had prompted his Dead Zone to formulate a protective vision of a stable home—two children, Sarah and himself. The mirage was imperfect and eventually erupted in a sea of flames when he sorted out a means to avert the disaster.

In the intervening years, the pain of losing Sarah had evolved into a friendship John could rely on. He liked and respected Walt and accepted his decision to start a family while continuing to co-parent JJ. The desire for that other life still reared its prickly head on occasion, however. Haunting John in the quiet, dark times and only falling completely silent when Dana and later Rebecca shared his life.

The recollection of the second incident was less detailed. The heady emotions of Bruce’s father’s funeral had pulled them both into a vision of what might have been. John saw the world through the eyes of his alter ego driven half mad by the desperation to stop Stillson’s rise to power. He died without achieving success. Afterwards, Bruce filled in the missing pieces. John did not doubt that he would have spiraled out of control without Bruce’s unconditional support. Not having that friendship in his life was inconceivable.

The possibility of Armageddon at the hands of Greg Stillson and Malcolm Janus seemed almost paltry in comparison to what he would loose were time to reverse itself. Conversely, John could not imagine what would compel Jack to accept a life without his son. No, he would not—could not—give up his abilities. Voicing the decision to Jack tolled a note of finality that thickened the air and chilled the blood. John cleared his throat and blinked away the burn of angry tears.

“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” Jack murmured.

John brushed a hand across his damp eyelashes and held his tongue. He could not decide which was more pathetic: the fact that he did not have the strength to even attempt a counter argument or the plain truth beneath all the good he had managed to accomplish.

They drove the rest of the way in silence and arrived at Hogan’s Quickstop in the throes of a full-blown snow squall.

Jack pulled past the circular driveway and parked in a relatively clear patch of ground beneath sagging pine boughs. He lowered the window and squinted back through the swirling snow at the building across the street. “I never did have very good timing.”

When John did not answer, Jack turned away from the window. His face was cast half in shadow by the dashboard lights, the skewed stare intense but oddly compassionate. “Are you ready for this?”

John summoned up the ghost of a smile and reached for the door handle.

The wind came in fits and starts, lifting the snow up and spinning it outwards in a hail of needle sharp confetti. John shielded his face with one hand and followed Jack as closely as he could. The road was slippery, the hummock of snow at the mouth of the driveway invisible in the storm. He stumbled and nearly fell against Jack’s back as the Colonel paused to assess the situation.

“Lousy set-up,” Jack grumbled. He reached back beneath his coat and pulled out a handgun. “I’m guessing this place doesn’t have electronic locks. Let’s hope for a backdoor and a padlock.”

John dragged his eyes away from the gun and looked at the store. “Let’s hope.”

Jack walked briskly down the driveway and around the end of the building. The back wall was abutted by a dumpster and a stack of milk crates. A rusted pick-up fitted with a bright yellow plow was parked broadside to the building. Behind the truck, John spied a narrow tin awning supported by two posts.

The Colonel nodded his awareness of the partially hidden doorway then glanced around the open yard and out into the blowing snow. He pointed. “I can see a light back there. House or a trailer maybe.”

“Terrific.”

Jack gestured him into the partial shelter of the truck. “There wasn’t time to get a complete intelligence report on this place. Could be the owner’s house. If this is going to work how long will you need?”

“Five minutes.”

“Fine, wait here.” Jack continued on to the doorway. He produced a penlight from an inside pocket and searched above the door, the surrounding wall and the steps. Apparently satisfied, he stepped back, tossed a quick warning look to John and pointed the gun at the door. John winced at the two quick pops and limped through the gathering drifts at his signal.

“You look like hell,” Jack observed.

“Thanks.” The assessment was more accurate than John cared to admit. He sucked in a steadying breath and grabbed the doorknob.

No vision.

He looked at his tingling fingers and felt a stab of concern. Even the most mundane objects frequently triggered a vision. Now was not the time for his abilities to go on the fritz.

“What?” Jack whispered urgently.

“Nothing. Give me your light.”

“Take it and hurry up!”

John slipped inside the building and sighed with relief as the bite and howl of the wind disappeared. He brushed the snow from his eyelashes and hair and flashed the light around the room. Boxes and crates sat on and next to sagging wooden shelves. A two-wheeled dolly with balloon tires was propped against the opposite wall. Light fixtures were screwed to the rafters and a faded orange sign reading Employees Only was nailed to the door in the center of the wall. John nodded to himself and proceeded through the storeroom to the door. It opened into the back of the deli kitchen he had glimpsed the previous evening.

The improbability of everything that had transpired in the last 30 hours struck as he stepped through the door. John smothered a slightly hysterical giggle against his coat cuff. Was there anyone on the planet who would not find the current circumstances anything less than totally bizarre?

Shoving the question to the back of his mind, John walked through the kitchen and around the end of the display case.

Where had Dr. Martin stood? Had he ever bought food or other supplies? Was he a regular at Hogan’s or just passing through en-route to an untimely death at Janus’ order?

John shook his head in dismay. He had given Jack a time limit because it seemed expected. The military operated on precision. In reality, he had no idea how long it would take to get a reading once inside the store. The possibility of seeing Janus, Stillson or Armageddon only added to his anxiety level. He could not afford to let fear or anger take control. “Take a breath,” he whispered. “Think.”

The coffee counter was the logical place to start. Failing that, the area around the cash register.

John shone the penlight around the interior of the store to get his bearings and then started down the closest aisle. He dragged light fingers along the edges of the shelves and over boxes and canned goods as he walked. Thin, washed out and ultimately useless images flashed to mind. He reached the end of the shelves and stopped, taking a deep breath before crossing to the counter containing the row of open coffee urns. His eyes followed the penlight and paused automatically on, “Southern Pecan’.

“Any good?” the man asked.

“Yes. One of my favorite flavors actually.”

“I see.”

The memory of the conversation with Dr. Martin slid away into the thick shadows. John licked his lips and touched the flat metal handle protruding from the lid of the urn.

***The cluttered interior of a large SUV materialized around John. He looked left and saw Dr. Martin with one hand on the steering wheel and the other clutching a Styrofoam coffee cup.

“Odd guy but he was right about the coffee,” Martin muttered as he brought the cup to his lips.

John shivered, disturbed that he had remained in some part of Dr. Martin’s thoughts after the incident in the store. He looked away and out through the windshield into a clear, moonlit night. The trees on either side of the road were heavy with snow, the road an undulating ribbon of unmarked white.

The vehicle slowed and Dr. Martin’s hand passed through John’s periphery as he placed the coffee cup in a holder. An opening in the trees appeared to the left of the road. Dr. Martin took the turn and a large sign loomed into view. Half hidden behind a bristly pine limb it read, Goodrich Logging Co. of Washburn, Maine Est.1967***

The vision ended abruptly. John turned right, trailing his fingers along the edge of the counter and over a magazine rack. He had hoped for more and could already hear Jack’s frustration. He reached the cash register area and touched a variety of displays cluttering the small space. None of the items yielded a vision.

John spun away from the counter in disgust. Momentum carried his gaze past the front door and onto a dark display case. He raised the light, illuminating the beverage racks within. Water? Yes. John fished his wallet from his pocket and started to pull out a five-dollar bill. An image of the broken lock came to mind and he reached for a ten instead. “Keep the change,” he muttered as he tossed the bill on the counter. Grabbing two bottles of water, John completed a quick circuit of the store and returned to the storeroom.

He stepped out into an unexpected calm. A few errant snowflakes still drifted down but the worst of the squall was over. The temperature had dropped and the scent of the retreating snow was sharp in his nostrils. Pale moonlight drew gauzy shadows from the awning and the truck. The outline of a trailer was now clearly visible on the crest of the hill behind the building.

“Anything?”

Startled by the question, Jack glared irritably at Jack standing in the shadow of the awning. “And people say I’m creepy.”

The Colonel grinned wolfishly. “Let’s get back to the truck. You never know when someone might look out the window up there.” He pointed at the water. “Thirsty?”

“Yeah, you owe me five bucks by the way.”

Jack took a bottle and cracked it open as he started around the back of the store. “Good idea.”

John swallowed a groan as he stumbled through the fresh drifts. God, he hurt! Back inside the warm vehicle, he related the vision in between sips of water.

Jack’s lips pressed into a grim line. He tossed his empty water bottle onto the backseat, grabbed the laptop and did a quick search for Washburn Maine. “Looks to be about 40 miles Northwest of here and 25 miles North of the airport we just flew into.” A few quick taps on the keyboard brought up the address for Goodrich Logging. “Plain sight is always the best place to hide.” Jack turned the screen to show John the flashing red arrow hovering over the company’s location. “The place is right on what passes for the main road out there.”

“Seems a little too obvious for Janus,” John remarked. “He’s been a part of this scenario for at least a year, maybe longer, and I’ve only ‘seen’ him once.”

The Colonel’s mouth twitched at the emphasis. He studied the map for a minute and then held out the laptop to John. “Take this and keep it open in case we get lost.”

***Trees limbs whipped his face and wet leaves slipped beneath his feet. He ran, heedless of the sting and the ache in his knees. “Go, go, go!”

The tall blond woman ran beside him. Heavy footfalls vibrated in his ears and he turned slightly, encouraging his companions with a wave. The others, a man wearing glasses and his larger, black companion, pelted down the incline. All of them dodged and wove through the thick trees, their breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

“She’s going up!”

A wall of heat slammed into his back as they burst from the trees and ran headlong across an open field…***

John settled the computer on his knees and closed his eyes. The emotions elicited by the vision were unaccountably familiar. As if the Colonel had seen everything John feared a hundred times before. There was no plausible explanation for such wisdom and only pain to be found in further speculation. John sighed tiredly and let the matter rest. He drifted on the edge of sleep, lulled by the muted drone of tires on snow and a tentative sense of peace.
*****

Approaching Washburn, Maine
March 8, 2006
0040 hours
*****

Jack kept one eye on the road and the other on John Smith. It was good that he was sleeping, albeit restlessly. The events of the last day and a half had obviously taken a physical and psychological toll.

The younger man’s questions and comment had grown progressively bolder as time passed. His attempt to read Jack with the whiskey glass was a clear indication of impatience and anxiety. Jack expected John to try and establish a level of trust—especially after the unsettling discussion about Charlie and JJ. He would have done the same were the circumstances reversed. His continued unease was instinctual, Jack realized, and could not be blamed entirely on John’s initial intrusions.

The psychic’s split-second reaction to the handgun did eliminate one question from Jack’s mind. John was not afraid but rather repulsed by the gun and the violence it implied. Jack felt relief and regret in equal measure. An authentic psychic could be an asset to the SGC. A civilian fighting the mold of military life every step of the way would ultimately prove useless. Harriet claimed that Smith would never be happy working for the government. After spending nearly twelve hours with the man, Jack was inclined to agree.

The vibration of his cell-phone scattered introspection like wind to leaves. Jack bit back a startled curse and yanked the instrument out of his coat pocket. Carter flashed bright green in the black display window. He pressed ‘talk’ and spoke softly. “Hey, what have you got for me?”

The reception was marred by static but the stress in Carter’s voice came through clearly. “Sir, we tracked the Naquadah to a small, private airfield in the desert. Whoever orchestrated the theft chartered a private plane. They did not claim any cargo but did list a destination in Kansas.”

“They paid cash?”

“Yes. We…” Her voice fizzled out and returned. “…filed a flight plan for….”

“Say again, Major,” he snapped. Smith stirred in the passenger seat and Jack frowned. It would be better and easier if John did not hear the details. “Repeat,” he urged quietly.

“From Kansas, a second, larger jet was chartered. Again no cargo is listed but the pilots filed a flight plan for a small airport in northern Maine.”

“Two pilots?”

“Yes.”

“Crap,” Jack grumbled into his collar. “I know where they are headed. You’ve informed General Hammond?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“His orders?”

“He contacted President Hayes and gave him a detailed report of what we discovered here and the interview you conducted in Vermont.” A curious note crept into Carter’s voice. “Do you think this John Smith is the real thing, Sir?”

“Yes,” Jack assured, hoping that he would get the chance to explain why in the future.

“I see.” Her tone suggested that she was, for once, completely clueless. “I’m not sure you’ll like the President’s orders.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No, Sir.” She swallowed audibly and the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stiffened painfully against his collar. Static crackled in his ear.

“Sir?” Carter asked hesitantly.

“Still here.”

“President Hayes contacted governor Douglas of Vermont and requested that he scramble two jets from the Vermont Air Guard on the grounds that this was a matter of national security. It took some convincing but Douglas did authorize it.

The President is convinced that the Naquadah is on that plane. He does not want the plane to reach your position since you are alone with only a civilian for support.”

Jack’s gaze slid sideways, confirming that John was asleep. “Where?”

“Given the storm activity in New England the plane will be forced to take a less direct route. The projected target zone is somewhere over lake Superior.”

“Fallout?”

“The amount of Naquadah involved should guarantee complete destruction of the plane.” Carter’s voice dipped to a whisper. “The debris will be…negligible.”

“Understood,” Jack murmured.

“Sir?”

“What?”

“I really hate this.”

“So do I, Major.”

“What is your next move?”

The new realities defined by Hammond’s orders were rapidly coalescing in Jack’s mind as he relayed their destination and expectations upon arrival. A nuclear bomb was dangerous but the flight plan suggested it was still in Maine. Not to be used until the Naquadah had been incorporated and the whole apparatus ferried elsewhere. Low population density and a lack of large-scale industrial or military facilities, assured that northern Maine was an ineffective target. So far John’s visions had been disconcertingly accurate, which implied that Washington D.C. was ground zero. The imminent destruction of the plane secured the safety of the capital and made detaining Malcolm Janus the top priority.

“You don’t have any idea who the inside guy was?” Jack asked eventually. If Janus could liberate a supply of Naquadah once, he stood a reasonable chance of doing it again.

“I’m afraid not. We’ll keep digging.”

“I’m sure you will.” His finger hovered above the ‘talk’ button. “Carter?”

“Sir?”

“Be careful.” Jack ended the call before she could reply.

The hand on his arm was unexpected. The fingers iron hard as they dug into his flesh. Jack winced and pulled away, causing the truck to swerve across the centerline. “What the hell!”

“Son-of-a-bitch!” John breathed.

Jack clamped down hard on an answering curse. He wanted to spare the younger man the horror of what had to be done. He should have known the effort would be wasted. “Collateral damage.”

“Does that excuse fall in the same category as ‘Actionable Intelligence’?” Smith grated. “Those pilots have no idea what they are carrying. They are innocent civilians.”

“Can you guarantee that, John?”

“Can I… Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don’t pretend for one second that you don’t know the stakes here,” Jack retorted harshly. Sparks of pain and bitter rage flared in John’s blue eyes. Jack hated to be the cause but there was no time for coddling and he believed that John would resent it later. “If the Naquadah on that plane is incorporated into a bomb the explosion could be ten, a hundred times greater than a standard nuke.”

The color drained from John’s face. “I understand.” He sighed raggedly. “It’s just that so many innocent people have already paid the price.”

“I can’t take on the kind of security Janus is likely to have at the airport alone. Shooting down that plane is the only…” Realization sang fire across Jack’s taut nerves. “Jesus, he probably saw us land.”

“He could be waiting.”

“Or worse.” Jack stepped harder on the gas. The presence of Naquadah, the crystal diagram and Janus’ awareness of the Stargate program implied that a Goa’uld had manipulated the plan from the beginning. Was Janus a pawn or a host?

Jack could feel John’s eyes on his cheek. A cold, penetrating stare, which he ignored with limited success. ‘Need to know’, the mantra of classification, flashed incessant neon in the back of his mind. For the first time in recent memory, Jack wanted to break his silence. It was entirely possible John would find out anyway. One touch. God, how creepy was that?

Jack glanced at the computer screen to confirm his location and eased off the gas. A right hand turn slid into view. He took the corner, following a single set of tire tracks cutting through the clean snow beneath the headlights.

John shifted in his seat. “What will you tell their families?”

“That’s up to my superiors. The plane’s disappearance will likely be treated as a thwarted terrorist attack. There won’t be enough debris left to fill a wheelbarrow. Assuming they recover any at all.”

“That’s the military answer. Political spin! What would you say?” John demanded icily.

“What do you want from me?” Jack rejoined. He could not acknowledge the sickening knot in his gut and still make the hard choices that might be required. A soldier met death head on and did not shy away from the necessity of it. Later there would be time to grieve.

The green dash lights deepened the lines in John’s face and turned his uncanny eyes to unreadable glass. “I don’t know.”

The words rang with sorrowful resignation and Jack felt a stab of pity. He guided the vehicle onto the shoulder of the road. “We’re about five miles out,” he explained.

There was no reply as Jack parked and stepped out of the truck. He sucked in a greedy breath of cold air and pinwheeled his arms to loosen the joints and enhance the circulation to his fingers. A rush of warm blood tingled the tips and he blew a weary sigh, grateful for the momentary respite from the oppressive atmosphere in the cab.

He should have expected John to take the destruction of the plane personally. Objectivity was a quality he simply did not possess and might never acquire. Jack’s mind spun backwards, seeking when exactly he had crossed the hard line into desensitization. A prison cell in a desert the civilized world had long ceased to care about seemed the most obvious answer. He winced at the memory and pulled the zipper on his coat tight to his chin.

Jack’s eyes scanned the forest and the width of the road, pausing on the tire tracks. He studied the tread and the distance between the wheels and concluded that the vehicle was most likely an SUV, like their Blazer. He crossed to the track and squatted beside it. The snow crumbled easily at his touch. The tracks were fresh.

The creak of metal on metal drew Jack’s attention back to the truck. He stood and watched John walk back down the road several paces and stop. Moonlight spilled down from the clearing heavens and washed the details from the younger man’s features. He stared into the thick stand of pines across the road. Hands on hips, his toe digging idly in the crusty snow edging the asphalt.

A shiver crawled down Jack’s suddenly sweaty back as he returned to the truck and opened the door behind the driver’s seat. He could almost hear the wheel’s clicking in John’s restless brain as he tried to process what was to come. The sensation was an unnerving distraction. Jack concentrated on checking his weapon and stowing additional ammunition in various pockets. Seconds stretched into minutes and he considered going after the psychic.

The muffled crunch of feet on snow signaled John’s return. Jack looked up as he rounded the back of the truck. “Ready?”

John pointed at the gun resting on the backseat. “You got another one of those?”

The blue eyes were crystal clear and cold as mountain wind. Something had been lost in the last few minutes, a sliver of warmth and light that might never be recovered. Jack nodded regretfully and removed a second M9 pistol and spare magazines from the case resting on the floor between the seats. “15 rounds. Your safety is here.” He pointed with a finger and handed John the weapon.

John flinched at the slap of cold metal against his palm and stared fixedly at the ground. Several seconds of stillness was followed by a violent tremor, which caused the gun to jerk free of Jack’s loosening grip. It dangled precariously and then steadied as John’s large hand curled around the grip. “History,” he explained as he shoved the weapon in his belt and the clips in his pockets.

Of the gun? Of you? Of me? Jack cowed his curiosity and reached for the gloves and hats resting on the seat. He did not know whom the spare weapon belonged to or when it had last been fired. John did not have the option or comfort of ignorance.

Jack gestured to the truck. “Get in.” He did not speak again until they had pulled out onto the road. “Did you see the tire tracks?”

“Yes.”

“One set and they are recent. With any luck we won’t have an army waiting for us.”

“You don’t believe in luck,” John muttered listlessly.

Jack swallowed the truth with effort and shrugged.

“Jack?”

“What?”

“I’ll sign whatever you want. I won’t say a word but I can’t help you.”

“I know,” Jack reassured. The debriefing would be a difficult experience for John but forcing him to declare his allegiance felt wrong—almost traitorous. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m not asking for anything.”

“I know that too.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and ran a restless hand down the length of his thigh. He smiled ruefully at Jack’s curious glance. “Ever break a bone?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ve lost count.”

“Do you ache when it rains?”

“In places I didn’t know I had. Why?”

A sigh shuddered through John and the hand on his leg turned chalk white. “I started having these kinds of headaches almost two years ago. I used to black out, lose chunks of time. I was scheduled for brain surgery at one point.”

Jack was familiar with the medical information from John’s file but he recognized the man’s need to talk and nodded encouragingly.

“The headaches suddenly stopped after a confrontation with Greg Stillson in Washington D.C. The night his father died actually.” John licked his lips and stared out at the snowy landscape. “I thought they were gone for good, until I hooked up with Alex Connors last summer. Seems the closer I get to Janus, to Armageddon, the more intense the pain.” He smiled crookedly. “Kind of like old broken bones to a thunderstorm.”

A distinct note of fear underlay the flat tone of John’s voice. He could not share his concerns with friends. The relationships were too close, the expectations too high. Jack flushed at the irony of their predicament.

John closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat. “I don’t know why I told you that. I guess it could be important. Depends on what we find.”

“It’s almost over, John.” It was an empty promise but the younger man seemed to find comfort in it. The tension eased around his mouth and eyes and his hands lay slack in his lap. Jack allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction before pulling to the side of the road. “This is close enough.”

“We walk?” John wondered.

“Yeah.”

The blue eyes fluttered opened and seemed to take an eternity to focus on the dashboard. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

“And another shot of whiskey for warmth?”

“Definitely.”

They stepped out and donned the gloves and hats. Jack locked the truck and waved John to the edge of the road. He pulled his weapon and signaled that John do the same. The moon was beginning to set and the lengthening shadows provided good cover as they walked.

Adrenaline surged warmth to Jack’s extremities and excited his senses. He preferred to be proactive. The waiting had made the last few hours feel like days. He sensed a similar desire in John but the other man lacked the skills necessary to channel need into action. A fact that could be detrimental to his sanity: especially now. Jack focused on the task at hand and hoped that John would and could keep pace. He expected cameras outfitted with motion detectors and parabolic microphones and a fence around the perimeter of the property. The imminent deployment of the bomb increased the chances of armed guards stationed in the trees. Goodrich Logging was a legitimate business but Malcolm Janus did not sound like the kind of man who would leave things to chance.

After ten minutes of uneventful walking, the forest suddenly opened up on their right and the road bent sharply left around a thick stand of soft woods. Jack signaled John to a stop and surveyed the situation through a maze of spindly tree limbs. A large wooden sign edged in metal with ‘Goodrich Logging’ stenciled on it in bold letters, stood at the edge of a wide driveway. The tire tracks swerved off the road and disappeared around a curve. Fresh snow spattered the closest tree trunks, the logical consequence of a heavy vehicle powering through the drift at the mouth of the driveway.

“In a hurry,” Jack observed. He looked over his shoulder, assessing John’s physical condition with a glance. Miserable was the most accurate adjective he could think of. “Did you ever get the sense that this Janus guy knows anything about military protocols?” he queried, not really expecting an answer as they pushed through the trees.

“No,” John huffed. “But then I really haven’t had the chance.”

The woods were too quiet, the suspected equipment well camouflaged or non-existent. Paranoia nibbled at the edges of Jack’s consciousness. If Janus had the airport under surveillance then he knew that Jack and John were alone. He had ample time to return to the logging company and remove the bomb while they visited Hogan’s Quickstop and backtracked to Washburn. Why the rush? Or had Janus been recalled by whoever—or whatever—was pulling his strings? “Wait a minute,” Jack stopped walking and pointed at the tracks. “Can you get anything from those? Maybe an idea of who was in the vehicle.”

John removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “No promises.”

Jack stepped back and took up a defensible position with his back to a large tree. His eyes traveled the length and breadth of the driveway and skimmed the forest. Waning moonlight picked out small, square no trespassing signs and glistened off the power lines above their heads. No cameras, lights or chain link fence presented itself. Jack listened intently for what he could not see. A loud gasp dragged his attention back to John’s crouched form.

The psychic’s upraised right hand was bare and frosted with snow. He stared at the twitching fingers, seemingly mesmerized by the movement.

“John,” Jack whispered sharply.

No response.

Jack gritted his teeth and pushed away from the tree. There was no time for mental wobbles! He started out onto the driveway intent on shaking John back to reality. Shock and concern brought him up short. John was trembling, his mouth slack, his eyes lifeless gray orbs. Jack knelt down and grasped his shoulder. “Hey. What’s going on?”

The touch acted like a switch and John slumped bonelessly forward. Jack caught him and eased him down into the snow. The damp and chill broke the spell and color flooded John’s cheeks. He rolled away and coughed harshly into the crook of his arm.

Relieved, Jack sighed and sat back on his heels.

John sniffed loudly and spat into the snow. He sat up and brushed weakly at the crystals clinging to his lashes and hair. “Janus is dead.”

The words were almost inaudible and queerly flat. Jack stared in disbelief. No, it could not be this easy. Could it? He stood and offered John a hand up. “You’re sure?”

John shook his head. He took a deep breath and lurched to his feet, swaying for a moment before reaching down to retrieve his discarded glove and hat. “I saw him,” he insisted. “And I saw Greg Stillson too.”

The implications of the Congressman’s presence were varied and not all were entirely plausible to the average man. Jack groaned inwardly and kept out of John’s reach as they continued walking. “Be ready,” he cautioned and hefted his gun for emphasis.

John retrieved his gun from his belt and brought it up to eye level. The barrel glowed dully in the last of the moonlight. He looked at the gun and then at Jack. His eyes were unreadable in the semi-darkness. “I’ve never wanted to fire one of these. Not once in my entire life.”

Jack nodded mutely.

The wind had cleared patches of the driveway down to the gray hard-packed stone. The road snaked through the trees and up a rutted rise. At the top, a large building resolved itself from the encroaching gloom. A small annex with unshuttered windows and a solid door jutted out from the right hand corner. The office, Jack concluded, which appeared to be empty. He sent John to the opposite side of the driveway and faded back into the trees that fringed the wide, open lot. They traveled parallel paths along the perimeter, skirting piles of logs and parked equipment as they progressed around to the back of building.

Jack kept the tire tracks in his periphery as he walked. They broke left near the corner of the structure and cut a deep swath through the drifts banking the wall. Patches of muddy ground edged the far corner and dotted the backyard. Jack cleared the shadow of the building and discovered the source of the tracks, a dark SUV, which was parked in front of a small door set into the back wall. Closed double overhead doors filled half the remaining space. A second, wide driveway disappeared into the trees behind the building.

The moment of truth or a wild goose chase? Jack cautiously approached the truck and looked inside. It was empty with the exception of a crumpled tarp in the cargo compartment. He looked around the clearing and listened for several seconds before waving John out of the trees. The psychic was little more than a silhouette now as he limped across the yard and met Jack in front of the small door. Jack tried the knob and it turned easily. He cocked an eyebrow in surprise and slipped inside, John close on his heels.

The warehouse was pitch black except for a puddle of light to the far left. Jack sniffed experimentally. The room reeked of cleaning solvents, plastic and ozone, instead of the anticipated gas, oil or wood.

“This is the place,” John confirmed as they approached the lighted area. “There’s the table and the shelf…” his voice died away as the details became clear.

The computer monitors were twin maws of shattered glass. The towers beside them lay smashed into jagged piles of plastic and smoking wires. An intermittent orange glow drew Jack’s eyes to an open metal trashcan next to the table. The remains of printed files, curled and black at the edges, smoldered inside.

“Over here.”

The leaden tone of John’s voice was more disturbing than the words. Jack cast a last despairing look at the wreck of plastic and glass and joined the psychic at the edge of the pool of light.

John pointed at the edge of a blue tarp with the muzzle of his gun. “You still have that flashlight?”

“Yeah, wait here.” Jack was sure that John had seen more than he should already. Still, letting him knuckle on to Malcolm Janus—dead or alive—was probably not the wisest choice for either of them. It was more than secrets though, Jack allowed as he carefully approached the tarp. He sensed the threat of Janus ran far deeper for John. As if losing him were like losing a piece to a treasured, yet hated puzzle. Jack would not insult the man by pretending to understand his rationale. Their association was too short and tetchy.

Beyond the harsh glare of the overhead light the tarp was almost black. Jack skimmed his flashlight over the top of it. A broken chair and part of a shelving unit lay across the back and rode up on a hidden obstacle beneath. He glanced over his shoulder and received an affirmative nod from John. This was the place. Jack turned back and reached for the corner of the tarp with his flashlight hand. He flipped back the plastic and brought his gun to bear.

The body of a man lay curled into a tight fetal ball on the mottled concrete. One hand covered his cheek, the fingertips obscured by a black clot of congealing blood. The other hand cradled his midriff. The white of his shirt cuff glowed obscenely bright in the glare of Jack’s light. His clothes were covered with multicolored dust and bits of plastic, as if he had rolled through the debris by the table, and one sleeve was torn. The details suggested that the man had not died easily or quickly.

Jack walked around the back of the body and squatted down. The curvature of the spine left a gap in the man’s collar. He carefully parted the hair on his neck and shone the light on the graying skin beneath. An angry red welt began at the top of the spine and followed it down into the shadow of the shirt. Jack bit back a string of expletives and sat back on his heels. The dead man had been a host to a Goa’uld symbiote. John could not be allowed to touch him but Jack needed a positive identification. He stood and pulled off his gloves. Sweat slicked his palms and ran in icy rivulets down his back. The questions John might ask scrolled marquee fashion across the back of his tired mind without a plausible reply to stem the flow. Jack sighed heavily and walked back around to the front of the body. “Come here but don’t touch anything.”

John approached silently, his own revolver dangling by one finger. He stared at the dead man’s half hidden face for a moment and turned away. “Malcolm Janus.”

“You’re sure?”

“Do you remember your nightmares, Jack?” He readjusted his hold on the gun and looked deep into the recesses of the building. “Where is Stillson?”

“Gone,” Jack muttered.

“The truck is here and I didn’t see him leave.”

Jack took an intentional step back. The number of lesser Goa’uld’s seemed to grow with each passing month. He had no idea which one had controlled Janus and ostensibly Stillson. The presence of the vehicle and the absence of a second set of retreating tire tracks suggested one of three things. The Goa’uld was still on sight, he had used a personal transportation device keyed to an orbiting scoutship, or he was dead inside Janus’ body. Without a more thorough examination Jack could not determine the latter. He was intimately familiar with Goa’uld character traits however and discounted the idea after only a moment’s thought.

Goa’ulds were arrogant and greedy. If the creature were watching it would have shown itself the second it realized that he and John were alone. The destruction of the records and Janus’ body suggested that it had fled the scene. Without a living witness or verifiable data, its plans could be revamped and implemented at a later date with a different host. There was only one possible candidate, unless John had not told him the whole truth.

“Did you see who killed Janus?” Jack asked hopefully.

“I saw Greg Stillson standing over the body.”

“Did you see anyone else besides Janus and Stillson?”

John slowly shook his head.

Jack bit back a frustrated oath and redirected his light towards the back of the building. “The bomb is still here somewhere. Let’s get some lights on and find the son-of-a-bitch.”

“Where is Stillson,” John repeated coldly.

Jack strode quickly across the floor towards a bank of switches on the far wall. He did not turn around but kept his ears carefully tuned for John’s footsteps. “I told you, gone.”

“How do you know!”

John’s strident shout echoed through the voluminous room. Jack shrugged away an involuntary shudder and continued walking. He could not answer honestly and the idea of lying to John’s face left him sick inside. The man deserved the truth. He had earned it. Unfortunately, the U.S. government would never agree. John’s overt rejection of The Remote Viewing Program, particularly its military oversight, would stand in the way of receiving security clearance. The ramifications of the current situation would ensure that he never received it.

Jack reached the wall and examined the switches. There were no labels or other distinguishing marks. He placed his left hand on the end switch and turned around to gauge the reaction as he flipped it up. A row of light panels glowed to life high above his head. He nodded satisfaction and turned on several more. Illumination revealed a warehouse empty of milling equipment or lumber—a complete fabrication.

John stood halfway between Janus’ body and the wall. His eyes caught and held Jack’s with the same eerie gleam first seen in the observation room beneath Garnet Mountain.

Their association had run the full gamut of emotions in a few short hours. A circular path that Jack knew would never quite meet. The thought saddened him. “I just know,” he said. “Leave it at that.” He was prepared for John to push the issue. The handle of his revolver was smooth and warm in his palm, offering assurance that this scenario would turn out, as he wanted.

John’s eyes dropped to the gun in his own hand. He bent and laid it gently on the floor. Straightening, he walked back towards the broken equipment without a word.

“I’m too old for this crap,” Jack mumbled. He trailed after John, stopping only to retrieve the weapon, verify that the safety was on and stow it in his belt.

The psychic’s large hands trembled slightly as they hovered an inch above the table. His lips pressed into a thin line and he slammed both palms down on the gritty surface. The echo of the impact rebounded off the far walls and vibrated deep in Jack’s chest. Anger was its own radiant heat and darkness, rippling out from John’s body in a palpable wave. Jack gasped softly as the emotion rolled over him and dissipated into the shadows.

“The bomb is in the truck outside. He didn’t have time to take it with him.” John spun away from the table and leaned heavily on his knees.

“Under the tarp,” Jack surmised. His eyes fell to John’s back and lingered for a long moment as he struggled for words. The younger man tensed but he did not straighten up. Jack pulled out his cell phone and turned away, feeling utterly useless.

He walked outside and leaned against the wall. The sky was beginning to lighten above the trees and a stiff, warm wind had sprung up. True dawn was hours away but it promised to be bright and clear. Jack pulled off his hat and scrubbed at his damp scalp. His lungs ached as he drew a deep cleansing breath and wandered over to the truck. The backdoor was unlocked and lifted easily on well-oiled hinges. Jack peeled back the tarp and discovered the case John had described sitting in a foam-lined compartment. He replaced the tarp and dialed General Hammond’s private line.

“Hammond.”

“We’ve got the bomb, Sir. And we’ve found Malcolm Janus. He’s dead.”

“Understood. Any other incidentals to report?”

Jack looked towards the still open door of the building. John was a featureless shade limping slowly towards him. “No, Sir,” he answered quietly “Not at this time.”

“You will be needing a team to clean up out there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll contact Hanscom Air Force base. It’s the closest base with containment facilities. Major Carter will be notified immediately and should be on sight when the bomb arrives.”

“Has she found out anything new?” Jack asked.

“Not that I’m aware of but she wasn’t due to check in until 0600.”

“I see.”

“I’ll see that your jet is refueled,” Hammond continued. “The debriefing will take place at 2100 this evening at the SGC. Mr. Smith will have to be detained as well.”

“Uh, Sir, about that…”

The General sighed loudly. “Colonel?”

“I think he should be debriefed at the Garnet facility and I should be the one to do it.”

“Considering your extensive involvement in this operation I’m not sure the Joint Chiefs will agree. They are understandably disturbed by the necessity of shooting down a civilian airplane. And they might not accept your report as comprehensive.”

“I understand that,” Jack replied patiently. His gaze flicked briefly to John who was leaning against the doorframe. The man’s skin was paste gray in the dim light, his eyes black, lifeless orbs. Jack looked away, unnerved. “General, you need to make them understand that Mr. Smith is not a threat to national security. He is a citizen of this country and therefore has certain rights and responsibilities. Do you really want anyone else from our organization to be exposed to his…abilities?”

Jack did not mention the NID. They were a threat in and of themselves. He knew they would try to subvert John in the future. A pointless exercise but it was not his time to waste. “Sir?” he prompted.

“No, I don’t,” Hammond retorted. “He will have to sign a non-disclosure statement however, and he will have to be monitored by us and not just the NID.”

“Barrett will love that.”

“That phone call will be the most pleasant part of this whole affair, Colonel.”

There was a trace of a smile in the General’s voice. “Yes, Sir,” Jack agreed.

“I’ll make those phone calls. Your situation is completely secure?”

“Well if you don’t count the fact that we’re keeping time with a dead man and a bomb, then the answer is yes.”

Hammond chuckled deep in his throat. “You’ll need to contact local law enforcement and get the area cordoned off. It will take at least four hours for the forces at Hanscom to reach your position.”

“I’ll take care of it, Sir.”

“Cover story?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure.” Hammond cleared his throat. “Well done, Jack. Please convey my thanks to Mr. Smith. He probably has no idea what he’s helped avert today.”

“No, Sir, I’m sure he doesn’t.” Jack flipped the phone closed on the lie and shoved it back in his pocket.

“Now what?” John whispered.

“We wait for personnel and equipment to be flown up from Hanscom. I’ll contact the local authorities and we’ll sit tight until they arrive.” He smiled gamely. “Maybe they’ll bring us a cup of coffee.”

John did not respond to the levity. He walked out into the center of the yard and looked up into the lightening heavens. His hands hung loosely at his sides, the long fingers randomly twitching.

Jack hesitantly approached but did not step in front of him. Offering John the chance to react privately to what he was about to say. “You’ve stopped this. It’s over. Janus is dead and we have the bomb.”

“I saw Armageddon the day I met Greg Stillson,” John intoned. “Janus was not even a factor back then.”

“But he’s been around long enough to become the key,” Jack persisted. “A snake can’t function without its head. Do you think the Congressman will become a national figure without him?”

“It’s possible.”

“But not likely.” Jack needed John to believe the assertion; otherwise the man might never turn away from pursuing Stillson. The presence of the Goa’uld had pushed the price of this particular poker game into the stratosphere. “Greg Stillson is a nobody from Maine. Without the support of people like Malcolm Janus he won’t be successful on a national level.”

“You don’t know the people involved!” John snapped. He turned on his heel and pointed a finger at Jack. “He’s dangerous. Every time I think I’ve gotten a handle on this thing it slips out of my reach. I wind up looking like lunatic and Stillson comes out smelling like a goddamned rose!”

Jack did not flinch from the tirade. His voice dripped conviction as he met John’s wild blue eyes. “Greg Stillson is a little fish in a very big ocean. He’s lucky someone hasn’t swallowed him whole. If he hadn’t become engaged to the next Mary Jo Kopechne no one in Washington would have a clue who he is. He’s powerful because people have made him that way. He will fall off the radar for exactly the same reason.”

“You can’t be…”

“I can!” Jack countered vehemently. “And you need to let this go now.”

“You want me out of it?”

“Yes.”

John’s hand dropped to his side. “Why?”

How much did he dare divulge? How much before the same hounds he would unleash on Stillson would come snapping at his own heels? To lie or to omit: a choice that was no choice at all. Jack reached for the simplest reason. “You’re not alone anymore, John. You don’t have to give up your life to stop this bastard.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Is it?” Jack parried gently. “I don’t think so. You’ve got a son to think about and I…” he blushed self-consciously. “Let’s just say I’ve got some people to talk to after we wrap this up.”

John’s short, brittle laugh signaled a marginal level of acceptance. He would turn away and he would stay quiet—for now. The promise was born out of trust and confirmed by instinct rather than words. Ambiguity usually left a bad taste in Jack’s mouth. This was different and Jack doubted that he would ever understand why.
*****

Epilogue
Cleaves Mills, Maine
March 11, 2006
*****

“And why are we going to this thing again?” Bruce protested as he trailed John into the kitchen.

“Because JJ wants to cover the event for his school newspaper.”

“The kid is 11.” Bruce grabbed John’s shoulder, stopping them both. “There will be other stories. Level with me will ya’?”

The touch had not produced a vision and John was thankful for the respite. A full 48 hours without measurable sleep, followed by two intensive days of debriefing in the bowels of Garnet Mountain, had tested his energy reserves to the limit. The visions he received in the facility were scattered and vague. Civilian and military personnel alike seemed to go to great lengths not to touch him and were keenly interested in what little he did perceive. Even Jack, who clearly trusted him, had refused to shake his hand in the end.

John kept things as open and honest as he could during the debriefing. The implications of the conversation he had with Jack at the warehouse were clear. The Colonel and his associates would be watching Greg Stillson from now on. Jack’s contacts ran deep, it was entirely possible that Janus’ ran deeper. If the forces backing either man were to meet head on the results would be cataclysmic.

Jack’s insistence that he stop pursuing Stillson was the best indication that John should do anything but. Still, he had made an unspoken promise while standing in the snow up in Washburn. He would honor it so long as Jack held up his end of the bargain. They parted ways with the mutual understanding that John should report anything he considered unusual and let Jack take it from there.

The word ‘unusual’ covered a great deal of territory.

JJ’s school assignment was a weak excuse for getting into Stillson’s proximity. Bruce did not need to know the details of John’s recent absence to recognize that fact or comment on it. John turned around and forced himself to look Bruce in the eye. “You know I can’t explain what happened last weekend.”

“I’m starting to wish I had gone up to Fort Kent with you after all.”

“You’re better off, trust me on this one.”

“When have I not trusted you?” Bruce countered soberly.

“Thanks.” John swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. It was good to be home. “I need to check on Stillson. To see if what happened up there had any impact on the future.”

“His security people won’t let you within a mile of the guy.”

“Not necessarily. He’s feeling pretty cocky since the incident with Miranda down on the coast last summer. There were photos taken of the two of us at the press conference where he announced his engagement.”

“I remember,” Bruce grumbled. “Why put yourself through that again.”

“A little humiliation is a small price to pay.”

“A little?”

John shot him a dark look and reached for his car keys. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I got your back.”

John pressed the remote start button on his keyring for the Rover and set the house’s security system on his way out the door. “I make the bastard look good,” he elaborated as they walked down the back steps. “What better reason to shake my hand?”

The Stillson event was billed as an old-fashioned New England Town Meeting. A chance for the locals to ask questions and voice opinions in the hopes that Washington might hear. As part of the curriculum for JJ’s 5th grade Social Studies class, each student was asked to cover a local news worthy story. JJ was aiming high and John wondered how conscious his son was of the sordid history between Stillson and himself.

School was dismissed at 2:20 in the afternoon. John arrived in the parking lot with five minutes to spare. The meeting was being held at the Faith Heritage University campus across town. John had made arrangements to pick up JJ and drop him at home after supper. Having Bruce along would help ensure a normal afternoon, no matter what he saw upon meeting Stillson.

The last bus pulled away from the front of the school to reveal JJ and a handful of students sitting on the steps. John honked the horn and waved amicably. It was a bright spring-like day and the sun blazed off his son’s hair and kissed his skin to a healthy bronze. JJ trotted down the steps, smiling as he exchanged comments with the children still seated. The back and forth was sprinkled with laughter and the kind of sincerity only children could bring to the most mundane topics.

The prick of tears caught John by surprise. He brushed them hastily away and cleared his throat.

Bruce squeezed his shoulder.

JJ reached the Rover and piled into the backseat. “Hey Johnny. Mr. Lewis, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I,” Bruce quipped. “How you doin’ little man?”

“Good! Did Johnny tell you about the sled dog race?”

“A little. Care to fill me in?” Bruce pointed a thumb at John and continued in a stage whisper. “He’s getting kind of old and the mind really is the first thing to go.”

“Ah I see how it is,” John moaned in feigned indignation as JJ’s laughter filled the car.

JJ’s spirited recounting of the entire Can Am Crown International Sled Dog Race experience shortened the ten-minute drive to Faith Heritage. John listened with half an ear, smiling and nodding when appropriate. Seeing his son enfolded in a halo of innocence had solidified his resolve to find out exactly where Stillson stood on his trek to the oval office. John was not prepared to join the military or disappear into protective government custody but he could not leave JJ’s fate to chance. Promises be damned.

The large visitor’s parking lot was three quarters full when they arrived at the University. John parked halfway down the end aisle. He watched JJ sort out his notebook and pens via the rearview mirror. “Ready?” he asked when the boy looked up.

“Yup!”

“Here goes nothin’,” Bruce remarked sotto voce.

They joined the fringes of the crowd funneling towards the auditorium. John did not expect to encounter Stillson until the receiving line at the end of the presentation. The Congressman’s unexpected presence in the lobby set his teeth on edge.

“You ready for this?” Bruce asked softly while keeping a guiding hand on JJ’s shoulder.

“Get us a seat. I’ll be right there.” John glanced around the crowded room. Security guards were placed discreetly near all the exits. The Congressman was flanked by two burly, young men. They stood close enough to react to threats but far enough back to give the genial politician room enough to interact with the public.

John pasted on a smile and wove his way through the crowd. He should be thankful that Stillson had spared him the agony of one of his speeches by making himself available beforehand. John did not feel fortunate though. The brush of hands and arms sent his mind spinning in a hundred different directions.

***A small white coffin lowered into the damp earth…A city sparkled merrily below, growing brighter and blurrier as a young man plummeted towards the street…A woman choked back a handful of brightly colored pills and chased them with a swallow of rich, dark liquor…A frail hand took another and sad eyes stared out from beneath a wrinkled brow as a last, long sigh faded to stillness…A little boy screamed and a belt descended. The smack of leather to flesh tore the breath from his lungs…A tide of fire boiled across the virgin land and up onto the concrete towers of a distant city. A loan figure stood watch and turned at the sound of John’s footsteps. He smiled without warmth, his brown eyes alive with unearthly flames…***

“Smith,” Stillson drawled, drawing John back to the present with a stiff handshake. “Something I can do for you?”

John’s free hand clenched into a fist. He jammed it into a pocket and struggled to breathe evenly as the overlapping visions dissolved into the crowd. “Not really,” he managed.

The Congressman tugged him closer and murmured. “Then I suggest you get lost before I have Mr. Truax and his associates show you the backwoods meaning of hospitality.”

John stepped away, an enigmatic smile firmly affixed to his lips. “Is that the same lesson you taught Malcolm Janus last week?” He walked away without looking back.

Leaving the building proved easier than entering and John made it back to the Rover before the shakes completely overwhelmed him. Pain blossomed like starlight through his pounding skull and roiling nausea threatened to spill his lunch out onto the slushy concrete lot. He folded his arms on the steering wheel and rested his head on them, willing his heart and respiration to slow. JJ and Bruce would be wondering what happened to him but he could not enter the auditorium in his present state without arousing suspicion. Never mind the phone call he had to make.

Five minutes passed before John sat back and wiped the sweat from his face with one sleeve. His fingers were numb and ice cold as he fished his cell phone and a business card from his coat pocket. He held the two items for a moment as the long night spent with Jack O’Neill replayed in vivid detail. The Colonel’s voice and manner emanated a depth of feeling John had rarely experienced. Jack said what he meant and meant what he said. He demanded respect and he bestowed trust to those that had earned it. Such a man was a rarity and John would honor his request no matter what it cost him.

John drew a shaky breath and dialed the number. One ring, two, three…

“I’m guessing this isn’t a social call,” the Colonel answered without preamble.

“No.” John looked out on the throngs of people still pouring into the building and felt his stomach do a slow, sickening roll.

The squeak of a chair rolling across a floor sounded through the phone. Moments later came a sharp click. “Okay, what is it?”

“I think I ‘need to know’ what the hell is going on or we’re all in a lot of trouble.”

*THE*END*