The Drift Read online

Taken aback by the Jaffa’s openness, Paul could only nod in agreement.

  “Major Davis?” Teal’c’s voice returned to its normal deep tone. “What does this ‘Happy Camper’ training entail?”

  Glancing up at the six-foot-three alien warrior, Paul gulped. “How do you feel about having a bucket on your head?”

  MCMURDO HELIPAD

  ROSS ISLAND, ANTARCTICA

  18 AUG 04/0915 HRS MCMURDO STATION

  “…never agreed to enlisted civilians, Carter. Hammond’s making a huge mistake.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam let General O’Neill blow off steam as she strapped into the Bell 212 helicopter’s starboard seat. As it was, she barely heard him over the already running rotors.

  Outside, the sky had changed from a pitch black to a rose-tinted dark gray. Still too dark to fly blind, but she had a definite plan to take care of that problem.

  Flipping on the cabin lights, she retrieved her pre-check clipboard from the dashboard. Small red ticks marked off each item. Captain Biggs had generously prepped the chopper, but Sam knew the only safe pilot was an obsessive one.

  “Cool! A real reason to visit the coldest place on the planet!” The general pointed out the front window. Down the hill from the helipad, the lights of McMurdo twinkled, but the ‘cool’ General O’Neill referred to — an Aurora Australis — hovered to the east. As they watched, the green wispy glow dissipated into the ionosphere.

  While the general pulled on his helmet, Sam glanced off to their right at the helipad’s windsock. The bright orange cone was a little less than half full. She checked the wind gauge. Fifteen knots and holding steady. Happily, the gusts they’d experienced upon arriving at McMurdo were gone. Flying would be a cinch as long as it stayed that way. She donned her helmet.

  “Whose idea was this anyway, Carter? I can’t believe we’re just going to sit back and let them take a whirl in that blasted weapons chair.”

  “If we want the best, sir, don’t we need to look past our own borders?” Placing the clipboard on her lap, she turned off the overheads. Her eyes adjusted quickly, thanks to the green-lit instrument board.

  “How are these people going to understand the stakes?” The general unzipped his parka. “Some of their governments don’t have the same attitudes about national security, they don’t — ”

  “I don’t think General Hammond had a choice, sir. The Atlantis Expedition left a big hole in personnel qualified to operate the Ancient weapons platform.”

  “Fine, we have to protect the planet. I get it.” He slapped his harness shut. “But why can’t they use that gene therapy thing and grab some SG teams? Slap ‘em with the shot, and then let them live down here.”

  “The International Oversight Committee insisted on international involvement, sir, including both civilians and military.” She toggled the gyro switch. So far, so good.

  “Gotta love those IOA folks.”

  “Sir, you were at the Homeworld Security briefing. General Hammond discussed this with us at length.”

  “This whole share and share-alike… Why is it that every time we save the planet, we first have to deal with folks like the IOA, Kinsey, or the NID?”

  “Well, Kinsey’s gone.”

  “That’s a happy thought.”

  “I don’t see any other option, sir.”

  “I’m tired of all the — ” The general tilted his head back against the headrest. “Forget I ever said anything.”

  “General?” Sam twisted in her harness to look at him.

  He didn’t return the glance. Instead, he stared out the fore window. “Life’s a moving target, Carter, and I’m tired of raising my gun.”

  “Sir?”

  He waved her off. “Finish your pre-flight, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam turned back to the instrument board. Over the years they’d served together, General O’Neill occasionally made mention of retiring yet again, but he’d never meant it. He loved their work just as much as she did.

  Then why did he sound so convincing this time? As she checked the directional control pedals, she made a mental note to set up a team night once they got back to Colorado Springs. Maybe that would help the general feel more connected.

  Between taking over SG-1’s command, coordinating with the science departments, and juggling work with a newfound effort to have an actual life, Sam knew she’d been remiss in the team bonding department. And while General O’Neill technically wasn’t part of SG-1 anymore, a few pizzas and watching a bad science fiction movie with the others couldn’t hurt.

  She scanned the instruments one last time. “Hydraulic controls on. Throttle, fully open. Engine anti-ice set to on.” She flipped on the rise switch.

  “Take her out, Colonel. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get back to the SGC.”

  Sam lifted the collective control stick. The chopper inched upwards, nice and smooth, its spotlights bouncing off the ice-packed snow below. Once they rose a good fifty meters from the helipad, she nudged the cyclic control forward and the chopper headed out toward the outpost.

  The F-302 base came into view as they flew over Observation Hill or ‘Ob Hill’ as Captain Biggs had called it. As the chopper neared the peak, she spotted the large wood cross commemorating Robert F. Scott’s failed expedition. In the years since being rescued from the second gate, Sam had made it a point to learn as much as possible about the region’s history. The Herculean efforts of Scott, Shackleton, Amundsen, and many others who braved Antarctica in the early 20th century had often inspired her during some of SG-1’s more difficult missions.

  The chopper cleared Observation Hill and flew over the F-302 base. The hill’s rocky terrain did a good job of hiding the brown-paneled hangers and barracks from the casual eye. About fifteen miles down McMurdo’s frozen shoreline sat Scott Base. As Sam caught a glimpse of the twin F-302s on the ice, she wondered just how much the New Zealanders knew about the interceptors.

  “Is that safe?” asked General O’Neill.

  “I’m sure the New Zealanders have been briefed, sir.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Do we really want to have two billion-dollar birds sitting on ice?”

  Someone waved to them from next to one of the F-302s. A pilot, most likely. “This time of year, the ice shelf’s at least ten to fifteen feet deep.”

  “Yeah, but is it safe?”

  “As safe as the runway we came in on, sir.”

  The chopper cleared the base and Sam flipped off the spots. Switching to infrared mode, she slid down her night vision goggles. Her brain took a second to adjust to the lack of depth perception.

  “Those AN-PVS 15s work for you, Colonel.”

  “Don’t really have a choice, sir.” Sam adjusted her headings to follow the Ross Island coastline further south toward the outpost along the barrier between where the McMurdo and Ross Ice Shelves joined. “Captain Biggs seemed to think the C-17s might start using them for winter flights.”

  “Makes sense.” A light tapping sound came from the general’s direction. Though Sam couldn’t shift her focus from the terrain ahead, she knew General O’Neill well enough to recognize fidgeting when it happened.

  “ETA ‘til outpost twenty-five minutes, sir.”

  “And I’m counting every second in anticipation —  Whoa!”

  A stiff wind shoved the chopper’s nose to the right. Sam applied pressure to her left pedal to adjust the tail-rotor’s pitch. The chopper straightened out and she settled back in.

  She checked the gauge. “The wind’s back down to ten knots, sir. We shouldn’t have any more problems.”

  “Sweet.” The general tapped his fingers against the console. “A civilian could do this training, you know. I’ve got more important things to do like approving Walter’s latest parking space request or signing another round of Siler’s requisitions.”

  “Running the SGC keeping you busy, sir?”

  The general merely grunted.

  Sam grinned. General
O’Neill never got tired of downplaying his importance to the SGC in both a leadership position and as a strategist. Or in this case, being the most qualified person on the planet to operate the weapons chair, whether he thought so or not. She told him as much.

  “I never should’ve let Sheppard go with Weir to Atlantis. The man liked Antarctica. We could’ve built him his own personal bunk at the outpost.”

  “Yes, sir.” Another gust pushed against the chopper. She adjusted the rudder.

  Sam envied John Sheppard and the others who’d gated to another galaxy. Not that she didn’t love her job leading SG-1. She did! But the possibility of discovering Ancient technology far beyond anything anyone could imagine was tantalizing. Although, when she’d heard Rodney McKay had been assigned to the expedition, her envy had turned just a bit to pity.

  The general picked up his finger drumming routine again, this time tapping against his leg in syncopation with the rotors. “God, I hope Daniel doesn’t screw up.”

  “Why would he?”

  The finger drumming stopped. “It’s Daniel who needs to believe that, Carter. Not Hammond, Davis, you or me.”

  “Just out of curiosity, sir, how do you think Teal’c can help? I mean, other than his firsthand knowledge of the Goa’uld, he’s not exactly — ”

  The general laughed. “Kind of like sending a grizzly to babysit a salmon stream, isn’t it?”

  She chuckled. “At least it gives Teal’c something to do.”

  “Yeah, well, I know how that goes.” The finger tapping started up again.

  Sam chewed her lip. Teal’c didn’t need to be in Antarctica, and he didn’t need to stay with Daniel. Whatever troubled the general, whatever motivated his need to keep SG-1 close at hand, clearly he wasn’t going to talk about it.

  Another gust nudged the chopper, this time coming from behind, pushing them in the right direction. Grateful for the boost, she nudged the cyclic control forward and headed toward the outpost. With any luck, they’d shave off a few minutes.

  Although, knowing the general’s mood, the trainees might not be so lucky.

  MCMURDO STATION

  ROSS ISLAND, ANTARCTICA

  18 AUG 04/0940 HRS MCMURDO STATION

  The rope tied to the waist of Teal’c’s insulated coveralls tugged twice. “Just a few more steps to our right, Mr. Murray,” came the muffled sound of his assigned companion.

  “I disagree, Dr. Malan,” he replied, his voice equally muffled by the white plastic bucket he wore to participate in this ‘Happy Camper’ training game required for McMurdo’s civilian visitors. “Our goal is to reach the central pole. To that end, we must take ten steps forward and one, perhaps two to our left.”

  “Not if we want to win a set of bowling shoes!” Dr. Malan tugged the rope joining them again. He stopped. “Wait, how can you be so sure?”

  Teal’c sighed. He could sense the pole ahead of them. Years of training by Master Bra’tac had taught him how to feel the presence of anything nearby. Convincing this young man to trust him would be difficult without offering an explanation.

  While Teal’c understood the purpose of this training exercise — to remind civilians that they must use all their senses when in such a rugged environment  — he also recognized the other element behind the simulation. “Did not the personnel director say we must learn to trust one another if we are to succeed?”

  The taut rope slackened as Dr. Robert Malan’s footsteps crunched in the snow. The biologist bumped into Teal’c’s left side and stopped. “I really want to win. You understand, right? It’s not just about the shoes — ”

  “If we lose, I shall personally acquire a set for you. Would that be a sufficient arrangement?”

  “And you’re sure? I mean…” More crunching of snow, the rope winding across Teal’c’s back. “I could’ve sworn — ”

  “Grab hold of the rope and permit me to lead.”

  “Okay, dude. Go for it. You lead, I’ll follow.”

  With one hand on the rope between them, Teal’c set off to the pole. He took two steps forward and then another. He stopped, waiting for Dr. Malan to catch up. Yes, he could sense the pole ahead. Only a few more feet. “Seven more paces and we will reach our objective.”

  He took another step.

  Dr. Malan followed. “Objective. Like a military thing? Oh, that’s right. Dr. Edmunds said you were with the Air Force. Awesome. Well, forward march, airman.”

  Teal’c smiled beneath the confines of his bucket. The enthusiasm of youth never changed, no matter the civilization. The biologist reminded him very much of Rya’c, and perhaps even himself many years ago when serving as Serpent Guard within Apophis’ ranks. So sure of himself. So sure that what is seen is what things are…

  As he took another step forward, Teal’c considered the possible ways he might exact revenge on O’Neill for insisting he remain at McMurdo. Not holding back on their next ping-pong match was certainly one option. Replacing his beloved red Jell-O with green was yet another. In either case, Teal’c would most certainly find retribution.

  “Are we there yet?” asked Dr. Malan.

  Teal’c’s gloved hand grazed the wooden pole. He stopped. “We have succeeded.”

  Removing the near stifling bucket from his head, Teal’c sucked in a refreshing bout of the cold, dry air. The miraculous Aurora Australis lights had been replaced on the horizon with a red wisp of pre-dawn glow.

  Turning toward the other eight teams scattered across the snow-covered parking lot, he searched for Daniel Jackson. His friend had been partnered with the National Science Foundation’s director for McMurdo. Lean, white-haired, and with a beard as long as the Tau’ri’s Santa Claus, the exceptionally tall NSF man had said little during formal introductions, except to argue over the partnerships assigned by Hannah Presley. The station’s personnel director had been gracious, but firm in her refusal to change the assignments. It was a talent that reminded Teal’c very much of Colonel Carter.

  Plastic thwacked against wood. Teal’c spun back around to his own partner.

  “Ouch!” Dr. Malan pulled off his bucket. He grinned widely beneath his sparse red beard. “Hey, we did it!”

  “We have a winner!” Hannah Presley ran over to them, blowing a whistle. “Everyone inside — there’s hot chocolate and a snack waiting in the cafeteria.”

  Buckets were raised and much laughter ensued as the teams disengaged their partnered tethers. That is, all but one team. Far over on the parking lot’s other side, Daniel Jackson and Dr. Edmunds turned away from each other as they untied their rope. The NSF director threw his bucket to the ground. He mumbled something Teal’c could not hear and stormed off toward Building 155. Scooping up the neglected bucket, Daniel Jackson followed at a slower pace.

  “Hey, thanks for the win,” said Dr. Malan, rubbing snow off his short red beard. “If you’re up for it, I can give you guys a tour of the main complex.”

  Teal’c bowed his head. “That would be most appreciated.”

  Dr. Edmunds stomped past the pole. “Back to work, Malan.”

  The biologist stared at the NSF director’s retreating back. “What’s his problem?”

  “Not exactly the warmest welcome I’ve received,” said Daniel Jackson as he joined them.

  “Don’t mind Edmunds,” said Hannah Presley. “The bergy bits in the sound have a warmer nature than him.”

  “Bergy bits?” Teal’c asked.

  “Miniature icebergs,” explained Dr. Malan.

  Buckets in hand, the four reached Building 155’s back entrance just as the wind picked up yet again. Dr. Malan yanked open the heavy door. Most of the buildings in McMurdo were made for the cold weather with walk-in freezer doors to block out the elements. The only difference was that instead of walking into a freezer, this was more like walking out of one.

  Inside, they removed their outerwear to dry. When Dr. Malan inquired as to why Teal’c’s watch cap remained on his head, Daniel Jackson thankfully chan
ged the subject by asking if there was any tea. They hurried toward the cafeteria and Hannah Presley promised to return shortly with a selection of Rooibos.

  The cafeteria was at the end of a long hallway beside a bank of windows that rattled against the wind. Teal’c looked in at the large open-style dining area — far larger than the SGC’s commissary. In the center were many food stations. Several dozen community tables lined the walls.

  “Good thing we got inside when we did.” Dr. Malan pointed out the window toward a wooden building further up the road. A row of flags flapped briskly. “Hey, how about that tour?”

  “Don’t waste your time with those two, Malan.” They turned around to find Dr. Edmunds leaning against the wooden door leading into the cafeteria, arms crossed, his bearded chin thrust upwards.

  The NSF director dropped his arms and strode up to Dr. Malan, separating the young man from both Teal’c and Daniel Jackson. “They may not look like military, they may not act like military, but they are military.”

  “As I explained earlier,” said Daniel Jackson, “I’m a linguist and an archaeologist and — ”

  “Have absolutely no reason to be here.” With that, Dr. Edmunds stomped off. The sound of his footsteps echoing through the corridor only served to punctuate the howling wind outside.

  Dr. Malan apologized. “Edmunds’s not a bad guy, he’s just what my mom calls ‘prideful.’ Don’t take it personally.”

  “Don’t worry about us.” Daniel Jackson awarded the young biologist a smile. “We’re used to it.”

  Used to it, indeed. Teal’c observed the NSF director depart. Edmunds’s arrogance was no different than what he’d had come to expect from Goa’uld System Lords.

  The wind rattled the windows once more, a howling gust that lent agreement.

  FERRAR GLACIER

  18 AUG 04/0940 HRS MCMURDO STATION

  Jack grabbed hold of his armrests as another gust jolted the chopper starboard. “Nice flying there, Ace.”

  “I can’t explain it, sir.” Carter jockeyed the collective, her arm vibrating against the strain. “Even Katabatic winds don’t just pop up out of nowhere.”