STARGATE SG-1: Behind Enemy Lines (SGX-07) Read online

  BEHIND ENEMY LINES

  Sally Malcolm

  An original publication of Fandemonium Ltd, produced under license from MGM Consumer Products.

  Fandemonium Books, PO Box 795A, Surbiton, Surrey KT5 8YB, United Kingdom

  Visit our website: www.stargatenovels.com

  METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER Presents

  STARGATE SG-1™

  BEN BROWDER AMANDA TAPPING CHRISTOPHER JUDGE CLAUDIA BLACK

  with BEAU BRIDGES and MICHAEL SHANKS as Daniel Jackson

  Executive Producers ROBERT C. COOPER & BRAD WRIGHT

  Developed for Television by BRAD WRIGHT & JONATHAN GLASSNER

  STARGATE SG-1 is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. © 1997-2017 MGM Television Entertainment Inc. and MGM Global Holdings Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Lion Corp. © 2017 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  Photography and cover art: Copyright © 2017 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  This story is set in 2013, ten years after the season seven episode STARGATE SG-1: Fragile Balance and one year after my short story, Off Balance, first published in our anthology STARGATE: Far Horizons.

  Off Balance is included as a prologue for those who haven’t read it.

  PROLOGUE

  STARGATE SG-1: Off Balance

  This prologue was first published as a short story in our anthology STARGATE: Far Horizons and provides the back story to the novella, Behind Enemy Lines, which begins with chapter one.

  COMING out of the bend, he opened the throttle and smiled as the bike leapt forward, eating up the empty road. Adrenaline kicked, the needle nosed over ninety, and the thrill of all that raw power brought him alive for a precious few seconds.

  Cliffs soared high on his right, sunset casting the rock in shades of burnt orange, turning the landscape alien, otherworldly. And he should know.

  He felt a spike of loss — still keen after nine years — and accelerated harder, just to blast the feeling away. He liked speed, he’d always liked speed. His wife had once told him, with a note of fond exasperation, that he was born to be a flyboy. The memory still made him smile, though it was long ago now, part of his lost life.

  Up ahead, he could see a line of mountains — the Collegiate Peaks — and the glitter of Buena Vista’s lights scattered through the evening shadows. He’d almost topped ninety-five, and was just throttling back, when he heard the siren wail behind him.

  Crap.

  He slowed, glanced in the mirror and saw the flashing lights of the patrol car pulling him over. Obeying orders was in his blood and, besides, he knew the drill; this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered Colorado’s finest. Pulling onto the shoulder, he killed the engine and tugged off his helmet. He’d never been good at feigning contrition, but he did his best as the officer climbed out of his car. Recent experience had taught him that cops didn’t like kids with smart mouths.

  Tall, lanky, maybe early thirties, the police officer walked with a youthful swagger — the kind of bravado born of a uniform, a rank, and a gun at your side. “You know why I stopped you, son?” the cop said.

  “Yes sir.” He hated being called ‘son’ by kids almost half his age.

  “I’m gonna need to see your driver’s license.”

  He handed it over and the officer studied it for a moment, then peered at him over the tops of his sunglasses. “Jonathan O’Neill.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You go by Jack?”

  “Used to,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  The officer didn’t comment, eyes hidden again behind his dark glasses. “Is this your bike, son?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “BMW R1200GS? That’s a lotta machine for a kid your age.”

  He gave a little shrug. “I’m older than I look.”

  “Says here you’re twenty-four. And that’s an expensive bike.”

  “It was a gift,” he said, “from my uncle. Uncle Samuel.”

  And, all things considered, that wasn’t exactly a lie. He had to do something with the guilt money that dutifully rolled in each month from the Air Force.

  As usually happened, the police officer walked away a few steps and spoke into his radio, probably calling through a check to make sure the bike wasn’t stolen and that ‘Jonathan O’Neill’ wasn’t wanted for grand theft auto across all fifty states. Everything came back clean, of course, and in the end he only had to endure a lecture on responsibility from a guy who had no idea what responsibility meant.

  It was dusk by the time he was allowed to go, so he turned around and headed back toward Salida. He was a little surprised that the police car followed him all the way into town, only moving on after he’d pulled into the parking lot outside Bosco’s Tavern. He guessed the cop didn’t have much else to do, and resisted the urge to wave him goodbye. Low-profile was the watchword of his so-called life these days, and sassing the police wouldn’t help keep him out of trouble.

  Bosco’s was dimly lit with plenty of corners to hide in. Jack knew it well; he often came here when he was out riding and he liked its shadows. They made it easy to hide. The food was good too, and he ordered a steak and a beer and ate slowly, trying not to think about much of anything. It was an art he’d perfected during his years in exile. Don’t think about what’s happening out there in the big wide galaxy, because there’s nothing you can do about it anymore. Don’t think about whether the people you care about are alive or dead, because you’ll probably never know. Don’t think about your family, your ex-wife, your lost son — all of them belong to someone else. Don’t think about any of it, just live in the moment.

  Behind him, he heard a swell of voices — an argument brewing, then fading away. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a woman and a man at the pool table, her with hands on hips and him drunk and unpleasant. Ignoring them, Jack turned back to his meal and took a long swallow of cold beer. It helped that he could buy himself a drink now, even if he was still carded a lot of the time. He’d always looked young for his age, ironically.

  But at least the face he saw in the mirror these days was starting to look familiar again. He remembered this face, remembered being this guy. There were fewer scars this time around, but his life since leaving the SGC had been a lot less interesting. The last time he’d been twenty-four, he’d already been a serving officer, a pilot. He’d seen combat. This time? Well, it turned out that after you’d spent seven years on the galactic frontline it was difficult to feel like much else in the world really mattered.

  The argument behind him grew louder, but he didn’t turn back around despite his instinct to step in. He’d learned to control that impulse too, over the last few years. Yet the rise and fall of arguing voices threaded their way through the music, a baseline of unease that made him edgy. Perhaps that’s why he was on alert when the bar door opened and two men in dark suits entered. He clocked them immediately, watching as the
y took seats at the bar, ordered drinks, and glanced around the room with feigned indifference. He didn’t recognize their faces, but they had military intelligence stamped all over them. A prickle of tension ran along the back of his neck, half disquiet and half excitement. Were they here for him, after all this time? Was he in danger? Was he needed?

  “Son of a bitch!” The shout came from behind him, rolled up in a huge crash and a woman’s scream.

  Jack was on his feet in an instant — just in time to see a man go flying across the pool table, and another leap over it after him, a pool cue clutched like a club. A bottle broke and there was blood. Jack couldn’t stop himself.

  “Hey!” he yelled, running over. No one paid any attention, the woman was still screaming and the man with the cue in his hand was hammering at the other guy who lay curled in a ball on the floor.

  “That’s my goddamn wife, you sonofa —”

  “Hey!” Jack grabbed the attacker’s arm, twisted it behind him until he dropped the cue with a yell, and then turned him fast and shoved him face down onto the pool table. He held him there. “Cool it,” he ordered.

  The attacker was drunk and obstreperous. “What the — ?”

  Jack jerked his arm higher, making him grunt in pain. “I said cool it, buddy.”

  The other man staggered to his feet. There was a gash on his head, blood dripping down his face and into his eyes. He looked dizzy, like he was about to faint or throw up.

  “Sit down,” Jack barked at him. “You,” he said to the woman, “help him.”

  She stared at him through clumpy black lashes and a fall of hair too blonde for her middle-aged skin. “Look, kid —”

  “Do it,” he demanded, like she was a new recruit. “Now.”

  She blinked, but few people could ignore orders given in that tone of voice. He’d spent years perfecting the ideal balance of threat, demand, and expectation. It worked every time, and this was no exception. She helped the guy sit down, watching Jack as if she weren’t sure what to make of him.

  Then there were staff everywhere and the manager was threatening to call the cops. Jack realized he still had the guy pinned to the pool table and let go, aware of too many curious eyes on him. Heading back to his table, he grabbed his jacket and left before the manager could rope him into talking to the police.

  He was halfway across the parking lot when he noticed the car. A black sedan lurked at the far side of the lot, as out of place as the two suits had been in the bar. His blood was still up from the fight, senses heightened, and he knew there was something wrong here. Instinct urged him to run, to grab a weapon and prepare for an ambush. But he had no weapon, so he just kept walking toward his bike, hairs rising on the back of his neck. He’d barely taken half a dozen steps when someone behind him spoke.

  “Colonel O’Neill.”

  He stopped dead. Keeping it nonchalant, Jack turned around. “You got the wrong guy,” he said to the suit standing behind him.

  “I don’t think so, sir.” The man took a step forward. Jack recognized him from earlier, in the bar. “Apologies for approaching you like this, Colonel, but we need your help.”

  Jack glanced around, but the parking lot was empty. “And who’s ‘we’, exactly?”

  “The Pentagon, sir. Homeworld Security.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Homeworld Security? Never heard of them.”

  “A lot’s changed since you left the program, sir.” The suit gestured toward the car. “Please, we don’t have long to fill you in.”

  He glanced over at the sedan, all dark windows and bulletproof glass. His bike was about twenty yards behind him. He could make it in a couple of seconds, could probably outrun the car. “You know,” he said, “my mom always told me not to get into cars with strangers.”

  The suit nodded and reached into his breast pocket. Jack swallowed and managed not to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. “Major Kevin Hartkans, sir.” The man pulled out his military ID and held it up. “Pentagon.”

  It looked real, but you could forge anything these days. Jack licked his lips, thinking it through. This moment — the recall to active duty — was something he’d longed for ever since he’d left the SGC. And yet… “Where’s General Hammond?”

  Hartkans’s face tightened. “Sir, I regret to inform you that General Hammond passed away two years ago.”

  It knocked the air right out of him. All he could manage to say was, “How?”

  “A heart attack, sir.”

  He felt a swift, hot flare of anger. George Hammond was gone — had been gone for two years — and Jack hadn’t even known? They hadn’t even let him pay his last respects.

  Hartkans glanced again at the car. “Colonel, I’m sorry, but we don’t have much time. If you could come with me, I can brief you fully on the situation on our way.”

  But he wasn’t going anywhere, not yet. Not until he knew. “My team,” he said in a voice steadier than he felt. “SG-1?”

  With a shake of his head, Hartkans lowered his voice and took a step closer. “That’s why I’m here, sir.”

  His stomach plummeted into his boots. “Tell me.”

  In the dark of the parking lot, Hartkans’s face was all shadows. “They’re in trouble, Colonel. And they need your help.”

  #

  “Yup,” Daniel said, peering through his binoculars, “we’re in trouble.”

  Teal’c shifted where he crouched next to Daniel. “There appear to be many Oranians converging on this site.”

  “Yeah, like I said: we’re in trouble.”

  “Well, perhaps they’re not here looking for the same thing we are?” Vala suggested. “I mean look at this place — sunshine, ocean. Wonderful views.”

  Daniel cast a look over his shoulder. “You think they’re tourists?”

  “I’m saying they might be.”

  “With guns?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a dangerous galaxy, Daniel.”

  Trying not to roll his eyes, he turned back to the road below. There were twenty Oranians, maybe more, in a tight-packed group, heavily armed, with a few outriders serving as scouts. And they were heading directly for the Ancient outpost.

  “Looks to me,” Mitchell said, “like they know exactly what they’re after.”

  “We cannot permit them to retrieve the device,” Teal’c said. “If it were to fall into the hands of the Lucian Alliance…”

  No one needed to hear the end of that sentence. The Alliance might have been weakened after their failed attack on Earth, but no one doubted their commitment to removing the Tau’ri threat from the galaxy. And this device might be able to do exactly that.

  “So,” Mitchell said, “I guess we find the thing before they do.”

  “Oh good,” said Vala, smiling up at the Ancient outpost towering above them. “I do love a treasure hunt.”

  #

  The empty warehouse, on the outskirts of Colorado Springs, looked nothing like the Pentagon. Jack eyed it suspiciously through the tinted glass of the sedan as it rolled to a stop in the deserted parking lot of the industrial park.

  “Don’t worry, Colonel,” Hartkans said. “This isn’t our base of operations.”

  “Okay,” he said, reserving judgment. The driver got out, came around, and opened the door for him with a crisp salute. Jack couldn’t deny that it felt good to be accorded the respect of rank again; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

  He nodded to the airman as he climbed out, tugged down at the hem of his shirt and wished he had a uniform. “So,” he said to Hartkans, “now what?”

  The major indicated a small door, light seeping out from around its edges. “This way, sir.”

  Inside, there were a few boxes, and some communications equipment, and a couple of airmen studying computer screens. They jumped to their feet when Jack approached, coming to attention. “Sir,” one of them said to Hartkans. “Avenger reports ready.”

  “Thank you, Phillips.” Hartkans turned to Jack. “Stand by
for transport, sir.”

  “Transport? Where are we — ?”

  The fall of Goa’uld transport rings cut off the question and in a flare of white light he was somewhere else. Dropping into a defensive crouch, he had to blink several times to make sense of what he saw. He was on a Goa’uld ship, but the people standing looking at him were no Jaffa. They were human, most dressed in the mishmash of leather and sackcloth he associated with off-world populations. Some, though, were in uniform — USAF uniform — and one of them stepped forward.

  “Colonel O’Neill,” he said. “Relax, you’re among friends.”

  Straightening, but not lowering his guard, Jack took in the stars on the man’s shoulder. “General… ?”

  “Turner. We haven’t met.” He gave a thin smile. “That is, I’ve only met General O’Neill.”

  “You’re kidding,” Jack said, surprised. “He took a desk job?”

  Turner spread his hands, declining to comment. “Let’s find you a uniform,” he said. “We have a lot to do.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Jack said, glancing around and trying to get a feel for what the hell was going on. “I can’t help noticing we’re on a Goa’uld mothership.”

  The general smiled again. “Former Goa’uld mothership,” he said, gesturing for Jack to walk with him as Hartkans led the way through the corridors of the ha’tak. “We got hold of a number of them after the fall of the System Lords.”

  “Excuse me?” Jack almost missed a step. “It sounded like you said ‘the fall of the System Lords’.”

  “Yes, Colonel, that’s exactly what I said.”

  “As in… all of them?”

  Turner smiled again. “Every last one — even Ba’al, in the end.”

  “Okay,” he said, blindsided. They’d won the war and no one had told him. No one had told him Ba’al was dead. “I guess I didn’t get the memo.”

  “In here, Colonel.” Hartkans stopped in front of an open door, through which Jack could see a neatly folded uniform sitting on top of a narrow cot. “These are your quarters, sir.”