STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm Read online

  Do No Harm

  Karen Miller

  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

  MGM TELEVISION ENTERTAINMENT INC. Presents

  RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON

  in

  STARGATE SG-1™

  MICHAEL SHANKS AMANDA TAPPING

  CHRISTOPHER JUDGE

  DON S. DAVIS

  Executive Producers JONATHAN GLASSNER and BRAD WRIGHT

  MICHAEL GREENBURG RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON

  Developed for Television by BRAD WRIGHT & JONATHAN GLASSNER

  STARGATE SG-1 © 1997-2011 MGM Television Entertainment Inc. and MGM Global Holdings Inc. STARGATE: SG-1 is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All rights reserved.

  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc TM & © 2011 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  Photography and cover art: Copyright © 2011 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  WWW.MGM.COM

  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 unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  For my friend Mary, Australia’s answer to

  Doctor Janet Fraiser.

  Acknowledgements:

  Sabine, who rocks like the biggest rocky thing in the galaxy.

  Sally and Tom, who suffered through my insane work schedule. Betcha wanted to smack me, really.

  Jenny, Cindee, Elaine and Sharon, my trusty beta readers.

  Richard Dean Anderson, whose performance in ‘A Matter of Time’ was electric and inspirational.

  Marshall Teague, ditto.

  The team behind ‘A Matter of Time’, still one of the most heart-breaking episodes of Stargate ever.

  The cast and crew of Stargate SG-1, for years of marvellous entertainment.

  The fans, who make it all possible.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  This story takes place immediately prior to the Season 3 finale episode ‘Nemesis’.

  PROLOGUE

  Operation Desert Storm, Al Jouf Airforce base,

  February 4th, 1991

  There was a friggin’ sandstorm in Saudi Arabia. Again. At least, there was in his little corner of it.

  Dammit.

  Major Jack O’Neill sprawled in the half-empty, echoing aircraft hangar that had been given to Frank Cromwell’s Special Forces black ops team for the duration, and tried to pretend the sand’s keening cry was in fact a symphony by Hector Berlioz.

  He failed.

  Sand was creeping under the hangar’s closed doors. It was sliding up his sinuses. In the last few hours it had worked its insidious way into every last crack and cranny of his bored, skinny body. He wasn’t even hungry, he’d eaten so much damned sand.

  He bounced a little on his camp-bed, trying to get comfortable. A waste of effort, but it was something to do. Like an idiot he’d only brought one paperback with him, and he’d read it three times already. Not a single solitary skerrick of subtext remained, it was all supertext now. Heller’s satirical genius, his hidden meanings, his uncanny grasp of military madness, were all revealed, flapping in public like washing on the line. Yossarian, Major Major Major Major, Minderbinder, Cathcart and of course, Nurse Duckett — dear friends all, whose welcome was overstayed.

  Dear God. It was a war. Why wasn’t he shooting at someone?

  Because friggin’ Stormin’ Norman’s got a bug up his butt about Special Forces, that’s why. Which is fine, he can be a blind fool if that’s what blows his skirts up, but if he doesn’t believe we can do the job why the hell were our asses hauled to the Gulf in the first place?

  It made no sense… but that was Washington for you. Sometimes he wondered who was running the Pentagon: the Joint Chiefs of Staff or a troupe of half-trained monkeys. And was this a day when you could tell the difference?

  The hangar’s side door flew open and the storm blew in his swearing, sand-blasted best friend and fearless leader.

  “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, how do these damned Arabs live here?”

  O’Neill grinned and swung his legs over the side of the camp-bed. “You really want me to answer that, Frank?”

  Lieutenant-Colonel Frank Cromwell, tall and solid and dependable as the sun, scrubbed capable fingers through his close-cropped dark hair and spat sand onto the hangar floor. “No.”

  “Because I can if you like.”

  Frank gave him a friendly snarl, then stared around the hangar. “Where are the guys?” he demanded.

  Meaning Dysart and Wang, the other half of their four-man team. “Playing poker with the pilots.”

  “Heh. They’ll be sorry,” said Frank, and grinned. “Some hot blond lieutenant’s been clearing out the place. Poker, pool, you name it. Ah well. Their loss.” Unzipping his jacket he pulled out a sheaf of travel-worn envelopes and started sorting through them.

  O’Neill leapt to his feet. “Is that mail?”

  “Nah,” said Frank, tossing a letter onto Wang’s cot. “It’s a mirage, my friend. You’re imagining things.”

  If he tried to snatch, Frank would stuff the damned mail down his own boxers. The guy could be a bastard like that. So he shoved his hands into pockets and waited while another letter was dropped onto Wang’s cot, then three onto Dysart’s.

  A gleam of devilry was in Frank’s eye as he held out his hand. “Only one for you, Jack. Man, you’re tragic.”

  If it was the right one, who cared?

  Sarah’s handwriting was smooth and flowing, almost copperplate. Seeing it felt like her fingertips trailing down his spine. He let out a sharp breath.

  Down, boy. Down.

  He dropped back to his camp-bed and carefully eased open the envelope. It was very important he didn’t tear it. A photo slid into his hand. Charlie, brown eyes so huge in his puckish little face, cake-smeared mouth stretched wide in squealing delight as he stared at the teeny tiny Chicago Cubs uniform they’d bought him, with a mini-mitt and a signed baseball his six-year-old hands weren’t big enough to throw properly.

  He’s six? Hell, last time I looked he was in diapers. Wasn’t he?

  “What’s that?” said Frank. He hadn’t opened his letter, hadn’t even sat down. His wife was battling breast cancer and she wasn’t out of the woods yet. If something bad had happened there’d be a phone call, he wouldn’t find out in a letter from home, but…

  Carol dying? It’s the only thing in the world that can scare him, I think.

  He passed over the photo. “Charlie’s birthday party. Sarah and I organized the present before we shipped out.”

  Jesus. J
esus. Was that only five weeks ago? Five weeks in this sandbox and it feels like a lifetime.

  Childless Frank grinned at the photo. “Man, he’s a cute kid. Lucky for him he takes after Sarah.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” It was a familiar refrain. “Screw you.” He read Sarah’s letter.

  Love you… miss you… the party was fine… cake in the carpet, and up the walls… Carol’s had some bad days, but please don’t tell Frank… come home soon, we’re waiting…

  Hollow with homesickness, he looked at Frank. His friend had opened his own letter at last and was reading it, slowly. The look on his face… damn… why did life have to suck? Why couldn’t someone like Saddam get cancer?

  “Everything okay?” he asked, re-folding Sarah’s letter and sliding it next to his skin. It couldn’t stay there if they got deployed, but in the meantime…

  “Carol says so,” Frank replied, his eyebrows pinched. “But I’ve been married to the damned woman for sixteen years. She oughta remember I can tell when she’s lying.”

  Childhood sweethearts, known each other since Sunday school, Tennessee. How corny was that?

  But then Frank’s a corny guy. A romantic with a heart bigger than Texas. Hell, he watches chick flicks. He cries in ‘St Elmo’s Fire’. I’ve seen him.

  “Hey,” he said, and waited for Frank to pay attention. “Carol’s one tough broad. Has to be, staying married to you. She’ll make it.”

  “Yeah.” Frank shook his head, cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, handing the photo back. “Sorry you couldn’t be there for his birthday, Jack. Hell, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. Sarah bakes a wicked fine chocolate cake.”

  “Yeah. She sure does.” Everything Sarah did was wicked fine. Greedily he stared at the photo, drank in the sight of his miracle child. They’d had such trouble conceiving… for a while there it had looked like Charlie was never going to happen.

  God. It scares me sometimes how much I love him.

  The photo slid beneath his shirt next to Sarah’s letter. His fingers caressed them: his family. They were his life, the reason he was breathing. The reason he was here.

  “Jack…”

  Something in Frank’s tone triggered alarm bells. They’d known each other a long time now, were tuned to each other’s every nuance and breath, the way a good team leader and his second in command needed to be. “What?”

  Still holding his letter, Frank sat on the nearest camp-bed. Wang’s. His face was somber, his eyes serious and cool.

  Oh crap. Here we go.

  “It’s just a whisper,” Frank said, reading his mind. “Someone said someone else said they heard Horne say… you know?”

  His heart was kicking his ribs. “But you believe it?”

  Frank didn’t reply for a moment. Outside their flimsy shelter the sandstorm howled and raged. “There’s intel coming through,” he said, his voice lowered, as though the enemy could overhear them. “Looks like the Iraqis are using civilian air raid shelters as military bunkers.”

  Bastards. Like every dictator in human history, Saddam treated his own people like crap. Less than crap. Threw them under the bus the first chance he got.

  “So, what? They want us to go in? Confirm the intel? Or take out the bunkers?”

  “Don’t know,” said Frank. “But my gut tells me we’re going to find out pretty damned soon.”

  So. Despite Schwarztkopf’s well-known aversion to Special Forces going behind enemy lines — stupid jerk — they might actually get to do something useful after all. Well, hallelujah and pass the ammo, boys.

  Frank’s booted toe kicked him gently on the shin. “There’s something else.”

  He felt his belly roll queasily. “What?”

  “The Brits have lost one of their SAS teams.”

  “Lost?” He stared. “What do you mean, lost? When?”

  Frank shrugged. “Recently. Three teams went out to take care of any mobile scud platforms they could find and only two teams came back. One of them’s dropped off the radar. No contact. Zip. Nada. Zilch.” He flicked his fingers. “They’re gone.”

  “Gone as in laying low, or gone as in… dead?”

  Another shrug. “Nobody knows. They could be fine, and their comm equipment’s snafu. They could be mummifying as we speak. Or — ”

  “Or the Iraqis nabbed them.”

  Silently they stared at each other. It was every soldier’s worst nightmare: the thought of getting taken by Saddam’s Republican Guard. Forget the Geneva Convention, those guys played rough. Worse than rough. They’d rape anything that moved. They tortured kids in front of their parents, parents in front of their kids. They were… barbaric.

  Sarah… Charlie…

  Frank kicked him again, less gently this time. “Hey. Get your head straight, Jack. We’re here to do a job, and if we’re sent in I can’t have you carrying them on your back. I need to know you’re a hundred percent with me. Is that clear?”

  Frank didn’t often reprimand him. Didn’t often need to. It stung, but it wasn’t undeserved. “Yeah. Clear. Sorry.”

  “Hey.” Frank’s scowl relaxed. “It’s cool.”

  The thought of letting his friend down was enough to make him sweat. He knew his job. He was friggin’ good at his job. He was so good at his job sometimes that scared him, too.

  But things can go wrong. And I don’t want to get him killed.

  “Jack — that intel. Let’s keep it between us, for now,” said Frank. “There’s nothing official yet.”

  But there would be. Frank’s nose for a mission was the best in the game. “Which SAS team is it? Do we know them?”

  “Bravo Two Zero. We bought Chris Ryan a beer, remember?”

  Hell, yeah. And Ryan had slaughtered him at darts. Why that should make it worse he didn’t know, but it did.

  “You worry about it much?” said Frank. “You know. Getting taken?”

  It was the unwritten rule: you didn’t talk about that kind of thing. Talking about it brought it too close for comfort. But that was Frank; shouting what the angels feared to whisper.

  He shrugged, frowning. Stared at the scuffed and oil-stained floor. “Sure. Some.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “A lot?” he said, after a moment, and looked up.

  “Enough.” Then Frank shook his head. “But here’s the thing, Jack, and you can take this to the bank. So long as I’m leader of this team, none of you get left behind. If I have to shoot you myself I won’t let the bastards get their hands on you.”

  He felt a little of the weight slide from his shoulders. “That’s a promise?”

  “It’s a promise.” Then Frank grinned. “But hey. It’s not one I’ll have to keep. We’re too good for those bastards to catch us.”

  He wondered if Chris Ryan and the rest of Bravo Two Zero had made the same bold, foolhardy declaration… but he kept that thought to himself. “Yeah,” he said. “You got that right.”

  And then the hangar’s side door blew open again and it was Wang and Dysart, bemoaning their crappy luck at the poker table. He and Frank exchanged swift, complicated smiles… then joined forces to mock their team-mates, mercilessly.

  Two days later they shipped out for Baghdad.

  Chapter One

  Janet Fraiser was in the concrete cubicle she laughingly called her office, reviewing the bloodwork results on SG-6, when Sergeant Harriman’s voice blasted through the base’s intercom.

  “Medical emergency! Medical team to the gate room! Doctor Fraiser, please report!”

  She was too much the seasoned professional to leap up from her desk, sweating and swearing, but she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. It was the fourth emergency call to the gate room in twelve days.

  Just when I thought the worst was over. Hell, I’m so damned sick of this…

  With over-practised ease she grabbed her stethescope from its hooks by the door, pulled on gloves from the dispenser beside it, collected her response team from the infirmary with a quick “Soup’s
on. Move it.” and made her brisk way to the latest catastrophe. At least she knew for certain it wasn’t SG-1 this time. SG-1 were safely in the briefing room giving General Hammond the run-down on P4J-992, where miraculously not one of them had so much as stubbed a toe.

  Thank God.

  She ran through the potentials in her head as she threaded through doors and corridors at something close to a jog. SG-10 were on a diplomatic run, SG-5 were bored spitless on P9C-446, guarding an archeological dig. So that only left —

  SG-8. The scene in the gate room was grim. Major Jake Andrews, recently promoted to team-leader, sprawled unconscious on the gate ramp, his right forearm attached to his elbow by two sinews and a prayer. From the damage to his clothing it looked like there was some kind of penetrating belly wound too. Things that should be inside — like blood and intestines — were outside. The slicing wounds were sharp, clean, from some kind of machete maybe. Captain Ariel Lee slumped beside him, her slim brown hands clutching at the broken arrow-shaft protruding from her left thigh. Her team mates, Lieutenants Esposito and Brackley, bled from a profusion of nasty lacerations to their faces, arms, chests and legs. More blade work, like Andrews, but at least it didn’t look life-threatening. The lieutenants supported each other unsteadily as they gasped for air.

  “Why wasn’t this wound secured before you came back, Captain?” Janet asked Lee as she dropped to her knees on the ramp beside Jake and opened the first response box. Damn, damn, where was the — yes. Her fingers pulled out the tourniquet, and she hauled it tightly into place just above Jake’s elbow. The pulsed flow from the severed arteries was sluggish, easy to compress, the tourniquet a bandaid gesture after the fact. Her hands felt gently, deftly for evidence of a chest injury to go with the belly wound, for a neck or head injury from his unprotected fall through the gate onto the ramp. It would be so easy to miss something, and they were in too much trouble already.

  The major’s fatigues were drenched to a soggy scarlet. Class IV shock — greater than 40 percent volume loss, he was almost exsanguinated. “Get him on oxygen and put a couple of i/vs in him if you can,” she said to Liz Gardiner, her chief nurse. “We’ve got to bring his pressure up. If you can’t get an i/v in we’ll cut down and get central access in the OR.” Turning to Tim Webber she added, “I want that gurney now. Then notify the OR we’re coming in hot and they need to start scrubbing for a dirty abdomen. Then call the blood bank and radiology and warm up the rapid infuser.” She arranged the bloody, cooling, inanimate remains of Jake’s forearm beside him. Blood dripped through the ramp grating to the concrete floor below. “The arm can wait.”