O'Neill leaned back against the chill, concrete wall of the base cafeteria,
sipping at a cooling mug of government coffee as he watched the flurry of
activity around him while the dining staff prepared for the upcoming meal.
Armed with sharp knives, heavy pots and roasting pans the various cooks,
bakers and prep crew danced a lopsided waltz around hot equipment and each
other as they collected raw ingredients from one side of the kitchen and
sent finished food stuffs out of the other. The piles of vegetables, heaps
of cans and stacks of meats were now finished dishes displayed on
countertops in sharp rank and file as if awaiting a dress inspection.
Judging by the pinched expression on the mess sergeant's face, that was
exactly what was about to happening. The colonel let a soft chuckle slide
past his lips as one very junior airman was singled out by the senior NCO on
shift. In the good Master Sergeant's opinion, the final touches just
applied to a dozen or so gaily decorated sheet cakes were, -"more than just
a bit half-assed and that's 'not' the way we do things around here, Son, if
you get my drift… ". The unfortunate young man found himself sent back to
the bowels of the pantry with said cakes to scrape and refrost the entire
batch until they met the Mess Daddy's personally 'higher than normal'
standards.
Holidays for those stationed at Stargate Command could be dicey at best. You
never knew when some Goa'uld might forget to read his calendar and show up
unannounced, uninvited and without his potluck contribution. The support
staff here tried their best to help make up for the sense of separation
forced on those whose duty schedule landed on holidays. The general
consensus was 'it was the least they could do' for the men and women who
daily put their lives on the line to protect homeland and loved ones from a
threat only a handful outside of this mountain really knew about.
There was something universal that drew service members of all branches
together at times like this. Most of the folks here knew what it was like to
be away from family and friends during the holidays. It didn't matter if it
had been a day on guard mount, an extended tour overseas or days spent
living in some war's desolation; it was still a time of quiet loneliness and
despair. Like the band of lost brothers and sisters they were, all pitched
in to disguise the isolation under ratty, homemade decorations and the best
food that could possible be scrounged, prepared and served
Nor did the civilians slip by unaffected. Many had no families in the
immediate area and had begun to consider the SGC their 'home away from
home'. Even the few who had uprooted their entire lives and relocated loved
ones here still tried to swing by and spend a bit of time with their
co-workers even if all they could managed was an hour or so. Though the base
was 'officially' on 'half staff', the corridors still buzzed with ambulating
conversations and you could find the labs filled with activity of both a
professional and personal nature. And with comradeship.
Some folks just don't know when to pack it in and give it a rest.
A small sigh puffed past Jack's lips. Holidays had never been a big deal for
him growing up. Nothing in the Air Force had ever made them something
special either. Only after Sara came into his life had certain days of the
year come to mean a lot more than they had in the past. That's when it
became all the harder for him. Suddenly there were reasons to take notice of
the month and day: birthdays, anniversaries, family holidays.
The military never took those special dates into account. He had raised his
hand, had "taken the King's Schilling", had bound himself in the service of
his country: body, mind, and soul. The missions had come, and he had to go
no matter the date, its significance or the personal cost. Sara had tried to
be a 'good' military wife. She try to understand that in raising his hand,
in taking the oath, he had lost every ounce of control over his personal
life. She worked hard to make something special of their holidays those
times they could be together. But it was difficult for the both of them.
Sure, he could have worked the system, could have shaken the right hands,
met all the right people. Probably could have landed himself a fine '9 to 5'
somewhere flyin' a desk, be home every night and weekend, be able to grab
some leave pretty much whenever he wanted it. He knew folks who could have
pulled strings for him - would have threaten to unbury the necessary
skeletons; would have helped him bury a few of his own for that matter.
But that would have been the end of Jonathan Fitzpatrick O'Neill both
emotionally and physically. And no doubt the end of his career, as well. He
knew he never have be the professional 'Yes Man' necessary to survive in the
bread and circuses world of Pentagon politics. He'd be at Ft. Leavenworth
right now making little rocks out of big rocks for decking some higher-up
wind-bag who had never gotten closer to the field than an inspection tour
via Huey. The kind who'd fly into a secure location out in the boon-docks to
'meet the troops under his command' and press the flesh. The kind of REMF
career officer who ends up setting 'politically correct' policies for deadly
situations that got good people killed.
A grimace grabbed his already craggy features as he slugged down another sip
of cooling coffee. Gah! This stuff gets worse every time I'm down here.
And Daniel wants to know why I come by and raid his pot.
The rumors of the young scientist and his almost mythical devotion to his
coffee maker were known far and wide on base. A flitting vision of Daniel
dressed as some great high priest of an ancient culture, paying homage and
offering tribute to the battered and stained 'Mr. Coffee' perched atop the
ratty old end table in high splendor in the corner of man's overflowing
office - the only thing keeping it safe from the overflowing debris of the
office - dragged a raspy chortle from somewhere deep inside O'Neill. A
passing airman threw a sideways glance toward the lounging officer. The
colonel's soft sable eyes meting his. Startled, the young man decided
discretion *was* quite probably the better part of survival and beat a hasty
retreat. There was just no 'way' he could have heard flint-faced Colonel
O'Neill snicker . Men who made their careers walking the 'dark side' of the
military didn't have the more base and common emotions of mere mortals. Did
they?
Seeing the reaction from the young airman, Jack laughed quietly to himself.
Kid looks just like Murcheson would have…
Jack thought back to the days when he was just another officer, not the
deputy commander of an entire secret project and fondly remembered how
terrified a certain 1st Lt. Robert Murcheson had been when he'd first joined
Captain 'Black Jack' O'Neill's Combat Controller Wing. Poor guy. Murcheson
had finally, after four long months in the field, loosened up and learned
how to look through the cracks in O'Neill's hardened demeanor to find the
glimmers of humor and amusement that lay hidden inside. Thinking back, Jack
remembered the holiday he'd spent when Murcheson had finally gotten over his
terror of his commanding officer.
It was Christmas, '88 or '89 - couldn't be sure which, but the entire team
had been in 'lock down' for over a month, totally isolated and no respite
was in sight. The mission was "Go", then "No Go" then "Go" so many times the
entire team felt they were referees at a tennis match instead of members of
a team in preparations for a highly classified dark side operation.
Murcheson had gotten a wild hair and slipped quietly, but totally, off the
edge. To this day Jack wasn't sure whether he'd wanted to kill the young
combat controller or give him a medal for courage 'above and beyond the call
of sanity'. Either way, Robert had stayed up the entire frigid night
secretly building a family of snowmen in the far back corner of the secure
compound.
Then, when O'Neill was away at the morning briefing, he'd very carefully
disconnected the heater in O'Neill's room, opened the windows and
reassembled the entire snow family there in Jack's room. It might not have
been so bad had Mommy Snowman and Daddy Snowman not been caught in a very
obvious and compromising position smack in the middle of Jack's bunk.
Of course, Jack had screamed and yelled. He'd had to cover the fit of
hysterical laughter that threatening to overwhelm him every time he recalled
the image of the two snowmen humping in his bunk. Captain O'Neill had
'suggested' Murcheson use a tablespoon from the dining hall to remove the
project from his blankets. No way had Jack actually been angry with the
young man. Truth be told, O'Neill had wished he'd been able to get pictures
of that quiet family scene.
After that, Murcheson had become everything a commander could have wanted in
a combat controller. He was smart, incisive, and brilliant in the field. And
soon went on to earn his own command. Capt. Robert Murcheson's career ended
one brief year later when he stepped on a landmine buried in some God
forsaken piece of ground on Christmas eve.
The word had sifted back to newly promoted Major O'Neill via unofficial
channels: brought to him by the base chaplain who had known them both.
Jack's team was once again in 'lock down' prepping for a mission. Even on
that grey and snowy Christmas day the chaplain stayed with him for the next
few hours, saying the 'mass for the dead' in the compound's tiny chapel.
Even as the 'Deo gratias' rolled from his tongue, Jack knew he had lost a
part of his soul and he was an emptier man for it.
Murcheson and the mine on Christmas. Dunleavy who'd come down with systemic
sepsis in the Central American mountains. He'd raved from the fever all the
way from the fetid, jungle base camp to Tegucigalpa where he'd drifted into
a coma just hours before Jack's team was finally extracted via Med-evac.
Months later Jack, with the aid of the post chaplin, had managed to track
down a report on the man only to discover that Michael Dunleavy was still in
a 'vegetative state' at a VA hospital in West Virginia. That had been
Memorial Day 1993. There had been no change since.
Murcheson. Dunleavy. Jefferson, who took a round from somewhere while the
team was in Latvia, the same day Charlie was having his very first birthday
party back home. He'd written the letter to the man's newly wedded wife,
telling her what a brave man her husband was. How his actions had saved the
lives of the other men on his team. Hollow words set on simple paper; a
visit to a soon-to-be grieving widow from a chaplain.
And Vasquez, who had decided to leave the service to enter the Seminary, to
become a military chaplain himself and minister to the souls he knew were in
need. His life had been lost, not in the honor of combat , but at the hands
of a drunk driver in a vehicle rollover during the Thanksgiving half-day
schedule at Pope AFB.
Charlie's fifth birthday where he'd gotten the bicycle that Jack wasn't
there to put together with him. Charlie's sixth Christmas where he'd gotten
his first set of ice skates and no dad home to go skating with him. Calling
home from a place that couldn't be discussed on a mission that couldn't be
talked about to wish Sara "Happy Birthday" in 1994. Getting home tired and
sore after a 48 hour shift as squadron duty officer: being so drained and in
such a hurry to unwind and spend what little time he might have with his
wife and son, he'd forgotten to lock his sidearm in the gun safe. After
that, Jack didn't ever have to worry about missing another holiday with
Charlie. Or with Sara.
But, as had become a constant in his hard, cruel life, there was the
chaplain.
For a brief second, O'Neill was comsumed in crushing sorrow where the
memories had fisted him in the gut. It's not fair! Damn it, I've done my
share! I've spent most of my life away from home. I wasn't there for
Christmases or Thanksgivings. I wasn't there for half of my kid's birthdays.
Hell ... I almost didn't make it to my own son's birth, for Christ's Sake.
Why the hell does this keep on happening? Come on, God. Why? //
He brought the mug higher and rested his forehead against its now cold rim.
The faint line between his full brows deepened as he squeezed his eyelids
together, trying to shut out the world around him.
Whoa! Hold up there, Johnny Boy. Having a pity-party for one, are we?
Jack pulled a slow breath in and lowered the cup to his chest, both hands
cradled around it. Raising his head he looked out over the faces beginning
to wander into the mess hall, attracted by the smells of good food and
sounds of companionship. One day, one year . Hell, one lifetime. It's
still all the same. It's the loneliness that does it, not the how or why.
His anger turned farther a field. It's the bastards out there who force
this on us. On all of us. Not just the Goa'uld, all of them. Everywhere. The
one's who want to take away a man's right to safety in his own home: safety
for his family and others. They're the reason we're stuck here today. And
Damned if I'm gonna let them win by draggin' me down and my people with me!
Someone had set up a CD player off to one side of the door, and the crisp
sound of music acted as a lure, drawing people from the bustle of the
corridors into the relative calm pool of the dining hall.
These kids need you right now, O'Neill. Need to see you joining in. Need
to see you know how they feel and you're right here to share it with them.
They need to know they can get through the emptiness; that somebody does care they're here. Military or civilian … they all raised their hands.
Agreed to put 'their lives, their honor and their sacred trust' in the hands
of their government for it's protection and defense. What the hell more can
you ask of someone?
He pushed himself away from the wall, beginning to move through the growing
crowd, headed across the room toward to the coffee pots for a warm-up. A
brief nod and a grin to one of the supply sergeants, a vaguely ironic smile
shared with the folks pulling duty in the infirmary. Bet they're glad
you're not in there right now. Handshakes all around for the folks
from admin. Never hurts to keep the guys who manage your records happy. A quiet 'How's the new baby?' here, a slap on the back in
congratulations for the promotion there… Jack found himself slowly working
his way around the room, making sure he'd seen or spoken to everyone.
As people started to claim seats and move up to the serving line, he saw the
rest of his team come through the door. Waving his hand as a signal, he
managed to catch Teal'c's attention across the rapidly filling space. The
Jaffa, in turn, began to head the others toward him, embarking on what was
obviously going to be a long, drawn-out process. It seemed just about
everyone in the room wanted to have a moment with the folks on SG-1.
Sorry, Teal'c Just like tryin to herd cats. He chuckled to himself.
Or whatever it is you herd on Chulak.
His face split into a contented smile as he watched the three make their way
through the crowd. He may have spent far too many years away from home and
loved ones, but now, this year, it was gonna be different. It was different. He was home. And he was surrounded by his family and friends. The
family he never really knew he needed … or wanted … until everyone and
everything else of any importance had been lost in his life.
Life was good and it was going to get better. Colonel Jack O'Neill was
finally home for the holidays.
Finis
Feedback makes the difference between writing and posting; please contact me at
seticat@comcast.net |
