TITLE: Following Orders

AUTHOR: Lost

EMAIL: LostinChlt@AOL.com

CATEGORY: Angst, challenge response

SPOILERS: Cor Ai,

SEASON / SEQUEL: Season 1

RATING: PG13

CONTENT WARNINGS: Some Language, Violence

SUMMARY: While Sam and Jack wait for General Hammond to make his call to the President.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Nancy, who Beta's like a dream, and can curse like a sailor. Especially when I'm late getting these things to her. LOL. Thanks to Candace and Jeanne who love everything I write no matter how poorly written.

Showtime and MGM/UA owns Stargate: SG-1 and all there in. she just borrowing them for a bit, and she'll promises to give them right back when she's done. Well, most of them, she might just keep Jack for a bit longer.

Following Orders

by

LostinChlt

Colonel Jack O'Neill stared out the window at the gateroom below. He was so angry, he could put his fist through the bulletproof glass. The problem was, he didn't know who he was angriest with. Teal'c, General Hammond or himself.

"Dammit!" He slammed his fist into the window, shaking it when it protested at the abuse.

"Sir?"

He spun around, looking at Carter as if just becoming aware she was still in the briefing room. "Carter, Has it ever occurred to you that none of us has any choice when it comes to following orders? That we just do what we're told and hope that some asshole, somewhere has a plan that makes sense?" He looked around the room that had become as familiar to him as his own living room. "General Hammond is in there right now, talking to the President, a guy who never saw a day of active duty, about Teal'c, as if he had some great insight into the Goa'uld caste system." He waved his hand, indicating the entire complex. "What the hell does the President know about any of this?"

"Well Sir, It seems to me that when we took our oaths, we were agreeing to follow the chain of command without question..."

"Even when those orders go against everything you know to be right?" He cut her off. "Don't answer that. If I wanted the Rule Book, I'd read it."

Jack sat heavily in a chair and put his hands on the table, trying to ignore the hurt look that had crossed Carter's face. He needed to think. "There had to be a way out of this Cor Ai thing. When they had first come back through the gate, the general had seemed inclined to help them. As soon as he told Hammond it was Teal'c, the situation had changed drastically. Not an American Citizen? Not an Earth Citizen? He was already putting his butt on the line for this planet every day of the week. What more did they want?"

"Colonel?"

Sam's tentative voice grated on Jack's already raw nerves. "Yes, Captain?"

"Have you ever spoken to Teal'c about what he did before? With Apophis I mean."

"No Captain, but I'm not one for battlefield remembrances."

"I never really gave it much thought, but the General's comment on Teal'c being a War Criminal really bothers me. You don't suppose there's any truth to it?"

Jack grimaced. "Actually Sam, I believe there's a lot of truth to it. That doesn't mean I believe Teal'c should be put to death."

He watched as Carter processed the information. Her blue eyes were so expressive. He gave her two minutes before she made the connection and ….."Sir? What did you mean when you told the General, you had been ordered to do some distasteful things?"

'Bingo.' he thought. "Actually I said, Damn distasteful, Carter, but who's counting." Jack crossed his fingers that it would give her a clue and she wouldn't pursue it. As she turned to him, he realized it was too much to hope for.

"Like what, Sir?"

"Are you writing a book, Carter?"

He flinched as her face fell. What the hell was he supposed to tell her? "Look Carter, most of the stuff I've worked on has been classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to shoot you." He gave her a grim smile. "All I'll tell you is, it wasn't always pleasant."

"With all due respect, Sir, I can't imagine you doing anything as grievous as what Teal'c did for the Goa'uld. I mean, he helped and actually participated in the execution of hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. We don't have anything that compares with that."

Jack just looked at her with his thousand yard stare, raising his eyebrows when she gasped.

"We do?"

He continued to stare, saying nothing. The words were not necessary. It was written on his face for her to see. He knew he appeared older than he was. There was a cause and effect for every line there. When she finally looked away, he dropped his face into his hands and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hated to disillusion her, but hell, while she was working at the Pentagon playing with her test tubes, he was flying all over the world, doing mean nasty things to people of every description.

He didn't often dwell on the time before the SGC, but he could feel the weight settling on his shoulders right as he sat at the briefing table. He slouched forward and he let himself slip into his past, replaying the scenarios until he wanted to throw something.

East Germany 1978-?, Afghanistan 1981, Iran in 1983, Iraq 1986. The dates repeated as he saw each mission. He had spent most of his formative years playing chicken with the Stasi in East Germany. Some of the missions had been on the level. Real red, white, and blue hero stuff, but the majority had been intelligence inspired. He snorted into his hands. Military Intelligence! If that wasn't an oxy-moron he didn't know what was.

Teal'c had asked him if he had ever seen a child crying over the body of the parent he had just killed. Well, he hadn't been asked to do that, but he had taken some fathers and mothers from their families. There had been some deaths and some screwed jobs. There had even been some loss of life among the children.

He had once carried an injured Afghani child more than 11 miles across the desert, only to find that the girl had probably died hours before. That had been a real disaster. He could still feel the weight of her small body in his arms. They had attacked a Mullah who was known to be in cahoots with the Russians, supplying them with maps and locations of the rebels. While the US had no official involvement, Jack and his team had been there for over ten months, flushing out the spies and training the rebels in arms and tactics. Sometimes accompanying them on ferreting excursions, laying down cover fire and taking note of areas for improvement. He had been younger then. Much younger and idealistic, believing in the causes his superior officers had sold him on. During the day, he would teach the fathers how to clean, load, and fire the ordinance they were supplied with but at night…. At night, the mothers and children would come out of the hills and surround the weary soldiers with their good-natured chatter and soft easy smiles.

The Afghan women were sultry, earthy mysteries and the Special Forces men took to them immediately. They were strictly hands off, but there were times when a woman or two would sneak into camp to ply their wares. Jack had never partaken, preferring to write to Sarah and dream of his home, but the children were another story. They would cling to his long legs and scamper underfoot, intent on catching his attention. He had no defense against them. He still didn't. Their dark eyes would dance with mischief and he would be lost. Often being suckered into playing soccer in the dust and sand until the sun was long down and the mothers would come running in their long flowing abayas, shooing them away and smiling at Jack from behind their chadars. He would live for the dusk then. Waiting for the evening meal to be over so the kids could come play, laughing and shouting as if a war didn't rage over their heads every day. Cleansing him with their youthful innocence.

Then it all changed. The day had started like any other, hot being the operative word. He had peeled down to T-shirt and shorts, keeping his tech vest and weapon on him at all times. The bandanna he had tied around his mouth and nose was clogged with sand and he was loosening it, hoping to shake off some of the dust before continuing his boring explanation on the importance of keeping your weapon clean. He heard the thwop of the rotors before he felt the wind that followed a few moments later. The Soviet helicopters flew right over them while they crouched on the ground, firing blindly at the threat passing overhead. The Russian bastards never even returned fire. The choppers headed straight for the hills and the encampment they knew to be populated with peaceful women and children.

The men in the rebel training camp ran for all they were worth. The only transportation they had were of the four legged variety, and sorry ones at that. Most of the men were on foot, including Jack. It took them almost 30 minutes to reach the camp and what they saw when they got there was straight out of their worst nightmares.

Blood. Literally gallons of it, everywhere. The tents had been razed from the air, leaving them as bloody shrouds for the inhabitants who had died violently inside of them. Chaos reigned as Afghani and US soldiers alike ran around looking for survivors. He heard the sobs of the fathers who had been with him when their families were butchered. They wailed into the early morning, crying out for Allah to take them too. Something in Jack snapped at that moment as he stood there amidst the carnage. He vowed on all he held dear that he would have revenge. He couldn't move as his eyes found one small body after another in the acrid air. As the smoke blew in another direction, he saw a flat object. A soccer ball riddled with bullets.

It was a cold, detached Lt. O'Neill that had turned to his Sergeant Major. "Report, Sergeant!"

"Sir, we have twelve survivors but they're in bad shape. We need to get them to base camp for evac ASAP!"

Twelve out of almost 90 people.

He shivered at the briefing room table, remembering the coldness that had crept into him that day. Sarah would point it out to him many times in the years that followed. The mission that had killed the part of his compassion that he reserved for the enemy. All soldiers were taught to pity a vanquished enemy, but Jack knew if he had the sons of bitches tied up in front of him, he would shoot them where they kneeled. This was not the work of soldiers whether they wore a uniform or not. It was sadistic and cruel and the perpetrators would pay. He would see to their punishment personally.

It was a very different group that limped into Base Camp later that evening. They had walked the 11 miles in 8 hours, carrying the wounded through the heat of the day. Jack had carried Mala. A little girl with dark eyes and long flowing hair, who wore his helmet whenever she saw it on the ground and liked to ride on his shoulders because she said it made her feel like she was flying. As he walked into the triage area, a medic had run up to them, checking for a pulse as she lay in his arms.

"She's dead, sir. You can put her over there." The young man indicated an area of the tent set aside for casualties. The blanket draped corpses testified to the size of the Soviet operation. They had hit all of the camps, going after the families of the rebels. When the airman tried to relieve him of his burden, Jack backed away, cradling the little girl against his chest, putting his face into her hair. They let him stand like that for almost an hour, rocking the small lifeless body and planning his retribution. When he released her to the medics, he placed his helmet on her still form.

Four weeks to the day of the massacre, Lt. Jack O'Neill stood before a squad of bound kneeling Russian soldiers. He had been ordered to interrogate them with "extreme prejudice" and he had taken those orders literally. They had been able to identify this squad as the one that had taken out Mala's encampment and the men of his detachment had been very rough with them. They had marked them up pretty bad, leaving a bruised and bloody mess of the men. He couldn't find the tiniest part of him that cared. The designation of their downed Helicopter had been clearly seen as they flew overhead that fateful morning. Now it would be their death sentence. The officer in front of him was begging for his life. Pleading that he had a family in Vilnius. That he had two small children at home. Jack raised his 9MM and shot him in the head at point blank range. The men on either side of the dead man received a shower of blood and brain tissue, screaming for mercy as the Afghanis fell on them. The smell of blood and urine in the air was like a release of adrenaline. When the "interrogation" was finished, so was Jack's humanity and faith in the goodness of others. He had become all that he despised and was content with it.

Months later, when the smoke had cleared and he was back home, he would think of that mission often. Mala and her people had changed a naïve 1st Lieutenant into the assassin the Air Force had wanted him to be. He checked his emotions at the door in those days, performing his missions in a calm proficient Military Manner.

If he hadn't been the husband he should have been back then, he knew Sarah had long forgiven him, but at the time it was hell. His home life became a test of wills between his needing to keep his activities secret and Sarah needing to know what had changed him. At night, when they lay in a tangle of limbs, he would hold her close and try to absorb her into his very soul. He would lie awake wondering why he couldn't cry anymore and grew dependant on her warmth more than ever. When he left, he would shed his dependency like a second skin.

As the years went on, Sarah became more than his wife. She became his haven. A place where he could be free and genuine, letting down his guard for a brief time while he recovered from the last mission. If she ever minded carrying his conscience and humanity for him, she never complained. It was a tribute to her that she stayed as long as she did. Especially after the nine day Iran parachuting incident when she had been informed he was dead. Then came the day she returned it to him with interest. The incredible moment she had placed his baby in his arms. Jack had cried that day as he held the swaddled form of his son, rocking back and forth on the edge of the hospital bed, begging for forgiveness and thankful for his family. Weeping like a child, he swore to be a better husband and the best parent he could be. He went out and bought books on how to be a dad. He saw a silly plush green frog and grinned like an idiot all the way through the checkout line as it was added to his bags. He procured baseball bats, gloves, hockey sticks, and footballs. He deliberately avoided the soccer displays, wanting nothing to remind him of his time in Afghanistan. This was his family and they were secure from harm. Untouchable. Safe from people like … him.

Yeah, he knew Teal'c had a lot to answer for, just as he knew Jack O'Neill did. Sometimes there was redemption and sometimes, just sometimes, there was forgiveness.

Jack looked up from his thoughts, aware now that Carter had probably been watching him the entire time the General was out of the room. He nodded at her.

"Carter." He smiled mirthlessly. "You wanted to know if we had done anything that compares with the Goa'uld?"

Sam nodded.

"Yeah." He said. "But not anymore."

~fin~

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