STARGATE SG-1: 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.
This story takes place immediately prior to the Season 3 finale episode ‘Nemesis’.
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.”