Tribute to Don S. Davis: Hammond Alphabet Soup
If Don S. Davis had lived another five weeks, he would have turned 66 today. In tribute to the man who brought General George Hammond to vibrant, wonderful life, and in salute to the best general to ever grace the halls of the SGC, 27 authors present 28 ficlets for Hammond Alphabet Soup. 
My thanks to the marvelous writers who made this tribute a reality: Annerb, Beanpot, Calantha, Cleo the Muse, Chandri, Conn8d, Delphia, Fig Newton, Gillian, Holdouttrout, Izhilzha, Jane Davitt, Kalquessa, Lokei, Maevebran, Muffinlips, Pepper, Princess of G, Rigel, Samantilles, SG-Betty, Supplyship, Suzannemarie, Tarimanveri, Traycer, Ultranos, and Uniquinum. Special thanks to Ultranos for doing last-minute back-up duty!
Shorter ficlets are reposted here in full, with links to the author's LJ for comments; longer ones are excerpted, with links to the full ficlet in the author's LJ. Spoilers for various episodes from Seasons 1-7. Rated G to PG.
ETA: And cnidarian is spreading the Hammond love even further, with a fic round-up call! Go here and comment with links to George fic.
A is for Air Force
by lokei
It's far past Kayla's bedtime when she climbs into George's lap with her latest alphabet book, demanding story time. After the week Hammond has had--hell, after the weeks, months, and years of his command of the SGC so far--he has to dig deep to find the smile and hug she needs. She passes over the book imperiously and George opens it to the first brightly colored page.
"A is for alligator," he begins, but Kayla frowns and shakes her head.
"Tell it your way, Grandpa," she insists, which means that she doesn't want that story at all, but one of his own invention, with or without the assistance of the pictures on the glossy pages.
"A is for," Hammond begins again, but trails off as his brain leaps ahead and fills in alien. A is for Asgard and Apophis, as 'other' as they can be, aged clone and ancient symbiote, representing either side of a galactic scale of good and evil.
Ambition, arrogance, avarice, his mind supplies next, the triad which drives the less admirable members of Earth's political and military bodies in their search for more power, more weaponry, more easy riches at the expense of those who are in need of
Aid, alliance--like the Tollans, the Cimmerians, the Enkarans, the hundreds and even thousands of lives touched by one or more of the teams Hammond sends through the Gate, and for whose safety--airmen and ally--he prays daily.
Abduction, ailments, ascension, amnesia. The specters of all the times George has failed to protect his people, made the wrong call, or didn't have the right intel are never at bay for long. He has only so much wall he can throw up around the memories at this time of night, whether it's the sight of an arrow embedded in Jack O'Neill's shoulder after flying through bullet-proof glass or the looks on his premiere team's faces after losing, mourning, regaining their lost archaeologist--another aggravating, affection-laden A.
Abydos, atomic bomb--the reasons Hammond met said articulate archaeologist, who among his other accomplishments, had first managed to aggravate and persuade one of the Air Force's finest officers right back into being human, to hear Jack tell it. And whose opening of the Stargate, first on Earth and then Abydos, started this war of attrition, the likes of which Hammond has never seen in the length of his whole career.
"Air Force," Kayla's voice breaks into George's spinning thoughts. "You're supposed to say 'A is for Air Force,' Grandpa."
George comes back to the moment with a start and a smile. "No, not tonight, sweetheart," he says, looking into the upturned face which embodies all that he and his teams strive to protect every day.
"Let's see if we can come up with a better one. How about this?" He gathers her closer in his aching arms and begins once more. "A is for angel named Kayla so sweet, sunny and funny from her head to her feet."
She giggles and they turn the page together. "B is for baskets of berries she grows..."
feedback
B is for Babysitting
B is for blackmail, babysitting, Bra'tac, and bravery
by pepper_field
"Don't try that face with me, young lady," he said, grumpily. "It didn't get you out of trouble when you painted the dog, and it won't work on me now."
"Dad, I know you're busy, and I swear I wouldn't be asking you to if it wasn't absolutely necessary. I know how important your job is." Cathy widened her eyes earnestly, and George Hammond frowned at her, grateful beyond measure that she had no real idea of the importance of his job.
"But, honey, I have an old friend coming to visit, and I don't know that - that he and the girls will get along." Even to his ears, it sounded like a last-ditch attempt.
"I'll tell them to be on their best behaviour, I promise. You know how shy they can be around strangers - settle them down with some pens and paper and your friend won't even know they're there."
"But, Cathy--"
"Daaaaaad, please?" She had always been able to sense when he was giving in. "The girls haven't seen you in weeks - they miss you! And I really, really have to make this meeting - Devon is talking about reorganization, and I have a chance--"
George threw up his hands. "Okay! Okay!" He shook his head, as she threw her arms around his neck. "This is blackmail, you know."
"It's not - it's coercion," corrected his daughter the English major. She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll drop them off on my way into town. I don't know what I'd do without you, dad."
Only when she'd gone, did George close his eyes and sigh. And then smile, slightly, his dry sense of humor making an appearance. He wondered who would be more startled by the meeting - his granddaughters, or Bra'tac?
continued
C is for Cancer
by muffinlips146
It was the first time he'd been out of the mountain during the day in...Hammond couldn't remember how long. Normally he arrived too early for anything to be open, and left long after the stores closed. So getting to go grocery shopping was actually a little bit exciting.
Pushing his cart to the car, he was stopped by two young women collecting for breast cancer research. The one started in on her spiel, but George's eye was drawn to the girl in back, or more specifically, her head piece.
She was wearing the three piece cloth thing he could remember his wife sewing when she was too weak to do anything but sit and sitch. She had got the pattern from her cancer support group and he could remember a lot of the women in that group wearing the same thing.
It was like a secret insignia for cancer's victims. For a second Hammond was overcome with the memory of sitting in a dim hospital room, holding his wife's frail hand and listening to her laboured breathing.
"Sir?" the woman who'd been talking broke into his train of thought.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, here". George handed her several bills from his wallet and started pushing his cart to his car.
Grocery shopping was over rated.
feedback
D is for Debriefing
by sg_betty
General George Hammond was feeling immense pressure to achieve results. The newly formed SGC wasn't living up to the expectations of his superiors in Washington, and he was certainly hearing about it. Daily. He glanced into the briefing room and sighed.
The premier team of his new command waited inside. Teal'c sat rigidly upright, his arms stretched out on the table, hands clasped. Beside him was Dr. Jackson, who was staring at his notebook, unseeing, and fidgeting with a pencil. On the other side of the table, Colonel O'Neill was also making use of his notebook. He was drawing tiny figures of Apophis being destroyed, variously, by equally tiny F-16s, miniature blocks of C-4, and slightly out of proportion ground troops. Captain Carter, seated next to him, merely stared at her hands which were folded in her lap. None spoke.
The General straightened his shoulders and entered.
The members of SG-1 rose. They knew how much he'd hoped for the success of this mission and it showed on their faces.
"As you were." He waved them to their seats and took his place at the head of the table. "I've just had a most unpleasant conversation with the Secretary. I informed him that not only did you fail to capture the creature possessing the power of invisibility, but will also be unable to return, as the inhabitants of the planet have buried the Stargate. Would you care to tell me exactly what led to this turn of events?" General Hammond stared at each of them, in turn.
Colonel O'Neill laid down his pencil. "We did locate the creature, sir. Daniel spotted one - well, not spotted, located - anyway, Daniel pointed one out. I was about to tranquilize it, when it was fired on by a staff weapon. That scared it off."
General Hammond swung his gaze to Teal'c with a frown. He'd been certain that Teal'c could be trusted to follow the chain of command.
continued
E is for Error
by holdouttrout
It wasn't yet the end of Hammond's first week in charge of the Stargate program, and he'd already made more gut decisions than he had in the past ten years. It was possible some of them, like allowing the alien Teal'c to remain on base, would prove fatal. He knew nothing about the man except that Colonel O'Neill thought he was trustworthy and highly motivated to help them, and that he had a gold tattoo on his forehead.
Allowing Colonel O'Neill anywhere near the Stargate could be a mistake. Hammond was positive that somehow--ironically, considering O'Neill's file--he had become a truly honorable man. Honorable men were dangerous, unpredictable, and ultimately uncontrollable. Hammond hoped he could win O'Neill's respect, and quickly, or he was in for a rough ride.
Then there were his two scientists, both of whom were more brilliant--and possibly crazy--than just about anyone else on the planet. One of them was head over heels in love with the 'gate itself and what it represented, and the other had a wife out there, somewhere, held prisoner in her own body--literally, one of the enemy.
Those were the people he was considering for the front lines.
He must be crazy. The president had even told him so.
Yet there was something that made sense about it all, something that made him pick these four people. He'd built many teams over the years, and there was something special about the ones that worked--something that had nothing to do with complimentary areas of expertise. For whatever reason, he'd been placed in charge of this facility, and since he knew of no protocols that even came close to covering their situation, he would have to make do with his gut.
He wasn't sure about any of them, least of all himself, but he'd make the decisions, and only time could tell the consequences.
feedback
F is for Fine Line
by sg_fignewton
"Colonel, you walk a fine line."
George Hammond remembered telling O'Neill that, in a tone of almost fond exasperation. But Jack O'Neill's regular dance along the line of insubordination was nothing compared to the tightrope that George found himself walking every day.
He had to follow orders. He had to keep his people safe. He had to do his duty to the oaths he took, the uniform he wore, the country he served, the planet he protected.
But he also had to question ethical directives, struggle with the pressure to justify any means, cope with the uncanny and bizarre on a regular basis, and deal with a seething morass of military and civilian and alien, forging it all into a coherent, working whole.
There were days when it seemed that those conflicting demands couldn't possibly coexist.
He teetered on the edge of that line, sometimes. There were occasions when he'd missed a step: the decision to strip-mine trinium behind the Salish's backs, the willingness to bow to pressure from above and sign a treaty with a nation bent on genocide. There were times when he risked being shoved off the line by those with their own agenda: his willing debasement in Kinsey's office, his defiance of orders to personally go after his people, the personal threat to his grandchildren. For the most part, though, George maneuvered his way through the minefield of command with deft precision, juggling the need to pacify the Pentagon and the Oval Office with the even greater necessity of protecting the men and women under his command.
It was a dangerously fine line that demanded a constant weighing of options and choices.
He could only pray that he never slipped and fell.
feedback
F is for Fraiser
The knock on the doorjamb of the general's office was soft but firm. George looked up to see his chief medical officer standing there, shoulders squared and chin high despite the dark circles under her eyes and an indefinable rumpledness about her normally starched and flawless garb.
"Come in, Doctor," he said, putting down his pen and indicating a chair. He'd been trying to catch up on paperwork now that Cassandra was out of danger and their unwelcome guest had been released to be a pox on someone else's house.
Janet refused the indicated chair, instead taking two steps into the room and remaining at something very close to attention. George raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment on this directly.
"I imagine you've spent the day monitoring Cassandra's condition?"
"I have, sir. There's no sign at all of the retrovirus in her blood, and her fever is completely gone. She's weak, of course, but she's back to normal." A slight smile came and went on Janet's tired face.
"That's good news." George paused, leaving room for more.
Janet pursed her lips for a moment before she spoke, but her voice wasn't hesitant or abashed. "I feel that I owe you an apology, sir. Last night I disobeyed a direct order, and while I think you know why I took the actions that I did, the fact remains that I was insubordinate, and for reasons that have nothing to do with my mandate as your medical officer."
"Sit down. Please. Janet."
A frown came and went, slight and fleeting as her previous smile. George had called her by her first name deliberately, and it might well be the first time he'd ever done so in the years they'd worked together. She came forward and sat, spine straight, shoulders sagging only a little.
George folded his hands on his desk. "While you were executing your ... unusually tough negotiating tactics, do you know what SG1 and I were doing?"
"No, sir."
"We were sitting in that conference room right there," and George pointed, "debating what one little girl's life was worth measured next to the potential damage we know, for a fact, that that ... monster will do out there."
Janet was silent. She drew a breath and let it out, but her steady gaze held George's.
continued
G is for Gamekeeper
by sg_fignewton
Hammond leaned slightly forward, fascination warring with horror.
"This Gamekeeper pretended to be me?" he repeated.
"He drew his material directly from our minds, sir," Captain Carter explained.
"Well, my mind. And Daniel's," Colonel O'Neill qualified. His brows were locked in a tight scowl. "He got everything right, from the SFs to all those little... doohickeys in the infirmary."
"The visual simulation was impeccable," Teal'c said calmly, his clasped hands resting on the briefing room table. "There was nothing to indicate that we were not actually back at the SGC."
Hammond let out a slow breath. He made a mental note to discuss the ramifications of security breaches with the colonel at a later time - possibly over a clandestine glass of whiskey, considering O'Neill's obvious fury at the invasion of his privacy. For now, though, he wanted to know how his people had escaped such an insidious trap.
"So the Gamekeeper masqueraded as me," he said again. It was appallingly irresistible to imagine the Gamekeeper rummaging through SG-1's brains and imprinting on his own image as the perfect foil. "What made you realize that you were still on the planet?"
They all blinked at him for a moment.
"Well, it was obvious, sir," Carter said.
"Once he actually opened his mouth, it was all over, really," O'Neill added dismissively.
Hammond frowned. "I don't understand."
Doctor Jackson, whose own struggle to clamp down on his anger had kept him silent until now, looked up from his prolonged study of the table surface. "He didn't show any concern for our safety, sir," he explained in a low, soft voice. "We knew it couldn't possibly be you."
It was Hammond's turn to blink. He sat back in his chair, looking at each of the four members of SG-1 in turn. Even Teal'c was nodding in agreement, although his nod was infinitely more stately and regal than the others.
A slow smile spread across his face, to match the warm glow he felt within his heart.
He always cared for his people, for the men and women under his command.
It was good to know that they knew it, too.
feedback
G is for Gratitude
by izhilzha
George's mother had a favorite Scripture verse: "A thankful heart has a continual feast." George wonders sometimes if it took her as long as it has taken him to understand what that means. He had his moments as a younger man, of course, appreciating a hot shower, the richness of homemade cake and good beer, the elegant curves of a woman's body. He supposes that feeling could be called thankfulness.
But it's taken years for him to discover that his mother was talking about something much deeper.
~~~~~
That sank in during the first year of the program. SG-1 dialed in from P3X-866, and instead of his three grief-stricken soldiers, four laughing, joking, living people strolled out of the event horizon.
Doctor Jackson looked worn out, but he smiled at the spontaneous applause that erupted from the men on duty in the 'Gate room. Carter was beaming, Teal'c . . . nearly so.
Colonel O'Neill looked like the world's weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
General George Hammond, commander of the base, leader of these people, couldn't even move for a few seconds. He'd seen too many people fail to return; though he had allowed them to return to the planet, he hadn't expected a retrieval. Whether brought about by God or simply by the bravery of his men, it seemed that miracles were becoming a fact of life.
He decided to factor them in from now on.
continued
H is for Harbinger
by supplyship
In his younger days, George Hammond didn't believe in that hippie "destiny" mumbo-jumbo. He was, after all, just an average boy from a small, dusty town in western Texas, and he lived by the words of his father: "You are what you make yourself to be, son." No, if George Hammond were to become a fighter pilot it would be by his own doing, not by anything predetermined by the universe.
And that's the way it was all through university, OCS, War College, and flight school. Until the day in late summer, 1969 when, still reeling from his father's heart attack the month before, and in between postings before starting another flight school, George came face-to-face with Fate.
Fate, it seemed, was four strange people with fantastical words of the future, words in George's own handwriting. Fate was a pretty blonde with a nasty cut on her hand, and an admonishment to keep quiet about ray guns and gold tattoos, and everything he had witnessed that day.
George Hammond wasn't thrilled with Fate.
For the next 25 years, those four strangers, those harbingers of destiny, were always close in his thoughts. And George second-guessed himself like he had never done before. If I do this, will it change the future? He was never very good at doing nothing. The end he knew "sort of); it was the middle he could only imagine.
Now, he waits - a solitary figure high above the gateroom, wondering if he had read the signs correctly, if he should have been more proactive and less cryptic. He waits for the four harbingers "strangers no longer) to find their way home, and for destiny to resolve into reality.
feedback
I is for Indecision
Casualties of War
by traycer_
It was his worst nightmare come true. General George Hammond stood in the briefing room alone, staring out at the Stargate as technicians readied the bomb to send through to Abydos. He had been in the military long enough to understand the consequences of the decisions he made, as well as the importance of following orders. Yet the decision he was about to make scared him right down to his toes.
"General, you can't do that!" The words of Colonel O'Neill rang through his thoughts as he contemplated his orders. There were innocent civilians on that planet, according to O'Neill, a fact that brought no peace to George. Up until that point, he had only thought of the beings he was preparing to destroy as enemies. They were just soldiers that had been trained for warfare and aware that death was a part of war. The Colonel's angry demand was laced with fear, an emotion that George heard loud and clear, even as he smugly waited for the Colonel to admit his deceit.
It was the desperation in the Colonel's voice that plagued George's thoughts now. He had read the man's file. Colonel O'Neill had earned medals for heroism, but had also participated in operations that required a man to have a strong constitution in order to live with himself after the fact. For O'Neill to feel so strongly about saving those civilians was a blow to George's confidence that he was doing the right thing. Memories of a massacre from long ago swirled through his motives, causing him to reconsider his original plans. He had sworn he would never go through something like that ever again.
The technicians in the gate room continued on with their preparations as George's thoughts took him back to his early years. As a young Lieutenant in Vietnam, he had seen his share of violence and devastation, but the worst was during a siege on a village that was rumored to be harboring enemy troops. Their orders had been to destroy the enemy at all cost, and they had done so with a grim determination. George sighed deeply as he remembered the sounds of gunfire, shouts and the screams that filled the air that day. He and his team had destroyed everything, including the children, and the anguish he felt as he stood there and stared at the casualties when all was said and done still haunted his nightmares to this day.
continued
J is for Jacob
by calantha42
George sat alone in the busy commissary at Cam Ranh Air Base, in South Vietnam. He held in his hands a letter, already read dozens of times, though it had only arrived that morning. His father was worse, maybe going to die, his sister Shirley reported.
He sipped his coffee, his stomach immediately roiling. He might never see his father again. He was living on an impossibly humid tropical coast, making a living by dropping fire from the skies, while his father lay dying half a world away.
He heard a chair being pulled back, and looked up to see Captain Jacob Carter sit himself down. The Captain was all lean and long arms and legs, his hair cropped short and light brown. Cpt. Carter remained somewhat inscrutable, even though he'd already flown several missions with the man. Right now, sitting with false ease, leaning slightly back, he gave off an air of confidence. Most of the other lieutenants read that as ego - Captain Carter seemed to always be right, no matter the situation.
George thought maybe it was something more though. A commitment to settling for nothing less than the very best, all other factors be damned - including his own ego. He hoped this was true.
Captain Carter slid over a small square photo across the table. He was smiling, ever so slightly. "You looked like you could use some good news, Lieutenant." he said.
Taking the photo into his hands, he saw a rather beautiful woman, her long hair tangled and her expression exhausted. She was in a hospital bed, holding tiny little baby in her arms. The infant was wrapped in a soft blanket, only a scrunched little face poking through. Beside herwas a toddler leaning against the rail of the bed, and though the photo was black and white, he could tell the boy had a shock of bright blonde hair.
"That's Samantha, born just last week," Cpt. Carter said, rocking forward in his seat with excitement. "She's 5 pounds, 5 ounces, and completely healthy. And that's Mark, my son, beside Elizabeth there."
George couldn't help but smile. "You have a beautiful family, Captain."
"You have a family back home?" Cpt. Carter asked.
George shook his head, though he immediately thought of his father and sisters. That wasn't what Captain Carter meant. "I'm engaged though," he found himself sharing. "Carol and I are getting married as soon as I get home."
"Just wait 'til your first kid is born. Hopefully you can be there - it isn't like anything else." He looked a George, his dark eyes completely resolute. That was a hell of a comment for a fighter pilot to make.
Cpt. Carter took back the photo and stood up. "Have a good evening Lieutenant," he said.
George took another sip of his coffee. He sighed and then began to write a letter to his father.
feedback
K is for Knowing
by janedavitt
Knowledge is power. Hammond knows that. He's not fond of the politics that form too much of his job description, but he knows what strings to tug, what markers to cash in, and when he needs to protect his people, he's ruthless as he applies pressure with a smile as wide as Texas.
This knowledge is different. Secrets always are. Some might think that a secret kept is one without power. If no one knows that you know, why, you might as well not know.
Hammond doesn't think that way.
This secret, though... this one he aches to share. He knows that Carter's eyes would light up, that O'Neill would stare blankly, brain busy. Knows that Doctor Jackson would be ecstatic, then cautious, and that Teal'c would want to use it to do good.
They're an odd bunch, his flagship team. On paper, they make no sense at all; in the field, they're a force to be reckoned with.
And he knows that without what he knows, without that certainty that this is how it has to be, just like this, that he might not have okayed the addition of a civilian and an alien to SG-1.
Now, that's a scary thought.
But he knows what he knows, and he's not telling what he knows, and he slips the yellow piece of paper into Carter's pocket and anticipates their return, when he can start to live his life without knowing what will come, but knowing he's helped to make it happen as it should do, how it was meant to.
He can be curious again.
feedback
L is for Lieutenant
by tarimanveri
He couldn't tell anyone, obviously. But that didn't mean he couldn't think about it. He thought about it all the time, or as much of the time as an active duty officer on a cold war base with elderly parents back in Texas to worry about and a girl to write and sneak out to see whenever he could had to think about the suddenly unveiled mysteries of his future. The four time travelers hadn't given him much to go on, other than the note, the promise of making general, and the ray guns "damned but he wanted to know more about those). If they were really from the future like they'd said, did that mean the future was fixed? The one had spoken Russian. Maybe he was a special agent, or maybe... no. There was no way he was going to believe that the Soviets would be gone in thirty years. Maybe that meant the future wasn't entirely fixed. But then what about making general? What if he changed things by grasping after them? Captain Carter - and Carter... she couldn't be... or could she? - He remembered how she'd looked at him and called him "sir," and he was pretty sure he knew respect when he saw it. He also thought he could probably tell a fine officer when he met one, and in that group, he thought he'd seen the finest. To have officers like that under his command, treating him with that kind of respect... if that was in his future, it was something to strive for. Maybe he had more potential than he thought. And what if his future self had only made it so far because he knew it was going to happen? Maybe it would ruin everything to try and force it, but that didn't need to stop him from trying to be a better officer, did it? From carrying out his assignments and looking after his men and serving with pride and dedication? If that made a general out of him sometime in the future, good; if all that happened was that he became a better leader and a better man, well, that would be its own reward.
feedback
M is for Maybourne
Paid in Full
by delphia2000
"You're not Starsky."
General Hammond cocked his head a bit, the better to survey the man who spoke out of the shaded depths along the tree-lined path. "And you're no Hutch," he told Maybourne.
Maybourne moved cautiously toward him, not quite out in the open, but out of the deep shadows. His eyes shifted quickly, taking in their surroundings like a fox looking for the hounds. His clothes were just this side of shabby, his hair slightly unkempt and his beard was untrimmed. Hammond had no doubt the bulge in his left pocket was a small set of binoculars with which the hunted man had carefully watched him enter the city park where they were meeting. It was a wide public space with plenty of quiet trails to walk, just out of reach of any possible Earthly surveillance. The bulge in the right pocket would be a gun. Not quite a fox and yet, not quite a weasel either. There was an air of pathos about the man. "You're looking a little...harried," Hammond commented.
The look he got back was pure Maybourne. "I thought you left that kind of punny rhetoric to O'Neill."
Hammond barely nodded. "He's rubbed off on me a little."
"That still doesn't explain why you're here, jeopardizing your good conduct medal to consult with a traitor. What do you want, General?"
"Frank Simmons has been calling in markers from behind bars."
"I know that. I assume he's lonely and wants me for a neighbor. He's managed to get my offshore assets frozen and his dogs have taken that 'dead or alive' thing a little too seriously. So what's your stake in this? Jack tell you I could take him out for you? Sorry, he's beyond even my reach this time."
Hammond considered turning heel and walking except he recognized the acid tone as more defense than acrimony. "Simmons managed to waylay some of those funds of yours. And then they disappeared...into a numbered Swiss account."
continued
N is for No-Man's Land
by ultranos_fic
It's raining again. The rain never stops in this part of the world, and when the sun comes out, it turns this God-forsaken jungle into a sauna. A sauna full of rotting leaves, mud, and bugs large enough to be bullets. The only difference is the bugs kill slower, with disease and fever that just dries a person out and sucks out the will to live until there's nothing left.
Yeah, this place is hell on earth, Lt. George Hammond muses as he watches raindrops splatter against the concrete. He's sitting under the wing of his F-4C, just watching the skies open up. The other flyboys probably think he's insane, sitting as they are inside the base. The weather is bad enough indoors, but at least it's dry.
But there's some undeniable rightness to sitting out here, huddling under the wing of his plane, a canopy of metal, while other Americans do the same under canopies of leaves. The Air Force doesn't deal with the muck and the mud. That's the job of the grunts and jarheads. The few times George has crossed paths with Army men or Marines, they've seen the insignia on his lapels and narrowed their eyes. Some held back sneers, others didn't. You're up there, safe in your little cockpit, while we're down in the dirt and mud, fighting phantoms that just dissolve back into the bush when they're done killing us, their looks scream at him. And while there's nothing easy or safe about being in a little box thousands of miles up in the air dodging bullets from a MiG, George keeps his mouth shut when he gets those looks, and never joins in when other Air Force men rag on the ground troops.
Because it's a war out there, and between screaming through the sky with an MiG on your tail, or breathing mud in a foxhole hiding from snipers, everything in this hellish land is trying to kill you. It's a thankless job, one people back home, safe in their houses, living their lives, don't know the full details of, don't know how much is sacrificed here. There are acts committed that no tales will speak of, no history books will record. Small things, big things, things that will remain unknown until some scholar years later starts digging.
And until then, the lines between the branches of the military should be blurred. They're all there fighting for a reason, and none of them can do it on their own, no matter how the brass postures. If only the brass understood that. That underneath the uniforms and insignia, Air Force or Army or Marines or Navy, that every soldier here just wants to do their job, keep their families safe, and be able to come home.
Maybe some day, George thinks, there'll be a general who understands.
feedback
O is for Ordinary
by uniquinum
It is no secret that when you are a General in the USAF you can rarely pass yourself of as ordinary but I still try.
I don't need to pretend that I don't spend my days and nights' worrying about the men and women under my command, every officer does that, that is ordinary. It's everything else that is extra-ordinary about my command that needs the pretense.
I pretend to other Generals who don't have the security clearance that my command is ordinary. Deep Space Radar Telemetry is about as boring as you can get. Stargate command however is anything but boring.
The people are extra-ordinary; they live day in and day out risking their lives and sometimes their sanity so that those on the outside can continue to live their ordinary lives. The things we've seen and done beneath Cheyenne Mountain most people would simply not be able to believe in the context of their ordinary lives, but I know better, we know better. At the end of our days, however long and troubled they might be, we go home and pretend to live and ordinary life. Most of us go home to friends and families that have no idea what we've done to keep them safe from the threat of the Goa'uld. Others go home to an empty house and for them the ordinary is extra-ordinary, and they come back to their ordinary lives under the mountain where their friends and family reside.
I'm lucky enough to have my children and Grandchildren, who remind me just how special it is to be able to be ordinary for a while. To be able to exist in a time and place where life and death decisions aren't the norm, where I don't have to pretend to be ordinary. I am ordinary.
I can sit with my Grandchildren, have a tea party, build blocks, colour in or just sit in a quiet corner and read.
I can sit with my children and drink coffee, tell stories that embarrass them or reminisce about their mother.
In all the extra-ordinariness of my life they are the place where I can be the most ordinary man in the world...
feedback
P is for Photo Album
by samantilles
Seven years of photos resided in the oversized volume that now sat in a cardboard box. Major General Hammond wasn't sure if it was his to take; it was as much the property of the SGC as it was his. But surely these photos weren't the only copies. The base archive had to have them. George had to have this photo album.
George pulled the volume from the box and gently swept the cover with a white cloth. Normally Hammond was efficient in his duties; the rest of the office was packed and labeled for transport to Washington, DC. He landed softly in his leather chair and delicately opened the large tome. His military profile photo graced the front page, along with the President and Secretary of Defense. These photos were never of interest to him, and so he brushed past a few more pages to the team photos. Each year, Photo Day was more chaotic than when any of his teams seemed to come in hot from a mission. It seemed that no one on base wanted their photograph taken; the scientists and civilians seemed to generally shy away from being objects of notice and the military figured they had better things to do than pose for pictures. General Hammond should have never had to order cooperation, but the Marines were about to commit mutiny otherwise.
"SG-3, if you do not settle down and allow the Lieutenant to take this picture, so help me I'll lock you up until your next mission!" Hammond growled to Colonel Makepeace and his team. The team immediately stood still, and before they knew it, the photo had been taken. "Now Colonel, you and your men will get in full dress uniform and report to the Briefing room in thirty minutes for individual file photos. Dismissed!"
The men and women in those photographs looked so young compared to what they looked like now; years of fighting the Goa'uld had taken its toll. That toll, however, was one that seemed too high a price to pay. SG-2's picture was somber that first year. Major Kawalsky's photo rested to the side of the team's. As the first SG team casualty, Hammond made a point of remembering all the team members, not just those present that one day of the year. Each team member made an impression on the group dynamic, and each deserved to be recognized for the team's achievement. George had to hunt down an older photo of Major Kawalsky to add to the album.
continued
Q is for Quiet
by cleothemuse
The Calm Before the Storm
George Hammond hated nights like this.
In most commands, a stillness in the late hours was to be expected, even welcomed if the day had been particularly chaotic. Perhaps the halls of Stargate Command got this quiet every night in the wee hours of the morning, but George was usually not present to observe. Usually, he was at his comfortably modest home across town, tucked between the sheets of a bed that still seemed too-empty now even years after his wife had passed on.
Typically, a general of his rank would command some 20,000 airmen and officers, with another twenty to thirty thousand civilian employees and contractors filling many of the support positions. The SGC, however, numbered just over 500 men and women from the Air Force, Marines, and Army, and fewer than 200 civilians. The significantly reduced numbers meant that the members of his command were closer to one another than was normal.
Nowhere was this more perfectly demonstrated than in his flagship first contact team, SG-1. Often jokingly referred to as the SGC's most dysfunctionally functional family, Colonel Jack O'Neill, Doctor Daniel Jackson, Major Samantha Carter, and the Jaffa Teal'c were a disparate lot who nevertheless were as close to one another as flesh and blood. And if the members of SG-1 were a quartet of close siblings, then George reckoned he was the much-put-upon surrogate father of the group.
Like any good dad, George worried about his children when they were out late.
SG-1 had been on a number of overnight missions over the years, but there were a number of times when the general felt compelled to remain on-base, as though his proximity to the 'Gate would be of assistance to the team thousands of light years on the other side of it. Sometimes his fears were borne out, and the team failed to check in the next morning or returned with injuries. Other times, there was no cause for concern, as SG-1 returned on-schedule and unscathed.
Which time would this be, he wondered.
continued
R is for Red Phone
R is for red calls on red phones
by conn8d
The phone seemed indifferent to the day's events, save an intermittent ring and some flashing lights. It sat where it always had, on one corner of his desk, between his pencil jar, and the picture of his granddaughters.
All still here. Tessa, Kayla. His desk. The phone. Earth.
He ran his fingers along the smooth red handle of the phone's receiver, removing some invisible dust as it continued its whiney ring, demanding attention. He took a deep breath and lifted the phone to his ear.
"This is Hammond."
He let out a puff of air, drawing a hand across his brow.
"Yes, it does look like we are still here, sir."
And he was just as surprised as anyone about it. More so, actually. The average individual had nothing to be surprised about. The whole damned thing was secret. Most people just continued life, unaware that the world was supposed to have ended minutes before.
"Yes, Mr. President. Yes sir. Well, from what NASA and SATCOMM are telling me, it looked like the asteroid just disappeared."
He held on to the cord, twisting gently, and then releasing.
"I don't know sir. It may have been the Asgard."
He had expected near instant death. That a huge space-borne rock would impact the earth and everything would end. The rescue plan had failed. Or so it had been assumed. However, where SG-1 was concerned, he was usually forced to abandon all his assumptions.
"But it's my opinion SG-1 had something to do with it."
They usually did. Hell, they were part of the reason they were a team, thanks to an accidental visit to a Lt. Hammond back in '69. A high percentage of this phone's calls involved SG-1. When Daniel wasn't dead. When Teal'c came through the gate. When Daniel wasn't dead again. When Apophis's ships were headed toward earth. Jolinar. Many, many "red" calls concerned SG-1. Too many.
"I hope they made it too, sir."
All still here. The base. His office. The phone. Earth. SG-1 deserved to live beyond the world's expected end. He hoped they had. He placed the receiver back in the cradle.
Until the next call.
continued
S is for Steady at the Gate
by suzannemarie
May 3, 1999
General Hammond had been determined to leave the SGC on time for a change. Instead, he had been forced to stay even later than usual, putting out fires and smoothing over a potentially tricky political situation. Evening had become night before Hammond arrived home. Once there, he went straight to his den. He took a seat and retrieved an old, battered journal from a desk drawer. He leafed through the pages seeking a specific entry.
August 6, 1969: It's been a strange couple of days. Monday, four people appeared in the missile bay from out of nowhere. They wore Air Force uniforms. But not like ours. They had more advanced weapons. They even had some sort of ray gun. They wouldn't say who they were or where they were from. No one can figure out how they got into the mountain. They are assumed to be spies. Major Thornbird is not happy. Which means that no one else is happy either.
They acted like they knew me. One of them referred to me as a general! An obvious lie, but I wonder... Spies or not, I liked them. They asked me to help them. If it hadn't meant the end of my career, I might have.
We completed their transfer to another facility. I'm sure I've seen and heard the last of them. I wonder why they pretended to know me?
Hammond pulled out two notes stowed inside the back cover. The first was dated January 2, 1999.
Dear General Hammond:
We have never met, but we know someone in common: my goddaughter Samantha Carter.
This is going to sound crazy. One morning thirty years ago, three men and a woman showed up at my office looking disheveled and desperate. For a token fee, they hired me as their attorney with the sole task of seeing that you receive the enclosed, sealed letter at this time. The young woman told me it would help Samantha. They were most insistent that I not tell anyone that we even met. I have not. As the named recipient of the enclosed letter, you are the only person who knows.
Perhaps this was all part of an elaborate joke. Their sincerity and worry, however, seemed genuine. With the passage of time, I now recognize one of those four as my goddaughter--or like enough to her to be an identical twin. How such a thing is possible I cannot guess. To this day I'm not sure whether to believe them, but something about them struck me as trustworthy.
I confess a curiosity to know the complete story behind that meeting and the enclosed letter. In any event, with the delivery of this package, my responsibility is fulfilled.
With best regards,
Charles Davidson, Attorney at Law
continued
T is for Teal'c
by beanpot
When they had given him this assignment, it was a last hurrah before retiring. His family was close and he'd bought a small house to tinker around in his dotage.
Then the Gate opened from the other end and all hell broke loose.
They fixed the first problem, realized they were by no means alone in the galaxy, and things got worse. One of his men had an alien in him, the enemy was relentlessly trying to get through, and their former leader was sitting in a room being questioned.
George was uncomfortable with what Kennedy was doing to Teal'c, but to be honest, he wasn't quite comfortable with the alien himself. There was just too much unknown about him and George needed information - any information - before he could make any decision. O'Neill's team was quite emphatic in their support, and he agreed that there was something in helping them escape, but the absolute last thing George was going to allow was a Trojan horse.
So he watched Teal'c, knowing full well that words lied, but that it was harder to mask body movements. He watched as Teal'c's shoulders dropped a bit whenever O'Neill walked into the room; barely perceptible, but enough to show he was comfortable around the man. He saw the guilt that floated across his face when Dr. Jackson walked by. It was just a wrinkle around the emblem in Teal'c forehead, but enough for George to realize. Teal'c's behavior around Capt Carter was harder to read, but George remembered how he'd handed his weapon to her after stepping through the Gate. It was a leap, but George guessed that surrendering to a woman was probably not a positive thing where he came from, and yet Teal'c had done so with no provocation.
The questions posed to Teal'c were answered thoughtfully and honestly, no long pauses for story crafting, but neither to ready. And Teal'c looked him in the eye. All in all, George's gut was saying to trust him, but he could imagine the conversation with the Chiefs. "No, really, I have a feeling that the alien general of a creature hell bent on destroying us is actually a nice guy."
So he continued to wait and see and attempt to balance the pressure from Washington with the pressure from O'Neill and his team. Then things became even worse as Kalwasky...no, the alien in Kalwasky tried to make a break for it.
As George entered the override code, part of him kept an eye on the scene unfolding below him. Teal'c was locked in a battle to keep the thing from escaping and the thing was convinced that he was a traitor. Then with a woosh, it was over and the remains of the Major slid to the floor. George watched as a look of sheer compassion passed over Teal'c face, as well as regret. George turned to the young airman standing next to him and said, "Get me the President."
He had enough information and it was time to inform the President and the Chiefs that Teal'c was now under his command.
feedback
U is for Uniform
by kalquessa
Daniel's never cared much for the American military's precept of "salute the uniform, not the man." The theory, as far as Daniel can discover, is that if someone achieves a certain rank, they must have done something to earn it, and should therefor be accorded respect, even if they happen to be a reprehensible human being. Which would carry more weight with Daniel if he weren't so dubious about the process by which one earned the approbation of the American military. Sam and Jack may have spent years having an iron-clad belief in the chain of command drilled into them, but it takes more to earn Daniel's respect than pinning a few stars to a jacket.
So it's a relief to find, in the first year of the Stargate program, that the man he most needs to be able to respect has more to recommend him than his rank: George Hammond is a genuinely good man. It's not his stars that make him worthy of respect. Rather, it's the man that makes the uniform worth saluting.
feedback
V is for Valentine
by chandri
George meets his wife while he's on leave, at a party held by friends of his parents. He's twenty-five, and he's just been promoted, and he's coming to a place where people start asking him when he's going to settle down. He usually brushes them off - never saw the point of settling down right before they start giving you dangerous jobs that take you around the world, and has no immediate plans to do any settling.
But then he meets Helen, and his mind suddenly changes. It's February the thirteenth, but they talk into the small hours of the morning, heads bent together on the back verhanda.
Later he's never sure which one of them suggested it. Convention would dictate it was him, but Helen's a practical woman and it seems a practical arrangement when she talks about it. It doesn't hurt that he's in love with her from the first fifteen minutes of their acquaintance. So they marry, and they get housing on base in Houston, and he gets his second overseas assignment.
The distance is hard, but they manage. It makes the times he's home more meaningful, somehow, and he always makes sure to be home one particular day of the year. Their marriage is interesting and amenable, and they don't stop being in love, even when their children are grown and away and some people start to grow apart.
Helen dies in her sleep when she's sixty-seven. It's peaceful and easy, he just wakes up and she's gone. The slip back into being alone is difficult, but his daughters are good to him, take care to make sure he's not alone too much, and he finds as always that he's got more friends than he usually imagines. Jacob doesn't ask, but he's there - he understands. And he's a general by then, too busy to think about it much. He just misses her.
And every February the fourteenth, like they did for every year through the long decades of their marriage, he cooks dinner, sets the table for two, and sits down to reflect upon how lucky he's been.
feedback
W is for Waiting
by rigel_7
Forty Minutes overdue
The old-fashioned carriage clock on his desk doesn't lie. He might have to wind it every day, but it still only loses fifteen seconds over the entire year. Even though he's expecting it, the sharp rap at the door is still startling and the status report that the airman hands over isn't any more enlightening than the previous one.
There's a protocol to follow, but even setting those procedures into motion does nothing to wear away at the burden of command that has settled around him.
In the five years that he has had the command of the SGC, offworld teams have missed their return window regularly. He has directed recovery missions in the hope that the missing men and women can be repatriated alive and well, celebrated with them on their return through the Gate - smiles and handshakes all around and a stern reminder about straying from guidelines. More often than not, that last is directed at SG-1, with O'Neill always making a flippant remark before heading to debriefing. He's seen joy and relief reflected on the faces of those around him and experienced the whole gamut of emotion from behind several feet of reinforced concrete and plexiglass, but he has also overseen the recovery of the fallen and waited solemnly at the foot of the ramp to see them home on their last journey.
It's hard not to think of these things in terms of percentages and the narrowing window of time before the odds tip over towards the worst kinds of outcomes.
Even harder is the enforced passivity. Counting down the hours until he can make a decision, and still hoping that it won't come to that. Eyeing the red phone on his desk and dreading the call that he'll have to make.
He's not the pen-tapping type, nor one for pacing up and down and wearing a hole in the carpet. There's just the routine of following through on all possible leads and trying to figure out what went wrong.
He's not above praying for intervention though; hope is never in short supply - it's what keeps them all going.
feedback
X is for Xenophilia
by annerbhp
Wherein George, Bra'tac, Jacob, and Selmak sit around pretending to be old farts.
George Hammond's military career was built upon a vision of the world in black and white. The Cold War turned Earth into a battleground of 'us vs. them' with very little room between. As a subordinate, he understood the necessity of this vision for the stability and smooth workings of the modern military machine.
There was the enemy and there were the good guys.
It served its purpose. At least until he took command of what was meant to be his final posting. From the moment SG-1 formed, he'd known command of the SGC would require a hell of a lot of grey.
Boy, had he misjudged.
How could he have ever known those long years ago that his last hurrah, his dead end command before retirement would land him on the crumbling cliff's edge of the galaxy?
Black and white don't exist in the SGC. Instead there is blue and purple and neon green streaks of yellow when you least expect it. The old categories are useless when it comes to intergalactic politics.
'Us vs. Them' is what he's been fighting since the first day an SG team slipped into a wormhole. He's had seven years of explaining this change of circumstances to his superiors. And, hell, sometimes it's like beating his head against a trinium iris.
Most days he's convinced this job is way too much for him, that maybe he's not up to the relentless demands of his post.
Of course, it's hard to feel old while he's sitting on an alien planet sharing a damn fine bottle of something not quite scotch with a 139 year old Jaffa Master and a 2,000 year old Tok'ra while members of the SGC and their allies enjoy a well deserved celebration in a rare calm breath of the galaxy.
He never could have seen this moment coming when he took this job.
George swirls his glass, watching the liquid catch alien sunlight. "Have you ever considered retiring?" he asks of his companions.
Jacob gives him a wry grin, but Bra'tac simply looks confused.
"It's something humans do when they think they are too old to work. Put themselves out to pasture, so to say," Jacob explains.
"Ah, I understand," Bra'tac says. "It is not something we have faced. Jaffa who are past their prime simply are not granted another prim'ta. Their usefulness has passed."
George has seen first hand that dying from a lack of a symbiote is not a particularly peaceful way for a warrior to die.
"Cheery thought," Jacob comments, his own bias against the Goa'uld's beastly habits clear.
Bra'tac does not take offense at their obvious horror; all three of them having learned long ago that there are some issues on which they will never find common ground. That might have bothered George, before. Now it's just another inevitable piece of the pattern to life out here.
"But thanks to tretonin, this 'retiring' will be something we will have to face," Bra'tac says, nodding to Jacob in acknowledgment of the Tok'ra's contribution. Jacob tilts his glass towards the Jaffa Master in response. "I can only hope to die in battle before I become a burden."
"There's that," George says, demurring to Bra'tac's own code of honor. "But I was thinking more along the lines of spoiling my grandkids and taking up golf."
"Certainly has its appeal," Jacob says, probably thinking of his own distant grandkids. "Though it's hard to seriously consider it when I have Selmak currently listing all the reasons golf is a stupid game."
continued
Y is for Yee-haw
by crazedturkey
The atmosphere in the tent was tense. At least, George felt tense. Despite being badly injured, Bra'tac's face and body were still.
"Did he give you an ETA?" George asked. "Shouldn't he be back by now?"
"They have, perhaps, been delayed by a patrol," Bra'tac replied serenely. "I am certain he will arrive soon."
"And then we'll depart? I don't mean to hassle you Master Bra'tac, but we are running short of time here."
"Patience, Hammond of Texas. All will be well."
George smiled at the older man wryly. "It's never been much of a virtue for me Master Bra'tac. I used to be a fighter pilot. Patience didn't really go with the territory."
Bra'tac raised an eyebrow with what George interpreted as surprise. "Indeed?"
George smiled. "Well you wouldn't think of it now to look at me I suppose. But I was a young man once."
"You are still a young man, Hammond of Texas."
"Well I suppose that's a matter of opinion," George laughed.
Bra'tac smiled slightly. "You are no longer flying?"
George sighed regretfully. "I was grounded after Vietnam. I got a bad bout of labyrinthitis and it ruined my sense of balance. I'm ok most of the time but every now and again I get vertigo and, well, I wasn't going to be really safe in the air." He shrugged. "It worked out for the best. My wife and I were looking to have kids and an administrative job was much more stable for a family man."
With narrowed eyes, Bra'tac regarded George thoughtfully. "You miss it, don't you?"
"Am I that transparent?" George smiled. "Yeah. I do. You're never as free as you are in the air. There's a feeling you get, just the exhilaration of cutting through the air that fast, defying gravity. ..it just can't be beat."
Bra'tac smiled widely. "Indeed, Hammond of Texas, you are still a young man."
George laughed. "I'm glad you think so, Master Bra'tac."
At that moment there was a rustle and Teal'c finally returned. "They have agreed," he said, relief in his features. "They will join us in our struggle."
"Then we are ready to depart?" George asked in excitement.
Bra'tac held up a hand. "Not quite, Hammond of Texas. There is one further advantage I believe we could use."
"Advantage?" George asked.
"One ideally suited for the young, Hammond of Texas."
feedback
Z is for ZPMs
Z is for ZPMs, Za'tarcs, and Zat'nik'atels, oh my!
by maevebran
Major General George Hammond stood holding the last file destined for his file cabinet. It wasn't just the last file to be put away that day, but the last file he would ever process for the Stargate Program, because in another hour he would be officially retired.
It had been a long time coming. He'd expected it some seven years before, but there had always been some threat to Earth that he had not wanted to leave in the hands of a successor. But that was all past now. The Earth was safe; both the Goa'uld and the Replicators had been defeated. Earth even had a base in another galaxy. Not bad for what was supposed to have been a quiet last tour before retiring.
General Hammond turned to the cabinet that opened with A for Abydos and closed with Z for ZPM-- or at least it would when he filed that last folder. The file had arrived the day before from Colorado where Dr. Rodney McKay and Lt. Col. Samantha Carter had compiled it. It was a wonder, the Zero Point Module. It stored vast amounts of energy-- enough to empower the Stargate to dial a different galaxy. Hammond remembered the first time he had encountered a ZPM, though he hadn't known what it was called at the time. Col. Jack O'Neill had been inhabited by an Ancient Repository of Knowledge and had needed to get it out of his head, so he'd built a rudimentary module and attached it to the Stargate. Then he had gone through and met the Asgaard.
Hammond smiled. He really liked those guys.
He bent and opened the drawer. He moved the file for Zat'ni'katels-- another wondrous but strangely shaped-- alien device. Hammond remembered the time that he had thought SG1 was dead and that Earth would soon follow. Instead, SG1 turned up alive, Earth was saved, and they had returned with several of the snake shaped energy weapons. Once he had been informed that the first shot only stunned, the second killed, and the third disintegrated the victim, Hammond had ordered all SG teams to be on the look out for opportunities to acquire more. It was nice to have a weapon that allowed you to defend yourself without killing, particularly when fighting human slaves or Jaffa that were just following orders but really wanting freedom. It had been a good day when SG1 had brought the Zats back.
continued
My thanks to the marvelous writers who made this tribute a reality: Annerb, Beanpot, Calantha, Cleo the Muse, Chandri, Conn8d, Delphia, Fig Newton, Gillian, Holdouttrout, Izhilzha, Jane Davitt, Kalquessa, Lokei, Maevebran, Muffinlips, Pepper, Princess of G, Rigel, Samantilles, SG-Betty, Supplyship, Suzannemarie, Tarimanveri, Traycer, Ultranos, and Uniquinum. Special thanks to Ultranos for doing last-minute back-up duty!
Shorter ficlets are reposted here in full, with links to the author's LJ for comments; longer ones are excerpted, with links to the full ficlet in the author's LJ. Spoilers for various episodes from Seasons 1-7. Rated G to PG.
ETA: And cnidarian is spreading the Hammond love even further, with a fic round-up call! Go here and comment with links to George fic.
A is for Air Force
by lokei
It's far past Kayla's bedtime when she climbs into George's lap with her latest alphabet book, demanding story time. After the week Hammond has had--hell, after the weeks, months, and years of his command of the SGC so far--he has to dig deep to find the smile and hug she needs. She passes over the book imperiously and George opens it to the first brightly colored page.
"A is for alligator," he begins, but Kayla frowns and shakes her head.
"Tell it your way, Grandpa," she insists, which means that she doesn't want that story at all, but one of his own invention, with or without the assistance of the pictures on the glossy pages.
"A is for," Hammond begins again, but trails off as his brain leaps ahead and fills in alien. A is for Asgard and Apophis, as 'other' as they can be, aged clone and ancient symbiote, representing either side of a galactic scale of good and evil.
Ambition, arrogance, avarice, his mind supplies next, the triad which drives the less admirable members of Earth's political and military bodies in their search for more power, more weaponry, more easy riches at the expense of those who are in need of
Aid, alliance--like the Tollans, the Cimmerians, the Enkarans, the hundreds and even thousands of lives touched by one or more of the teams Hammond sends through the Gate, and for whose safety--airmen and ally--he prays daily.
Abduction, ailments, ascension, amnesia. The specters of all the times George has failed to protect his people, made the wrong call, or didn't have the right intel are never at bay for long. He has only so much wall he can throw up around the memories at this time of night, whether it's the sight of an arrow embedded in Jack O'Neill's shoulder after flying through bullet-proof glass or the looks on his premiere team's faces after losing, mourning, regaining their lost archaeologist--another aggravating, affection-laden A.
Abydos, atomic bomb--the reasons Hammond met said articulate archaeologist, who among his other accomplishments, had first managed to aggravate and persuade one of the Air Force's finest officers right back into being human, to hear Jack tell it. And whose opening of the Stargate, first on Earth and then Abydos, started this war of attrition, the likes of which Hammond has never seen in the length of his whole career.
"Air Force," Kayla's voice breaks into George's spinning thoughts. "You're supposed to say 'A is for Air Force,' Grandpa."
George comes back to the moment with a start and a smile. "No, not tonight, sweetheart," he says, looking into the upturned face which embodies all that he and his teams strive to protect every day.
"Let's see if we can come up with a better one. How about this?" He gathers her closer in his aching arms and begins once more. "A is for angel named Kayla so sweet, sunny and funny from her head to her feet."
She giggles and they turn the page together. "B is for baskets of berries she grows..."
feedback
B is for Babysitting
B is for blackmail, babysitting, Bra'tac, and bravery
by pepper_field
"Don't try that face with me, young lady," he said, grumpily. "It didn't get you out of trouble when you painted the dog, and it won't work on me now."
"Dad, I know you're busy, and I swear I wouldn't be asking you to if it wasn't absolutely necessary. I know how important your job is." Cathy widened her eyes earnestly, and George Hammond frowned at her, grateful beyond measure that she had no real idea of the importance of his job.
"But, honey, I have an old friend coming to visit, and I don't know that - that he and the girls will get along." Even to his ears, it sounded like a last-ditch attempt.
"I'll tell them to be on their best behaviour, I promise. You know how shy they can be around strangers - settle them down with some pens and paper and your friend won't even know they're there."
"But, Cathy--"
"Daaaaaad, please?" She had always been able to sense when he was giving in. "The girls haven't seen you in weeks - they miss you! And I really, really have to make this meeting - Devon is talking about reorganization, and I have a chance--"
George threw up his hands. "Okay! Okay!" He shook his head, as she threw her arms around his neck. "This is blackmail, you know."
"It's not - it's coercion," corrected his daughter the English major. She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll drop them off on my way into town. I don't know what I'd do without you, dad."
Only when she'd gone, did George close his eyes and sigh. And then smile, slightly, his dry sense of humor making an appearance. He wondered who would be more startled by the meeting - his granddaughters, or Bra'tac?
continued
C is for Cancer
by muffinlips146
It was the first time he'd been out of the mountain during the day in...Hammond couldn't remember how long. Normally he arrived too early for anything to be open, and left long after the stores closed. So getting to go grocery shopping was actually a little bit exciting.
Pushing his cart to the car, he was stopped by two young women collecting for breast cancer research. The one started in on her spiel, but George's eye was drawn to the girl in back, or more specifically, her head piece.
She was wearing the three piece cloth thing he could remember his wife sewing when she was too weak to do anything but sit and sitch. She had got the pattern from her cancer support group and he could remember a lot of the women in that group wearing the same thing.
It was like a secret insignia for cancer's victims. For a second Hammond was overcome with the memory of sitting in a dim hospital room, holding his wife's frail hand and listening to her laboured breathing.
"Sir?" the woman who'd been talking broke into his train of thought.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, here". George handed her several bills from his wallet and started pushing his cart to his car.
Grocery shopping was over rated.
feedback
D is for Debriefing
by sg_betty
General George Hammond was feeling immense pressure to achieve results. The newly formed SGC wasn't living up to the expectations of his superiors in Washington, and he was certainly hearing about it. Daily. He glanced into the briefing room and sighed.
The premier team of his new command waited inside. Teal'c sat rigidly upright, his arms stretched out on the table, hands clasped. Beside him was Dr. Jackson, who was staring at his notebook, unseeing, and fidgeting with a pencil. On the other side of the table, Colonel O'Neill was also making use of his notebook. He was drawing tiny figures of Apophis being destroyed, variously, by equally tiny F-16s, miniature blocks of C-4, and slightly out of proportion ground troops. Captain Carter, seated next to him, merely stared at her hands which were folded in her lap. None spoke.
The General straightened his shoulders and entered.
The members of SG-1 rose. They knew how much he'd hoped for the success of this mission and it showed on their faces.
"As you were." He waved them to their seats and took his place at the head of the table. "I've just had a most unpleasant conversation with the Secretary. I informed him that not only did you fail to capture the creature possessing the power of invisibility, but will also be unable to return, as the inhabitants of the planet have buried the Stargate. Would you care to tell me exactly what led to this turn of events?" General Hammond stared at each of them, in turn.
Colonel O'Neill laid down his pencil. "We did locate the creature, sir. Daniel spotted one - well, not spotted, located - anyway, Daniel pointed one out. I was about to tranquilize it, when it was fired on by a staff weapon. That scared it off."
General Hammond swung his gaze to Teal'c with a frown. He'd been certain that Teal'c could be trusted to follow the chain of command.
continued
E is for Error
by holdouttrout
It wasn't yet the end of Hammond's first week in charge of the Stargate program, and he'd already made more gut decisions than he had in the past ten years. It was possible some of them, like allowing the alien Teal'c to remain on base, would prove fatal. He knew nothing about the man except that Colonel O'Neill thought he was trustworthy and highly motivated to help them, and that he had a gold tattoo on his forehead.
Allowing Colonel O'Neill anywhere near the Stargate could be a mistake. Hammond was positive that somehow--ironically, considering O'Neill's file--he had become a truly honorable man. Honorable men were dangerous, unpredictable, and ultimately uncontrollable. Hammond hoped he could win O'Neill's respect, and quickly, or he was in for a rough ride.
Then there were his two scientists, both of whom were more brilliant--and possibly crazy--than just about anyone else on the planet. One of them was head over heels in love with the 'gate itself and what it represented, and the other had a wife out there, somewhere, held prisoner in her own body--literally, one of the enemy.
Those were the people he was considering for the front lines.
He must be crazy. The president had even told him so.
Yet there was something that made sense about it all, something that made him pick these four people. He'd built many teams over the years, and there was something special about the ones that worked--something that had nothing to do with complimentary areas of expertise. For whatever reason, he'd been placed in charge of this facility, and since he knew of no protocols that even came close to covering their situation, he would have to make do with his gut.
He wasn't sure about any of them, least of all himself, but he'd make the decisions, and only time could tell the consequences.
feedback
F is for Fine Line
by sg_fignewton
"Colonel, you walk a fine line."
George Hammond remembered telling O'Neill that, in a tone of almost fond exasperation. But Jack O'Neill's regular dance along the line of insubordination was nothing compared to the tightrope that George found himself walking every day.
He had to follow orders. He had to keep his people safe. He had to do his duty to the oaths he took, the uniform he wore, the country he served, the planet he protected.
But he also had to question ethical directives, struggle with the pressure to justify any means, cope with the uncanny and bizarre on a regular basis, and deal with a seething morass of military and civilian and alien, forging it all into a coherent, working whole.
There were days when it seemed that those conflicting demands couldn't possibly coexist.
He teetered on the edge of that line, sometimes. There were occasions when he'd missed a step: the decision to strip-mine trinium behind the Salish's backs, the willingness to bow to pressure from above and sign a treaty with a nation bent on genocide. There were times when he risked being shoved off the line by those with their own agenda: his willing debasement in Kinsey's office, his defiance of orders to personally go after his people, the personal threat to his grandchildren. For the most part, though, George maneuvered his way through the minefield of command with deft precision, juggling the need to pacify the Pentagon and the Oval Office with the even greater necessity of protecting the men and women under his command.
It was a dangerously fine line that demanded a constant weighing of options and choices.
He could only pray that he never slipped and fell.
feedback
F is for Fraiser
The knock on the doorjamb of the general's office was soft but firm. George looked up to see his chief medical officer standing there, shoulders squared and chin high despite the dark circles under her eyes and an indefinable rumpledness about her normally starched and flawless garb.
"Come in, Doctor," he said, putting down his pen and indicating a chair. He'd been trying to catch up on paperwork now that Cassandra was out of danger and their unwelcome guest had been released to be a pox on someone else's house.
Janet refused the indicated chair, instead taking two steps into the room and remaining at something very close to attention. George raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment on this directly.
"I imagine you've spent the day monitoring Cassandra's condition?"
"I have, sir. There's no sign at all of the retrovirus in her blood, and her fever is completely gone. She's weak, of course, but she's back to normal." A slight smile came and went on Janet's tired face.
"That's good news." George paused, leaving room for more.
Janet pursed her lips for a moment before she spoke, but her voice wasn't hesitant or abashed. "I feel that I owe you an apology, sir. Last night I disobeyed a direct order, and while I think you know why I took the actions that I did, the fact remains that I was insubordinate, and for reasons that have nothing to do with my mandate as your medical officer."
"Sit down. Please. Janet."
A frown came and went, slight and fleeting as her previous smile. George had called her by her first name deliberately, and it might well be the first time he'd ever done so in the years they'd worked together. She came forward and sat, spine straight, shoulders sagging only a little.
George folded his hands on his desk. "While you were executing your ... unusually tough negotiating tactics, do you know what SG1 and I were doing?"
"No, sir."
"We were sitting in that conference room right there," and George pointed, "debating what one little girl's life was worth measured next to the potential damage we know, for a fact, that that ... monster will do out there."
Janet was silent. She drew a breath and let it out, but her steady gaze held George's.
continued
G is for Gamekeeper
by sg_fignewton
Hammond leaned slightly forward, fascination warring with horror.
"This Gamekeeper pretended to be me?" he repeated.
"He drew his material directly from our minds, sir," Captain Carter explained.
"Well, my mind. And Daniel's," Colonel O'Neill qualified. His brows were locked in a tight scowl. "He got everything right, from the SFs to all those little... doohickeys in the infirmary."
"The visual simulation was impeccable," Teal'c said calmly, his clasped hands resting on the briefing room table. "There was nothing to indicate that we were not actually back at the SGC."
Hammond let out a slow breath. He made a mental note to discuss the ramifications of security breaches with the colonel at a later time - possibly over a clandestine glass of whiskey, considering O'Neill's obvious fury at the invasion of his privacy. For now, though, he wanted to know how his people had escaped such an insidious trap.
"So the Gamekeeper masqueraded as me," he said again. It was appallingly irresistible to imagine the Gamekeeper rummaging through SG-1's brains and imprinting on his own image as the perfect foil. "What made you realize that you were still on the planet?"
They all blinked at him for a moment.
"Well, it was obvious, sir," Carter said.
"Once he actually opened his mouth, it was all over, really," O'Neill added dismissively.
Hammond frowned. "I don't understand."
Doctor Jackson, whose own struggle to clamp down on his anger had kept him silent until now, looked up from his prolonged study of the table surface. "He didn't show any concern for our safety, sir," he explained in a low, soft voice. "We knew it couldn't possibly be you."
It was Hammond's turn to blink. He sat back in his chair, looking at each of the four members of SG-1 in turn. Even Teal'c was nodding in agreement, although his nod was infinitely more stately and regal than the others.
A slow smile spread across his face, to match the warm glow he felt within his heart.
He always cared for his people, for the men and women under his command.
It was good to know that they knew it, too.
feedback
G is for Gratitude
by izhilzha
George's mother had a favorite Scripture verse: "A thankful heart has a continual feast." George wonders sometimes if it took her as long as it has taken him to understand what that means. He had his moments as a younger man, of course, appreciating a hot shower, the richness of homemade cake and good beer, the elegant curves of a woman's body. He supposes that feeling could be called thankfulness.
But it's taken years for him to discover that his mother was talking about something much deeper.
~~~~~
That sank in during the first year of the program. SG-1 dialed in from P3X-866, and instead of his three grief-stricken soldiers, four laughing, joking, living people strolled out of the event horizon.
Doctor Jackson looked worn out, but he smiled at the spontaneous applause that erupted from the men on duty in the 'Gate room. Carter was beaming, Teal'c . . . nearly so.
Colonel O'Neill looked like the world's weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
General George Hammond, commander of the base, leader of these people, couldn't even move for a few seconds. He'd seen too many people fail to return; though he had allowed them to return to the planet, he hadn't expected a retrieval. Whether brought about by God or simply by the bravery of his men, it seemed that miracles were becoming a fact of life.
He decided to factor them in from now on.
continued
H is for Harbinger
by supplyship
In his younger days, George Hammond didn't believe in that hippie "destiny" mumbo-jumbo. He was, after all, just an average boy from a small, dusty town in western Texas, and he lived by the words of his father: "You are what you make yourself to be, son." No, if George Hammond were to become a fighter pilot it would be by his own doing, not by anything predetermined by the universe.
And that's the way it was all through university, OCS, War College, and flight school. Until the day in late summer, 1969 when, still reeling from his father's heart attack the month before, and in between postings before starting another flight school, George came face-to-face with Fate.
Fate, it seemed, was four strange people with fantastical words of the future, words in George's own handwriting. Fate was a pretty blonde with a nasty cut on her hand, and an admonishment to keep quiet about ray guns and gold tattoos, and everything he had witnessed that day.
George Hammond wasn't thrilled with Fate.
For the next 25 years, those four strangers, those harbingers of destiny, were always close in his thoughts. And George second-guessed himself like he had never done before. If I do this, will it change the future? He was never very good at doing nothing. The end he knew "sort of); it was the middle he could only imagine.
Now, he waits - a solitary figure high above the gateroom, wondering if he had read the signs correctly, if he should have been more proactive and less cryptic. He waits for the four harbingers "strangers no longer) to find their way home, and for destiny to resolve into reality.
feedback
I is for Indecision
Casualties of War
by traycer_
It was his worst nightmare come true. General George Hammond stood in the briefing room alone, staring out at the Stargate as technicians readied the bomb to send through to Abydos. He had been in the military long enough to understand the consequences of the decisions he made, as well as the importance of following orders. Yet the decision he was about to make scared him right down to his toes.
"General, you can't do that!" The words of Colonel O'Neill rang through his thoughts as he contemplated his orders. There were innocent civilians on that planet, according to O'Neill, a fact that brought no peace to George. Up until that point, he had only thought of the beings he was preparing to destroy as enemies. They were just soldiers that had been trained for warfare and aware that death was a part of war. The Colonel's angry demand was laced with fear, an emotion that George heard loud and clear, even as he smugly waited for the Colonel to admit his deceit.
It was the desperation in the Colonel's voice that plagued George's thoughts now. He had read the man's file. Colonel O'Neill had earned medals for heroism, but had also participated in operations that required a man to have a strong constitution in order to live with himself after the fact. For O'Neill to feel so strongly about saving those civilians was a blow to George's confidence that he was doing the right thing. Memories of a massacre from long ago swirled through his motives, causing him to reconsider his original plans. He had sworn he would never go through something like that ever again.
The technicians in the gate room continued on with their preparations as George's thoughts took him back to his early years. As a young Lieutenant in Vietnam, he had seen his share of violence and devastation, but the worst was during a siege on a village that was rumored to be harboring enemy troops. Their orders had been to destroy the enemy at all cost, and they had done so with a grim determination. George sighed deeply as he remembered the sounds of gunfire, shouts and the screams that filled the air that day. He and his team had destroyed everything, including the children, and the anguish he felt as he stood there and stared at the casualties when all was said and done still haunted his nightmares to this day.
continued
J is for Jacob
by calantha42
George sat alone in the busy commissary at Cam Ranh Air Base, in South Vietnam. He held in his hands a letter, already read dozens of times, though it had only arrived that morning. His father was worse, maybe going to die, his sister Shirley reported.
He sipped his coffee, his stomach immediately roiling. He might never see his father again. He was living on an impossibly humid tropical coast, making a living by dropping fire from the skies, while his father lay dying half a world away.
He heard a chair being pulled back, and looked up to see Captain Jacob Carter sit himself down. The Captain was all lean and long arms and legs, his hair cropped short and light brown. Cpt. Carter remained somewhat inscrutable, even though he'd already flown several missions with the man. Right now, sitting with false ease, leaning slightly back, he gave off an air of confidence. Most of the other lieutenants read that as ego - Captain Carter seemed to always be right, no matter the situation.
George thought maybe it was something more though. A commitment to settling for nothing less than the very best, all other factors be damned - including his own ego. He hoped this was true.
Captain Carter slid over a small square photo across the table. He was smiling, ever so slightly. "You looked like you could use some good news, Lieutenant." he said.
Taking the photo into his hands, he saw a rather beautiful woman, her long hair tangled and her expression exhausted. She was in a hospital bed, holding tiny little baby in her arms. The infant was wrapped in a soft blanket, only a scrunched little face poking through. Beside herwas a toddler leaning against the rail of the bed, and though the photo was black and white, he could tell the boy had a shock of bright blonde hair.
"That's Samantha, born just last week," Cpt. Carter said, rocking forward in his seat with excitement. "She's 5 pounds, 5 ounces, and completely healthy. And that's Mark, my son, beside Elizabeth there."
George couldn't help but smile. "You have a beautiful family, Captain."
"You have a family back home?" Cpt. Carter asked.
George shook his head, though he immediately thought of his father and sisters. That wasn't what Captain Carter meant. "I'm engaged though," he found himself sharing. "Carol and I are getting married as soon as I get home."
"Just wait 'til your first kid is born. Hopefully you can be there - it isn't like anything else." He looked a George, his dark eyes completely resolute. That was a hell of a comment for a fighter pilot to make.
Cpt. Carter took back the photo and stood up. "Have a good evening Lieutenant," he said.
George took another sip of his coffee. He sighed and then began to write a letter to his father.
feedback
K is for Knowing
by janedavitt
Knowledge is power. Hammond knows that. He's not fond of the politics that form too much of his job description, but he knows what strings to tug, what markers to cash in, and when he needs to protect his people, he's ruthless as he applies pressure with a smile as wide as Texas.
This knowledge is different. Secrets always are. Some might think that a secret kept is one without power. If no one knows that you know, why, you might as well not know.
Hammond doesn't think that way.
This secret, though... this one he aches to share. He knows that Carter's eyes would light up, that O'Neill would stare blankly, brain busy. Knows that Doctor Jackson would be ecstatic, then cautious, and that Teal'c would want to use it to do good.
They're an odd bunch, his flagship team. On paper, they make no sense at all; in the field, they're a force to be reckoned with.
And he knows that without what he knows, without that certainty that this is how it has to be, just like this, that he might not have okayed the addition of a civilian and an alien to SG-1.
Now, that's a scary thought.
But he knows what he knows, and he's not telling what he knows, and he slips the yellow piece of paper into Carter's pocket and anticipates their return, when he can start to live his life without knowing what will come, but knowing he's helped to make it happen as it should do, how it was meant to.
He can be curious again.
feedback
L is for Lieutenant
by tarimanveri
He couldn't tell anyone, obviously. But that didn't mean he couldn't think about it. He thought about it all the time, or as much of the time as an active duty officer on a cold war base with elderly parents back in Texas to worry about and a girl to write and sneak out to see whenever he could had to think about the suddenly unveiled mysteries of his future. The four time travelers hadn't given him much to go on, other than the note, the promise of making general, and the ray guns "damned but he wanted to know more about those). If they were really from the future like they'd said, did that mean the future was fixed? The one had spoken Russian. Maybe he was a special agent, or maybe... no. There was no way he was going to believe that the Soviets would be gone in thirty years. Maybe that meant the future wasn't entirely fixed. But then what about making general? What if he changed things by grasping after them? Captain Carter - and Carter... she couldn't be... or could she? - He remembered how she'd looked at him and called him "sir," and he was pretty sure he knew respect when he saw it. He also thought he could probably tell a fine officer when he met one, and in that group, he thought he'd seen the finest. To have officers like that under his command, treating him with that kind of respect... if that was in his future, it was something to strive for. Maybe he had more potential than he thought. And what if his future self had only made it so far because he knew it was going to happen? Maybe it would ruin everything to try and force it, but that didn't need to stop him from trying to be a better officer, did it? From carrying out his assignments and looking after his men and serving with pride and dedication? If that made a general out of him sometime in the future, good; if all that happened was that he became a better leader and a better man, well, that would be its own reward.
feedback
M is for Maybourne
Paid in Full
by delphia2000
"You're not Starsky."
General Hammond cocked his head a bit, the better to survey the man who spoke out of the shaded depths along the tree-lined path. "And you're no Hutch," he told Maybourne.
Maybourne moved cautiously toward him, not quite out in the open, but out of the deep shadows. His eyes shifted quickly, taking in their surroundings like a fox looking for the hounds. His clothes were just this side of shabby, his hair slightly unkempt and his beard was untrimmed. Hammond had no doubt the bulge in his left pocket was a small set of binoculars with which the hunted man had carefully watched him enter the city park where they were meeting. It was a wide public space with plenty of quiet trails to walk, just out of reach of any possible Earthly surveillance. The bulge in the right pocket would be a gun. Not quite a fox and yet, not quite a weasel either. There was an air of pathos about the man. "You're looking a little...harried," Hammond commented.
The look he got back was pure Maybourne. "I thought you left that kind of punny rhetoric to O'Neill."
Hammond barely nodded. "He's rubbed off on me a little."
"That still doesn't explain why you're here, jeopardizing your good conduct medal to consult with a traitor. What do you want, General?"
"Frank Simmons has been calling in markers from behind bars."
"I know that. I assume he's lonely and wants me for a neighbor. He's managed to get my offshore assets frozen and his dogs have taken that 'dead or alive' thing a little too seriously. So what's your stake in this? Jack tell you I could take him out for you? Sorry, he's beyond even my reach this time."
Hammond considered turning heel and walking except he recognized the acid tone as more defense than acrimony. "Simmons managed to waylay some of those funds of yours. And then they disappeared...into a numbered Swiss account."
continued
N is for No-Man's Land
by ultranos_fic
It's raining again. The rain never stops in this part of the world, and when the sun comes out, it turns this God-forsaken jungle into a sauna. A sauna full of rotting leaves, mud, and bugs large enough to be bullets. The only difference is the bugs kill slower, with disease and fever that just dries a person out and sucks out the will to live until there's nothing left.
Yeah, this place is hell on earth, Lt. George Hammond muses as he watches raindrops splatter against the concrete. He's sitting under the wing of his F-4C, just watching the skies open up. The other flyboys probably think he's insane, sitting as they are inside the base. The weather is bad enough indoors, but at least it's dry.
But there's some undeniable rightness to sitting out here, huddling under the wing of his plane, a canopy of metal, while other Americans do the same under canopies of leaves. The Air Force doesn't deal with the muck and the mud. That's the job of the grunts and jarheads. The few times George has crossed paths with Army men or Marines, they've seen the insignia on his lapels and narrowed their eyes. Some held back sneers, others didn't. You're up there, safe in your little cockpit, while we're down in the dirt and mud, fighting phantoms that just dissolve back into the bush when they're done killing us, their looks scream at him. And while there's nothing easy or safe about being in a little box thousands of miles up in the air dodging bullets from a MiG, George keeps his mouth shut when he gets those looks, and never joins in when other Air Force men rag on the ground troops.
Because it's a war out there, and between screaming through the sky with an MiG on your tail, or breathing mud in a foxhole hiding from snipers, everything in this hellish land is trying to kill you. It's a thankless job, one people back home, safe in their houses, living their lives, don't know the full details of, don't know how much is sacrificed here. There are acts committed that no tales will speak of, no history books will record. Small things, big things, things that will remain unknown until some scholar years later starts digging.
And until then, the lines between the branches of the military should be blurred. They're all there fighting for a reason, and none of them can do it on their own, no matter how the brass postures. If only the brass understood that. That underneath the uniforms and insignia, Air Force or Army or Marines or Navy, that every soldier here just wants to do their job, keep their families safe, and be able to come home.
Maybe some day, George thinks, there'll be a general who understands.
feedback
O is for Ordinary
by uniquinum
It is no secret that when you are a General in the USAF you can rarely pass yourself of as ordinary but I still try.
I don't need to pretend that I don't spend my days and nights' worrying about the men and women under my command, every officer does that, that is ordinary. It's everything else that is extra-ordinary about my command that needs the pretense.
I pretend to other Generals who don't have the security clearance that my command is ordinary. Deep Space Radar Telemetry is about as boring as you can get. Stargate command however is anything but boring.
The people are extra-ordinary; they live day in and day out risking their lives and sometimes their sanity so that those on the outside can continue to live their ordinary lives. The things we've seen and done beneath Cheyenne Mountain most people would simply not be able to believe in the context of their ordinary lives, but I know better, we know better. At the end of our days, however long and troubled they might be, we go home and pretend to live and ordinary life. Most of us go home to friends and families that have no idea what we've done to keep them safe from the threat of the Goa'uld. Others go home to an empty house and for them the ordinary is extra-ordinary, and they come back to their ordinary lives under the mountain where their friends and family reside.
I'm lucky enough to have my children and Grandchildren, who remind me just how special it is to be able to be ordinary for a while. To be able to exist in a time and place where life and death decisions aren't the norm, where I don't have to pretend to be ordinary. I am ordinary.
I can sit with my Grandchildren, have a tea party, build blocks, colour in or just sit in a quiet corner and read.
I can sit with my children and drink coffee, tell stories that embarrass them or reminisce about their mother.
In all the extra-ordinariness of my life they are the place where I can be the most ordinary man in the world...
feedback
P is for Photo Album
by samantilles
Seven years of photos resided in the oversized volume that now sat in a cardboard box. Major General Hammond wasn't sure if it was his to take; it was as much the property of the SGC as it was his. But surely these photos weren't the only copies. The base archive had to have them. George had to have this photo album.
George pulled the volume from the box and gently swept the cover with a white cloth. Normally Hammond was efficient in his duties; the rest of the office was packed and labeled for transport to Washington, DC. He landed softly in his leather chair and delicately opened the large tome. His military profile photo graced the front page, along with the President and Secretary of Defense. These photos were never of interest to him, and so he brushed past a few more pages to the team photos. Each year, Photo Day was more chaotic than when any of his teams seemed to come in hot from a mission. It seemed that no one on base wanted their photograph taken; the scientists and civilians seemed to generally shy away from being objects of notice and the military figured they had better things to do than pose for pictures. General Hammond should have never had to order cooperation, but the Marines were about to commit mutiny otherwise.
"SG-3, if you do not settle down and allow the Lieutenant to take this picture, so help me I'll lock you up until your next mission!" Hammond growled to Colonel Makepeace and his team. The team immediately stood still, and before they knew it, the photo had been taken. "Now Colonel, you and your men will get in full dress uniform and report to the Briefing room in thirty minutes for individual file photos. Dismissed!"
The men and women in those photographs looked so young compared to what they looked like now; years of fighting the Goa'uld had taken its toll. That toll, however, was one that seemed too high a price to pay. SG-2's picture was somber that first year. Major Kawalsky's photo rested to the side of the team's. As the first SG team casualty, Hammond made a point of remembering all the team members, not just those present that one day of the year. Each team member made an impression on the group dynamic, and each deserved to be recognized for the team's achievement. George had to hunt down an older photo of Major Kawalsky to add to the album.
continued
Q is for Quiet
by cleothemuse
The Calm Before the Storm
George Hammond hated nights like this.
In most commands, a stillness in the late hours was to be expected, even welcomed if the day had been particularly chaotic. Perhaps the halls of Stargate Command got this quiet every night in the wee hours of the morning, but George was usually not present to observe. Usually, he was at his comfortably modest home across town, tucked between the sheets of a bed that still seemed too-empty now even years after his wife had passed on.
Typically, a general of his rank would command some 20,000 airmen and officers, with another twenty to thirty thousand civilian employees and contractors filling many of the support positions. The SGC, however, numbered just over 500 men and women from the Air Force, Marines, and Army, and fewer than 200 civilians. The significantly reduced numbers meant that the members of his command were closer to one another than was normal.
Nowhere was this more perfectly demonstrated than in his flagship first contact team, SG-1. Often jokingly referred to as the SGC's most dysfunctionally functional family, Colonel Jack O'Neill, Doctor Daniel Jackson, Major Samantha Carter, and the Jaffa Teal'c were a disparate lot who nevertheless were as close to one another as flesh and blood. And if the members of SG-1 were a quartet of close siblings, then George reckoned he was the much-put-upon surrogate father of the group.
Like any good dad, George worried about his children when they were out late.
SG-1 had been on a number of overnight missions over the years, but there were a number of times when the general felt compelled to remain on-base, as though his proximity to the 'Gate would be of assistance to the team thousands of light years on the other side of it. Sometimes his fears were borne out, and the team failed to check in the next morning or returned with injuries. Other times, there was no cause for concern, as SG-1 returned on-schedule and unscathed.
Which time would this be, he wondered.
continued
R is for Red Phone
R is for red calls on red phones
by conn8d
The phone seemed indifferent to the day's events, save an intermittent ring and some flashing lights. It sat where it always had, on one corner of his desk, between his pencil jar, and the picture of his granddaughters.
All still here. Tessa, Kayla. His desk. The phone. Earth.
He ran his fingers along the smooth red handle of the phone's receiver, removing some invisible dust as it continued its whiney ring, demanding attention. He took a deep breath and lifted the phone to his ear.
"This is Hammond."
He let out a puff of air, drawing a hand across his brow.
"Yes, it does look like we are still here, sir."
And he was just as surprised as anyone about it. More so, actually. The average individual had nothing to be surprised about. The whole damned thing was secret. Most people just continued life, unaware that the world was supposed to have ended minutes before.
"Yes, Mr. President. Yes sir. Well, from what NASA and SATCOMM are telling me, it looked like the asteroid just disappeared."
He held on to the cord, twisting gently, and then releasing.
"I don't know sir. It may have been the Asgard."
He had expected near instant death. That a huge space-borne rock would impact the earth and everything would end. The rescue plan had failed. Or so it had been assumed. However, where SG-1 was concerned, he was usually forced to abandon all his assumptions.
"But it's my opinion SG-1 had something to do with it."
They usually did. Hell, they were part of the reason they were a team, thanks to an accidental visit to a Lt. Hammond back in '69. A high percentage of this phone's calls involved SG-1. When Daniel wasn't dead. When Teal'c came through the gate. When Daniel wasn't dead again. When Apophis's ships were headed toward earth. Jolinar. Many, many "red" calls concerned SG-1. Too many.
"I hope they made it too, sir."
All still here. The base. His office. The phone. Earth. SG-1 deserved to live beyond the world's expected end. He hoped they had. He placed the receiver back in the cradle.
Until the next call.
continued
S is for Steady at the Gate
by suzannemarie
May 3, 1999
General Hammond had been determined to leave the SGC on time for a change. Instead, he had been forced to stay even later than usual, putting out fires and smoothing over a potentially tricky political situation. Evening had become night before Hammond arrived home. Once there, he went straight to his den. He took a seat and retrieved an old, battered journal from a desk drawer. He leafed through the pages seeking a specific entry.
August 6, 1969: It's been a strange couple of days. Monday, four people appeared in the missile bay from out of nowhere. They wore Air Force uniforms. But not like ours. They had more advanced weapons. They even had some sort of ray gun. They wouldn't say who they were or where they were from. No one can figure out how they got into the mountain. They are assumed to be spies. Major Thornbird is not happy. Which means that no one else is happy either.
They acted like they knew me. One of them referred to me as a general! An obvious lie, but I wonder... Spies or not, I liked them. They asked me to help them. If it hadn't meant the end of my career, I might have.
We completed their transfer to another facility. I'm sure I've seen and heard the last of them. I wonder why they pretended to know me?
Hammond pulled out two notes stowed inside the back cover. The first was dated January 2, 1999.
Dear General Hammond:
We have never met, but we know someone in common: my goddaughter Samantha Carter.
This is going to sound crazy. One morning thirty years ago, three men and a woman showed up at my office looking disheveled and desperate. For a token fee, they hired me as their attorney with the sole task of seeing that you receive the enclosed, sealed letter at this time. The young woman told me it would help Samantha. They were most insistent that I not tell anyone that we even met. I have not. As the named recipient of the enclosed letter, you are the only person who knows.
Perhaps this was all part of an elaborate joke. Their sincerity and worry, however, seemed genuine. With the passage of time, I now recognize one of those four as my goddaughter--or like enough to her to be an identical twin. How such a thing is possible I cannot guess. To this day I'm not sure whether to believe them, but something about them struck me as trustworthy.
I confess a curiosity to know the complete story behind that meeting and the enclosed letter. In any event, with the delivery of this package, my responsibility is fulfilled.
With best regards,
Charles Davidson, Attorney at Law
continued
T is for Teal'c
by beanpot
When they had given him this assignment, it was a last hurrah before retiring. His family was close and he'd bought a small house to tinker around in his dotage.
Then the Gate opened from the other end and all hell broke loose.
They fixed the first problem, realized they were by no means alone in the galaxy, and things got worse. One of his men had an alien in him, the enemy was relentlessly trying to get through, and their former leader was sitting in a room being questioned.
George was uncomfortable with what Kennedy was doing to Teal'c, but to be honest, he wasn't quite comfortable with the alien himself. There was just too much unknown about him and George needed information - any information - before he could make any decision. O'Neill's team was quite emphatic in their support, and he agreed that there was something in helping them escape, but the absolute last thing George was going to allow was a Trojan horse.
So he watched Teal'c, knowing full well that words lied, but that it was harder to mask body movements. He watched as Teal'c's shoulders dropped a bit whenever O'Neill walked into the room; barely perceptible, but enough to show he was comfortable around the man. He saw the guilt that floated across his face when Dr. Jackson walked by. It was just a wrinkle around the emblem in Teal'c forehead, but enough for George to realize. Teal'c's behavior around Capt Carter was harder to read, but George remembered how he'd handed his weapon to her after stepping through the Gate. It was a leap, but George guessed that surrendering to a woman was probably not a positive thing where he came from, and yet Teal'c had done so with no provocation.
The questions posed to Teal'c were answered thoughtfully and honestly, no long pauses for story crafting, but neither to ready. And Teal'c looked him in the eye. All in all, George's gut was saying to trust him, but he could imagine the conversation with the Chiefs. "No, really, I have a feeling that the alien general of a creature hell bent on destroying us is actually a nice guy."
So he continued to wait and see and attempt to balance the pressure from Washington with the pressure from O'Neill and his team. Then things became even worse as Kalwasky...no, the alien in Kalwasky tried to make a break for it.
As George entered the override code, part of him kept an eye on the scene unfolding below him. Teal'c was locked in a battle to keep the thing from escaping and the thing was convinced that he was a traitor. Then with a woosh, it was over and the remains of the Major slid to the floor. George watched as a look of sheer compassion passed over Teal'c face, as well as regret. George turned to the young airman standing next to him and said, "Get me the President."
He had enough information and it was time to inform the President and the Chiefs that Teal'c was now under his command.
feedback
U is for Uniform
by kalquessa
Daniel's never cared much for the American military's precept of "salute the uniform, not the man." The theory, as far as Daniel can discover, is that if someone achieves a certain rank, they must have done something to earn it, and should therefor be accorded respect, even if they happen to be a reprehensible human being. Which would carry more weight with Daniel if he weren't so dubious about the process by which one earned the approbation of the American military. Sam and Jack may have spent years having an iron-clad belief in the chain of command drilled into them, but it takes more to earn Daniel's respect than pinning a few stars to a jacket.
So it's a relief to find, in the first year of the Stargate program, that the man he most needs to be able to respect has more to recommend him than his rank: George Hammond is a genuinely good man. It's not his stars that make him worthy of respect. Rather, it's the man that makes the uniform worth saluting.
feedback
V is for Valentine
by chandri
George meets his wife while he's on leave, at a party held by friends of his parents. He's twenty-five, and he's just been promoted, and he's coming to a place where people start asking him when he's going to settle down. He usually brushes them off - never saw the point of settling down right before they start giving you dangerous jobs that take you around the world, and has no immediate plans to do any settling.
But then he meets Helen, and his mind suddenly changes. It's February the thirteenth, but they talk into the small hours of the morning, heads bent together on the back verhanda.
Later he's never sure which one of them suggested it. Convention would dictate it was him, but Helen's a practical woman and it seems a practical arrangement when she talks about it. It doesn't hurt that he's in love with her from the first fifteen minutes of their acquaintance. So they marry, and they get housing on base in Houston, and he gets his second overseas assignment.
The distance is hard, but they manage. It makes the times he's home more meaningful, somehow, and he always makes sure to be home one particular day of the year. Their marriage is interesting and amenable, and they don't stop being in love, even when their children are grown and away and some people start to grow apart.
Helen dies in her sleep when she's sixty-seven. It's peaceful and easy, he just wakes up and she's gone. The slip back into being alone is difficult, but his daughters are good to him, take care to make sure he's not alone too much, and he finds as always that he's got more friends than he usually imagines. Jacob doesn't ask, but he's there - he understands. And he's a general by then, too busy to think about it much. He just misses her.
And every February the fourteenth, like they did for every year through the long decades of their marriage, he cooks dinner, sets the table for two, and sits down to reflect upon how lucky he's been.
feedback
W is for Waiting
by rigel_7
Forty Minutes overdue
The old-fashioned carriage clock on his desk doesn't lie. He might have to wind it every day, but it still only loses fifteen seconds over the entire year. Even though he's expecting it, the sharp rap at the door is still startling and the status report that the airman hands over isn't any more enlightening than the previous one.
There's a protocol to follow, but even setting those procedures into motion does nothing to wear away at the burden of command that has settled around him.
In the five years that he has had the command of the SGC, offworld teams have missed their return window regularly. He has directed recovery missions in the hope that the missing men and women can be repatriated alive and well, celebrated with them on their return through the Gate - smiles and handshakes all around and a stern reminder about straying from guidelines. More often than not, that last is directed at SG-1, with O'Neill always making a flippant remark before heading to debriefing. He's seen joy and relief reflected on the faces of those around him and experienced the whole gamut of emotion from behind several feet of reinforced concrete and plexiglass, but he has also overseen the recovery of the fallen and waited solemnly at the foot of the ramp to see them home on their last journey.
It's hard not to think of these things in terms of percentages and the narrowing window of time before the odds tip over towards the worst kinds of outcomes.
Even harder is the enforced passivity. Counting down the hours until he can make a decision, and still hoping that it won't come to that. Eyeing the red phone on his desk and dreading the call that he'll have to make.
He's not the pen-tapping type, nor one for pacing up and down and wearing a hole in the carpet. There's just the routine of following through on all possible leads and trying to figure out what went wrong.
He's not above praying for intervention though; hope is never in short supply - it's what keeps them all going.
feedback
X is for Xenophilia
by annerbhp
Wherein George, Bra'tac, Jacob, and Selmak sit around pretending to be old farts.
George Hammond's military career was built upon a vision of the world in black and white. The Cold War turned Earth into a battleground of 'us vs. them' with very little room between. As a subordinate, he understood the necessity of this vision for the stability and smooth workings of the modern military machine.
There was the enemy and there were the good guys.
It served its purpose. At least until he took command of what was meant to be his final posting. From the moment SG-1 formed, he'd known command of the SGC would require a hell of a lot of grey.
Boy, had he misjudged.
How could he have ever known those long years ago that his last hurrah, his dead end command before retirement would land him on the crumbling cliff's edge of the galaxy?
Black and white don't exist in the SGC. Instead there is blue and purple and neon green streaks of yellow when you least expect it. The old categories are useless when it comes to intergalactic politics.
'Us vs. Them' is what he's been fighting since the first day an SG team slipped into a wormhole. He's had seven years of explaining this change of circumstances to his superiors. And, hell, sometimes it's like beating his head against a trinium iris.
Most days he's convinced this job is way too much for him, that maybe he's not up to the relentless demands of his post.
Of course, it's hard to feel old while he's sitting on an alien planet sharing a damn fine bottle of something not quite scotch with a 139 year old Jaffa Master and a 2,000 year old Tok'ra while members of the SGC and their allies enjoy a well deserved celebration in a rare calm breath of the galaxy.
He never could have seen this moment coming when he took this job.
George swirls his glass, watching the liquid catch alien sunlight. "Have you ever considered retiring?" he asks of his companions.
Jacob gives him a wry grin, but Bra'tac simply looks confused.
"It's something humans do when they think they are too old to work. Put themselves out to pasture, so to say," Jacob explains.
"Ah, I understand," Bra'tac says. "It is not something we have faced. Jaffa who are past their prime simply are not granted another prim'ta. Their usefulness has passed."
George has seen first hand that dying from a lack of a symbiote is not a particularly peaceful way for a warrior to die.
"Cheery thought," Jacob comments, his own bias against the Goa'uld's beastly habits clear.
Bra'tac does not take offense at their obvious horror; all three of them having learned long ago that there are some issues on which they will never find common ground. That might have bothered George, before. Now it's just another inevitable piece of the pattern to life out here.
"But thanks to tretonin, this 'retiring' will be something we will have to face," Bra'tac says, nodding to Jacob in acknowledgment of the Tok'ra's contribution. Jacob tilts his glass towards the Jaffa Master in response. "I can only hope to die in battle before I become a burden."
"There's that," George says, demurring to Bra'tac's own code of honor. "But I was thinking more along the lines of spoiling my grandkids and taking up golf."
"Certainly has its appeal," Jacob says, probably thinking of his own distant grandkids. "Though it's hard to seriously consider it when I have Selmak currently listing all the reasons golf is a stupid game."
continued
Y is for Yee-haw
by crazedturkey
The atmosphere in the tent was tense. At least, George felt tense. Despite being badly injured, Bra'tac's face and body were still.
"Did he give you an ETA?" George asked. "Shouldn't he be back by now?"
"They have, perhaps, been delayed by a patrol," Bra'tac replied serenely. "I am certain he will arrive soon."
"And then we'll depart? I don't mean to hassle you Master Bra'tac, but we are running short of time here."
"Patience, Hammond of Texas. All will be well."
George smiled at the older man wryly. "It's never been much of a virtue for me Master Bra'tac. I used to be a fighter pilot. Patience didn't really go with the territory."
Bra'tac raised an eyebrow with what George interpreted as surprise. "Indeed?"
George smiled. "Well you wouldn't think of it now to look at me I suppose. But I was a young man once."
"You are still a young man, Hammond of Texas."
"Well I suppose that's a matter of opinion," George laughed.
Bra'tac smiled slightly. "You are no longer flying?"
George sighed regretfully. "I was grounded after Vietnam. I got a bad bout of labyrinthitis and it ruined my sense of balance. I'm ok most of the time but every now and again I get vertigo and, well, I wasn't going to be really safe in the air." He shrugged. "It worked out for the best. My wife and I were looking to have kids and an administrative job was much more stable for a family man."
With narrowed eyes, Bra'tac regarded George thoughtfully. "You miss it, don't you?"
"Am I that transparent?" George smiled. "Yeah. I do. You're never as free as you are in the air. There's a feeling you get, just the exhilaration of cutting through the air that fast, defying gravity. ..it just can't be beat."
Bra'tac smiled widely. "Indeed, Hammond of Texas, you are still a young man."
George laughed. "I'm glad you think so, Master Bra'tac."
At that moment there was a rustle and Teal'c finally returned. "They have agreed," he said, relief in his features. "They will join us in our struggle."
"Then we are ready to depart?" George asked in excitement.
Bra'tac held up a hand. "Not quite, Hammond of Texas. There is one further advantage I believe we could use."
"Advantage?" George asked.
"One ideally suited for the young, Hammond of Texas."
feedback
Z is for ZPMs
Z is for ZPMs, Za'tarcs, and Zat'nik'atels, oh my!
by maevebran
Major General George Hammond stood holding the last file destined for his file cabinet. It wasn't just the last file to be put away that day, but the last file he would ever process for the Stargate Program, because in another hour he would be officially retired.
It had been a long time coming. He'd expected it some seven years before, but there had always been some threat to Earth that he had not wanted to leave in the hands of a successor. But that was all past now. The Earth was safe; both the Goa'uld and the Replicators had been defeated. Earth even had a base in another galaxy. Not bad for what was supposed to have been a quiet last tour before retiring.
General Hammond turned to the cabinet that opened with A for Abydos and closed with Z for ZPM-- or at least it would when he filed that last folder. The file had arrived the day before from Colorado where Dr. Rodney McKay and Lt. Col. Samantha Carter had compiled it. It was a wonder, the Zero Point Module. It stored vast amounts of energy-- enough to empower the Stargate to dial a different galaxy. Hammond remembered the first time he had encountered a ZPM, though he hadn't known what it was called at the time. Col. Jack O'Neill had been inhabited by an Ancient Repository of Knowledge and had needed to get it out of his head, so he'd built a rudimentary module and attached it to the Stargate. Then he had gone through and met the Asgaard.
Hammond smiled. He really liked those guys.
He bent and opened the drawer. He moved the file for Zat'ni'katels-- another wondrous but strangely shaped-- alien device. Hammond remembered the time that he had thought SG1 was dead and that Earth would soon follow. Instead, SG1 turned up alive, Earth was saved, and they had returned with several of the snake shaped energy weapons. Once he had been informed that the first shot only stunned, the second killed, and the third disintegrated the victim, Hammond had ordered all SG teams to be on the look out for opportunities to acquire more. It was nice to have a weapon that allowed you to defend yourself without killing, particularly when fighting human slaves or Jaffa that were just following orders but really wanting freedom. It had been a good day when SG1 had brought the Zats back.
continued