Fic: Circling by Cowardly Lion
Title: Circling
Author: Cowardly Lion
Category: Action
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Words: 6,552
Date: 02-18-13
Season/Spoilers: Immediately after the events of ep. 7.16 Death Knell
Synopsis: For Major Green, surviving the attack on the Alpha site wasn't enough. He had to go back and help with the search for survivors.
Warnings: description of dead bodies
Author's Note: 1. Many thanks to Mare for the initial beta and to JDJunkie for the final beta. Any mistakes are all mine. 2. This is a companion fic to "K Is For Kite" which was written for the Allies Alphabet Soup challenge. One of the scenes in "Circling" was written as a stand-alone fic from a different character's point of view.
K is for Kite on DW
K is for Kite on LJ
Be sure to check out all of the Gen Fic day contributions.
"With all due respect, General Hammond, I know the terrain. In fact, I may be tone of the few people left who does." Major Green did his best to stand at attention, fighting down the urge to shout and bang on the General's desk until he got his way.
Hammond shook his head. "Once that self-destruct went off, the terrain changed completely."
The office was small. One nondescript medium-sized desk filled most of it. A couple of ordinary chairs sat in front of it. Incongruously, a giant hutch filled with random bits of this and that took up the back wall. It reminded Green of something he’d seen once in childhood at his great-aunt Esther’s house, though she called hers a breakfront.
A lesser man would have needed to set the stage, so to speak, to demonstrate that here was a man of power. Not Hammond. The General didn’t need his furniture to speak for him. There was no doubt that the center of power in Stargate Command rested behind that desk in the worn-down chair that squeaked ever so faintly when the General leaned back.
"But only within the blast radius, Sir. Beyond that, the Alpha Site, pardon, the former Alpha site, is still as it was. I know every nook and cranny within the ten klick perimeter, as did my people.”
Maybe it was commitment to the men and women under his command. Maybe it was survivor’s guilt. At the moment he didn’t care. What he did care about was getting back there to look with his own eyes, search with his own hands, do everything within his own power to find his people. He could feel the need for action crawling under his skin while the dread of being denied settled like a cold lump in his stomach.
“Sir, when Colonel Reilly ordered us to disperse, he gave us a minute to make it to the tree line. He told us specifically to run in multiple directions to make it harder for the Super Soldiers to follow. My group spread out toward points North. Major Branson and a handful of others scattered along southern points. Donelly's group scattered East, and Richter's group scattered West. Each of us was to regroup once under cover in the woods. Granted, by then most of us were wounded, some badly, but some might have made it."
"Then why hasn't anyone else come forward, Major?”
In the center of the large hutch behind the General, perched a ceramic eagle figurine, its wings raised as if about to take flight. The bird’s head was cocked to the side, beak slightly open. Green had never really looked at it before but now the bird certainly seemed to be looking at him. He could see it peeking over Hammond’s shoulder. Its eyes were dark and angry.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Ignoring the voice in his head, Green focused on Hammond. He didn’t think he’d missed anything. Well, not much.
“...sent four teams for search and rescue when the site was attacked, yet Major Carter is the only other person we've found. Granted, SG-1 is now back at base, but SG teams three, eleven, and twenty-one have been on site since then. All they've found is six bodies. There have been some partial remains but precious few of those either. And until the DNA results come back, we don't even know how many individuals those remains represent." Hammond's face hardened. "I can't even give their loved ones enough to fill a coffin for the funeral," he said bitterly.
"All the more reason to let me help, General."
Hammond didn't reply, but sat there looking thoughtful. Green could feel the momentum shifting his way and added more weight to his argument.
"There are still dozens of our people unaccounted for," he said quietly. "That's a lot of families left in limbo. Even one more recovery would be a blessing. And a rescue would be a Godsend."
Two Alkesh and a dozen Kull warriors. That’s all Anubis had needed. The base been completely overwhelmed by two alkesh and a dozen Super Soldiers who were outnumbered almost ten to one by humans, Jaffa, and Tok’ra. He'd never felt so helpless. Felt so mortal.
So ashamed to be alive and relatively unscathed.
Eyes narrowed, lips thinned, Hammond leaned back in his chair, drumming the fingers of one hand on his desktop. There was a faint click as the ventilation system kicked on and a moment later the fringe on the SGC flag in the corner behind him stirred slightly. The General took a deep breath and rested his forearms on the desk. Leaning forward, he put his weight on his elbows which made his shoulders hunch up as he stared at Green. "Has Dr. Fraiser --"
"I've been cleared for active duty, sir."
One quick short nod. "You have a go, Major Green. Sergeant Harriman will notify you of your departure time."
“Thank you, Sir.” To show his gratitude, Green gave a crisp, flawless salute and a classic parade ground turn then left the office.
He strode down the corridor. Where to first? His stomach growled. His body needed food but he had no appetite.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Different base, different chow hall, but he couldn’t face the commissary just yet. So, that made it supply, then one last pre-mission meal, and then the armory.
While getting kitted out at supply, he heard the incoming traveler alert and tensed but no warning siren followed. He tried to recall the gate schedule. He didn’t think there was anything planned for that time but wasn’t sure. He hoped it was one of the search teams with good news. He’d find out soon enough. Time for lunch.
He slowed as he approached the doors to the mess hall, letting foot traffic flow around him. He put his hand on the swinging door but didn’t push it open.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
He’d been hearing her voice all day, though he didn’t know why her voice and no one else’s. She was an asset to the program and would have made - would make - a good team leader once she had more off-world experience under her belt, but beyond that he had no particular interest in her. They’d been at chow when it happened. When the world went to hell.
Someone behind him made a throat-clearing noise reminding him that he was blocking the way. He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and went in as if it was an ordinary lunch on an ordinary day and he wasn’t on the verge of a flashback that could get him get him taken off duty. On the outside, he went through the motions. Got a tray, got his food, and picked a chair. Ate.
Superimposed on the room around him was the small Quonset hut that had served as chow hall at the Alpha site. It had been lunchtime then, too, and the place was nearly full.
~~~
It was a relief when Colonel Reilly dismissed them. Green had never been fond of administrative meetings. Adding a dash of Jaffa and Tok’ra to the mix hadn’t improved them any. Either group was fine on its own. It was trying to work with them both at once that was problematic. Despite their common enemy, the long-simmering tension between the Jaffa and Tok’ra had been getting more heated lately. He really hoped it wouldn’t boil over.
He left the command hut just behind M’Zel, leader of the Jaffa faction at the Alpha site. He tapped the Jaffa on the shoulder to get his attention. “I’m heading to lunch but I’d like to discuss item four if you have time.”
M’zel nodded and fell into step with him. Proposed changes to perimeter checkpoints and sentry rotation engaged them as they made their way to the mess hall and through the serving line.
Other postings might have separate amenities for officers and enlisted, but not the SGC and certainly not an off-world base. Everyone mingled together and with space at a premium it was the custom to share tables. Two empty chairs at the end of one table beckoned. He and M’zel would be sitting with Lieutenants Hassan and Tompkins who were chatting with each other. That meant bird talk from the former and history from the latter. He wondered which subject he’d hear when he got closer.
He gave the evil eye to a pair of airmen heading for the same chairs. As the airmen backed away, Green held his tray just above the tabletop waiting for Hassan to finish his sentence before interrupting. Hassan’s head was turned so he hadn’t seen Green approach. Tompkins had, though. Her gaze flicked from Hassan to Green then back to Hassan. She shook her head slightly at Hassan who didn’t take the hint.
“I couldn’t wait for Lieutenant Glenn to relieve me. Let him listen to the Carters argue with each other.”
“Superior officers never argue, Lieutenant. They engage in spirited discussions.” Green gestured to the empty chairs. “Are these seats taken?”
Hassan’s head whipped around. Eyes wide, he opened and closed his mouth several times but only a croaking noise emerged.
The request had been a mere formality. Even as he asked, Green plopped his tray down and took a chair. M’zel was already seated.
Red-faced, Hassan stammered out something that sounded like a cross between an apology for gossip and an invitation to join the table.
“Pick a new subject, son, and start talking,” Green suggested kindly. “It’ll be less awkward that way.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Um...” Hassan stared into space. “Oh! I think a pair of swallow tailed kites have made the base part of their territory.”
“That’s the great big black and white bird with the v-shaped tail, right?” asked Tompkins. When Hassan nodded she continued. “I’ve only seen one of those.”
M’zel said “There are, in fact, three individual birds.”
“Really?” Hassan looked excited. He dug through his pockets and pulled out a tiny notepad and stubby pencil. “Where did you see it? When? How could you tell it was a third individual?”
Instead of answering the question, M’zel said, “I commend your attention to matters such as this. I had not thought the Taur’i to be so focused on tactical detail.”
“Um. Tactical?” Hassan paused, eyebrows drawn together, pencil stub hovering over the open page.
“Yes. Noting the usual appearance and behavior of the local creatures such as the birds so that you may be alerted if a break in their pattern is detected. This kite of which you speak is both a predator of smaller animals, including other birds, and an eater of carrion.” M’zel gestured with his spork as he expanded on his theme. “Should the bird suddenly abandon its usual territory it may indicate a larger predator or enemy ground forces in the vicinity. The presence of what appears to be a family group consisting of a mated pair and one newly adult offspring is a good sign.”
“Well, I’m keeping track because I like watching them. They’re beautiful creatures. Birds I mean. In general. Not just these, but...” Hassan tapered off as he finally noticed M’zel’s expression.
The Jaffa’s nose wrinkled up as if he’d just smelled something bad. His upper lip curled disdainfully. “You watch them because they are … pretty?” He sounded disgusted but unsurprised.
Ah, the ever present clash of cultural mores. Time for a bit of diplomacy. Green jumped in.
“I believe our tongue-tied young friend here meant that, in addition to taking detailed notes for tactical purposes, he also appreciates the beauty inherent in their conformation and coloring. One may observe and admire at the same time, don’t you think? Or have we finally found something that the Jaffa can’t do?”
Okay, that last bit was unnecessary and a perfect example of why Green would never end up in the diplomatic corps but almost every Jaffa he’d ever met had had a superior condescending attitude toward humans - sorry, Tau’ri - and he couldn’t resist taking a jab.
M’zel’s nostrils flared. There was long pause. “The plumage,” he said, “is striking.” He fixed his gaze on his meal and applied himself to his meatloaf, spork flashing up and down between tray and mouth like a piston.
Point to Green. Conversation over.
Or maybe not.
Hassan had slumped down, shoulders drooping, and the smile was gone from his face. Green hated to see anyone’s enthusiasm dampened like that. Sometimes it was little things that helped make hard duty bearable. Crushing a person’s joy in their hobby was like kicking a puppy - no self-respecting being should ever do it. Tompkins kept glancing between M’zel and Hassan, not happy, but not daring to say anything to a senior officer.
M’zel either hadn’t noticed Hassan’s reaction or he didn’t care.
Nodding to indicate Hassan, Green said, “He’s been bird watching since he was kid. He’s a genuine bona fide member of the Audubon Society and everything. Now, I like watching birds. Love watching them fly. I can tell you what color something is and make a guess about what kind it is but I’ll never know as much about them as he does.”
M’zel ignored him but Hassan sat up straighter. The young man’s expression lightened but he didn’t say anything, so Green continued.
“I bet you he can answer any question about birds. Go on. Try to stump him.”
Still no reaction from M’zel. He acted as if there was no one in the commissary except him and his rapidly disappearing meatloaf. Typical Jaffa. No regard for the men under their command. Green had yet to see one of the higher ranking warriors coach a lower-ranking one. Oh, they’d criticize and tear down all right, but never encourage or mentor. Couldn’t see that coaching opportunities arose all the time and should be taken advantage of. Maybe it was finally time for Green to speak up. He’d have a word in private with M’zel.
But that would be later. Right now, Tompkins quickly picked up on his hints and piped up.
“Okay, then.” Her tone was serious but her eyes were crinkled at the corners and she looked like she was suppressing a smile. “What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Hassan sat up straight and grinned at her. “That’s actually a common--”
The wail of the klaxons cut off Hassan’s answer and they all scrambled to their feet. Air raid. The chow hall emptied as everyone ran for their assigned posts. Green barely made it out the door when a huge fireball exploded nearby. The shockwave nearly knocked him off his feet but M’zel grabbed his arm and steadied him. Part of him calmly noted that the enemy was targeting the gate while the rest of him was calculating the strength and composition of the opposing force.
~~~
The clatter of a metal tray hitting the concrete floor startled him out of it. During the laughter and sarcastic clapping that followed, Green removed his hand from the non-existent weapon on his thigh and glanced around. All eyes were on the red-faced airman taking a bow. No one had seen his overreaction. He was glad the armory was always last.
Meal finished, Green stood to bus his table when he heard Sergeant Harriman call his name.
“What’s the word, Sergeant?”
“Per the General’s orders, you’ll be shipping out at 14:30 with Colonel Reynolds and SG-3.”
SG-3 was supposed to be at the Alpha site. The incoming alert he heard must have been them. An unscheduled return must mean ...
“Who did they find? Anyone alive?”
Walter shook his head. “No Sir, no survivors.
“Do you know-”
“Tags have been collected but the IDs are not confirmed.”
One of the many things Green liked about Harriman was that if he knew something he’d tell you, but he’d never speculate or gossip.
“What else?”
“Multiple remains, some partial. All found east of the base. Could be as many as twelve individuals, mostly ours but some Jaffa. Brought back via mule tail with SG-3 as escort. General Hammond is debriefing Colonel Reynolds right now while the rest of the team is in medical. They’ll have a chance to eat, shower, and change uniforms before returning off-world. The mule bent the right front strut and will be held over for repair.”
The mule was a prototype hybrid gas and electric four wheel drive all terrain vehicle recently developed for the program. This was the only one in existence so far and competition for it was fierce. Once it went through a few weeks of field trials, the specs would be updated and more would be built.
The tail was an all-purpose open trailer with removable three foot tall side panels. At first blush, it might seem disrespectful to cart their dead home piled on a trailer, but there weren’t enough personnel to allow a two-man carry for each corpse and it was better than chucking the body bags through the wormhole one at a time.
“Thanks. I think --”
“Walter!” Colonel Jack O’Neill bellowed as he stormed in from the corridor, nearly smacking an airman with the door as he barged through.
Right behind him was an exasperated Daniel Jackson. “They have this thing now, Jack. It’s called manners. You should try it sometime.”
Harriman gave a long-suffering sigh then turned to face the fast-approaching pair. Green quietly sidled around and exited the mess hall. He didn’t know what O’Neill was all riled up about but knew it was best to avoid the man when he was in that condition. He checked his watch then headed for the next stop on his list.
Green was already in the gate room when SG-3 rolled in. All were in fresh clothes. He’d known Reynolds back when the Colonel had been at Area 51 and had worked with Marx and Rollins before. They greeted him with nods and eye contact. The newest member of the team - Henson? Jenson? - had a smidge of ketchup at the corner of his mouth which told Green the team had showered first and then hit the mess hall.
Reynolds held his gaze. Took a breath. Hesitated.
"Spit it out,” Green said gruffly.
"It's been almost three days, Ron."
He nodded but said nothing.
"There's not much likelihood of --"
"Not much," he admitted. "But not impossible either." He snapped his P-90 into the harness, tugging the tether to be sure it was secure. "Which quadrant today?"
"South."
Green grunted. His hands stilled as he tried to envision the group heading South. At the time, they’d been under fire from all sides and returning fire as fast as they could. Smoke and dust filled the air and most of the survivors were covered in dirt and blood all of which made identification problematic. He listed only those he could recall with absolute certainty.
"Captains Wilson and May; Lieutenants Tompkins and Hassan; SFs Hardy, Atchinson, and Popovich. Major Branson. All walking wounded. SFs Rutlege and Feliciano. Non-ambulatory. Atchinson and Popovich had Rutlege upright between them. Branson and May had Feliciano on a stretcher. At least two of the Kull warriors were on them the moment they broke cover."
He saw Henson-Jenson trade glances with Marx. Everyone in the military knew what that meant. The slower you move, the faster you die. The stretcher bearers were probably the first to go.
From the control room behind them, Harriman started the countdown. The gate whirled as the chevrons stuttered then locked.
"It wasn't a retreat. It was a rout." Green hadn't meant to say that out loud. As explanation or as apology, it was insufficient, but true nonetheless. "Colonel Reilly called every man for himself."
"And Devil take the hindmost." Reynolds finished the saying.
Chevron seven locked.
"Yes." He tugged his jacket down then settled his grip on his weapon. "Devil take the hindmost."
The gate flared. The wormhole opened. They stepped through.
On the other side of the wormhole was the temporary base set up specifically for the search, rescue, and recovery mission. There were three large tents. The smallest and farthest tent from the gate with its sides rolled down and flap door firmly closed would be sleeping quarters. Green did a quick estimate of the number of cots the tent would hold comfortably versus the number of personnel on-site and knew he’d be hot racking.
The middle tent was the largest. The flaps were pulled back and the smell of hot coffee wafted out making that one an easy call. Chow hall.
The tent right in front of them had its sides rolled up to allow a clear view in all directions. Folding tables with papers and equipment filled the tent. There was one chair. It had the look of a typical Command and Control work area. Colonel Schaffer of SG-21 and Major Lorne of SG-11 had their heads bent together over a table draped with an aerial survey map. The breeze stirred one edge of the paper and Schaffer picked up a stone and plopped it onto the map, pinning it down.
When Reynolds stepped over to C and C to check in with Schaffer, Green took a moment to glance at the name patch on the new guy. Henson, first initial J. He wondered how many Muppet jokes the guy had endured over his lifetime.
Then Green took a good long look around, surprised at how effective the self destruct had been. His heart sank. There was so little left. All of the buildings were gone as if they’d never existed. Even the largest pieces were no bigger than a double-handful. The entire base was a jumbled desert of rock and dirt.
He had seen it happen, albeit at a distance behind him. He’d even walked through the devastation to get back to the gate and the safety of the SGC, but he’d still been in the moment so to speak. He’d still had that adrenaline-directed tunnel vision that focused his attention only on what seemed most pressing for immediate survival. The only thing his flight or fight reflex wanted to know was whether the base was there or not. There had been no time to marvel at the barren moonscape in the center of rolling woodland.
No wonder Hammond had needed convincing to let him come. Most of the people they were looking for were not only dead, but probably in too many fragments to find. He clenched his jaw against the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Maybe because it was the last ordinary thing he’d heard. Maybe that’s why he kept hearing Tompkins’ voice.
He looked up at the sky. M’zel was right. There were three kites. Two of them were floating in lazy circles a couple of miles out. The lower bird looped left while the other, much higher bird, went right. Both were centered over the same point. The third kite had staked out a point about half a mile further off for its circle.
Green thought about the last conversation he’d had on base. M’zel - or was it Hassan? - had said that the kites were carrion eaters as well as predators. Normally, he’d look for vultures but this was one of the few off-world sites he knew of that didn’t seem to have them. Every eco-system needed a clean up crew. Perhaps here the kites took the vulture’s place.
Reynolds came back to the team.
“Okay, we’re confirmed for points Southeast to Southwest. The blast zone has already been searched twice so we’re cleared for a long-range search. We have twenty-four hours to find what we can so let’s make the most of it.” Despite being senior officer, Reynolds deferred to Green. “You know the area best. Lead the way, Major.”
Green pointed to the birds. “Let’s go see what they’re looking at.”
He led the way, stepping carefully on the uneven ground, very aware that somewhere under his feet might be pieces of what used to be a comrade in arms. They traveled in single file until the dirt and debris gave way to grass then underbrush and light forest. There, they spread out walking abreast through the trees in order to cover more ground.
Shortly after they left the blast-damaged area, Marx found a scuff patch in the dirt that could have been a heel mark. A few yards away Rollins found another. The team travelled the length of a football field before they found another that had a distinct waffle pattern.
There weren’t many footprints but there were enough to tell the tale. Two sets of combat boots, one large and one smaller, both with a stride that was too long for walking but not quite long enough for a flat out run. One set of oversized Kull warrior boots with a ground-eating stride that meant it didn’t need to run in order to catch you. The tracks consistently led in the direction of the circling pair of kites.
The team kept going. Part of Green noted that it was a nice day for a walk. The weather was cool and breezy. The shade from the trees kept the sun from bothering them and the underbrush was sparse in some places, heavier in others, but never thick enough to be a hindrance.
Little birds like chickadees and wrens flitted by and chirped around them. He even caught a few glimpses of the shy red squirrels. Their alarm call wasn’t a harsh squawk like the grey squirrels back on earth. Instead they made a beautiful sound like wind chimes stirred by a soft breeze.
Every so often, as they passed through a clearing, Green checked the skies for the kites. This time, the birds were circling directly overhead. The men should find something soon. For all he knew, it would be a deer or a goat. Following the kites might have been a waste of time. An exercise in futility but one they had to finish.
They heard the cawing first. Then, as they topped a small rise, they saw the flock a hundred feet off. The trees were full of crows and the ground underneath the trees was a moving mass of black as the birds hopped, flapped, and fought over something on the ground.
Green picked up a rock and flung it at the birds, but only a handful of them flew off. Rollins and Marx were firing off two more stones as he reached down for another. The area was clear by the time they walked up to the body. Green breathed through his mouth, but it only helped a little.
They’d need his tags for ID but at least one family would get their loved one back. Such as he was. The crows weren’t the only scavengers that had been at the body. Apparently, the smaller predators here didn’t mind an easy meal and they’d made great inroads on this one. The face and hands were completely gone. The tac vest was severely damaged, but mostly intact, though the same couldn’t be said of the BDU pants which had been ripped to shreds.
The pockets of the BDU must have been torn open early on because a trail of odds and ends led to the base of the tree ten feet north. Lip balm. A ripped up pack of tissues. A boonie hat. The body must have rested there before the scavengers had disturbed it. Green saw a glint of metal in the grass by the tree and went to investigate. It was a pistol, slide racked open, chamber empty. He gave the weapon to Rollins to secure. In the background, he heard Reynolds on the radio, relaying the co-ordinates to the recovery team.
As he walked back over to the Colonel, Green kicked something. He looked down. It was a small notebook. Three feet away was a little stub of pencil. Both were free of the blood that stained some of the other detritus. He picked them up and tucked them in his pocket. He’d make sure Hassan’s family got these. He gave Reynolds the name and that was relayed to base as well.
Marx stayed to protect the remains until the recovery crew arrived while the rest of them moved on. While the team had examined the body, the two kites overhead had slipped into larger and larger circles. Now, one broke formation, curving gracefully into a long glide toward the lone kite.
The strategy had worked once. Maybe it would work again. Green directed the men to search for tracks in the direction toward the kites. Almost immediately, Henson found footprints from the smaller pair of boots and the Kull warrior The kites weren’t very far off, so it shouldn’t be long before they found something.
As they neared another opening in the forest canopy, their first sign was a long-leafed pine tree whose trunk ended in a charred mark and jagged splinters about eight feet off the ground. The other forty feet of the tree had toppled, taking out two smaller oak trees on the far side of the clearing. They approached it side-on. Most of the clearing was now filled with thick branches chock full of long green needles, obscuring everything. They couldn’t even see the other side of the tree.
What they could see was the body of the Kull warrior. Although it lay a good twenty feet from the trunk, it, too, was covered with pine branches so the tree must have landed on top of it. At first Green thought its head must have been under the pine needles somewhere then he realized that the body ended at the rib cage.
Gobbets of pale flesh littered the forest floor around it. The chunks of Kull had an odd translucent look as if they weren’t decaying as much as dissolving, like gelatin left in the sun on a hot summer day. There was no smell of rotting flesh. Instead, there was a chemical smell like a cross between disinfectant and burned rubber but even that was faint.
Here, there were no crows. No signs of four-footed carrion eaters. The Kull lay undisturbed. It seemed the local fauna didn't care for the taste of lab-created mutant flesh. Green couldn’t blame them. The things had a foul unnatural air that gave him the willies. Animals, with their heightened senses, must have had that feeling ten times over.
One of the larger chunks of Kull was closer to the downed tree, mingling with the pinecones that still festooned the branches. Even farther back, right by the trunk, he saw something black. He couldn’t get a good look, hidden as it was by all the pine needles, but thought it might be the Kull’s helmet. It would be great to get a piece of the armor for the scientists.
Stepping carefully to avoid branches and the noisome gobbets of Kull, he moved closer. Before he reached it, he was able to get a clear view through an open space in the branches. It wasn’t a helmet. It was a pair of standard issue military boots.
He was looking at the lower half of someone’s legs.
Shouting to the others, he scrambled over top of the trunk while the others raced around the end of it. Stubborn branches refused to move, scraping his hands and face and one whipped back nearly catching him in the eye but he made it there first.
It was Tompkins. She lay face up, perpendicular to the trunk, her lower body pinned by it. Both eyes were blackened as if her nose had been broken. It had bled all over her mouth and chin. Her forehead and hairline over her left eye were crusted in old blood as was her left sleeve. Some of the scratches on her face seemed fresher than the others.
A handful of empty power bar wrappers were on the ground next to her left hip. Her right hand gripped the barrel of a P-90 that rested on her abdomen. Downy grey feathers clung to a smear of blood on the stock. Two dead crows lay within arms reach. One lay in a crumpled heap with a dented skull. The other crow was a flattened bloody mess only recognizable by the solid black plumage, beak, and scaly black feet. There were paw prints around her, too. He saw the prints of one animal which had moved slowly toward her. Drops of blood splashed the dirt where the creature had run away.
Green took a deep breath through his nose. Damp earth. Leaf mold. A whiff of pine sap and stale urine. No hint of decay. If she was dead, she hadn't been dead long. He hoped they'd found her in time. Considering the small corpses around her, he thought it best not to shake her to see if she was alive.
"Lieutenant Tompkins." He called twice more, louder each time. He thought he saw her eyelids twitch but there was no other response.
Her given name was Grace, but she went by some nickname. Tommie. That was it. He used an old trick he'd learned as a freshly-minted Captain when he'd shared quarters with a roommate who had slept through every alarm.
In his best sharp drill-sergeant voice he barked, "Tommie! Get up! You're late for school!"
Her eyes snapped open. She sucked in a big breath of air and started flailing all around her with the P-90. She swung it through the air over face and body then reached awkwardly back over her head, thumping the dirt around her. She hit the flattened crow several times in the process.
Behind him, Henson exclaimed "Yes!", Rollins said, "All right!", and Reynolds was on the radio snapping out orders to the base.
Green moderated his tone. "Tompkins. Hey. Lieutenant."
She blinked her eyes a few times. The frantic bashing slowed then stopped. She craned her head back trying to get a look at him. With difficulty, he came around to where she could see him more easily. The same branches that had shielded her from predation made it more difficult for him to reach her.
In a calm, soothing tone he said, "It's Major Green. SG-3 is here with me. We're going to stay with you until the medics arrive."
She didn't reply but pulled her arm back down until the P-90 was back on her stomach again.
"Sir!" She whispered urgently. "There's a Kull warrior - "
"No, there isn't. You got that one, Lieutenant. And the others are long gone. The SGC is doing clean up now."
Her voice was a raspy croak brought on by dehydration and exposure. “How did you know where to find me?"
Green pointed up to the kites. "A little bird told me."
That got a smile from her but only for a second. "Hassan's dead." Her voice cracked. "They're all dead." A tear rolled down her temple to her ear.
"Yes." Green knelt down and put his hand on her left shoulder. "They are. But you're not and we're here and you'll be okay."
Finally letting go of the P-90, she wiped her eyes and sniffed. "Yeah. I'll be okay."
“Excuse me, Sir.”
Rollins was holding a thermal blanket. Green helped him tuck it around Tompkins. Rollins started a basic medical exam while Reynolds and Henson knelt by the trunk, fighting off the pine boughs to get a good look at how she was pinned.
The place they were in had the same small hillocks they’d been walking over all day. When the tree had fallen, she’d been lucky in that her legs were in a dimple in the hill - a depression just large enough that her legs hadn’t been crushed. Although they were in there pretty tightly, it seemed like something else was keeping her from pulling them out.
Green opened his canteen and looked a question at Rollins who said, “Sips only. Don’t let her chug it.”
Lifting her head with one hand, Green held the canteen to her mouth with the other and gave her what was probably the first water she’d had in days.
“Thank you, Sir.” She hissed in pain.
“Sorry,” said Reynolds.
In order to see just how she was wedged in, Reynolds and Henson were digging out some of the loose dirt and rock caught in there with her. The movement caused her pain, but they had to keep going.
To take her mind off of, Green said, “You know, you managed something few people have. You took out a Kull warrior and you did it all by your lonesome, no less. Maybe if you pass along your secret, Major Carter won’t have to worry about making a fancy weapon. How’d you do it?”
Through sips of water, she replied, "Climb a tree and hope he passes you by. But just in case he doesn't, turn your last grenade into a sticky-bomb using the spare pantiliners you shoved into your pocket that morning."
"Seriously?" Green was startled by her reply. That was definitely something he never expected to hear.
She nodded. "Seriously. Wrapped it up. Pulled the pin. Dropped out of the tree onto the Kull’s back. Managed to wedge the grenade under the edge of his helmet before he knocked me off. Grenade stayed put. He fired his weapon but the grenade went off right then and spoiled his aim. Missed me and hit the damn tree. I think you can guess the rest."
Grinning, Green said “I don’t know about these fellows, but as soon as I get back, I’m heading off to the feminine aisle at the supermarket.” So, maybe he’d get some double-sided sticky tape instead. Either way, she was quick-thinking and innovative. Exactly what the SGC needed.
“Okay.” Reynolds rubbed his hands together, brushing off the dirt. “Rollins. My office, if you please.” The two men stepped a few feet away. Reynolds radioed the base. Keeping his voice low, he relayed Tompkins’ vitals and the scope of the problem.
“What’s the sitch?” asked Tompkins.
“There’s a stub from an old branch poking out of the trunk,” explained Henson. “It’s gone through the flesh of your thigh and has you pinned in place. We should be able to get you out with no trouble.”
Reynolds and Rollins came forward.
“All right,” said Reynolds. “SG-11 and a couple of medics will be coming as soon as they get a chainsaw and a couple of jacks and other equipment sent through. Dr. Fraiser and her team will be waiting to greet you in the gate room. The strut on the ATV's been fixed so you can ride back to the gate in style, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, Sir.”
As they settled in for the long wait for reinforcements, Green looked overhead. The kites were gone. This was one meal they were going to miss He felt a surge of triumph but it quickly faded, washed out by disappointment. One body and one survivor. That’s all. It wasn’t much. Wasn’t nearly what he’d hoped for. But it had to be enough. Sometimes, like the kites, you had to take your victories where you could, put the rest behind you, and move on.
FINIS
END NOTE: In case you aren’t familiar with them, here are two photos of the black and white swallow-tail kites in flight. They are large birds, about the size of an eagle.
Kite 1
Kite 2
Author: Cowardly Lion
Category: Action
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Words: 6,552
Date: 02-18-13
Season/Spoilers: Immediately after the events of ep. 7.16 Death Knell
Synopsis: For Major Green, surviving the attack on the Alpha site wasn't enough. He had to go back and help with the search for survivors.
Warnings: description of dead bodies
Author's Note: 1. Many thanks to Mare for the initial beta and to JDJunkie for the final beta. Any mistakes are all mine. 2. This is a companion fic to "K Is For Kite" which was written for the Allies Alphabet Soup challenge. One of the scenes in "Circling" was written as a stand-alone fic from a different character's point of view.
K is for Kite on DW
K is for Kite on LJ
Be sure to check out all of the Gen Fic day contributions.
"With all due respect, General Hammond, I know the terrain. In fact, I may be tone of the few people left who does." Major Green did his best to stand at attention, fighting down the urge to shout and bang on the General's desk until he got his way.
Hammond shook his head. "Once that self-destruct went off, the terrain changed completely."
The office was small. One nondescript medium-sized desk filled most of it. A couple of ordinary chairs sat in front of it. Incongruously, a giant hutch filled with random bits of this and that took up the back wall. It reminded Green of something he’d seen once in childhood at his great-aunt Esther’s house, though she called hers a breakfront.
A lesser man would have needed to set the stage, so to speak, to demonstrate that here was a man of power. Not Hammond. The General didn’t need his furniture to speak for him. There was no doubt that the center of power in Stargate Command rested behind that desk in the worn-down chair that squeaked ever so faintly when the General leaned back.
"But only within the blast radius, Sir. Beyond that, the Alpha Site, pardon, the former Alpha site, is still as it was. I know every nook and cranny within the ten klick perimeter, as did my people.”
Maybe it was commitment to the men and women under his command. Maybe it was survivor’s guilt. At the moment he didn’t care. What he did care about was getting back there to look with his own eyes, search with his own hands, do everything within his own power to find his people. He could feel the need for action crawling under his skin while the dread of being denied settled like a cold lump in his stomach.
“Sir, when Colonel Reilly ordered us to disperse, he gave us a minute to make it to the tree line. He told us specifically to run in multiple directions to make it harder for the Super Soldiers to follow. My group spread out toward points North. Major Branson and a handful of others scattered along southern points. Donelly's group scattered East, and Richter's group scattered West. Each of us was to regroup once under cover in the woods. Granted, by then most of us were wounded, some badly, but some might have made it."
"Then why hasn't anyone else come forward, Major?”
In the center of the large hutch behind the General, perched a ceramic eagle figurine, its wings raised as if about to take flight. The bird’s head was cocked to the side, beak slightly open. Green had never really looked at it before but now the bird certainly seemed to be looking at him. He could see it peeking over Hammond’s shoulder. Its eyes were dark and angry.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Ignoring the voice in his head, Green focused on Hammond. He didn’t think he’d missed anything. Well, not much.
“...sent four teams for search and rescue when the site was attacked, yet Major Carter is the only other person we've found. Granted, SG-1 is now back at base, but SG teams three, eleven, and twenty-one have been on site since then. All they've found is six bodies. There have been some partial remains but precious few of those either. And until the DNA results come back, we don't even know how many individuals those remains represent." Hammond's face hardened. "I can't even give their loved ones enough to fill a coffin for the funeral," he said bitterly.
"All the more reason to let me help, General."
Hammond didn't reply, but sat there looking thoughtful. Green could feel the momentum shifting his way and added more weight to his argument.
"There are still dozens of our people unaccounted for," he said quietly. "That's a lot of families left in limbo. Even one more recovery would be a blessing. And a rescue would be a Godsend."
Two Alkesh and a dozen Kull warriors. That’s all Anubis had needed. The base been completely overwhelmed by two alkesh and a dozen Super Soldiers who were outnumbered almost ten to one by humans, Jaffa, and Tok’ra. He'd never felt so helpless. Felt so mortal.
So ashamed to be alive and relatively unscathed.
Eyes narrowed, lips thinned, Hammond leaned back in his chair, drumming the fingers of one hand on his desktop. There was a faint click as the ventilation system kicked on and a moment later the fringe on the SGC flag in the corner behind him stirred slightly. The General took a deep breath and rested his forearms on the desk. Leaning forward, he put his weight on his elbows which made his shoulders hunch up as he stared at Green. "Has Dr. Fraiser --"
"I've been cleared for active duty, sir."
One quick short nod. "You have a go, Major Green. Sergeant Harriman will notify you of your departure time."
“Thank you, Sir.” To show his gratitude, Green gave a crisp, flawless salute and a classic parade ground turn then left the office.
He strode down the corridor. Where to first? His stomach growled. His body needed food but he had no appetite.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Different base, different chow hall, but he couldn’t face the commissary just yet. So, that made it supply, then one last pre-mission meal, and then the armory.
While getting kitted out at supply, he heard the incoming traveler alert and tensed but no warning siren followed. He tried to recall the gate schedule. He didn’t think there was anything planned for that time but wasn’t sure. He hoped it was one of the search teams with good news. He’d find out soon enough. Time for lunch.
He slowed as he approached the doors to the mess hall, letting foot traffic flow around him. He put his hand on the swinging door but didn’t push it open.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
He’d been hearing her voice all day, though he didn’t know why her voice and no one else’s. She was an asset to the program and would have made - would make - a good team leader once she had more off-world experience under her belt, but beyond that he had no particular interest in her. They’d been at chow when it happened. When the world went to hell.
Someone behind him made a throat-clearing noise reminding him that he was blocking the way. He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and went in as if it was an ordinary lunch on an ordinary day and he wasn’t on the verge of a flashback that could get him get him taken off duty. On the outside, he went through the motions. Got a tray, got his food, and picked a chair. Ate.
Superimposed on the room around him was the small Quonset hut that had served as chow hall at the Alpha site. It had been lunchtime then, too, and the place was nearly full.
~~~
It was a relief when Colonel Reilly dismissed them. Green had never been fond of administrative meetings. Adding a dash of Jaffa and Tok’ra to the mix hadn’t improved them any. Either group was fine on its own. It was trying to work with them both at once that was problematic. Despite their common enemy, the long-simmering tension between the Jaffa and Tok’ra had been getting more heated lately. He really hoped it wouldn’t boil over.
He left the command hut just behind M’Zel, leader of the Jaffa faction at the Alpha site. He tapped the Jaffa on the shoulder to get his attention. “I’m heading to lunch but I’d like to discuss item four if you have time.”
M’zel nodded and fell into step with him. Proposed changes to perimeter checkpoints and sentry rotation engaged them as they made their way to the mess hall and through the serving line.
Other postings might have separate amenities for officers and enlisted, but not the SGC and certainly not an off-world base. Everyone mingled together and with space at a premium it was the custom to share tables. Two empty chairs at the end of one table beckoned. He and M’zel would be sitting with Lieutenants Hassan and Tompkins who were chatting with each other. That meant bird talk from the former and history from the latter. He wondered which subject he’d hear when he got closer.
He gave the evil eye to a pair of airmen heading for the same chairs. As the airmen backed away, Green held his tray just above the tabletop waiting for Hassan to finish his sentence before interrupting. Hassan’s head was turned so he hadn’t seen Green approach. Tompkins had, though. Her gaze flicked from Hassan to Green then back to Hassan. She shook her head slightly at Hassan who didn’t take the hint.
“I couldn’t wait for Lieutenant Glenn to relieve me. Let him listen to the Carters argue with each other.”
“Superior officers never argue, Lieutenant. They engage in spirited discussions.” Green gestured to the empty chairs. “Are these seats taken?”
Hassan’s head whipped around. Eyes wide, he opened and closed his mouth several times but only a croaking noise emerged.
The request had been a mere formality. Even as he asked, Green plopped his tray down and took a chair. M’zel was already seated.
Red-faced, Hassan stammered out something that sounded like a cross between an apology for gossip and an invitation to join the table.
“Pick a new subject, son, and start talking,” Green suggested kindly. “It’ll be less awkward that way.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Um...” Hassan stared into space. “Oh! I think a pair of swallow tailed kites have made the base part of their territory.”
“That’s the great big black and white bird with the v-shaped tail, right?” asked Tompkins. When Hassan nodded she continued. “I’ve only seen one of those.”
M’zel said “There are, in fact, three individual birds.”
“Really?” Hassan looked excited. He dug through his pockets and pulled out a tiny notepad and stubby pencil. “Where did you see it? When? How could you tell it was a third individual?”
Instead of answering the question, M’zel said, “I commend your attention to matters such as this. I had not thought the Taur’i to be so focused on tactical detail.”
“Um. Tactical?” Hassan paused, eyebrows drawn together, pencil stub hovering over the open page.
“Yes. Noting the usual appearance and behavior of the local creatures such as the birds so that you may be alerted if a break in their pattern is detected. This kite of which you speak is both a predator of smaller animals, including other birds, and an eater of carrion.” M’zel gestured with his spork as he expanded on his theme. “Should the bird suddenly abandon its usual territory it may indicate a larger predator or enemy ground forces in the vicinity. The presence of what appears to be a family group consisting of a mated pair and one newly adult offspring is a good sign.”
“Well, I’m keeping track because I like watching them. They’re beautiful creatures. Birds I mean. In general. Not just these, but...” Hassan tapered off as he finally noticed M’zel’s expression.
The Jaffa’s nose wrinkled up as if he’d just smelled something bad. His upper lip curled disdainfully. “You watch them because they are … pretty?” He sounded disgusted but unsurprised.
Ah, the ever present clash of cultural mores. Time for a bit of diplomacy. Green jumped in.
“I believe our tongue-tied young friend here meant that, in addition to taking detailed notes for tactical purposes, he also appreciates the beauty inherent in their conformation and coloring. One may observe and admire at the same time, don’t you think? Or have we finally found something that the Jaffa can’t do?”
Okay, that last bit was unnecessary and a perfect example of why Green would never end up in the diplomatic corps but almost every Jaffa he’d ever met had had a superior condescending attitude toward humans - sorry, Tau’ri - and he couldn’t resist taking a jab.
M’zel’s nostrils flared. There was long pause. “The plumage,” he said, “is striking.” He fixed his gaze on his meal and applied himself to his meatloaf, spork flashing up and down between tray and mouth like a piston.
Point to Green. Conversation over.
Or maybe not.
Hassan had slumped down, shoulders drooping, and the smile was gone from his face. Green hated to see anyone’s enthusiasm dampened like that. Sometimes it was little things that helped make hard duty bearable. Crushing a person’s joy in their hobby was like kicking a puppy - no self-respecting being should ever do it. Tompkins kept glancing between M’zel and Hassan, not happy, but not daring to say anything to a senior officer.
M’zel either hadn’t noticed Hassan’s reaction or he didn’t care.
Nodding to indicate Hassan, Green said, “He’s been bird watching since he was kid. He’s a genuine bona fide member of the Audubon Society and everything. Now, I like watching birds. Love watching them fly. I can tell you what color something is and make a guess about what kind it is but I’ll never know as much about them as he does.”
M’zel ignored him but Hassan sat up straighter. The young man’s expression lightened but he didn’t say anything, so Green continued.
“I bet you he can answer any question about birds. Go on. Try to stump him.”
Still no reaction from M’zel. He acted as if there was no one in the commissary except him and his rapidly disappearing meatloaf. Typical Jaffa. No regard for the men under their command. Green had yet to see one of the higher ranking warriors coach a lower-ranking one. Oh, they’d criticize and tear down all right, but never encourage or mentor. Couldn’t see that coaching opportunities arose all the time and should be taken advantage of. Maybe it was finally time for Green to speak up. He’d have a word in private with M’zel.
But that would be later. Right now, Tompkins quickly picked up on his hints and piped up.
“Okay, then.” Her tone was serious but her eyes were crinkled at the corners and she looked like she was suppressing a smile. “What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Hassan sat up straight and grinned at her. “That’s actually a common--”
The wail of the klaxons cut off Hassan’s answer and they all scrambled to their feet. Air raid. The chow hall emptied as everyone ran for their assigned posts. Green barely made it out the door when a huge fireball exploded nearby. The shockwave nearly knocked him off his feet but M’zel grabbed his arm and steadied him. Part of him calmly noted that the enemy was targeting the gate while the rest of him was calculating the strength and composition of the opposing force.
~~~
The clatter of a metal tray hitting the concrete floor startled him out of it. During the laughter and sarcastic clapping that followed, Green removed his hand from the non-existent weapon on his thigh and glanced around. All eyes were on the red-faced airman taking a bow. No one had seen his overreaction. He was glad the armory was always last.
Meal finished, Green stood to bus his table when he heard Sergeant Harriman call his name.
“What’s the word, Sergeant?”
“Per the General’s orders, you’ll be shipping out at 14:30 with Colonel Reynolds and SG-3.”
SG-3 was supposed to be at the Alpha site. The incoming alert he heard must have been them. An unscheduled return must mean ...
“Who did they find? Anyone alive?”
Walter shook his head. “No Sir, no survivors.
“Do you know-”
“Tags have been collected but the IDs are not confirmed.”
One of the many things Green liked about Harriman was that if he knew something he’d tell you, but he’d never speculate or gossip.
“What else?”
“Multiple remains, some partial. All found east of the base. Could be as many as twelve individuals, mostly ours but some Jaffa. Brought back via mule tail with SG-3 as escort. General Hammond is debriefing Colonel Reynolds right now while the rest of the team is in medical. They’ll have a chance to eat, shower, and change uniforms before returning off-world. The mule bent the right front strut and will be held over for repair.”
The mule was a prototype hybrid gas and electric four wheel drive all terrain vehicle recently developed for the program. This was the only one in existence so far and competition for it was fierce. Once it went through a few weeks of field trials, the specs would be updated and more would be built.
The tail was an all-purpose open trailer with removable three foot tall side panels. At first blush, it might seem disrespectful to cart their dead home piled on a trailer, but there weren’t enough personnel to allow a two-man carry for each corpse and it was better than chucking the body bags through the wormhole one at a time.
“Thanks. I think --”
“Walter!” Colonel Jack O’Neill bellowed as he stormed in from the corridor, nearly smacking an airman with the door as he barged through.
Right behind him was an exasperated Daniel Jackson. “They have this thing now, Jack. It’s called manners. You should try it sometime.”
Harriman gave a long-suffering sigh then turned to face the fast-approaching pair. Green quietly sidled around and exited the mess hall. He didn’t know what O’Neill was all riled up about but knew it was best to avoid the man when he was in that condition. He checked his watch then headed for the next stop on his list.
Green was already in the gate room when SG-3 rolled in. All were in fresh clothes. He’d known Reynolds back when the Colonel had been at Area 51 and had worked with Marx and Rollins before. They greeted him with nods and eye contact. The newest member of the team - Henson? Jenson? - had a smidge of ketchup at the corner of his mouth which told Green the team had showered first and then hit the mess hall.
Reynolds held his gaze. Took a breath. Hesitated.
"Spit it out,” Green said gruffly.
"It's been almost three days, Ron."
He nodded but said nothing.
"There's not much likelihood of --"
"Not much," he admitted. "But not impossible either." He snapped his P-90 into the harness, tugging the tether to be sure it was secure. "Which quadrant today?"
"South."
Green grunted. His hands stilled as he tried to envision the group heading South. At the time, they’d been under fire from all sides and returning fire as fast as they could. Smoke and dust filled the air and most of the survivors were covered in dirt and blood all of which made identification problematic. He listed only those he could recall with absolute certainty.
"Captains Wilson and May; Lieutenants Tompkins and Hassan; SFs Hardy, Atchinson, and Popovich. Major Branson. All walking wounded. SFs Rutlege and Feliciano. Non-ambulatory. Atchinson and Popovich had Rutlege upright between them. Branson and May had Feliciano on a stretcher. At least two of the Kull warriors were on them the moment they broke cover."
He saw Henson-Jenson trade glances with Marx. Everyone in the military knew what that meant. The slower you move, the faster you die. The stretcher bearers were probably the first to go.
From the control room behind them, Harriman started the countdown. The gate whirled as the chevrons stuttered then locked.
"It wasn't a retreat. It was a rout." Green hadn't meant to say that out loud. As explanation or as apology, it was insufficient, but true nonetheless. "Colonel Reilly called every man for himself."
"And Devil take the hindmost." Reynolds finished the saying.
Chevron seven locked.
"Yes." He tugged his jacket down then settled his grip on his weapon. "Devil take the hindmost."
The gate flared. The wormhole opened. They stepped through.
On the other side of the wormhole was the temporary base set up specifically for the search, rescue, and recovery mission. There were three large tents. The smallest and farthest tent from the gate with its sides rolled down and flap door firmly closed would be sleeping quarters. Green did a quick estimate of the number of cots the tent would hold comfortably versus the number of personnel on-site and knew he’d be hot racking.
The middle tent was the largest. The flaps were pulled back and the smell of hot coffee wafted out making that one an easy call. Chow hall.
The tent right in front of them had its sides rolled up to allow a clear view in all directions. Folding tables with papers and equipment filled the tent. There was one chair. It had the look of a typical Command and Control work area. Colonel Schaffer of SG-21 and Major Lorne of SG-11 had their heads bent together over a table draped with an aerial survey map. The breeze stirred one edge of the paper and Schaffer picked up a stone and plopped it onto the map, pinning it down.
When Reynolds stepped over to C and C to check in with Schaffer, Green took a moment to glance at the name patch on the new guy. Henson, first initial J. He wondered how many Muppet jokes the guy had endured over his lifetime.
Then Green took a good long look around, surprised at how effective the self destruct had been. His heart sank. There was so little left. All of the buildings were gone as if they’d never existed. Even the largest pieces were no bigger than a double-handful. The entire base was a jumbled desert of rock and dirt.
He had seen it happen, albeit at a distance behind him. He’d even walked through the devastation to get back to the gate and the safety of the SGC, but he’d still been in the moment so to speak. He’d still had that adrenaline-directed tunnel vision that focused his attention only on what seemed most pressing for immediate survival. The only thing his flight or fight reflex wanted to know was whether the base was there or not. There had been no time to marvel at the barren moonscape in the center of rolling woodland.
No wonder Hammond had needed convincing to let him come. Most of the people they were looking for were not only dead, but probably in too many fragments to find. He clenched his jaw against the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.
“What’s the plural of Titmouse?”
Maybe because it was the last ordinary thing he’d heard. Maybe that’s why he kept hearing Tompkins’ voice.
He looked up at the sky. M’zel was right. There were three kites. Two of them were floating in lazy circles a couple of miles out. The lower bird looped left while the other, much higher bird, went right. Both were centered over the same point. The third kite had staked out a point about half a mile further off for its circle.
Green thought about the last conversation he’d had on base. M’zel - or was it Hassan? - had said that the kites were carrion eaters as well as predators. Normally, he’d look for vultures but this was one of the few off-world sites he knew of that didn’t seem to have them. Every eco-system needed a clean up crew. Perhaps here the kites took the vulture’s place.
Reynolds came back to the team.
“Okay, we’re confirmed for points Southeast to Southwest. The blast zone has already been searched twice so we’re cleared for a long-range search. We have twenty-four hours to find what we can so let’s make the most of it.” Despite being senior officer, Reynolds deferred to Green. “You know the area best. Lead the way, Major.”
Green pointed to the birds. “Let’s go see what they’re looking at.”
He led the way, stepping carefully on the uneven ground, very aware that somewhere under his feet might be pieces of what used to be a comrade in arms. They traveled in single file until the dirt and debris gave way to grass then underbrush and light forest. There, they spread out walking abreast through the trees in order to cover more ground.
Shortly after they left the blast-damaged area, Marx found a scuff patch in the dirt that could have been a heel mark. A few yards away Rollins found another. The team travelled the length of a football field before they found another that had a distinct waffle pattern.
There weren’t many footprints but there were enough to tell the tale. Two sets of combat boots, one large and one smaller, both with a stride that was too long for walking but not quite long enough for a flat out run. One set of oversized Kull warrior boots with a ground-eating stride that meant it didn’t need to run in order to catch you. The tracks consistently led in the direction of the circling pair of kites.
The team kept going. Part of Green noted that it was a nice day for a walk. The weather was cool and breezy. The shade from the trees kept the sun from bothering them and the underbrush was sparse in some places, heavier in others, but never thick enough to be a hindrance.
Little birds like chickadees and wrens flitted by and chirped around them. He even caught a few glimpses of the shy red squirrels. Their alarm call wasn’t a harsh squawk like the grey squirrels back on earth. Instead they made a beautiful sound like wind chimes stirred by a soft breeze.
Every so often, as they passed through a clearing, Green checked the skies for the kites. This time, the birds were circling directly overhead. The men should find something soon. For all he knew, it would be a deer or a goat. Following the kites might have been a waste of time. An exercise in futility but one they had to finish.
They heard the cawing first. Then, as they topped a small rise, they saw the flock a hundred feet off. The trees were full of crows and the ground underneath the trees was a moving mass of black as the birds hopped, flapped, and fought over something on the ground.
Green picked up a rock and flung it at the birds, but only a handful of them flew off. Rollins and Marx were firing off two more stones as he reached down for another. The area was clear by the time they walked up to the body. Green breathed through his mouth, but it only helped a little.
They’d need his tags for ID but at least one family would get their loved one back. Such as he was. The crows weren’t the only scavengers that had been at the body. Apparently, the smaller predators here didn’t mind an easy meal and they’d made great inroads on this one. The face and hands were completely gone. The tac vest was severely damaged, but mostly intact, though the same couldn’t be said of the BDU pants which had been ripped to shreds.
The pockets of the BDU must have been torn open early on because a trail of odds and ends led to the base of the tree ten feet north. Lip balm. A ripped up pack of tissues. A boonie hat. The body must have rested there before the scavengers had disturbed it. Green saw a glint of metal in the grass by the tree and went to investigate. It was a pistol, slide racked open, chamber empty. He gave the weapon to Rollins to secure. In the background, he heard Reynolds on the radio, relaying the co-ordinates to the recovery team.
As he walked back over to the Colonel, Green kicked something. He looked down. It was a small notebook. Three feet away was a little stub of pencil. Both were free of the blood that stained some of the other detritus. He picked them up and tucked them in his pocket. He’d make sure Hassan’s family got these. He gave Reynolds the name and that was relayed to base as well.
Marx stayed to protect the remains until the recovery crew arrived while the rest of them moved on. While the team had examined the body, the two kites overhead had slipped into larger and larger circles. Now, one broke formation, curving gracefully into a long glide toward the lone kite.
The strategy had worked once. Maybe it would work again. Green directed the men to search for tracks in the direction toward the kites. Almost immediately, Henson found footprints from the smaller pair of boots and the Kull warrior The kites weren’t very far off, so it shouldn’t be long before they found something.
As they neared another opening in the forest canopy, their first sign was a long-leafed pine tree whose trunk ended in a charred mark and jagged splinters about eight feet off the ground. The other forty feet of the tree had toppled, taking out two smaller oak trees on the far side of the clearing. They approached it side-on. Most of the clearing was now filled with thick branches chock full of long green needles, obscuring everything. They couldn’t even see the other side of the tree.
What they could see was the body of the Kull warrior. Although it lay a good twenty feet from the trunk, it, too, was covered with pine branches so the tree must have landed on top of it. At first Green thought its head must have been under the pine needles somewhere then he realized that the body ended at the rib cage.
Gobbets of pale flesh littered the forest floor around it. The chunks of Kull had an odd translucent look as if they weren’t decaying as much as dissolving, like gelatin left in the sun on a hot summer day. There was no smell of rotting flesh. Instead, there was a chemical smell like a cross between disinfectant and burned rubber but even that was faint.
Here, there were no crows. No signs of four-footed carrion eaters. The Kull lay undisturbed. It seemed the local fauna didn't care for the taste of lab-created mutant flesh. Green couldn’t blame them. The things had a foul unnatural air that gave him the willies. Animals, with their heightened senses, must have had that feeling ten times over.
One of the larger chunks of Kull was closer to the downed tree, mingling with the pinecones that still festooned the branches. Even farther back, right by the trunk, he saw something black. He couldn’t get a good look, hidden as it was by all the pine needles, but thought it might be the Kull’s helmet. It would be great to get a piece of the armor for the scientists.
Stepping carefully to avoid branches and the noisome gobbets of Kull, he moved closer. Before he reached it, he was able to get a clear view through an open space in the branches. It wasn’t a helmet. It was a pair of standard issue military boots.
He was looking at the lower half of someone’s legs.
Shouting to the others, he scrambled over top of the trunk while the others raced around the end of it. Stubborn branches refused to move, scraping his hands and face and one whipped back nearly catching him in the eye but he made it there first.
It was Tompkins. She lay face up, perpendicular to the trunk, her lower body pinned by it. Both eyes were blackened as if her nose had been broken. It had bled all over her mouth and chin. Her forehead and hairline over her left eye were crusted in old blood as was her left sleeve. Some of the scratches on her face seemed fresher than the others.
A handful of empty power bar wrappers were on the ground next to her left hip. Her right hand gripped the barrel of a P-90 that rested on her abdomen. Downy grey feathers clung to a smear of blood on the stock. Two dead crows lay within arms reach. One lay in a crumpled heap with a dented skull. The other crow was a flattened bloody mess only recognizable by the solid black plumage, beak, and scaly black feet. There were paw prints around her, too. He saw the prints of one animal which had moved slowly toward her. Drops of blood splashed the dirt where the creature had run away.
Green took a deep breath through his nose. Damp earth. Leaf mold. A whiff of pine sap and stale urine. No hint of decay. If she was dead, she hadn't been dead long. He hoped they'd found her in time. Considering the small corpses around her, he thought it best not to shake her to see if she was alive.
"Lieutenant Tompkins." He called twice more, louder each time. He thought he saw her eyelids twitch but there was no other response.
Her given name was Grace, but she went by some nickname. Tommie. That was it. He used an old trick he'd learned as a freshly-minted Captain when he'd shared quarters with a roommate who had slept through every alarm.
In his best sharp drill-sergeant voice he barked, "Tommie! Get up! You're late for school!"
Her eyes snapped open. She sucked in a big breath of air and started flailing all around her with the P-90. She swung it through the air over face and body then reached awkwardly back over her head, thumping the dirt around her. She hit the flattened crow several times in the process.
Behind him, Henson exclaimed "Yes!", Rollins said, "All right!", and Reynolds was on the radio snapping out orders to the base.
Green moderated his tone. "Tompkins. Hey. Lieutenant."
She blinked her eyes a few times. The frantic bashing slowed then stopped. She craned her head back trying to get a look at him. With difficulty, he came around to where she could see him more easily. The same branches that had shielded her from predation made it more difficult for him to reach her.
In a calm, soothing tone he said, "It's Major Green. SG-3 is here with me. We're going to stay with you until the medics arrive."
She didn't reply but pulled her arm back down until the P-90 was back on her stomach again.
"Sir!" She whispered urgently. "There's a Kull warrior - "
"No, there isn't. You got that one, Lieutenant. And the others are long gone. The SGC is doing clean up now."
Her voice was a raspy croak brought on by dehydration and exposure. “How did you know where to find me?"
Green pointed up to the kites. "A little bird told me."
That got a smile from her but only for a second. "Hassan's dead." Her voice cracked. "They're all dead." A tear rolled down her temple to her ear.
"Yes." Green knelt down and put his hand on her left shoulder. "They are. But you're not and we're here and you'll be okay."
Finally letting go of the P-90, she wiped her eyes and sniffed. "Yeah. I'll be okay."
“Excuse me, Sir.”
Rollins was holding a thermal blanket. Green helped him tuck it around Tompkins. Rollins started a basic medical exam while Reynolds and Henson knelt by the trunk, fighting off the pine boughs to get a good look at how she was pinned.
The place they were in had the same small hillocks they’d been walking over all day. When the tree had fallen, she’d been lucky in that her legs were in a dimple in the hill - a depression just large enough that her legs hadn’t been crushed. Although they were in there pretty tightly, it seemed like something else was keeping her from pulling them out.
Green opened his canteen and looked a question at Rollins who said, “Sips only. Don’t let her chug it.”
Lifting her head with one hand, Green held the canteen to her mouth with the other and gave her what was probably the first water she’d had in days.
“Thank you, Sir.” She hissed in pain.
“Sorry,” said Reynolds.
In order to see just how she was wedged in, Reynolds and Henson were digging out some of the loose dirt and rock caught in there with her. The movement caused her pain, but they had to keep going.
To take her mind off of, Green said, “You know, you managed something few people have. You took out a Kull warrior and you did it all by your lonesome, no less. Maybe if you pass along your secret, Major Carter won’t have to worry about making a fancy weapon. How’d you do it?”
Through sips of water, she replied, "Climb a tree and hope he passes you by. But just in case he doesn't, turn your last grenade into a sticky-bomb using the spare pantiliners you shoved into your pocket that morning."
"Seriously?" Green was startled by her reply. That was definitely something he never expected to hear.
She nodded. "Seriously. Wrapped it up. Pulled the pin. Dropped out of the tree onto the Kull’s back. Managed to wedge the grenade under the edge of his helmet before he knocked me off. Grenade stayed put. He fired his weapon but the grenade went off right then and spoiled his aim. Missed me and hit the damn tree. I think you can guess the rest."
Grinning, Green said “I don’t know about these fellows, but as soon as I get back, I’m heading off to the feminine aisle at the supermarket.” So, maybe he’d get some double-sided sticky tape instead. Either way, she was quick-thinking and innovative. Exactly what the SGC needed.
“Okay.” Reynolds rubbed his hands together, brushing off the dirt. “Rollins. My office, if you please.” The two men stepped a few feet away. Reynolds radioed the base. Keeping his voice low, he relayed Tompkins’ vitals and the scope of the problem.
“What’s the sitch?” asked Tompkins.
“There’s a stub from an old branch poking out of the trunk,” explained Henson. “It’s gone through the flesh of your thigh and has you pinned in place. We should be able to get you out with no trouble.”
Reynolds and Rollins came forward.
“All right,” said Reynolds. “SG-11 and a couple of medics will be coming as soon as they get a chainsaw and a couple of jacks and other equipment sent through. Dr. Fraiser and her team will be waiting to greet you in the gate room. The strut on the ATV's been fixed so you can ride back to the gate in style, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, Sir.”
As they settled in for the long wait for reinforcements, Green looked overhead. The kites were gone. This was one meal they were going to miss He felt a surge of triumph but it quickly faded, washed out by disappointment. One body and one survivor. That’s all. It wasn’t much. Wasn’t nearly what he’d hoped for. But it had to be enough. Sometimes, like the kites, you had to take your victories where you could, put the rest behind you, and move on.
FINIS
END NOTE: In case you aren’t familiar with them, here are two photos of the black and white swallow-tail kites in flight. They are large birds, about the size of an eagle.
Kite 1
Kite 2
