Fic-“Long Ago (And Far Away) (2/10)”
Title: “Long Ago (And Far Away) (2/10)”
Authors: everybetty and Kristen999
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: None
Words: 90,000- with over forty pictures.
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Soldier language, ethnic slurs associated with the era, and some war violence.
Summary: WWII-based AU. The Team as we know it has been transplanted to the South Pacific. Major John Sheppard, his navigator, Lt Rodney McKay, and his gunner, Sgt Ronon Dex, are stationed on the island of New Guinea on the eve of the island nation’s greatest battle. Native friend and sometime spy, Teyla Emmagan, aids the efforts against the Evil Axis powers.
This story will be posted on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
Many thanks to Wildcat88 for her betaing and support as well as sharpes_hussy for her invaluable advice.
A gigantic, amazing round of applause to Tridget for taking all our collected images and creating seamless backdrops and alterations so they could be presented authentically.
Feedback as always is appreciated.
“Previous Chapters”
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John rarely flaunted his rank, but sometimes it had its privileges. Like flagging down a jeep and having a private return him to the hangar. The freshly-dug road made for a bumpy rodeo ride that had his knees banging the front compartment of the vehicle. They hit a large rock and he was almost thrown out when the kid overcompensated by swerving hard to the right.
“Sorry, sir,” the private apologized.
“No problem,” John replied through gritted teeth while gripping the jeep’s frame even tighter.
Those thoughts not preoccupied with his repeated impending doom were centered on the attaché case sitting precariously on his lap, its leather bindings protecting the intelligence for the next mission. After the meeting, John had gone to one of the tents used for briefings to study the next target. He spent hours there, memorizing the mountain elevations protecting the valley. A five-year old map provided by the Aussies had proven useless and without current pictures, it was like pinpointing a location in the Rockies using charts from the Lewis and Clark expedition.
“You need anything else, sir?”
John blinked, not realizing they’d arrived at the airfield. “No, thanks for the lift,” he said as he hopped out.
It was clammy outside; the rain had slowed to a drizzle and the air was filled with mosquitoes. He swatted at the one chewing on his earlobe as he surveyed a squadron of B-12 bombers readying for take off. Over a thousand horsepower coursed through nine hundred pound engines; it had his ears ringing before he could hurry inside the hangar, away from the deafening roar.
Tools and plane parts were scattered about on the floor. A wrench tried to trip him up but he managed, barely, not to fall on his ass before making his way past rows of wounded birds to find a familiar outsized man intent on testing out the sight of John’s machine gun. “You got that fixed?”
Ronon lowered the weapon’s barrel to stand at attention. “Haven’t tested it yet.”
“I’ll make arrangements for you to do it at the firing range,” John said, tapping the attaché case against his knee.
The big man started gathering up his tools to clear up the area. “All right.”
“I’m sure Corporal Levi from supply can transport the Browning over there. No need to carry it,” he added with a chuckle. The gun weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds, though he had little doubt that it was something the big man would’ve been willing to do. “But right now I need you to assemble your gear. We’ve got a busy couple of days ahead.”
“We?”
“Yeah. I want you to spend time with our bird, getting to know her. I’m not sure if I can take you up for a quick run today or not. Depends whether McKay’s got her insides back together.” John started walking, checking subtly to see if he was being followed. “I know you’re used to bombers, but the weight distribution’s different in ours. You’ll acclimate. We’ve got less firepower than a normal A20 to fit all the surveillance equipment. We only have two pairs of heavy guns, so you won’t have six to play with. Of course, we‘re designated an F model Havoc for photo recon and that got changed to the XF-3 for the turbo engines we got.”
The sound of Ronon’s heavy footsteps was the only thing that told John that he was right behind him.
“It gets kind of confusing. Just stick to Havoc, it’s easier. We alternate between night and daytime operations, sometimes both. And we sleep in four hour rotations.” The walking mountain had yet to respond so John slowed to a stop and turned to address him. “Am I going too fast for you?”
“No.”
Yeah, definitely a man of few words. John was breathing heavily from the brisk pace he’d set and the humidity sucking away his lung capacity, but the big man wasn’t even showing a single drop of sweat. “Are you sure?”
“I could outrun you anytime,” Ronon replied, quickly adding, “sir.”
John tried not to chuckle. “I meant with your new schedule.”
Ronon made a good attempt at his brick wall impersonation, but his eyes gave him away. He clearly had no clue what John was implying.
John waited for a reaction, maintaining a placid smile until Ronon finally spoke. “You’ve transferred me to your squadron. I’ll do my best, sir, but I’m not a trained mechanic.”
“A mechanic?” John echoed. He was slow on the uptake at first but then it finally dawned on him. “No, Sergeant. You’re my new gunner.”
Ronon froze mid-stride. “I’m part of your crew?”
“Yeah, you are. Took a look at your jacket. I’m lucky to have you. Not sure if you’ll feel the same way once you meet McKay,” he added wryly, “but there’s the rest of the squadron to get to know.”
It was going to take a while to get used to such a non-vocal crewmate. Finally, Ronon absorbed the situation, nodding once before meeting John’s eyes. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
“I know you won’t.”
Ronon scanned the hangar walls as if taking in all the noise and equipment with a new sense of self-awareness. “Which plane is ours?”
John experienced a moment of pride at the way Ronon said ‘ours’ with such enthusiasm. “This way. I’ll make the first introduction but unfortunately I won‘t be staying; I’m late for something.”
When there was no immediate questioning of what John was late for and where he was going, John smiled. It was refreshing, not having a person question your every decision and it gave him a three minute reprieve of silence while they walked to the next hangar before being accosted by a red faced, pissed off navigator. McKay reeked of fuel, the entire front of his shirt was smeared with grease and his hair was caked with sweat and dried oil.
“I’ll have you know I’ve spent the last five hours piecing together this pile of nuts and bolts that the Army has the nerve to call an engine. Do you have any idea how many parts make up the motor of such a highly advanced reconnaissance plane?”
“571,” John replied without a second thought.
John allowed some satisfaction at McKay’s stunned blink and muttered, “Huh.”
“You’re gonna miss chow if you keep jawing,” he teased.
“Is it dinner time already? No wonder I started daydreaming about creamed chipped beef without gagging.” He grabbed his canteen and chugged down half of it before choking and sputtering as he gazed up at their plane. “Excuse me? Get off of there! This isn’t a jungle gym! Hello? Are you deaf?”
McKay stormed over to the wing where Ronon jumped down and started inspecting the turret. “You’re not authorized to be here! This is a very specialized plane, only eighty-eight of them in commission. Just in case you can’t comprehend that, it means they’re very, very expensive. Hey, don’t touch that!”
Ronon ignored the ranting and examined the machine gun mounts, his hands gliding over the glass dome before he walked over to investigate the underbelly and the bomb doors. “We go out and take pictures?”
“We gather intel on whatever’s needed to keep our guys from going into missions blind. Sometimes we go out two or three times a day,” John answered. “It’s not glorious. We don’t blow up targets or shoot down enemy planes.” He rubbed the back of his neck and cracked a rueful smile. “Usually.”
If Ronon was disappointed he hid it well. “But it helps us win.”
“Yeah. Without us, our casualty rate would be... well, let’s just say we’d be losing a lot more guys out there.” John ran his fingers over the wing in awe of what he commanded. “What we do matters,” he said softly.
McKay snapped his fingers. “Excuse me! I hate to interrupt this fun-filled lesson, but who is this guy?” he demanded, jutting his finger at Ronon.
“’Scuse me, boys, I forgot. This is Lieutenant Rodney McKay, our navigator and all-around miracle worker.” John fought to conceal a grin. “McKay, shake hands with our new gunner, Sergeant Ronon Dex.”
John had never witnessed someone’s eyes bulge out of their head the way McKay’s did and for once, the man was struck speechless.
“I’ve gotta go. You two should head to the mess and get to know each other.” After glancing at the way both men eyed each other in suspicion, he amended his words. “Or, maybe just grab a bite to eat.”
“Wait a goddamned minute, Sheppard! Sheppard!”
John waved goodbye, knowing he’d have all night to listen to McKay rant about not including him in the decision, but right now, he had an important appointment to keep.
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It took longer to finagle another jeep and stop by his tent to grab a few things than he’d expected. Night had descended quickly, doubling the cacophony of swarming insects and the cries of nocturnal predators. The headlights were twin candles in the blackness and the sergeant was a set of tense muscles behind the wheel, probably scared shitless that he’d drive them off the so-called road.
John knew he was breaking curfew, a rule set up to protect the base. Between snipers taking pot-shots at them, and nightly attempts to take out the planes sitting idle on the runway... Sabotage, random attacks, pirate radio broadcasts and sleepless nights- they were all part of the Japs’ strategy to wear down morale and make it harder to catch a few hours sleep.
Now, driving off base was asking for even more trouble; enemy patrols were always sniffing around.
“You can stop right here,” John instructed.
He grabbed his knapsack from the back and unsnapped the strap of his sidearm as he peered into the foliage. When he failed to hear the jeep roar back to life he turned in confusion to see Sergeant Miller pull out his own weapon and step up to his side.
“Return to base. Come back and pick me up in an hour,” John whispered sideways without taking his eyes from the surrounding jungle.
“I’m not leaving you out here unescorted, sir,” Miller hissed back.
The sergeant was in his early twenties, if that, and built like a wrestler with broad shoulders, the neck of a pit bull, and arms like small tree trunks. John was as grateful as he was annoyed. “I’ll be fine. The only thing that can attack me out here is the bugs.”
“No can do, sir.”
“Look, Sergeant, I’m a big boy. I think I can take care of myself.”
“Not if you’re outnumbered, sir.”
John paused and turned around, going nose to nose with his overprotective escort. “Outnumbered by what?”
“The natives, sir. There’s no telling what the fuzzies might do.”
John laughed. “I guess they can look pretty scary, but without their help we wouldn’t have a base or even the extra labor to keep it going.”
Miller stuck at John’s side, his twitchy trigger finger bound to kill some poor rodent or take out an unlucky major’s foot. “Anyone that dresses in feathers and animal skins can‘t be trusted. They’re not civilized, sir.”
“They live off the land and the last I checked, there wasn’t a Macy’s or Sears 'n' Roebuck catalog around here. A little face paint doesn’t scare me; does it scare you, Miller?”
The burly sergeant straightened to his full six-two height. “No, sir. But I heard some of them are cannibals and I--”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not going to be boiled in oil or made into a stew. Now, return to base and come and get me at twenty-two hundred. That’s an order, Sergeant.” John recognized the stubborn set to his shoulders, the unwillingness to leave a CO in perceived peril. None of his superiors had been able to break him of the same habit, but he’d learned from the most ornery SOBs how to try. “I’m not telling twice! Now move your ass or you’ll be digging latrines for a month!”
“Yes, sir!” Miller saluted sharply before turning on his heel and reluctantly returning to the jeep.
Miller was a good enough soldier and John appreciated his loyalty, but discretion was more important right now. He waited until the vehicle got swallowed by the blackness and the engine grew silent in the distance. Then he scanned the darkness until his eyes adjusted and he was able to pick out a break in the screen of plant life. A path created by centuries of foot traffic led him into the lush foliage; the mud was only ankle deep now, but after a few weeks of the monsoon season such trails would quickly become knee-high traps of sludgy glue.
Not for the first time did John think to himself that New Guinea really was hell on Earth.
Mud traps weren’t even the worst of it. The constant downpours fed the jungle growth and provided the enemy with plenty of cover to hunker down under while they waited for the Allies to come stumbling through. That’s why when it came to their missions, failure wasn’t an option. If John’s squadron didn’t return with good intelligence, more soldiers would return home in body bags.
“Major, it is good to see you again.”
The female voice came from out of nowhere, but the speaker soon stepped out of the shadows and into the faint moonlight.
“How many times have I asked you to call me John?”
Teyla always looked him directly in the eyes, the intensity of her gaze able to tear down the barriers he put up. “Every time we meet,” she answered with a knowing smile.
John rubbed at the back of his neck, flicking away a tiny black bug trying to take refuge under his collar. “But friends use each other’s first names,” he prompted.
She raised an eyebrow. “Are we friends, Major?”
“Well, friends help each other in times of need...”
“So do allies.”
“This is true, but would a simple ally bring you these?” John dug into his knapsack and pulled out five Hershey bars.
“No, they would not. I am grateful for these, but how does chocolate help during these trying times?”
“It doesn’t. The candy’s for the kids. This, however,” John continued as he pulled out a spindle of heavy nylon thread, “makes the best fishing line. I know how often your peoples’ get cut on the coral.”
Teyla took the offered spindle with a broad smile. “This is very generous. All the ships have disrupted our normal fishing areas; this will be of great help. Thank you.”
“I’ve got these, too,” John said excitedly, showing a half-dozen small cans in the pack. “It’s evaporated milk. I know it’s not much...”
“It is more than we have now,” she said, grabbing his hand.
John snatched his away out of instinct, ducking his head to conceal his embarrassment despite the cover of night. “I think I have some chewing gum, too. Even grabbed a few packs of Lucky Strikes… I know that you disapprove, but you could trade ‘em with other tribes and get a lot more in return.”
“It is fine. I know these items are difficult to acquire,” Teyla reassured him.
Most of the stuff he’d won at poker games or he’d cashed favors in for. Not to mention skimming a few of McKay’s supplies, thus fueling his silly paranoia over the Aussies for fun. “Well, being an officer and all, it’s a little easier for me.” John shrugged.
“I am sure it is.”
The ease with which she saw right through him was unnerving; her body language said what she was too kind to call him on. He cleared his throat over the buzzing chorus surrounding them and gave her a lopsided smile. Sometimes he wondered if he’d been bunking with too many soldiers over too many years. It was easier to joke with his crew or give an order than to hold a conversation with a civilian.
Especially such an exotic one. Teyla wore a grass skirt, but the strands were modestly (and frustratingly) double layered. Most Papuan women went topless, but she wore a simple creamy white homespun linen shirt. Her skin was a clear, shimmery golden brown and her face was devoid of the usual streaks of paint. She wore her coppery hair long and pulled back instead of elaborately braided and adorned with beads or feathers.
“Why do you study me?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just--”
“That I am different from the rest of my people,” she finished for him, her eyes darting away. “I am.”
John had never asked why she was more refined than those she looked after. As much as he wanted to know, it wasn’t his place to press.
Teyla was thoughtful, choosing her words carefully. “My father was an Australian doctor in the army. He met my mother when fighting from the Great War spread here. She was Austronesian, those who arrived thousands of years before the people of this great land.”
“The Papuans.”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him in surprise. “Unlike what many perceived, she was an intelligent woman who could read and write. But I did move with my father to Australia for many years.”
“The adjustment must have been difficult.”
“When I returned, I couldn’t even remember the language of my people.”
John heard the pain in her voice and fumbled for the proper words, though he had more than an inkling as to how she felt. “It’s tough to be caught between two worlds. Unsure where you really belong.”
Teyla gazed up at him. “I believe you understand how I feel, Major.”
There it was again, that feeling of being openly exposed, but his barriers quickly snapped into place as he stood straighter, forcing his thoughts to focus on the business at hand. But Teyla beat him to the punch.
“You need my assistance.”
God, he hated this. “Yeah, I do.” John handed her a copy of the poor quality map. “I know it’s not very detailed. But that’s Ranonga Bay and the area is thirteen miles due north. We know the Japs are building more airfields, but we don’t know where.”
“I can help you focus your search. When do you leave?”
“In three days. I know it’s not a lot of time.”
Teyla looked up and laughed. “Since when do you not require things quickly?”
John chuckled with her. “Never.”
“I will return at this time in two days. Your base is half a day’s journey and the information you need takes a day to travel by foot. I will be cutting it close.”
Teyla gathered up the supplies and this time John grabbed her elbow. “Why do you do this?”
“One day the people of New Guinea will know freedom. First, it was the Chinese, then the British. We have always been occupied, only the faces change. When I was a child it was the Australians; today it is the Japanese.”
“But you’re helping us.”
“There are those who will always treat us as lost children, confusing us with the more rural tribes further west. Our newest enemy rapes our land and views us as beasts to be slaughtered. We are a simple people; we do not own guns, but some of us can help fight in other ways.”
John didn’t know how Teyla gathered her info or whom she dealt with to get it. He suspected some of the gifts he gave her proved to be useful tools in obtaining the intel responsible for his squadron’s success rate. “Do I put you in danger?” he blurted.
“We are at war, Major. We are all in danger.” Teyla piled the supplies into a straw rucksack, slung it over the back of her shoulders and withdrew a small machete from the belt above her skirt. “Do not worry about me; this cuts through flesh as easily as it does the underbrush.”
The two of them smiled, easing the tension caused by their conversation. It was growing late and catching Ronon up to speed on his unit’s SOP in such a short amount of time was a daunting task he faced, not to mention finding time to sleep between trainings and debriefings.
Teyla touched his shoulder, chasing his thoughts away. “I should go. We both have busy days ahead.”
“Yes, we do.” John watched her leave but called after her before she disappeared into the tropical tangle. “Once we move further in-country it’ll be safer for you and your people to visit.”
“I’m sure many of my people will continue to help build your military bases, Major.”
John mentally slapped himself for his poor choice of words.
“But it would be nice to visit under safer conditions,” Teyla continued smoothly before slipping into the jungle.
Then he was left with the song of the jungle and the lingering smell of tropical flowers. The familiar drone of an engine gunning its way towards him soon broke through his reverie. He didn’t want a certain paranoid sergeant to come charging through the jungle thinking his CO was about to be placed on the local menu so he hurried out of the flora to catch his ride back to the base.
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Ground crews removed the camouflage tarps, unveiling the white, crushed coral airstrip underneath. John mentally went over data obtained earlier from the intelligence officer, calculating their flight path while keeping in mind a storm brewing off the coast and weighing the odds of meeting the enemy. Last they’d heard, Japanese air presence was concentrated over Hollandia, but random patrols prowled up the coast.
He glanced at Lorne; the man’s jaw was working at a huge wad of gum with nervous energy. “Don’t forget to spit that out, Captain.”
“Yes, Pops.”
“You‘re a real smartass, you know that?”
“Yes, sir,” Lorne shot back cockily. With a salute he sped up to walk beside the newest member of the squadron. “You ready to fly with the top recon squad, Dex?”
“We’re the only recon unit stationed here,” McKay grouched from behind them, still struggling to secure the straps of his parachute pack.
John slowed down to help but McKay slapped his hands away. “I’m not a child, Major.”
“No, you just act like a toddler that missed his nap.” John muttered as he finished fastening McKay’s chute to his flight vest and yanked on his emergency pack, verifying it was hooked in place.
Lorne had continued chatting with Ronon and getting the Hawaiian’s usual monosyllabic replies until he started with the third degree on the newbie. “There‘s a few things you should know, Sergeant. Always trust Sheppard, no matter how insane his orders. Follow them and he’ll get your ass outa the mission alive. He’s the best pilot I’ve ever known. We clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You might be good at shooting down Nips, but that’s not your job,” Lorne warned.
“Oh, yeah? What is my job?” the big man growled.
“To keep your crew alive.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Lorne pressed.
There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Ronon’s tone. “I’ll protect them.”
“See that you do. You haven’t been here long, and you have no idea how many men would kill to be in your place.”
“Know that, too.”
“Come on, McKay, get a move on,” John said loudly before doubling his stride to break up the private conversation.
“Hey, this isn’t a race,” McKay griped.
“Yeah, it is. We’ve got two hours before sunrise. And that’s not counting the pre-flight check and running around in circles.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is the Earth’s orbit too inconvenient for you, Major? Maybe if I wave my hands really fast it’ll slow down time.”
“That’d be really cool,” John said as he eyed threatening clouds brewing on the horizon. “Isn’t that what Einstein’s theory is?”
Lorne clapped McKay on the back. “Yeah, maybe if Poindexter here takes apart the engines and builds a time machine out of it, he’ll prove Einstein right. Then maybe the Big Brains could offer him a job.”
“I’ll have you know, Captain, I’m more than qualified to…” McKay paused mid-sentence then clamped his mouth shut.
Lorne tapped out a smoke. “What‘s that, Lieutenant?”
“McKay‘s not crackers enough to be with those nut jobs,” John cut in. “Besides, why would a real genius want to sit in a lab all day staring at chalkboards and debating theory,” he said, looking directly at his crewmate, “when he can be saving lives here?”
McKay gave him a quizzical expression, his brain slowly registering the weight behind John’s words. “Yes, well. I’m sure everything I’d accomplish would be top secret and I wouldn’t be able to--
“Brag?” John retorted.
Lorne snickered and McKay glared at him before huffily storming ahead.
Ronon wisely stepped out of the way before McKay accidentally barreled into him; the big guy raised in eyebrow in amusement at the way McKay’s load of equipment made him waddle up the muddy path.
Ronon gestured at the peeved navigator. “He always like this?”
“Yup, pretty much,” John grinned. “But I wouldn’t have him any other way.” Ronon clearly didn’t get it, but there was plenty of time for him to learn. “You didn’t say much during the briefing.”
“Didn’t need to.”
John’s brain still whirled with enough facts and figures to make his head hurt. “Are you sure? Asking questions to clarify mission objectives doesn’t make you look stupid- not asking questions does.”
Ronon faced John while they walked, his soft leather helmet making him look like a lineman ready to hit the gridiron. “The Japs might be reinforcing Hollandia by sea. We don’t know how many airfields they‘ve got, or how many planes. Visibility’s sucked for weeks, so we’re going out and not coming back ‘til we get some pictures.”
“Well, good. Glad I could fill in the blanks for you,” John said with a pat on the big guy’s shoulder as they reached their plane. John passed an eye over the Havoc, then turned to watch the five other crews prepare to embark.
They were a rag-tag bunch, flying modified bombers pieced together with spare parts. John nodded at Lt Stackhouse, a former test pilot like himself who helmed the Eager Beaver. They’d been stationed together in Hawaii, aware of the other only by reputation. John had joined up with the Tigers while Stackhouse had flown fighters over the Philippines.
Then there was Captain Fuller, a kid born with a God-given talent to fly. Fuller was only twenty-four, freckle-faced and almost too tall to fit in the cockpit. He’d transferred from the 37th where he’d manned B-25 bombers. “Hey, Major, did you hear Lindbergh’s teaching the 475th at Hamilton?”
“I guess they don’t have enough playboys in Australia,” John drawled.
“Hey, the guy gets the hottest dolls and he’s as old as you, Pops,” Fuller teased, grinning a gap-toothed smile.
As the captain took off toward his plane John made a note to have the crew of the Birddog volunteer for latrine duty next week.
He surveyed his men; they were a combination of adventure seekers, hot-shots, discipline problems and the cream of the crop. All hand-picked from a long list of volunteers and a few he’d bribed to join.
John didn’t do speeches. “See you guys during the post mission briefing.”
Never wish for success out loud. Never say good luck or even break a leg Those were the rules.
He climbed the rungs up to the cockpit, his own parachute and gear nearly crushing him into the tiny seat of the forward compartment. The side instrument panel always pinned his .45 against his hip, leaving a spectacular bruise across his thigh, but he wouldn’t fly without it. Most pilots were afraid that their weapon would be used against them if they got shot down. John would rather have something to defend his crew with, and if it came to it, he’d preferred eating a bullet over being captured. The intel in his head was too dangerous to fall into enemy hands.
“Will you be careful over there? I know Tarzan lived in a tree, but this is a plane filled with decrepit and delicate equipment. Don’t break anything,” McKay snapped at their new gunner as he settled in.
John could only fight a grin at the sight of Ronon’s long arms and legs, not to mention two hundred something pound frame trying to cram inside the little domed fish bowl he was forced to sit in.
“Don’t make me come back there,” he warned.
“Like you could fit, Major.”
John fastened the chin strap of his helmet and plugged in the radio cord that hung around his neck, the connection making a crackling sound inside his headphones while practiced fingers started the engines.
“Alright, guys, Pegasus will be the flight leader. Black Jack, you’re formation lead.”
“Copy that,” Lorne’s voice echoed in his head set.
“Let’s try this mission again. Six hundred miles there and back. We‘ll head for twenty-five thousand feet,” John radioed.
“Don’t forget about the abnormal magnetic variation issues from the coast,” McKay reminded him.
“I was just about to say that, if you’d gimme a second,” John responded with painstaking patience before re-opening the channel. “Double-check your deviation on heading every ten minutes, boys. The interference out there is still a bitch.”
The engines roared to life, the blood rushed to his ears, and all his nerves tingled with electricity. John swore his heartbeat ramped up in sync with the increase in speed. Nothing matched the adrenaline rush of take-off. Nothing. The jungle slowly morphed into an expanse of green tree canopies, then smears of green paint, and finally a mere speck swallowed up by the sky.
His squadron all checked in as they climbed to their cruising altitude. “From here on out we’ll maintain radio silence. Sheppard out.”
After a steady climb, he activated the internal com. “Dex, McKay, make sure your masks are on.”
“No need to remind me, Major.”
John covered his nose and mouth with his own, adjusting the pour. “That’s my job, Lieutenant. Sergeant Dex, what’s the word?”
“Think mine has a kink in it.”
That wasn’t good. At their altitude they all needed to be on oxygen. “McKay, go check on Ronon’s line. See what’s blocking the flow.”
“What did you do? Mistake it for a vine and try to swing from it?”
“Do it without talking, McKay.”
“Major, he just growled at me! Hey, I’m not some ape, you know!”
“Maybe if you’d stop calling him Tarzan? Now how about maintaining that radio silence?” John snapped.
The increase in altitude was supposed to position them over most of the storms they‘d been warned about, but turbulence rocked their plane as John struggled to keep their bird on a steady course. This was the deadliest part of any flight. Not the approach toward the target, or the times when they circled for the weather to clear, or when they were caught and had to race for their lives.
No, it was the long stretches of lonely silence, mile after mile of navigating by McKay’s point of sight signals. Radio aids were forbidden except in times of emergency and at this height, they didn’t even have the ocean waves to go by. He could monitor their speed, follow a course charted using outdated maps, and be ready at an instant for evasive maneuvers if an enemy squad came out of the next cloud formation. The second he dropped his guard, he could lead them astray or get them all shot down.
Time ticked down, two hours of quiet save for the hum of the engines as each man kept his eyes open and fingers ready for anything.
Then McKay broke the silence, his voice startling even though he kept it low. “Alter your heading five degrees.”
John made the proper adjustment, noting they were close to the target, if the intelligence was accurate. He had modified their trajectory based on Teyla’s information, pushing them a whopping six miles south of the original position. No one had batted an eyelash at his suggestion; he knew it was his rep that they hedged their bets on.
Instrument readings told him they were supposed to be north of Sarmi even if he couldn’t see the outline of the land mass. Time to go lower and get a look-see. He tilted his wings back and forth to signal the others to start dropping.
Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen thousand feet and John’s palms were sweating. The cloud obstruction was thick and blinding.
Fourteen. Thirteen and enemy ground radar could now pick them up. They were too high to be spotted by sight, but he risked complete exposure.
The entire area was masked by heavy cloud cover. God only knew if they were over the right spot.
“McKay?” he whispered.
“The window is closed.”
Great. McKay couldn’t see shit. They used code words because the Japs sometimes listened in on their internal radio broadcasts; he really needed to change the ones he’d allowed McKay to pick out.
“What’s that odor? Do you smell that?”
“McKay, not now!” John hissed, trying to maintain radio silence. He’d noticed the rotten egg smell, too, but it wasn’t burning chemicals and that was all that mattered at the moment.
Lorne flapped his wings three times. No joy there either. It was time for another circle. This was the same nightmare John had over and over again. Doing run after run without an opening to take the pictures. He dipped his wings twice, ordering another pass.
The whole squad circled and circled and circled a fourth time. John was beyond pissed; he was fuming, cursing the weather, the coast, anything he could think of. A beam of sunshine broke through the heavy fog, painting targets across their bows. It wasn’t like they could be escorted with fighters like the bombers; their success depended on stealth more than anything
Fuck.
Then it hit him. The maps, the intel, something Teyla had said when she’d given him the updated coordinates.
“Our people fear the wrath of the fire gods there. Be careful, Major.”
He was so stupid. “McKay!”
“What?”
“Are we near any volcanic activity?”
“How should I know?”
“Were there any indications on the maps you plotted?”
“You mean the ones drawn by grammar school children?”
“McKay!”
“These islands are made by volcanoes,” Ronon’s voice came over the com.
The skies were clear above but they’d been blocked by a mist for the past two hours. It had to be more than just rain.
“Major! It’s a sulfuric cloud. That‘s what I smell.”
“Follow the cheese,” John radioed to the other planes, giving the code to stay on his lead.
John had been stationed in Hawaii for a year, Ronon his whole life. Slowly erupting volcanoes could obscure the air with steam and dust for weeks, even months.
“Get ready to point and click, McKay,” John whispered into the radio.
Twelve. Eleven. Ten thousand feet.
They rarely ever dipped this low.
Nine.
Eight.
Then they punched through the clouds and into clear skies.
Airfield surveillance was usually a nightmare since they were always camouflaged. But the one below was wide open, a blinding white lane of smashed sea coral inviting its planes to return.
And an entire squadron of Zeros was coming home, touching down before their eyes.
“You got what you need, McKay?”
“Yes! Move, Major! Move!”
John yanked hard on the flight stick, hitting the throttle and using all the extra torque of their turbo engines to get them the hell out of there and into the cover of vapor above. Their birds were designed to fly higher than fighter planes; it was their only salvation. But they were still only a re-fitted bomber and their airspeed was no match against the lighter, more maneuverable Zeros.
They needed time to reach a higher elevation that the enemy couldn‘t.
But time wasn’t on their side. Twelve of the enemy broke formation, aborting their landings and heading right for them.
John’s squad couldn’t climb fast enough.
“Come up, baby, come on,” John ground out between gritted teeth. His arms spasmed and strained, thousands of pounds of force shoving him back into his seat as he struggled to maintain acceleration at such a sharp ascent.
Every rivet vibrated; the fuselage shook with stress. Then John‘s eardrums throbbed with the concussive pounding of Ronon’s .50 caliber machine guns.
That meant the Japs were in target range, but so were they.
John began a series of Sturns, something he’d never done at a ninety degree angle while bullets filled the space where their bird had been. Ten o’clock, three o’clock. A set of Zeros split off from their six o’clock positions, and tracer fire lit up the morning sky.
Birddog was taking heavy fire and Eager Beaver couldn’t shake the two Japs trying to chew up her tail.
They were going to be overrun. He had to draw the enemy away from the rest of his squad. “Hold on, guys,” he warned his crew.
“What? Why?”
John ignored McKay’s panicked surprise as he banked hard right, the heavy Havoc shuddering with the sudden change. Two Zeros flew right by, and in his peripheral vision, he watched three others break course in pursuit.
“What are you doing? Our only chance is to reach thirty thousand feet!” McKay screamed in his ear.
“What the hell, sir?” Lorne shouted.
“Make sure my eggs are cooked the way I like ‘em, Black Jack,” John relayed back.
Ordering the rest of the squadron to scramble in opposite directions and reach for the maximum ceiling possible and rendezvous later was the best course of options.
“Ronon! Prepare for a zoom dive!” John yelled.
“Roger!”
John didn’t have any forward guns. He mentally reversed his line of sight in his head, diving enough for his gunner to fire at the enemy behind them. God, he wanted his own gun; his fingers instinctively curled around a non-existent trigger.
“Christ, Dex got one!” McKay bellowed. “No, make that two!”
“How many are left?” John yelled, craning his neck to peer through the windshield.
“Um… eight. Two others our guys brought down,” McKay answered.
Their plane shook as they took heavy fire. John dived again, setting Ronon up for another go. He needed to take out the Japs chasing them, or they’d be blown out of the sky as they tried to climb out of reach. Plane debris showered down all over them and he prayed it wasn’t one of their birds.
Ronon let the enemy have it, the Brownings deafening within their metal beast.
One of the more nimble Zeros decided to come at them head on. John banked left and the plane flew right by before turning for another run at them.
“Climb again. I’ll get him,” Ronon radioed.
If he tried to ascend, they’d be in a single trajectory and be easily picked off. But John didn’t see any other enemy craft; most were either in pursuit of the squad, or had abandoned the chase.
Maybe they were out of fuel; the Japs had been returning from somewhere.
Havocs were built to take a lot of punishment so he followed his gut, seesawing at sharp angles to throw the Zero off before rolling to his three o’clock then soaring even higher.
“Oh, God, we’re dead!” McKay yelled.
John wouldn’t make it easy; he squeezed the throttle and sent them into a complete vertical incline, the plane straining with the effort. His eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets, and his head was ready to explode. He was dizzy to the point of blacking out, his vision graying at the corners.
Ronon’s guns were metal baseball bats to his skull and John wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. It was all about muscle memory and instinct, struggling to hit five hundred mph at one hundred and twenty degrees.
Cannons exploded in his ears and the blue sky became a fuzzy shroud.
“Take it down!”
John didn’t know whose voice it was, but it cut through the din in his head.
“Major.”
“Sheppard!”
“What?” he rasped.
“Unless you want me to puke again, level out,” McKay panted.
John squinted at his readings, focusing on the speedometer and their thirty-eight thousand reading. “Sorry, McKay,” he managed to get out before sucking in a lungful of air.
He forced himself to ease down and slowly lowered to thirty thousand. “Okay…it’s okay.”
“Are we? Are we really alive?”
All the muscles in John’s body melted into his seat and he wiped at the sweat coating his face. “Yeah…I think so…Dex? Ronon? What’s your status?”
“Still here.”
John closed his eyes for a second. “That was some shooting.”
“That was some flying,” the big guy responded. “Are all our missions gonna be like that?”
“God, I hope not,” McKay wheezed out on a shuddery breath.
“No,” John said, his hands still shaking. He took a few seconds to regain control and stared out the window. “Um…McKay? Think you can find our way home?”
“I have no idea where we are now! We could be miles off course. What am I supposed to base a dead reckoning from?”
“Good. I’ll wait for your coordinates.”
John yanked the cord out from his radio and waited for his heart to finish exploding.
Dinah Shore was singing about an old acquaintance; her sweet voice soared above the memory of whirring engines. John stared inside the tumbler of amber liquid, his perspiring hands making the glass slick. His chest ached and his head still swam from the memory of that flight.
“Didn’t you get a silver star after that, sir?”
He was lost between a phantom adrenaline rush and the effects of the bootlegged rum warming his veins. “What?” he stammered
“Maybe if you let the major breathe, he might answer your question,” McKay growled from John’s left side.
“Um...yeah…I think,” John tried to answer the kid.
“Yeah, yeah, just one more medal to add to your collection.” McKay rolled his eyes. “And to correct you, Lieutenant, we all earned silver stars. You know. For the record.”
The sights and sounds of the officer’s tent finally cleared the cobwebs and John rubbed his fingers over the bar. It was ‘44 not ‘43 anymore. He looked up at Lieutenant Betts’ wide eyes and noticed all the others that had gathered to listen in.
John shook off the last remnants of the memory and allowed himself to relax. “We worked as a team on that mission. Always remember that.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant beamed. “Sounds like Dex lives up to his reputation.”
John just grunted as a reply but gave a sly grin. “You know, if you wanna know anything else, you can always ask him yourself.”
Betts paled a bit and cast a wary glance back at the poker table. “Yeah, I’m good, sir.”
McKay coughed out a laugh. “Smart move, Bettsy. You may just live through this war after all.”
“Chapter Three”
“Chapter Three”
Authors: everybetty and Kristen999
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: None
Words: 90,000- with over forty pictures.
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Soldier language, ethnic slurs associated with the era, and some war violence.
Summary: WWII-based AU. The Team as we know it has been transplanted to the South Pacific. Major John Sheppard, his navigator, Lt Rodney McKay, and his gunner, Sgt Ronon Dex, are stationed on the island of New Guinea on the eve of the island nation’s greatest battle. Native friend and sometime spy, Teyla Emmagan, aids the efforts against the Evil Axis powers.
This story will be posted on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
Many thanks to Wildcat88 for her betaing and support as well as sharpes_hussy for her invaluable advice.
A gigantic, amazing round of applause to Tridget for taking all our collected images and creating seamless backdrops and alterations so they could be presented authentically.
Feedback as always is appreciated.
“Previous Chapters”
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John rarely flaunted his rank, but sometimes it had its privileges. Like flagging down a jeep and having a private return him to the hangar. The freshly-dug road made for a bumpy rodeo ride that had his knees banging the front compartment of the vehicle. They hit a large rock and he was almost thrown out when the kid overcompensated by swerving hard to the right.
“Sorry, sir,” the private apologized.
“No problem,” John replied through gritted teeth while gripping the jeep’s frame even tighter.
Those thoughts not preoccupied with his repeated impending doom were centered on the attaché case sitting precariously on his lap, its leather bindings protecting the intelligence for the next mission. After the meeting, John had gone to one of the tents used for briefings to study the next target. He spent hours there, memorizing the mountain elevations protecting the valley. A five-year old map provided by the Aussies had proven useless and without current pictures, it was like pinpointing a location in the Rockies using charts from the Lewis and Clark expedition.
“You need anything else, sir?”
John blinked, not realizing they’d arrived at the airfield. “No, thanks for the lift,” he said as he hopped out.
It was clammy outside; the rain had slowed to a drizzle and the air was filled with mosquitoes. He swatted at the one chewing on his earlobe as he surveyed a squadron of B-12 bombers readying for take off. Over a thousand horsepower coursed through nine hundred pound engines; it had his ears ringing before he could hurry inside the hangar, away from the deafening roar.
Tools and plane parts were scattered about on the floor. A wrench tried to trip him up but he managed, barely, not to fall on his ass before making his way past rows of wounded birds to find a familiar outsized man intent on testing out the sight of John’s machine gun. “You got that fixed?”
Ronon lowered the weapon’s barrel to stand at attention. “Haven’t tested it yet.”
“I’ll make arrangements for you to do it at the firing range,” John said, tapping the attaché case against his knee.
The big man started gathering up his tools to clear up the area. “All right.”
“I’m sure Corporal Levi from supply can transport the Browning over there. No need to carry it,” he added with a chuckle. The gun weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds, though he had little doubt that it was something the big man would’ve been willing to do. “But right now I need you to assemble your gear. We’ve got a busy couple of days ahead.”
“We?”
“Yeah. I want you to spend time with our bird, getting to know her. I’m not sure if I can take you up for a quick run today or not. Depends whether McKay’s got her insides back together.” John started walking, checking subtly to see if he was being followed. “I know you’re used to bombers, but the weight distribution’s different in ours. You’ll acclimate. We’ve got less firepower than a normal A20 to fit all the surveillance equipment. We only have two pairs of heavy guns, so you won’t have six to play with. Of course, we‘re designated an F model Havoc for photo recon and that got changed to the XF-3 for the turbo engines we got.”
The sound of Ronon’s heavy footsteps was the only thing that told John that he was right behind him.
“It gets kind of confusing. Just stick to Havoc, it’s easier. We alternate between night and daytime operations, sometimes both. And we sleep in four hour rotations.” The walking mountain had yet to respond so John slowed to a stop and turned to address him. “Am I going too fast for you?”
“No.”
Yeah, definitely a man of few words. John was breathing heavily from the brisk pace he’d set and the humidity sucking away his lung capacity, but the big man wasn’t even showing a single drop of sweat. “Are you sure?”
“I could outrun you anytime,” Ronon replied, quickly adding, “sir.”
John tried not to chuckle. “I meant with your new schedule.”
Ronon made a good attempt at his brick wall impersonation, but his eyes gave him away. He clearly had no clue what John was implying.
John waited for a reaction, maintaining a placid smile until Ronon finally spoke. “You’ve transferred me to your squadron. I’ll do my best, sir, but I’m not a trained mechanic.”
“A mechanic?” John echoed. He was slow on the uptake at first but then it finally dawned on him. “No, Sergeant. You’re my new gunner.”
Ronon froze mid-stride. “I’m part of your crew?”
“Yeah, you are. Took a look at your jacket. I’m lucky to have you. Not sure if you’ll feel the same way once you meet McKay,” he added wryly, “but there’s the rest of the squadron to get to know.”
It was going to take a while to get used to such a non-vocal crewmate. Finally, Ronon absorbed the situation, nodding once before meeting John’s eyes. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
“I know you won’t.”
Ronon scanned the hangar walls as if taking in all the noise and equipment with a new sense of self-awareness. “Which plane is ours?”
John experienced a moment of pride at the way Ronon said ‘ours’ with such enthusiasm. “This way. I’ll make the first introduction but unfortunately I won‘t be staying; I’m late for something.”
When there was no immediate questioning of what John was late for and where he was going, John smiled. It was refreshing, not having a person question your every decision and it gave him a three minute reprieve of silence while they walked to the next hangar before being accosted by a red faced, pissed off navigator. McKay reeked of fuel, the entire front of his shirt was smeared with grease and his hair was caked with sweat and dried oil.
“I’ll have you know I’ve spent the last five hours piecing together this pile of nuts and bolts that the Army has the nerve to call an engine. Do you have any idea how many parts make up the motor of such a highly advanced reconnaissance plane?”
“571,” John replied without a second thought.
John allowed some satisfaction at McKay’s stunned blink and muttered, “Huh.”
“You’re gonna miss chow if you keep jawing,” he teased.
“Is it dinner time already? No wonder I started daydreaming about creamed chipped beef without gagging.” He grabbed his canteen and chugged down half of it before choking and sputtering as he gazed up at their plane. “Excuse me? Get off of there! This isn’t a jungle gym! Hello? Are you deaf?”
McKay stormed over to the wing where Ronon jumped down and started inspecting the turret. “You’re not authorized to be here! This is a very specialized plane, only eighty-eight of them in commission. Just in case you can’t comprehend that, it means they’re very, very expensive. Hey, don’t touch that!”
Ronon ignored the ranting and examined the machine gun mounts, his hands gliding over the glass dome before he walked over to investigate the underbelly and the bomb doors. “We go out and take pictures?”
“We gather intel on whatever’s needed to keep our guys from going into missions blind. Sometimes we go out two or three times a day,” John answered. “It’s not glorious. We don’t blow up targets or shoot down enemy planes.” He rubbed the back of his neck and cracked a rueful smile. “Usually.”
If Ronon was disappointed he hid it well. “But it helps us win.”
“Yeah. Without us, our casualty rate would be... well, let’s just say we’d be losing a lot more guys out there.” John ran his fingers over the wing in awe of what he commanded. “What we do matters,” he said softly.
McKay snapped his fingers. “Excuse me! I hate to interrupt this fun-filled lesson, but who is this guy?” he demanded, jutting his finger at Ronon.
“’Scuse me, boys, I forgot. This is Lieutenant Rodney McKay, our navigator and all-around miracle worker.” John fought to conceal a grin. “McKay, shake hands with our new gunner, Sergeant Ronon Dex.”
John had never witnessed someone’s eyes bulge out of their head the way McKay’s did and for once, the man was struck speechless.
“I’ve gotta go. You two should head to the mess and get to know each other.” After glancing at the way both men eyed each other in suspicion, he amended his words. “Or, maybe just grab a bite to eat.”
“Wait a goddamned minute, Sheppard! Sheppard!”
John waved goodbye, knowing he’d have all night to listen to McKay rant about not including him in the decision, but right now, he had an important appointment to keep.
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It took longer to finagle another jeep and stop by his tent to grab a few things than he’d expected. Night had descended quickly, doubling the cacophony of swarming insects and the cries of nocturnal predators. The headlights were twin candles in the blackness and the sergeant was a set of tense muscles behind the wheel, probably scared shitless that he’d drive them off the so-called road.
John knew he was breaking curfew, a rule set up to protect the base. Between snipers taking pot-shots at them, and nightly attempts to take out the planes sitting idle on the runway... Sabotage, random attacks, pirate radio broadcasts and sleepless nights- they were all part of the Japs’ strategy to wear down morale and make it harder to catch a few hours sleep.
Now, driving off base was asking for even more trouble; enemy patrols were always sniffing around.
“You can stop right here,” John instructed.
He grabbed his knapsack from the back and unsnapped the strap of his sidearm as he peered into the foliage. When he failed to hear the jeep roar back to life he turned in confusion to see Sergeant Miller pull out his own weapon and step up to his side.
“Return to base. Come back and pick me up in an hour,” John whispered sideways without taking his eyes from the surrounding jungle.
“I’m not leaving you out here unescorted, sir,” Miller hissed back.
The sergeant was in his early twenties, if that, and built like a wrestler with broad shoulders, the neck of a pit bull, and arms like small tree trunks. John was as grateful as he was annoyed. “I’ll be fine. The only thing that can attack me out here is the bugs.”
“No can do, sir.”
“Look, Sergeant, I’m a big boy. I think I can take care of myself.”
“Not if you’re outnumbered, sir.”
John paused and turned around, going nose to nose with his overprotective escort. “Outnumbered by what?”
“The natives, sir. There’s no telling what the fuzzies might do.”
John laughed. “I guess they can look pretty scary, but without their help we wouldn’t have a base or even the extra labor to keep it going.”
Miller stuck at John’s side, his twitchy trigger finger bound to kill some poor rodent or take out an unlucky major’s foot. “Anyone that dresses in feathers and animal skins can‘t be trusted. They’re not civilized, sir.”
“They live off the land and the last I checked, there wasn’t a Macy’s or Sears 'n' Roebuck catalog around here. A little face paint doesn’t scare me; does it scare you, Miller?”
The burly sergeant straightened to his full six-two height. “No, sir. But I heard some of them are cannibals and I--”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not going to be boiled in oil or made into a stew. Now, return to base and come and get me at twenty-two hundred. That’s an order, Sergeant.” John recognized the stubborn set to his shoulders, the unwillingness to leave a CO in perceived peril. None of his superiors had been able to break him of the same habit, but he’d learned from the most ornery SOBs how to try. “I’m not telling twice! Now move your ass or you’ll be digging latrines for a month!”
“Yes, sir!” Miller saluted sharply before turning on his heel and reluctantly returning to the jeep.
Miller was a good enough soldier and John appreciated his loyalty, but discretion was more important right now. He waited until the vehicle got swallowed by the blackness and the engine grew silent in the distance. Then he scanned the darkness until his eyes adjusted and he was able to pick out a break in the screen of plant life. A path created by centuries of foot traffic led him into the lush foliage; the mud was only ankle deep now, but after a few weeks of the monsoon season such trails would quickly become knee-high traps of sludgy glue.
Not for the first time did John think to himself that New Guinea really was hell on Earth.
Mud traps weren’t even the worst of it. The constant downpours fed the jungle growth and provided the enemy with plenty of cover to hunker down under while they waited for the Allies to come stumbling through. That’s why when it came to their missions, failure wasn’t an option. If John’s squadron didn’t return with good intelligence, more soldiers would return home in body bags.
“Major, it is good to see you again.”
The female voice came from out of nowhere, but the speaker soon stepped out of the shadows and into the faint moonlight.
“How many times have I asked you to call me John?”
Teyla always looked him directly in the eyes, the intensity of her gaze able to tear down the barriers he put up. “Every time we meet,” she answered with a knowing smile.
John rubbed at the back of his neck, flicking away a tiny black bug trying to take refuge under his collar. “But friends use each other’s first names,” he prompted.
She raised an eyebrow. “Are we friends, Major?”
“Well, friends help each other in times of need...”
“So do allies.”
“This is true, but would a simple ally bring you these?” John dug into his knapsack and pulled out five Hershey bars.
“No, they would not. I am grateful for these, but how does chocolate help during these trying times?”
“It doesn’t. The candy’s for the kids. This, however,” John continued as he pulled out a spindle of heavy nylon thread, “makes the best fishing line. I know how often your peoples’ get cut on the coral.”
Teyla took the offered spindle with a broad smile. “This is very generous. All the ships have disrupted our normal fishing areas; this will be of great help. Thank you.”
“I’ve got these, too,” John said excitedly, showing a half-dozen small cans in the pack. “It’s evaporated milk. I know it’s not much...”
“It is more than we have now,” she said, grabbing his hand.
John snatched his away out of instinct, ducking his head to conceal his embarrassment despite the cover of night. “I think I have some chewing gum, too. Even grabbed a few packs of Lucky Strikes… I know that you disapprove, but you could trade ‘em with other tribes and get a lot more in return.”
“It is fine. I know these items are difficult to acquire,” Teyla reassured him.
Most of the stuff he’d won at poker games or he’d cashed favors in for. Not to mention skimming a few of McKay’s supplies, thus fueling his silly paranoia over the Aussies for fun. “Well, being an officer and all, it’s a little easier for me.” John shrugged.
“I am sure it is.”
The ease with which she saw right through him was unnerving; her body language said what she was too kind to call him on. He cleared his throat over the buzzing chorus surrounding them and gave her a lopsided smile. Sometimes he wondered if he’d been bunking with too many soldiers over too many years. It was easier to joke with his crew or give an order than to hold a conversation with a civilian.
Especially such an exotic one. Teyla wore a grass skirt, but the strands were modestly (and frustratingly) double layered. Most Papuan women went topless, but she wore a simple creamy white homespun linen shirt. Her skin was a clear, shimmery golden brown and her face was devoid of the usual streaks of paint. She wore her coppery hair long and pulled back instead of elaborately braided and adorned with beads or feathers.
“Why do you study me?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just--”
“That I am different from the rest of my people,” she finished for him, her eyes darting away. “I am.”
John had never asked why she was more refined than those she looked after. As much as he wanted to know, it wasn’t his place to press.
Teyla was thoughtful, choosing her words carefully. “My father was an Australian doctor in the army. He met my mother when fighting from the Great War spread here. She was Austronesian, those who arrived thousands of years before the people of this great land.”
“The Papuans.”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him in surprise. “Unlike what many perceived, she was an intelligent woman who could read and write. But I did move with my father to Australia for many years.”
“The adjustment must have been difficult.”
“When I returned, I couldn’t even remember the language of my people.”
John heard the pain in her voice and fumbled for the proper words, though he had more than an inkling as to how she felt. “It’s tough to be caught between two worlds. Unsure where you really belong.”
Teyla gazed up at him. “I believe you understand how I feel, Major.”
There it was again, that feeling of being openly exposed, but his barriers quickly snapped into place as he stood straighter, forcing his thoughts to focus on the business at hand. But Teyla beat him to the punch.
“You need my assistance.”
God, he hated this. “Yeah, I do.” John handed her a copy of the poor quality map. “I know it’s not very detailed. But that’s Ranonga Bay and the area is thirteen miles due north. We know the Japs are building more airfields, but we don’t know where.”
“I can help you focus your search. When do you leave?”
“In three days. I know it’s not a lot of time.”
Teyla looked up and laughed. “Since when do you not require things quickly?”
John chuckled with her. “Never.”
“I will return at this time in two days. Your base is half a day’s journey and the information you need takes a day to travel by foot. I will be cutting it close.”
Teyla gathered up the supplies and this time John grabbed her elbow. “Why do you do this?”
“One day the people of New Guinea will know freedom. First, it was the Chinese, then the British. We have always been occupied, only the faces change. When I was a child it was the Australians; today it is the Japanese.”
“But you’re helping us.”
“There are those who will always treat us as lost children, confusing us with the more rural tribes further west. Our newest enemy rapes our land and views us as beasts to be slaughtered. We are a simple people; we do not own guns, but some of us can help fight in other ways.”
John didn’t know how Teyla gathered her info or whom she dealt with to get it. He suspected some of the gifts he gave her proved to be useful tools in obtaining the intel responsible for his squadron’s success rate. “Do I put you in danger?” he blurted.
“We are at war, Major. We are all in danger.” Teyla piled the supplies into a straw rucksack, slung it over the back of her shoulders and withdrew a small machete from the belt above her skirt. “Do not worry about me; this cuts through flesh as easily as it does the underbrush.”
The two of them smiled, easing the tension caused by their conversation. It was growing late and catching Ronon up to speed on his unit’s SOP in such a short amount of time was a daunting task he faced, not to mention finding time to sleep between trainings and debriefings.
Teyla touched his shoulder, chasing his thoughts away. “I should go. We both have busy days ahead.”
“Yes, we do.” John watched her leave but called after her before she disappeared into the tropical tangle. “Once we move further in-country it’ll be safer for you and your people to visit.”
“I’m sure many of my people will continue to help build your military bases, Major.”
John mentally slapped himself for his poor choice of words.
“But it would be nice to visit under safer conditions,” Teyla continued smoothly before slipping into the jungle.
Then he was left with the song of the jungle and the lingering smell of tropical flowers. The familiar drone of an engine gunning its way towards him soon broke through his reverie. He didn’t want a certain paranoid sergeant to come charging through the jungle thinking his CO was about to be placed on the local menu so he hurried out of the flora to catch his ride back to the base.
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Ground crews removed the camouflage tarps, unveiling the white, crushed coral airstrip underneath. John mentally went over data obtained earlier from the intelligence officer, calculating their flight path while keeping in mind a storm brewing off the coast and weighing the odds of meeting the enemy. Last they’d heard, Japanese air presence was concentrated over Hollandia, but random patrols prowled up the coast.
He glanced at Lorne; the man’s jaw was working at a huge wad of gum with nervous energy. “Don’t forget to spit that out, Captain.”
“Yes, Pops.”
“You‘re a real smartass, you know that?”
“Yes, sir,” Lorne shot back cockily. With a salute he sped up to walk beside the newest member of the squadron. “You ready to fly with the top recon squad, Dex?”
“We’re the only recon unit stationed here,” McKay grouched from behind them, still struggling to secure the straps of his parachute pack.
John slowed down to help but McKay slapped his hands away. “I’m not a child, Major.”
“No, you just act like a toddler that missed his nap.” John muttered as he finished fastening McKay’s chute to his flight vest and yanked on his emergency pack, verifying it was hooked in place.
Lorne had continued chatting with Ronon and getting the Hawaiian’s usual monosyllabic replies until he started with the third degree on the newbie. “There‘s a few things you should know, Sergeant. Always trust Sheppard, no matter how insane his orders. Follow them and he’ll get your ass outa the mission alive. He’s the best pilot I’ve ever known. We clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You might be good at shooting down Nips, but that’s not your job,” Lorne warned.
“Oh, yeah? What is my job?” the big man growled.
“To keep your crew alive.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Lorne pressed.
There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Ronon’s tone. “I’ll protect them.”
“See that you do. You haven’t been here long, and you have no idea how many men would kill to be in your place.”
“Know that, too.”
“Come on, McKay, get a move on,” John said loudly before doubling his stride to break up the private conversation.
“Hey, this isn’t a race,” McKay griped.
“Yeah, it is. We’ve got two hours before sunrise. And that’s not counting the pre-flight check and running around in circles.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is the Earth’s orbit too inconvenient for you, Major? Maybe if I wave my hands really fast it’ll slow down time.”
“That’d be really cool,” John said as he eyed threatening clouds brewing on the horizon. “Isn’t that what Einstein’s theory is?”
Lorne clapped McKay on the back. “Yeah, maybe if Poindexter here takes apart the engines and builds a time machine out of it, he’ll prove Einstein right. Then maybe the Big Brains could offer him a job.”
“I’ll have you know, Captain, I’m more than qualified to…” McKay paused mid-sentence then clamped his mouth shut.
Lorne tapped out a smoke. “What‘s that, Lieutenant?”
“McKay‘s not crackers enough to be with those nut jobs,” John cut in. “Besides, why would a real genius want to sit in a lab all day staring at chalkboards and debating theory,” he said, looking directly at his crewmate, “when he can be saving lives here?”
McKay gave him a quizzical expression, his brain slowly registering the weight behind John’s words. “Yes, well. I’m sure everything I’d accomplish would be top secret and I wouldn’t be able to--
“Brag?” John retorted.
Lorne snickered and McKay glared at him before huffily storming ahead.
Ronon wisely stepped out of the way before McKay accidentally barreled into him; the big guy raised in eyebrow in amusement at the way McKay’s load of equipment made him waddle up the muddy path.
Ronon gestured at the peeved navigator. “He always like this?”
“Yup, pretty much,” John grinned. “But I wouldn’t have him any other way.” Ronon clearly didn’t get it, but there was plenty of time for him to learn. “You didn’t say much during the briefing.”
“Didn’t need to.”
John’s brain still whirled with enough facts and figures to make his head hurt. “Are you sure? Asking questions to clarify mission objectives doesn’t make you look stupid- not asking questions does.”
Ronon faced John while they walked, his soft leather helmet making him look like a lineman ready to hit the gridiron. “The Japs might be reinforcing Hollandia by sea. We don’t know how many airfields they‘ve got, or how many planes. Visibility’s sucked for weeks, so we’re going out and not coming back ‘til we get some pictures.”
“Well, good. Glad I could fill in the blanks for you,” John said with a pat on the big guy’s shoulder as they reached their plane. John passed an eye over the Havoc, then turned to watch the five other crews prepare to embark.
They were a rag-tag bunch, flying modified bombers pieced together with spare parts. John nodded at Lt Stackhouse, a former test pilot like himself who helmed the Eager Beaver. They’d been stationed together in Hawaii, aware of the other only by reputation. John had joined up with the Tigers while Stackhouse had flown fighters over the Philippines.
Then there was Captain Fuller, a kid born with a God-given talent to fly. Fuller was only twenty-four, freckle-faced and almost too tall to fit in the cockpit. He’d transferred from the 37th where he’d manned B-25 bombers. “Hey, Major, did you hear Lindbergh’s teaching the 475th at Hamilton?”
“I guess they don’t have enough playboys in Australia,” John drawled.
“Hey, the guy gets the hottest dolls and he’s as old as you, Pops,” Fuller teased, grinning a gap-toothed smile.
As the captain took off toward his plane John made a note to have the crew of the Birddog volunteer for latrine duty next week.
He surveyed his men; they were a combination of adventure seekers, hot-shots, discipline problems and the cream of the crop. All hand-picked from a long list of volunteers and a few he’d bribed to join.
John didn’t do speeches. “See you guys during the post mission briefing.”
Never wish for success out loud. Never say good luck or even break a leg Those were the rules.
He climbed the rungs up to the cockpit, his own parachute and gear nearly crushing him into the tiny seat of the forward compartment. The side instrument panel always pinned his .45 against his hip, leaving a spectacular bruise across his thigh, but he wouldn’t fly without it. Most pilots were afraid that their weapon would be used against them if they got shot down. John would rather have something to defend his crew with, and if it came to it, he’d preferred eating a bullet over being captured. The intel in his head was too dangerous to fall into enemy hands.
“Will you be careful over there? I know Tarzan lived in a tree, but this is a plane filled with decrepit and delicate equipment. Don’t break anything,” McKay snapped at their new gunner as he settled in.
John could only fight a grin at the sight of Ronon’s long arms and legs, not to mention two hundred something pound frame trying to cram inside the little domed fish bowl he was forced to sit in.
“Don’t make me come back there,” he warned.
“Like you could fit, Major.”
John fastened the chin strap of his helmet and plugged in the radio cord that hung around his neck, the connection making a crackling sound inside his headphones while practiced fingers started the engines.
“Alright, guys, Pegasus will be the flight leader. Black Jack, you’re formation lead.”
“Copy that,” Lorne’s voice echoed in his head set.
“Let’s try this mission again. Six hundred miles there and back. We‘ll head for twenty-five thousand feet,” John radioed.
“Don’t forget about the abnormal magnetic variation issues from the coast,” McKay reminded him.
“I was just about to say that, if you’d gimme a second,” John responded with painstaking patience before re-opening the channel. “Double-check your deviation on heading every ten minutes, boys. The interference out there is still a bitch.”
The engines roared to life, the blood rushed to his ears, and all his nerves tingled with electricity. John swore his heartbeat ramped up in sync with the increase in speed. Nothing matched the adrenaline rush of take-off. Nothing. The jungle slowly morphed into an expanse of green tree canopies, then smears of green paint, and finally a mere speck swallowed up by the sky.
His squadron all checked in as they climbed to their cruising altitude. “From here on out we’ll maintain radio silence. Sheppard out.”
After a steady climb, he activated the internal com. “Dex, McKay, make sure your masks are on.”
“No need to remind me, Major.”
John covered his nose and mouth with his own, adjusting the pour. “That’s my job, Lieutenant. Sergeant Dex, what’s the word?”
“Think mine has a kink in it.”
That wasn’t good. At their altitude they all needed to be on oxygen. “McKay, go check on Ronon’s line. See what’s blocking the flow.”
“What did you do? Mistake it for a vine and try to swing from it?”
“Do it without talking, McKay.”
“Major, he just growled at me! Hey, I’m not some ape, you know!”
“Maybe if you’d stop calling him Tarzan? Now how about maintaining that radio silence?” John snapped.
The increase in altitude was supposed to position them over most of the storms they‘d been warned about, but turbulence rocked their plane as John struggled to keep their bird on a steady course. This was the deadliest part of any flight. Not the approach toward the target, or the times when they circled for the weather to clear, or when they were caught and had to race for their lives.
No, it was the long stretches of lonely silence, mile after mile of navigating by McKay’s point of sight signals. Radio aids were forbidden except in times of emergency and at this height, they didn’t even have the ocean waves to go by. He could monitor their speed, follow a course charted using outdated maps, and be ready at an instant for evasive maneuvers if an enemy squad came out of the next cloud formation. The second he dropped his guard, he could lead them astray or get them all shot down.
Time ticked down, two hours of quiet save for the hum of the engines as each man kept his eyes open and fingers ready for anything.
Then McKay broke the silence, his voice startling even though he kept it low. “Alter your heading five degrees.”
John made the proper adjustment, noting they were close to the target, if the intelligence was accurate. He had modified their trajectory based on Teyla’s information, pushing them a whopping six miles south of the original position. No one had batted an eyelash at his suggestion; he knew it was his rep that they hedged their bets on.
Instrument readings told him they were supposed to be north of Sarmi even if he couldn’t see the outline of the land mass. Time to go lower and get a look-see. He tilted his wings back and forth to signal the others to start dropping.
Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen thousand feet and John’s palms were sweating. The cloud obstruction was thick and blinding.
Fourteen. Thirteen and enemy ground radar could now pick them up. They were too high to be spotted by sight, but he risked complete exposure.
The entire area was masked by heavy cloud cover. God only knew if they were over the right spot.
“McKay?” he whispered.
“The window is closed.”
Great. McKay couldn’t see shit. They used code words because the Japs sometimes listened in on their internal radio broadcasts; he really needed to change the ones he’d allowed McKay to pick out.
“What’s that odor? Do you smell that?”
“McKay, not now!” John hissed, trying to maintain radio silence. He’d noticed the rotten egg smell, too, but it wasn’t burning chemicals and that was all that mattered at the moment.
Lorne flapped his wings three times. No joy there either. It was time for another circle. This was the same nightmare John had over and over again. Doing run after run without an opening to take the pictures. He dipped his wings twice, ordering another pass.
The whole squad circled and circled and circled a fourth time. John was beyond pissed; he was fuming, cursing the weather, the coast, anything he could think of. A beam of sunshine broke through the heavy fog, painting targets across their bows. It wasn’t like they could be escorted with fighters like the bombers; their success depended on stealth more than anything
Fuck.
Then it hit him. The maps, the intel, something Teyla had said when she’d given him the updated coordinates.
“Our people fear the wrath of the fire gods there. Be careful, Major.”
He was so stupid. “McKay!”
“What?”
“Are we near any volcanic activity?”
“How should I know?”
“Were there any indications on the maps you plotted?”
“You mean the ones drawn by grammar school children?”
“McKay!”
“These islands are made by volcanoes,” Ronon’s voice came over the com.
The skies were clear above but they’d been blocked by a mist for the past two hours. It had to be more than just rain.
“Major! It’s a sulfuric cloud. That‘s what I smell.”
“Follow the cheese,” John radioed to the other planes, giving the code to stay on his lead.
John had been stationed in Hawaii for a year, Ronon his whole life. Slowly erupting volcanoes could obscure the air with steam and dust for weeks, even months.
“Get ready to point and click, McKay,” John whispered into the radio.
Twelve. Eleven. Ten thousand feet.
They rarely ever dipped this low.
Nine.
Eight.
Then they punched through the clouds and into clear skies.
Airfield surveillance was usually a nightmare since they were always camouflaged. But the one below was wide open, a blinding white lane of smashed sea coral inviting its planes to return.
And an entire squadron of Zeros was coming home, touching down before their eyes.
“You got what you need, McKay?”
“Yes! Move, Major! Move!”
John yanked hard on the flight stick, hitting the throttle and using all the extra torque of their turbo engines to get them the hell out of there and into the cover of vapor above. Their birds were designed to fly higher than fighter planes; it was their only salvation. But they were still only a re-fitted bomber and their airspeed was no match against the lighter, more maneuverable Zeros.
They needed time to reach a higher elevation that the enemy couldn‘t.
But time wasn’t on their side. Twelve of the enemy broke formation, aborting their landings and heading right for them.
John’s squad couldn’t climb fast enough.
“Come up, baby, come on,” John ground out between gritted teeth. His arms spasmed and strained, thousands of pounds of force shoving him back into his seat as he struggled to maintain acceleration at such a sharp ascent.
Every rivet vibrated; the fuselage shook with stress. Then John‘s eardrums throbbed with the concussive pounding of Ronon’s .50 caliber machine guns.
That meant the Japs were in target range, but so were they.
John began a series of Sturns, something he’d never done at a ninety degree angle while bullets filled the space where their bird had been. Ten o’clock, three o’clock. A set of Zeros split off from their six o’clock positions, and tracer fire lit up the morning sky.
Birddog was taking heavy fire and Eager Beaver couldn’t shake the two Japs trying to chew up her tail.
They were going to be overrun. He had to draw the enemy away from the rest of his squad. “Hold on, guys,” he warned his crew.
“What? Why?”
John ignored McKay’s panicked surprise as he banked hard right, the heavy Havoc shuddering with the sudden change. Two Zeros flew right by, and in his peripheral vision, he watched three others break course in pursuit.
“What are you doing? Our only chance is to reach thirty thousand feet!” McKay screamed in his ear.
“What the hell, sir?” Lorne shouted.
“Make sure my eggs are cooked the way I like ‘em, Black Jack,” John relayed back.
Ordering the rest of the squadron to scramble in opposite directions and reach for the maximum ceiling possible and rendezvous later was the best course of options.
“Ronon! Prepare for a zoom dive!” John yelled.
“Roger!”
John didn’t have any forward guns. He mentally reversed his line of sight in his head, diving enough for his gunner to fire at the enemy behind them. God, he wanted his own gun; his fingers instinctively curled around a non-existent trigger.
“Christ, Dex got one!” McKay bellowed. “No, make that two!”
“How many are left?” John yelled, craning his neck to peer through the windshield.
“Um… eight. Two others our guys brought down,” McKay answered.
Their plane shook as they took heavy fire. John dived again, setting Ronon up for another go. He needed to take out the Japs chasing them, or they’d be blown out of the sky as they tried to climb out of reach. Plane debris showered down all over them and he prayed it wasn’t one of their birds.
Ronon let the enemy have it, the Brownings deafening within their metal beast.
One of the more nimble Zeros decided to come at them head on. John banked left and the plane flew right by before turning for another run at them.
“Climb again. I’ll get him,” Ronon radioed.
If he tried to ascend, they’d be in a single trajectory and be easily picked off. But John didn’t see any other enemy craft; most were either in pursuit of the squad, or had abandoned the chase.
Maybe they were out of fuel; the Japs had been returning from somewhere.
Havocs were built to take a lot of punishment so he followed his gut, seesawing at sharp angles to throw the Zero off before rolling to his three o’clock then soaring even higher.
“Oh, God, we’re dead!” McKay yelled.
John wouldn’t make it easy; he squeezed the throttle and sent them into a complete vertical incline, the plane straining with the effort. His eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets, and his head was ready to explode. He was dizzy to the point of blacking out, his vision graying at the corners.
Ronon’s guns were metal baseball bats to his skull and John wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. It was all about muscle memory and instinct, struggling to hit five hundred mph at one hundred and twenty degrees.
Cannons exploded in his ears and the blue sky became a fuzzy shroud.
“Take it down!”
John didn’t know whose voice it was, but it cut through the din in his head.
“Major.”
“Sheppard!”
“What?” he rasped.
“Unless you want me to puke again, level out,” McKay panted.
John squinted at his readings, focusing on the speedometer and their thirty-eight thousand reading. “Sorry, McKay,” he managed to get out before sucking in a lungful of air.
He forced himself to ease down and slowly lowered to thirty thousand. “Okay…it’s okay.”
“Are we? Are we really alive?”
All the muscles in John’s body melted into his seat and he wiped at the sweat coating his face. “Yeah…I think so…Dex? Ronon? What’s your status?”
“Still here.”
John closed his eyes for a second. “That was some shooting.”
“That was some flying,” the big guy responded. “Are all our missions gonna be like that?”
“God, I hope not,” McKay wheezed out on a shuddery breath.
“No,” John said, his hands still shaking. He took a few seconds to regain control and stared out the window. “Um…McKay? Think you can find our way home?”
“I have no idea where we are now! We could be miles off course. What am I supposed to base a dead reckoning from?”
“Good. I’ll wait for your coordinates.”
John yanked the cord out from his radio and waited for his heart to finish exploding.
Dinah Shore was singing about an old acquaintance; her sweet voice soared above the memory of whirring engines. John stared inside the tumbler of amber liquid, his perspiring hands making the glass slick. His chest ached and his head still swam from the memory of that flight.
“Didn’t you get a silver star after that, sir?”
He was lost between a phantom adrenaline rush and the effects of the bootlegged rum warming his veins. “What?” he stammered
“Maybe if you let the major breathe, he might answer your question,” McKay growled from John’s left side.
“Um...yeah…I think,” John tried to answer the kid.
“Yeah, yeah, just one more medal to add to your collection.” McKay rolled his eyes. “And to correct you, Lieutenant, we all earned silver stars. You know. For the record.”
The sights and sounds of the officer’s tent finally cleared the cobwebs and John rubbed his fingers over the bar. It was ‘44 not ‘43 anymore. He looked up at Lieutenant Betts’ wide eyes and noticed all the others that had gathered to listen in.
John shook off the last remnants of the memory and allowed himself to relax. “We worked as a team on that mission. Always remember that.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant beamed. “Sounds like Dex lives up to his reputation.”
John just grunted as a reply but gave a sly grin. “You know, if you wanna know anything else, you can always ask him yourself.”
Betts paled a bit and cast a wary glance back at the poker table. “Yeah, I’m good, sir.”
McKay coughed out a laugh. “Smart move, Bettsy. You may just live through this war after all.”
“Chapter Three”
“Chapter Three”