DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.
SPOILERS: none of importance
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Parts of this story take place in the Middle East. I deliberately chose a non-existent country and called it Tyberia. The idea came to me when my son was playing a computer game, Command and Conquer, Tiberian Sun.
I have done some research to make this story look as realistic as possible (or had the research done: thank you, Sandra) so I hope I did a good job at describing. However, I'm no expert, better yet, I know nothing about mines and disarming them, hopefully I'll never be confronted by them at all, so any mistakes in this story are mine (the personal mine, not the AP-mine, LOL).
There is a poem in this story somewhere. The poem is not mine. It's written by Mrs. Lyman Hancock, and I found it on the net somewhere. It suited the situation well, that's why I used it.
Many, many thanks for my beta readers, who have stayed with me for a whole year with this story. That's how long it took me to get this done. So I hope you're going to enjoy it.

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SG-1, the first off world exploration team of the SGC, was gathered in the lab. Dr. Daniel Jackson, SG-1's only civilian, was studying some artifacts the team had brought back from PXR-692 a week ago. The archaeologist was well known amongst his friends and colleagues for being unable to rest, eat or sleep until he'd finished his work. The only thing he didn't forget was pouring some coffee into his mug once in a while, the caffeine keeping him alert and awake.

"Come on, Daniel. Leave it alone will ya? When was the last time you slept anyway?" Colonel O'Neill, the Commanding Officer of the team, unsuccessfully tried to take his friend's mind off the task.

Daniel's eyes didn't stray from the artifact in front of him on the table as he absently waved his hand. "No, Jack. I need to finish this. Almost done, I think."

The Colonel sighed. He knew there were only two ways to get Daniel to rest. He could either let him finish or forcefully drag him away from it. He decided to go with the first option this time.

Bored, O'Neill looked at Teal'c, the team's only non-human. He knew they weren't due to go on another mission for at least two days and he was looking for something to do. "Yo, Teal'c. Let's go to the gym and work on those boxing techniques."

The huge Jaffa nodded. "Very well, O'Neill. I understand your need for excitement."

Major Samantha Carter laughed. She knew the Colonel all too well. He could never stay focused on what he considered a dull task, such as examining objects or translating alien scripts, this completely opposite to Daniel and her. She was glad that Teal'c was on the team. At least he provided some entertainment for her CO, when he was looking for something to do.

O'Neill was about to comment on Teal'c's statement when an airman stepped into the lab, saluting sharply and precisely at the Colonel.

"Colonel O'Neill, Sir. The General wants to see you in his office."

Jack looked surprised. "Thank you, Sergeant."

The young airman turned on his heel and left the room.

"Well, kids. Looks like you're on your own. Behave yourselves until I get back, okay?" Without waiting for any comments, he left the lab and headed for the General's office.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

Jack knocked on Hammond's door, opened it at the sound of a 'come in' and stepped inside. He stopped abruptly, when he noticed the visitor seated in a chair opposite to the General.

"Hi, Jack. You look great," the man greeted him.

Jack slowly turned to close the door behind him and faced the man. "Thank you, Sir," he said shortly. His mind was racing. What was Colonel Bayfield doing here?

"Colonel O'Neill," the General started. "I reckon you remember Colonel Bayfield?"

O'Neill nodded. "I do, Sir." How could he forget his former CO, from Special Forces?

The General pointed at the only empty chair in the room. "Sit down, Jack. Colonel Bayfield is here with a special request. I think you need to hear him out."

Jack took the offered seat, sensing trouble before Bayfield even started his story. He turned towards his former CO. "So, who's missing, Sir?"

A weary smile appeared on Bayfield's face. "Always straight forward, aren't you, Jack?" Bayfield wasn't surprised by the blunt question, he knew the man in front of him all too well for that. Watching the other man shrug, he let out a heavy sigh. "Major Crook, along with three members of his team." He carefully watched the reaction on O'Neill's face, knowing how close the two had been.

"Where?" The question was sharp and short.

"Tyberia," Bayfield said. He hated to be the one to tell O'Neill and he hated even more to have to turn to him for help, but he had no other options left. He took in the tightened lips, the dark expression that shone through his eyes and the slightly trembling hand that absently ran through the short silver gray hair. All of a sudden, he wasn't so sure anymore that turning to O'Neill was such a good idea. But there was no turning back.

"Look, Jack, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I have to tell you this," he paused for a second, thinking how to proceed. "It's just… that I need your help on this one."

O'Neill stared at him, lost in his memories for a while, thinking about the missions he'd been a part of for a long time. He blinked his eyes in an attempt to wipe the memories away. "What happened?"

"The team had to retrieve an object that had crashed in the mountains somewhere north of the capital city. They flew to Turkey and started the mission from there. Marc deliberately fanned out to the East first, entering the area from the other side."

Jack nodded approvingly.

"The last report we received from him was that he had retrieved the object and was packing up to come home. Our contacts have not seen or heard from the team since…" Bayfield paused, wondering how he should continue. He opened his briefcase and gathered some satellite photos.

"I've set up some posts for inquiry, we've contacted every mole we know. Soon, the rumor reached us that the Tyberian Elite force has captured them. We dug a little deeper and this is what we came up with." He handed the photos to O'Neill.

O'Neill looked at the pictures, one by one. A grim expression appeared on his face. "Camp Ockeloen," he said bitterly. "Are you sure?"

Colonel Bayfield bit on his lip and nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's where they are." He leaned forward, his right arm stretched to point at something on the upper photo. "My best guess is that they're being held in this building. What do you think?"

O'Neill stared at the photo. "That's a possibility," he said and then pointed out another building on the opposite side of the camp. "Or they're here. There are some dungeons under this building where they used to hold prisoners."

Hammond had been listening to the conversation in surprise. He wasn't unaware of the Colonel's past, but wasn't privy to all its details either. He looked from the Special Ops Colonel to his Second, frowning deeply. "Have you been to this camp before, Colonel?"

O'Neill looked up shortly. "Oh, yeah. Been a guest for a short period. I wouldn't recommend the place to anybody, Sir. Their hospitality sucks."

Hammond exchanged a concerned look with their guest. He didn't like this one bit. "What is it exactly that you want, Colonel Bayfield?"

Bayfield shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This whole thing had been a bad idea to start with. "Well," he started uncertainly.

"You want me to get them out," O'Neill interrupted.

Bayfield nodded. "You and Cromwell were the only ones to know the area very well. My best teams are out in the field; and won't be back until the end of next week. Somehow I don't think Marc would appreciate it if we let him wait that long…"

O'Neill stared at the wall. "What about Crane?"

"He's somewhere in the jungle, Jack. Colombia."

"And Conners?"

"North-Vietnam. He's supposed to report back to base next week." Bayfield helplessly threw his hands in the air.

"Damn. What have you got left?" This time, Jack hooked his eyes on his former CO.

Bayfield didn't bat an eye. "They're not experienced enough, yet, Jack. I can send them to… well, you know where. But not the Middle East. Not this region. You know that."

Jack sighed. He owed it to Marc. Marc had pulled him out of trouble on a couple of occasions and it wouldn't be fair to leave him hanging, especially not in a place like this. He remembered how desperately he'd hoped for someone to break him out of that place but nobody had come. In the end, he'd saved himself. He couldn't leave Marc there, he decided. "Okay. I'm going to need some stuff."

General Hammond stared at his Second, assessing him, wondering what was going on inside his head. "Hold it, people. Colonel Bayfield? I need a private word with Colonel O'Neill before this goes any further, so if you don't mind…" Hammond pointed at the door.

Bayfield understood. He rose to his feet and left the office.

Hammond looked at O'Neill. "Colonel? I don't know what's going on here, but if you don't want to do this, you don't have to."

O'Neill placed the photos on the desk and sighed. "I don't have a choice, Sir. As much as I hate to admit it, Bayfield is right. I KNOW that place. I'm familiar with this part of the Middle East like nobody else. I know how those people think, how they hunt, how they operate. I know every tactic, every trick and every foul play they can think of. Bayfield doesn't have another team ready to go before sometime next week. I don't think Major Crook has that long, Sir. Not there, not in that place…"

Hammond took in the deathly serious expression on O'Neill's face. He could only imagine what the man had experienced during his time with Special Forces. "What happened when you were there? Were you captured?"

O'Neill's eyes were hooked on the wall. "The Elite forces surrounded us somewhere in the mountains, but I found a way to break through. Got my team to safety…" he didn't finish his sentence and left the General guessing.

"How long were you in there?" Hammond asked.

O'Neill shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "I managed to mislead them for a couple of days with false information. Before they started acting really ugly, I decided it was time to leave…"

Hammond made a mental note to request the post-mission reports of that particular mission. "So you're going. Who do you need with you?"

Jack shook his head resolutely. "Nobody, Sir. I'm not risking anybody out there. There are mines, traps… I can't operate if I have to worry about somebody else as well. I'm going alone. Colonel Bayfield will provide me with everything I need."

Hammond didn't like it at all, but taking in the determination in the Colonel's features he knew his objections wouldn't make any difference. He admired the Colonel's fierce loyalty and feeling of responsibility but he hoped that those good qualities weren't going to get him killed some day. "What if you need backup?" he asked.

"I don't think Bayfield is going to risk another team." O'Neill stated shortly. He stood straight, then moved towards the door ready to call Bayfield back, but he turned before he reached it. "If I don't return, I'd like to recommend Carter to get command over SG-1, Sir." He opened the door and let Bayfield back in.

"Colonel Bayfield, I hereby allow Colonel O'Neill to assist you regarding the rescue of your team in Tyberia," Hammond acknowledged.

Bayfield's face lit up. "Thank you, Sir."

"Don't thank me. Thank him," the General motioned.

O'Neill glared hard at Bayfield. "When I don't report back in time… you'd better start getting creative. If you abandon me one more time, I'm coming back to personally break your lovely neck, understood?"

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

SG-1 was called to attend to a sudden briefing.

Daniel reluctantly let go of the artifact and followed Sam and Teal'c through the corridors, wondering what this was all about. "They didn't say why there's a sudden briefing?" he asked.

Carter shook her head. "No, Daniel. I don't know any more than you do."

"Geez, I hope we don't need to go on another mission… I'm not finished with the material we brought back from PXR-692 yet." He thought of the interesting things that he'd discovered to date.

They reached the briefing room, entered then sat down. Colonel O'Neill was already present, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, an unfamiliar serious expression on his face. He greeted them with a slight nod of his head.

Daniel exchanged looks with Carter and a sudden unnerving feeling crept over him. Whenever Jack looked that way, if he'd ever done that, it meant trouble. He took a seat and fumbled with a pencil until General Hammond entered the room.

"I bet you're all wondering why we're having this briefing," Hammond started, all while taking his seat at the head of the table.

Teal'c and Major Carter sat next to Daniel and the Colonel was still standing, not uttering a sound.

"Uh, yes, Sir," Sam broke the silence.

"SG-1 will be on stand down until further notice. Colonel O'Neill is leaving the base for a while and you won't be sent on missions until he returns. I will consider letting you participate in other missions with one of the other teams, if the need arises." Hammond looked up and saw the three other members of SG-1 stare at their CO.

Daniel's mind raced. Would it be something personal? Had something happened in the Colonel's family that he had to leave? By the way his friend looked, it must be serious. He looked back at the General, who wasn't attempting to give more information at that moment. "Err, Jack? Where are you going?" Daniel decided to just ask the obvious question.

O'Neill's hands didn't leave his pockets. He glanced over at Daniel, then his eyes locked on a spot on the floor. "The Middle East."

"The Middle East? Why?" Daniel wasn't going to let him off the hook easily.

This time, Jack removed his hands from his pockets and sat down. "A friend of mine is… stuck there. I'm going to help him out."

Sam frowned. "Stuck, Sir?" What could he have meant by that? She took in the expression on his face and quickly came to the conclusion. "As in taken prisoner, Sir?"

The way he looked at her told her she'd guessed it right.

"Uh, yeah," he said shortly.

Daniel's mouth fell open. "You are going on a rescue mission to the Middle East? With whom? Who is this friend anyway and who has taken him prisoner?"

Jack looked at his team and realized he had some things to explain. His team didn't deserve to be lied to. He only hoped he could keep it as brief as possible. "His name is Major Crook. He's an old buddy of mine; we did some missions together. He was sent on a mission to Tyberia with his team and never returned. With the information from intel we have determined where the Tyberian Elite forces are keeping them."

Carter inhaled sharply. She knew a little about the aggressive nature of the people of Tyberia and the hostilities amongst the civilians and the government as well. "Why you, Sir?" Special Forces obviously had come to him but she wondered why.

"Because I'm familiar with that country, plus I know the camp where they're being held in pretty well…" Jack tried to give them enough to keep them satisfied and hoped they wouldn't ask more questions.

"So?" Daniel asked, tapping on the table with his pencil. He didn't like this a bit. "I'm sure the Forces have enough well trained people to take care of their own business. You don't work for them anymore. Give them any information they might need and let them handle it…"

It sounded reasonable. Sam nodded approvingly; Daniel had stated exactly what she'd been thinking.

"Their best teams are out of the country. The best they can do is having a team ready by the end of next week. I can't leave Marc in that place for that long…" O'Neill's voice faded and his eyes darkened.

Teal'c spoke up for the first time. "I will accompany you, O'Neill."

O'Neill eyed his Jaffa friend. "Thanks, Teal'c. But no, I'll have to do this alone."

"Who's coming with you?" asked Daniel, realizing Jack hadn't answered that particular question.

"Nobody."

"Sir!" Sam protested, raising her hands helplessly.

"You can't do that, Jack!" Daniel spoke up, getting slightly irritated. His friend wasn't really thinking about going to rescue the missing team all by himself, now was he?

"Yes, I can. I know the area, I know the country, and I know the people. Four people are missing already and I'm not risking any more lives. That's final." He hated to do this, to cut them off that brutally when they were worried about him, but he just had to. There was no way he would allow any one of them to get caught by the Elite troops.

Carter determinedly looked at Hammond. "General, Sir. With all due respect, we cannot let him do this?"

Hammond sighed. He didn't like it either, but he could understand the Colonel's reasoning and respected it. "The decision has been made, Major. The Colonel is leaving within the hour. Colonel O'Neill," he faced his Second, "good luck. You damn well better get back here soon, however. I have no intention of giving command of SG-1 to somebody else, is that understood?"

O'Neill smiled. "Yes, Sir."

The General left the briefing room, leaving the team to say their goodbyes.

Teal'c stood and bowed his head, his hands resting on his back. "I wish you would allow me to join you, O'Neill. Be safe, my friend."

O'Neill smiled at those words. "Thanks, Teal'c. You just keep your eye on Daniel for me, will yah?"

Daniel hit the table with his fist. "Damnit, Jack! Don't say that! Who's gonna keep an eye on you? Why are you doing this anyway? I don't like this at all."

Jack made a face. "Oh, come on, Daniel. I'll be back before you know it. You know I can't ask you guys to risk your lives for an old friend of mine. I would never forgive myself if anything would happen to one of you, you know that."

"I wish you would let us decide if we were willing to risk our lives for a friend of yours, Sir," Sam stated, knowing it would make no difference. When the Colonel set his mind on something, nothing could get him off it.

"Well, yeah… I appreciate it…" Jack felt uncomfortable with the situation and stared at the wall.

"Good luck then, Sir. Come back to us," Carter said, silently adding 'safely' to her last sentence.

"Thanks, Carter. Daniel, finish studying that rock so we can go fishing when I come back, okay?"

Daniel didn't even bother correcting him, hearing Jack call the artifact a rock. He just nodded. "I'll take you up on that, Jack. Take care of yourself."

With that they said goodbye, leaving O'Neill to pack his gear.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

Only two hours later, O'Neill arrived at the main base of Special Forces. He had another meeting with Colonel Bayfield to go through the details of the mission.

"So, how do you plan to get in?" Bayfield started.

"Well, I need a flight to Incirlik, I'll start there."

Bayfield nodded. With the non-flying zone above Tyberia and Iraq he had expected that Jack would fly to Turkey first and the Airbase in Adana was a good place to start. Major Crook had done exactly the same thing.

"I'll be moving east, using some of my contacts. Did Marc use them as well?"

Bayfield shook his head. "No, Marc had his own transportation. We arranged that. I've dug this up for you, however. Abdul Radzir is still available and willing to help us. I gather you remember him?" He handed O'Neill a piece of paper.

Jack took it, reading what was on it. "That's perfect. He still owes me. He can take me in. We'll move south, the first part via jeep, I think. Then I'll hike the last part on my own. That will take me at least a day, maybe two. It's rough terrain. You've got my gear ready?"

"Yes, your backpack is stuffed, everything is ready."

"Good. Give me a day to contact Radzir, arrange some more equipment I'll need… We'll be leaving Turkey on Thursday, which means I won't reach camp before Saturday afternoon. I'll probably need another day to get in. Bail them out, hike back through the mountains…" Jack walked over to the table. A map of the area was spread out there. He took a pencil and marked three spots.

"I want you to set up a pick-up on these three spots. Start on Tuesday. At six and every eight hours here," he tapped on the first mark, "at nine and every eight hours here," pointing at the second mark and finally his finger moved to the third spot. "At noon and every eight hours there. We'll jump on one of them; I don't know which one yet. Give it a round three times. If we're not on either one of them by Thursday, consider the mission failed."

"Done. I owe you one, Jack."

"No you don't."

Bayfield frowned, wondering what O'Neill meant.

"You owe me more than one." With that, Jack grabbed his gear and turned, heading for the door.

"Good luck," Bayfield said, but received no answer.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

"Major Jek!"

Abdul Radzir had been waiting for twenty minutes at their arranged meeting point and smiled widely at the sight of the American.

Jack approached him, laughing, "Hi, Abdul. How are you today? You haven't changed a bit, my friend."

Abdul Radzir bowed his head. "You have, Major Jek. Your hair has changed color. It looks good on you. Come with me…"

O'Neill followed his contact through the streets of Adana until they reached an old, dirty looking house, separated from the others by a dusty and sandy road. Abdul stepped inside, motioning for the American to follow him. Jack had to bend forward or he would have hit his head, as the doorway was lower than the Colonel was tall.

The scent of cooking made his mouth water. The smell of garlic and onion was overwhelming, along with the peppers and strong herbs as thyme and dill. He followed Radzir into what had to be the living room. There was hardly any furniture, but a gorgeous thick dark-red eastern carpet was spread out on the brick dusty floor in the middle of the room. Here, they both sat down cross-legged, elbows resting comfortably on the knees.

A woman dressed in a beautiful, colorful dress, covering every part of her body, strode into the room. Her head was also completely covered, leaving only one open spot for her eyes so she could see. Over her clothes, she wore a thick layer of shiny, golden jewelry, which made a soft tinkling noise as she walked.

She carried a large silver serving platter and gracefully placed it on the carpet, in the middle. On it were two dinner plates stuffed with food, along with a pot of tea plus two cups. Without making as much as a sound, she turned and left the room.

"Ah, let's eat." Radzir announced and bent forward to hand over one of the dinner plates to the American. "My favorite. Firinda Kuzu Budu. Roasted lambs meat, my friend."

Jack gratefully accepted the plate, waited for his host to start and they began eating.

"So, Major Jek. What do you need of me this time?" Abdul inquired, staring at the American while taking another bite of his meal.

"Jack. Call me Jack. I'm no Major anymore."

"Okay, Jek."

Jack sighed inwardly. He guessed he had to accept that that would be as close as the man could get to pronounce his name correctly. "I need to get into Tyberia. North-east side, through the lower part of the mountains."

The other man inhaled sharply. "No, no, no. Dangerous, Jek. Lots of fights in Tyberia. The Elite guards use strong forces against rebellious civilians."

Jack finished another bite of his meal, swallowing it before nodding. "I know, but I have to go anyway. Can you get me there?"

Abdul Radzir was visibly shaken by the idea. He looked disapprovingly at the American. He shook his head stubbornly. "I do not go to Tyberia. Too dangerous."

"You don't have to go with me all the way. Just take me to the border and I'll be fine," O'Neill tried to reassure him.

"Where do you have to go?" Radzir wanted to know.

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Let's say that… I'm on a private mission, okay?" He finished his meal. "Mm, this was delicious," he commented and took his cup of tea.

Radzir smiled proudly at the compliment and just nodded slightly.

"So, will you take me there?" O'Neill demanded.

"Yes. I think you are in need of some equipment, though. I will arrange for that as well. Come back to my house tonight, after eleven. Then I have some stuff that you will need. We can leave just after midnight."

O'Neill was satisfied. The first part of his trip was covered and he was still ahead of schedule. Radzir would take him to the border; he was on his own from there. Needing to take care of some things himself plus to catch some sleep in advance, he thanked his contact and left.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

That night, O'Neill dressed himself in his dark green BDU pants with a black shirt. He put on a protective fragmentation vest and secured the strips of his backpack over his shoulders and around his waist.

He looked around the small, simple hotel room one last time. He'd erased all traces which could lead to his identification and had paid for the room for a whole week. With his personal belongings stuffed in his pack, he really had no reason to come back here anymore.

"Let's get this over with," Jack silently told himself.

He left the hotel room through the window, climbing on the balcony first and then he carefully slithered down to the street. He made sure to make no noise and leave no footprints behind by carefully picking the right places to step.

Satisfied nobody had seen his departure he walked through the dark streets of Adana. He knew where to go, but taking every precaution he made a huge detour. He only encountered a couple of men who were still outside for one reason or the other. Women weren't allowed to be outside after dark. With one hand stuffed deep in his pocket he walked determinedly, blending into the village as if he belonged there. Nobody paid any attention to him and he was sure nobody was following him.

About thirty minutes later, the Colonel arrived at Radzir's house and found the man already waiting for him on his veranda. Without talking, he indicated the American to follow him inside.

Only a couple of candles illuminated the living room. The beautiful woman was nowhere to be seen; Jack figured she was probably ordered to stay upstairs in the bedroom.

Abdul Radzir took him to a low wooden table standing all the way back in a dark corner of the room. He'd stashed some things there for the American and pointed at them with a slight proud smile covering his face.

Jack scanned the items with great care and lifted a wrench from the table, feeling it with the tips of his fingers.

"To secure the mines," Radzir explained.

O'Neill nodded approvingly. He had both a M22 and a M25 wrench stuffed in his backpack, but this was yet another size.

There were also a couple of small boxes on the table. Radzir opened them to show the content to O'Neill. "Spare safety clips, shipping plugs and safety pins. They fit on the types of mines the Elite troops use…"

"Thanks," O'Neill said sincerely. Along with his own set of equipment he now had a much better chance against the AP-mines he knew would be outside Camp Ockeloen. He carefully wrapped everything and stuffed it in his backpack. The only thing that was missing was a dose of luck and he knew the other man couldn't provide him with that.

Just after midnight the two men left the house and walked out of the village, into the fields. Two miles further away, they approached Radzir's jeep, parked under a grove of trees. Radzir got into his jeep and started it, while Jack took a seat next to him. If nothing unexpected happened, they would reach the border to Tyberia early in the morning.

"Why don't you sleep for a while, Jek. I'll drive," Abdul Radzir offered.

Knowing he would need the rest, Jack gladly accepted the offer, leaning comfortably back in the passenger's seat and closed his eyes. Hopefully there wouldn't be that many bumps in the old, unpaved roads to keep him from resting. It was going to be a tough couple of days…

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

General Hammond sat behind his desk and absently stirred his coffee. He'd requested copies of some post-mission reports and Colonel Bayfield had gathered a couple and had them delivered to the SGC.

On his desk lay the report from the mentioned mission to Tyberia; the one where he'd guessed O'Neill got captured. He hated to dig into his Second's past this way, but he figured as his Commanding Officer who'd just authorized a solo mission to the area he needed to know every single detail in order to make the right decision when needed.

And Good Lord, he hoped that he wouldn't need the information on hand. He'd prayed for the safety of his 2IC since the man had left the base, cursing him for his determination to do this on his own, cursing himself even more for allowing the man to do so. On the other hand, Hammond couldn't help but feel proud, pleased and impressed knowing it took more than a normal dose of responsibility and guts to do what O'Neill was doing. He could only guess whether he would have the strength and willpower to do the same thing if he'd been in O'Neill's shoes.

He reluctantly opened the dossier. He took the first part in his hands, leaning backwards in his chair and started reading. There had been two teams operating in the area. The first team was under the command of Major Conners. The team had orders to move in, then search for a contact in trouble, rescue him and bring him home. The other team, led by Major O'Neill, had a supporting role; gathering information plus planning the escape route through the mountains up North.

Conners and his men were able to free the contact. They followed the escape route set up by O'Neill's team. Meanwhile, O'Neill and his men stayed behind as a decoy for the Elite troops that were on their tail.

O'Neill led the enemy to the East, allowing Conners to bring the contact to safety. He would have succeeded if they hadn't run into a second group of men coming home unexpectedly from a trip to Iraq. The second group managed to contact the Elite forces in pursuit and together they were able to surround O'Neill and his team.

The other team members' reports of what happened next were a little vague. The best the General could make out of it was that O'Neill had distracted the enemy with grenades; smoke grenades and gunfire, allowing his men to fan out to the Northwest and escape. He'd convinced them he would catch up with them, but a couple of hours later they'd finally realized he hadn't made it.

They'd contacted the base and were ordered to get back to Turkey. From there Special Forces would reassess the situation and come up with a rescue plan. That's where the reports ended, without details about what had happened to O'Neill, or the way they'd planned to get him out.

Hammond sipped his coffee, thinking about what he'd read. O'Neill had already told him he'd made it out on his own. His fist clenched and he bit on his lip. Why in heaven's name had the Forces not sent a team back in? Conners could have gone back? Shaking his head in disbelief he realized he knew the answer. The constant hostilities in the area plus the successful withdrawal of the contact made no further loss of men necessary. O'Neill was considered an unfortunate but necessary casualty, mission accomplished, file closed.

They hadn't counted on a stubborn man like Jack O'Neill, Hammond thought grimly. He scanned the remaining papers in the file and found a short note about O'Neill's escape. It mentioned his imprisonment for eight days plus his three-days trekking through the mountains back to safety.

Taking out the medical report Hammond sat back in his chair again. Turning the pages he soon found out what the Tyberian Elite forces were capable of. The report mentioned the sleep deprivation, the malnutrition, the dehydration; it briefly mentioned the casual beatings plus the breaking of the bones of the subject's arm. It was documented in a very matter-of-fact style, showed no emotion or compassion whatsoever, nor did it give any information about what had really happened, what the real damage had been, not only physically, but mentally as well.

General Hammond cursed. His imagination and years of experience told him all he needed to know. Another bad experience for the record, he thought. It was yet another case of the Air Force abandoning one of its own, for the sake of the greater good. One he was sure O'Neill would want to forget, but Hammond knew it would probably still haunt him during the long, dark hours of lonely nights. Just like Iraq…

Damn.

Now O'Neill was going back to that area, which would certainly bring back some painful memories, along with the frustration of being left behind, with nobody to back him up. He could even better understand the determination the man had shown now. How could O'Neill leave somebody else behind, in a place he knew painfully well? How could the man let that happen to somebody he considered as his friend? It would have been too distressing; to live with the knowledge that he'd abandoned a friend the same way the Air Force had abandoned him years ago. Hammond knew his Second well enough to realize that O'Neill wouldn't let it happen to somebody he didn't know, much less an old friend.

Hammond hit the table with his fist. That damned Colonel Bayfield. He'd known exactly what he'd come to ask. He had known O'Neill wouldn't be able to turn him down.

If only O'Neill could succeed in his mission to free this team. It would give the man some satisfaction, some self-esteem, some control over the past. The General sighed heavily. God help them if something went wrong…

Hammond closed the file and vowed to do everything within his power to help his Second, to have him return home safely. No way on Earth was he going to be the next in line to have left this man behind somewhere on the planet, or in the whole damned galaxy for that matter.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

It was five o'clock in the early morning. Abdul Radzir briefly touched the sleeping American's shoulder.
"Jek," he urged, his voice low. "It is time to wake up now."

O'Neill immediately opened his eyes, scanned his surroundings and faced his driver. "Morning…" he said in the same low voice. "Where are we?"

"Reaching the Tyberian border soon. We've passed a surveillance post a few miles ago. I do not think they saw us, I stopped the jeep behind the hills until they were out of sight."

Jack took in the nervousness in the man's features. He was obviously scared of the Tyberians. The tension in the never-ending battle between the civilians and the Elite forces must be reaching its limits, he thought grimly. "Okay, I can hike from here. Thanks for driving me."

Abdul Radzir parked the car. "You do have a map?" Detecting the American's slight nod, he wondered how the man planned to get out. "Do you want me to pick you up?"

O'Neill shook his head. "No. I've arranged for transportation back home. Thanks for the offer, though."
He leaned backwards to gather his gear and stepped out of the vehicle.

"Be careful, Major Jek. It is very dangerous…" Radzir still couldn't understand why the American had to go to Tyberia. He was just glad the American hadn't asked him to join him on his trip.

Jack gave his contact a brief salute, secured the straps of his backpack and with one last hand waving up in the air; he turned and walked towards the border.

He never looked back, but heard the jeep start up and drive off.

Jack took in the scene in front of him. It was a mountainous landscape with only sparse vegetation. Due to the nearness of the equator the temperatures could rise very high here, making it difficult for most plant life to survive.

O'Neill had traveled through this area before. He knew what to expect. He knew where to look for places to hide and to set up his camp. He'd been here on more than one occasion with his team and the last time, he'd crossed the mountains alone, suffering from a compound fracture of his arm along with the negative side effects of the kind treatment the personnel of 'hotel Ockeloen' inflicted. It wasn't a memory he cherished and he shivered involuntarily.

Forget it, O'Neill. You've got a job to do.

He kept his compass within reach to plan his route and started his hike into the mountains. If he pushed on, he could reach the camp early Saturday morning.

Colonel O'Neill hiked all day making good progress despite the rough terrain. He only stopped briefly for rest, water and a bite to eat. He carefully scanned the area, watching for any possible troops, but they weren't anywhere near him and it seemed safe for him to continue.

Darkness fell early. O'Neill was already looking for a good place to spend the night and soon found one, under some protruding rocks. He took his backpack off, rolled out his sleeping bag and started digging a hole, approximately one yard wide and more than half a yard deep. He opened his backpack to gather a container and placed it on the bottom. Jack carefully placed a piece of plastic over the gap, with stones on the edges to keep it from moving. One stone in the middle made the plastic funnel downwards.

Satisfied this would gain him extra fresh drinking water by the morning, he took out a MRE and heated it. He decided to go to sleep soon after, so he would be able to get an early start in the morning.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

Colonel Bayfield paced through his office. He was nervous, concerned and impatiently awaiting for some news. Any news would be better than the waiting. He hated the waiting, the not knowing and the not being able to control the situation.

He'd hated himself for turning to O'Neill for help from the minute he came up with the plan. Yet, he had no other options left, with his best teams out in the field. He also knew he had promised O'Neill that he would do everything within his power to prevent something happening to one of his men the way it had happened to O'Neill.

That stupid mission…

His superiors had overruled him. The life of the contact they'd rescued was far more valuable than the rescuers. The political relations with the surrounding countries in the Middle East, the threat of the start of World War Three; these were all considerations weighing heavily enough to forbid re-entering Tyberia for one single man.

That didn't mean that it hadn't sucked big time.

That didn't let him sleep better at night.

He had regretted that mission ever since. He'd been incredibly relieved that O'Neill had managed to get out by himself, but had still been unable to shake off the overwhelming feeling of guilt, betrayal and failure.

He should have fought harder.

He had considered resigning after the Tyberian incident. He felt that if he wasn't able to protect his men, to back them up through everything, then he wasn't worthwhile. His men should be able to trust him, to have faith in him. How could a man trust him, if he wasn't able to at least make the decisions about his life and death?

It had been O'Neill who had eventually persuaded him to stay. Jack had convinced him that he could only do so much. That sometimes somebody else took over the responsibility and that he had to accept that. He'd had his orders and followed them. Jack wouldn't have expected him to do anything different.

That didn't mean the man wasn't mad. He had been furious at the time and he had every right to be. Yet, O'Neill was enough of a military man to move on. Jack even did a better job of that than him. He really would have thrown in the towel. He'd had it. This partially failed mission in Tyberia was the final straw for him.

See, this incident wasn't the only one.

Oh, no.

There was that stupid unofficial mission to Iran, the one where they had almost lost Jack after that parachute accident. He'd tried to reach him, to get a team to his rescue… God, he'd tried. The Iranian soldiers were not allowing him much space to move in and he'd failed. Failed miserably.

Then there was Iraq. He couldn't even think back to that time without shivering violently all over. Cromwell had made a very bad decision, as it turned out. He'd assumed that Jack was dead and had left the scene. Left him there, injured, almost dying, to be captured by the Iraqis.

Damn, damn, damn.

There was absolutely nothing he could do back then. The United Nations tried; they gave it their best shot at negotiating to get O'Neill out of that prison. They had succeeded too; he had to give them credit for that.

It still had taken four long dreadful months.

Four months in hell.

He could never banish the memory of the man brought back home, strapped to that stretcher, all skin and bone, deathly pale and damn… the rest… neatly covered by a blanket…

Bayfield dropped heavily on his chair, sighed out and placed his elbows on the desk, resting his head in his hands.

Damn… He'd stayed by O'Neill's side, sat daily with him in the hospital through the first month. Visited him twice a week while he was recuperating the next two months. Backed him up when he refused to talk to that cold-hearted psychiatrist. Cromwell was having serious problems with the overwhelming feeling of guilt; of having failed but it was nothing to what Bayfield had felt. He had been responsible, these were his men and these were his missions. He was responsible for all of them, as a father for his kids and he hadn't been able to keep them safe.

It was after the Tyberian mission, when he'd personally vowed to the man that he would never, ever let anything happen to him anymore. That he would die first.

Bayfield rubbed his aching temples and stared at the wall. He shook the memories off and hit the desk with his clenched fist.

He'd sent O'Neill back to Tyberia. That had been his choice and his choice alone. Now it was his job to see that the man returned home. He had made a vow and hell, he was going to stick to that.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

O'Neill had covered a lot of territory that Friday. He'd started before five in the morning and had hiked all day. He had only allowed himself two brief rests; he wanted to reach his destination before dawn.

He'd made it.

He lay flat on his stomach, his binoculars in his hands as he studied the camp. Or, at least, the part he could see. Jack knew the camp was located on a lower piece of ground, covered on two sides by a six-foot high mountain wall. He carefully examined the higher buildings, spotted the guards on the roof and as they made their rounds.

His gaze turned to the fields reaching all the way up to the camp. His primary task was to make a safe path through those fields until he reached the part where he would have to climb down to the lower level. The fields contained mines; O'Neill remembered that from his last visit. He didn't know how many and what type of mines; he just knew they were there. The Elite Troops heavily guarded the entrance to the camp and only occasionally checked out the other sides from the roof of the huge building, the camp's headquarters, since they knew the mines up there would keep them safe.

That was his way in.

He had his backpack stuffed with equipment to sweep the fields, dismantle mines and mark a lane through. It would take time, but it could be done.

Crawling backwards until he was out of sight of the camp, Jack sat up. He decided to set up his camp first. He found a good spot where he would be out of sight from any passing troops. Knowing he needed to rest after a long day of hiking through the mountains, he quickly prepared his meal, finished it and rolled himself in his sleeping bag.

The Colonel woke up around midnight, pleased to find the moon illuminating the sky enough for him to start his job. He started by digging a hole, by removing stones, soil, and rocks, everything that could be removed. He needed a safe place to store the disarmed mines.

Satisfied with the gap he'd created, O'Neill went back to his small camp, emptied his backpack and stuffed all needed equipment in the pockets of his BDU pants and protective fragmentation vest. He removed his watch, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and took out a Kevlar helmet and put it on, tightly buckling the chinstrap. Keeping the mine-probe at the ready he left camp and approached the field.

When he didn't dare walk any further, Jack squatted down, carefully avoiding allowing his knees to touch the ground. He started probing the area immediately, around his feet and as far forward as his reach extended, looking for mine indicators. He scanned his sides as well, again as far as he could reach. When he found the area clear, he knelt, continuing the probing in front of him and to the sides until he was certain it was safe to lie down into the prone position. He placed two entrance markers at the beginning of the lane, one on the left and one on the right.

Moving forward, scanning and probing carefully for mines, the Colonel placed a handrail marker on his left, less than five yards from the entrance. O'Neill probed by gently pushing the device into the ground, at an angle of less then 45 degrees. By applying just enough pressure on the probe to sink slowly into the ground, he could feel whether it encountered resistance. Besides probing every two inches, he additionally scanned the area in front of him visually, looking for trip wires, fuses or pressure prongs.

O'Neill had just placed the second handrail marker on his left as he felt the probe touching something of interest. Using the tip of the probe, he carefully picked the soil away and used two fingers to remove loose dirt. He continued digging, slowly, painstakingly, until the object became visible.

A mine.

O'Neill studied the mine thoroughly, while very carefully digging all around it until he could feel underneath. When he was sure there was no anti-handling device hidden underneath, he gathered a safety clip and his M22 wrench. He'd identified the mine as the well-know blast AP mine called M14. US forces used this type of mine, so he was familiar with it. When he was certain all soil was removed, he grasped the mine with one hand and inserted the safety clip. Next he turned the pressure plate into the safe position with the wrench before lifting the mine out of the hole. His last job was to remove the detonator and to screw a shipping plug into the detonator well.

Jack let out a sigh of relief and slowly wiped his face. Cautiously he crawled back and took the disarmed mine to the storage spot he'd created.

Entering the lane the same way as he'd done the first time, he crawled back to his last position and started probing again. It was an extremely tiring job and he knew he could only continue for another ten minutes before he needed a brief rest.

He was just about to take a break when his probe encountered resistance. Repeating the procedure, he removed all soil around the mine and found it to be the same kind as the previous mine he'd disarmed. This one looked old, and sort of misshaped. His suspicions were confirmed when he couldn't insert the safety clip. Cursing softly, Jack inspected the mine closely, trying to detect where the safety clip got stuck. If only he could bend the safety clip a bit, widening the opening just enough…

He searched his pockets for something he could use. One of his tools fit in the opening and he slowly applied pressure on one side, bending it a little bit. He tried inserting the safety clip on the mine again and although it slid further on than before, it still didn't fit completely. Biting on his lip, Jack concentrated on the precise job of adjusting the clip and sighed out in relief when his efforts were successful and he managed to insert it on the mine.

Although he continued with the greatest precaution, the Colonel experienced no problems in turning the pressure plate into the safe position and removing the detonator. After the shipping plug was in its place, he crawled back, slowly, exhausted and his muscles trembling from working in the uncomfortable position.

O'Neill rested for ten minutes, used another five to briefly stretch his legs and arms and then returned to continue his job of creating a safe lane through the minefields.

He'd successfully disarmed another five mines, when he encountered another obstacle. Jack considered himself lucky that the moon gave enough light for him to spot the pin attached to the trip wire before his hands touched them. He examined the wire closely, from one end to the other. This way, he easily found the release-pin ring on one end, telling him the position of the mine. When he was sure this was the only mine the trip wire was attached to, he concentrated on clearing all soil from the fuse area.

This was another type of mine, similar as the M16-series, bounding-fragmentation AP mines. It was all greasy from the silicone that was spread over it, a well-known precaution for long-term use. Keeping his movements slow and precise, Jack gathered the spare safety pins from his pockets and inserted one first in the positive safety-pin hole, then another one in the locking safety-pin hole.

Catching his breath for a second, Jack took out his knife and carefully cut the slack trip wires. He waited for ten seconds before firmly holding the mine with one hand, digging around it with the other until he could feel underneath it. Relieved to find no anti-handling devices, he lifted the mine from the hole, used his M25 wrench to remove the fuse and inserted a shipping plug. By the time he was back at the camp, he was tired, his knees and elbows were sore and his muscles were protesting every movement.

After resting for another twenty minutes, the Colonel crawled forward through the created lane and patiently continued his job. By the time it was midday, he'd disarmed thirty-two mines, had used the equipment Radzir had provided him with on the mines of a different type and he decided to break for a recess, to catch some sleep. With the sun high in the sky it was hot, and after preparing his meal, O'Neill curled up in his sleeping bag, hoping the rest would do his tense, aching muscles some good.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

That weekend, the remaining members of SG-1 gathered for a pizza night at Daniel's apartment. They'd also invited Janet Fraiser, the Chief of the Medical facility of the SGC. Whenever Cassie was out to stay with a friend, Janet tried to catch up in spending time with her friend Samantha Carter, along with the team.

The pizza already sitting on the table, Daniel entered the living room with four plates while Teal'c carried the drinks.

Janet looked around with a surprised expression on her face. "Where is the Colonel?" she asked. She had had some time off work the last couple of days and didn't know about O'Neill's trip to the Middle East yet.

Daniel and Sam exchanged worried glances. They had been talking about that particular mission ever since the Colonel had left them on Monday.

"Err… Jack is gone for a while. To… the Middle East," Daniel said.

Janet frowned. "Why?"

"The Tyberian Elite forces have captured a Black-Ops team. The leader of that team is a close friend of the Colonel's," Sam tried to explain. "He's going to attempt to rescue them."

"Tyberia?" Janet was shocked. As his doctor, she was privy to the Colonel's medical file and she knew more details about his last visit to that country than anybody else did in the room. "Damn," she cursed.

Sam examined her friend closely, realizing Janet had to know more about her CO's past than she did and the concern that was edged on the doctor's face didn't make her worry any less.

"When do they expect him back?" Janet asked.

"We don't really know. The General has given us time off until further notice. Hopefully we'll know more next week," Daniel answered.

Janet took a slice of pizza, dropped it on her plate, wondering about another thing. "Who is with him?"

"Nobody," stated Sam.

"I offered to accompany O'Neill," Teal'c said. "But O'Neill did not want to risk more lives than his own."

Janet nodded. "Right. I should have known that. Well, let's hope he'll return safely to us."

"What aren't you telling us?" Daniel turned to Janet, frowning. Taking in the concern that was edged on her face, he wanted some answers. "What do you know about what happened to Jack there before?"

Janet shook her head in worry, keeping her eyes down. "I'm sorry, I can't. I know you're his friends and you're worried about him. But medical records are confidential. I *can't* tell you anything." She paused, wishing she didn't know anything and wondering why he'd agreed to go back there?

Each lost in thoughts and worries about their errant friend they ate in silence. Where normally these getting-together-nights were relaxing and enjoyable, they were unable to have fun on this night, not knowing anything about the whereabouts and well-being of their CO and friend.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

It was Sunday afternoon. The sun stood high in the sky, shining unmercifully over the mountains. It was hot; incredibly hot.

Jack had finished his lane-marking job one hour ago and had spent the last hour studying the camp paying particular attention to the guards and their rounds. He knew their schedule well. They only entered the roof of the huge building that was built almost against the two mountain walls once an hour. That's when they checked the minefields, when they made sure nobody attempted to get through. They'd missed him, since he'd made sure to be out of sight every time the guards appeared on the roof.

He decided to wait until dusk. Then he would make his move, get inside, and make his way to the small brick building next to the huge one. It was a small prison, with two wooden benches inside. No windows; just a door, locked heavily on the outside.

O'Neill was pretty sure that the Special Forces team was kept there. He'd spent a couple of days inside that building, too; the last time he'd visited the camp. Twice a day two guards had entered to have some distraction from the boring job of making their rounds around the camp. That's when they had beaten him up until he was unconscious. Once a day, they had taken him to the commander of the camp for questioning. He could still picture the commander's face as the man yelled at him; his ugly visage only inches away from his own. He could still smell the man's breath. He had managed to keep the commander busy with false information for a couple of days before the man had realized that O'Neill had been feeding him lies. Jack shivered involuntarily at the memories and tried to shake them off. He had a job to do.

Jack went through his equipment one last time, making sure he had everything he needed and leaving the rest at his camp for faster movement. He secured his backpack and decided it was time to move. He walked through the minefield, following his own signs and safely reached the end. He took out a small hammer and a metal pin, knocked it into the rocks near the edge and tied a rope to the pin, hanging it down the wall. Testing it with a firm jerk, he considered it safe and climbed down. The Colonel was confident the guards wouldn't spot the rope; they would have to bend far forward to look over the edge of the roof, so he left it where it was. He crawled through the alley between the building and the mountain walls until he reached the end of the building.

The smaller one, with the door and without windows, was within view now. Jack scanned the area. There were only a few soldiers wandering through the camp, the rest apparently having their evening meal in one of the barracks near the front gate. There was no guard outside the door of the building that served as a prison; the locks from the outside were enough to keep who-ever was inside, in. If he was lucky, he could get them out and they would be on their way back through the minefields before the next round on the roof.

With one last look through the camp, Jack quickly got to his feet, rushed to the door and removed the three locks by sliding them away. He opened the door, threw a look inside and found the missing team.

Damn.

Without Major Crook.

The three present Special Forces members were stunned by the Colonel's appearance but they responded swiftly. Two of them immediately hauled the third to his feet, dragging his arms around their shoulders for support.

They appeared in the door opening and the Colonel pointed to the side of the huge building. "That way," he urged, and carefully closed the door, sliding the locks back in place. He moved faster than the trio that was all but carrying one of them, and showed them the way to a safer place.

When they were out of first sight, Jack stopped them, assessing their condition with a quick scan. The men were beat up, as he'd expected. They were looking far from healthy; battered, pale and exhausted summed it more up. At least they were alive, he thought grimly. "Colonel O'Neill to your rescue. Any idea where they're keeping Major Crook?"

"No, Sir. They took him a couple of days ago. We haven't seen him since," the Captain explained, visibly worried about his CO.

Jack scanned the camp for any sign of trouble. His actions hadn't been discovered yet. He had to get these men to safety but he couldn't leave Marc. Thinking hard, he eyed the Captain. The man seemed to have understood the Colonel's thoughts.

"I'm not leaving without the Major, Sir," Captain McKean protested, guessing where this was going.

Jack gave him a doubtful look. He admired the man's loyalty, but he needed to know these men were safe while he attempted to rescue Marc. He nodded at the Lieutenant's injured leg. "You're not exactly in a perfect condition for a fast in-and-out-rescue. The Lieutenant here won't run a marathon for a while and you two aren't in good shape either." Jack stopped briefly to see if his words had the needed effect.

The Captain nodded slightly, not completely convinced.

"I've marked a lane through the minefields. I need you to get your men to safety, Captain. Keep the marks on your right and get the hell out of here. Head Northeast. There's a spot close to the borders called Devil's Peak. Tuesday at nine is the first pick-up, then twice after every eight hours. Don't miss the bus. Got it?" O'Neill studied the Captain's face.

The Captain nodded. "Yes, Sir," he stated firmly, knowing the other man counted on him. "What about the Major, Sir?"

"I'm going to get him out. We'll catch up with you later. Now, go, before the guards make their next round on the roofs."

The Captain and his exhausted men saluted briefly. Then McKean remembered something he needed to know. "Sir? What day is it?" Being locked up in that place had made him lose track of time.

"It's Sunday evening." Jack showed them the rope and helped them climb up by lifting the injured Lieutenant on his shoulders while the Captain, who'd already made the ascent, assisted from the other side. Together they managed to lift the Lieutenant up. The Sergeant was the last to use the rope and soon, the trio was out of sight.

"Good luck, Sir," the Captain hissed as a last greeting before leading his men away from Camp Ockeloen.

O'Neill waited, counting time, allowing the three men to reach safer grounds and to get away. He was relieved that nothing happened; that the Captain had managed to lead his men away safely. Now he had three men less to worry about. It was time to move on. Time to figure out where they were keeping Major Crook.

O'Neill crawled through the alley between headquarters and the mountain wall. This time, he headed the other way. When he reached the end, he had a perfect view over the front side of the camp, with three barracks on the right, a radar installation opposite to him near the camp's fence and the two watchtowers on each side of the gate.

Jack knew there were two other possible places where Marc could be. In the middle of the square the Elite troops had created a hole in the ground, just big enough for one man to lie in, flat on his back or stomach. A wooden lid covered the "grave" and the Elite forces used this to break their prisoners by locking them in there for hours or days. Jack had experienced how hot it would become in the hole during the day and hoped Marc hadn't been in there all that time.

The other place where Marc could be was the dungeon underneath the huge building, close to where he lay on his stomach right now. The commander of the camp used to take his prisoners down there for "questioning". There were chains on the ceiling to keep the prisoners secured. It was another place Jack wasn't looking forward to visiting again. It was where the commander had broken his arm twice, mad, as he was when the information Jack had been feeding him turned out to be less than accurate.

O'Neill needed a plan and he needed it fast. He had no way of knowing whether the guards would check out their other prisoners before nightfall or not. If they did, they would find out that their prisoners were gone; they would find his escape route, they would probably place a double guard on Crook and they would most likely discover him soon thereafter. He just couldn't take that risk. He would have to decide which location he needed to check out first. The "grave" was out in the open, so it would be next to impossible to reach that without being spotted. On the other hand, entering headquarters and walking down the stairs to the dungeons without meeting anybody was pretty risky as well.

He'd already decided to take his chances inside the building first when he heard footsteps above him. Two guards were walking on the roof, making lots of noise. O'Neill crawled backwards, safely between the mountain walls and the building. If nobody looked over the edge of the roof he would be all right. They wouldn't see the rope either. He held his breath as the men talked aloud, in some Arabic dialect, and Jack didn't understand a word of it. By the sound of the voices he could make out that they were mad, however. Mad at each other, or at somebody else, he couldn't tell. One of the guards even sounded drunk to his ears, but he had a hard time believing that, knowing how strict the Elite force was.

The two guards stepped closer to the edge, still arguing loudly. Jack pushed his back as tight against the building's wall as he could, holding his breath.

Then one of the guards got really, really pissed. His voice even louder he emphasized his words by kicking against everything that came in front of his feet. The other man was stumbling, moving backwards, all while trying to calm his colleague down.

Apparently there were some barrels on the roof.

They just happened to come between the two fighting guards.

The one who was already kicking around, saw the barrels, smiled and placed some force behind his movement, hitting the barrels hard with his right foot. The first barrel was forced flying towards the other guard who was now yelling in fear.

The other barrel flew all the way over the alley between the mountain and the building and rolled into the higher fields.

Shocked, the second guard turned around and ran towards the opposite edge of the roof. The first guard moved backwards, desperately attempting to get out of the way, protectively covering his head with one arm.

The barrel landed in the middle of the minefield and rolled over twice before it detonated the first mine. It was a bounding fragmentation AP-mine and it burst out of the ground, throwing the barrel into the sky as the explosion illuminated the whole area. Pieces of debris and shrapnel flew all over the place, landing in the field, on the roof of the building and between it, down into the alley. A second mine detonated only a few seconds after the first, causing the same sort of reaction.

Jack had been listening carefully to what was going on up on the roof but he couldn't possibly know what to expect. The sound of the barrels startled him. He had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, plus he had no idea whether to move to his right or left. Instinctively, he turned, dropping flat on his stomach and covered his ears as the barrel hit the ground and triggered the mines.

O'Neill was lucky to have been wearing the safety helmet and fragmentation vest. Although the explosions took place above him and he was somewhat protected by the alley he was in, the pieces of shrapnel still rained down on him, damaging his arms and legs, digging through his shirt and pants, embedding themselves into his skin. The shrapnel was so hot from the detonation, that he felt hardly any pain.

Then it was all over.

Camp Ockeloen was suddenly a very busy place. Soldiers were running outside, ready to respond to anything, unaware of what had caused the explosion. People were talking loudly and excitedly without really listening to each other, all trying to assess the situation. The guard who had kicked the barrel had been blown off the roof by the force of the first explosion and was soon surrounded by his comrades. The man had broken his leg during the fall, but otherwise seemed all right. The commander of the camp soon barked out his orders and restored some order in the chaos. A group of soldiers was sent to examine the roof of the building, to see what had happened to the other guard plus to determine what damage had been done.

Another team of two soldiers entered the alley to inspect both the mountain and the building's walls. They immediately spotted the still dizzy intruder, and after shouting triumphantly at their colleagues, the two soldiers approached the prone form, dragged him to his feet and forced him out of the alley.

"Hey! Easy!" O'Neill protested, as the movement forced the embedded shrapnel to cut deeper into his flesh. The sharp metal was cutting through his skin like a hot knife, digging deeper and deeper into his body, causing a red-hot agony to run through the back of his arms and legs.

The guards paid no attention to their burden's cries and with huge, proud smiles on their faces they showed their catch of the day to the commander of the camp.

The commander stepped closer, a stunned but furious expression over his face. He barked some angry words at O'Neill, who of course had no idea what the man was talking about.

"Err, happy New Year to you, too," the Colonel answered, his ears still ringing from the explosions and his vision still blurring.

The commander was not amused and his fist landed hard on the Colonel's left cheek, throwing O'Neill's head to the other side. He would have fallen from the force of the blow if it weren't for the guards holding him up straight.

The commander turned, barking more orders and O'Neill watched as two guards ran through the small brick building on the other side of the camp, checking on their prisoners. They came back, hands and arms waving wildly in the air, yelling something that could of course only mean that the Elite force now knew that three of their prisoners were no longer where they were supposed to be.

The commander grew even more upset than he previously was. His face turned all red as he forgot to breathe properly. He waved with his arms and directed another group of his men into action. They snapped to attention and ran off. The commander turned around, lifted his arm and with the back of his hand, he slapped O'Neill hard in the face, the heavy golden ring around the commander's finger splitting the man's lip open.

Again, O'Neill staggered under the force of the blow, but the guards held him up. He could feel the warm blood tickle down his chin. Surrounded by the whole damn Elite force, there was no way out of this mess at that moment, and Jack cursed inwardly at the bad luck he was having. Although this was a different commander than last time he wasn't even sure that was bad or worse. He managed to brace himself for the next blow, this one landing on the bridge of his nose.

"Where are the Americans?" the commander hissed at him in his best English.

Jack acted in mocked surprise, looked briefly over his shoulders and lifted his brows. "What Americans?" he asked innocently.

The commander hit him just above the right eye. This time the ring tore the skin just under his brow and another small trail of blood marked the Colonel's face.

"You can't fool me. You *will * tell me where they are," the commander promised, his voice deadly serious. He landed another two blows in his captive's midsection, watching in satisfaction as the other man doubled over, gasping in pain. A last hard blow was landed on O'Neill's chin and the Colonel's knees buckled as the world around him went black.

The commander snapped his orders at the two guards who were all but carrying Jack now. They nodded before turning and dragging their burden inside the huge building.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

Major Marc Crook lifted his head wearily at the sound of the explosions. It took a while for his dull brain to recognize the sounds and for a brief moment he hoped that this would mean the Forces had sent a rescue party.

He shook his head violently, groaning at the stabbing hammers that were pounding into his skull as a result of the action.

"Get a grip, Marc. Bayfield won't send a rescue team," he thought. "I've got to find us a way out of this mess myself."

The Major sagged against the moist, brick wall of his cell, not even having a cot to sit or lie on. After his latest interrogation, he had no energy left to so much as raise his arms to wipe the sweat from his face. Although the Tyberians had beaten the shit out of him, they had been careful not to do any fatal damage. His chest was on fire, bruised, his ribs probably cracked, but he was pretty sure his vital organs hadn't been injured. His head had been used as a punching bag long enough for him to realize he likely had a hell of a concussion, yet those bastards had made sure not to hit him on his temples, knowing that one blow on that delicate area could be fatal.

All in all, he felt as if he was in hell, which he most probably was, but his major worries didn't concern his own safety, but that of his men. He hadn't seen them in days and he just hoped the Tyberian soldiers were too busy playing with him to pay any attention to his men. Major Crook took his responsibilities regarding his team very seriously. He'd learned that skill a long time ago; he'd had a great example.

A way out of here. He needed to think of a way out of here. That was his job. Keep focussed, Marc. His head was pounding so badly that he couldn't concentrate on one single thought.

He was startled when he heard the loud footsteps in the hallway outside his cell. A vicious shiver ran over his back. Were they coming back for him already? He'd hardly had time to rest, to recuperate…

The door opened and a soft light lit up the cell Major Crook was in, but after having been in the dark for a long time, his eyes couldn't adjust fast enough for him to see what was going on.

They appeared to be dragging a limp body.

God, please, don't let it be one of my men.

Too tired to get up it was all he could do to force his eyes open and concentrate on the commotion next to him. Through a gray fog, he realized the cell next to his was being opened. The dull thud of something being dropped was the next he heard; telling him the guards had dropped the body on the floor in the cell before locking the door. The door to the hallway closed and he was left in the dark once again.

Marc Crook forced his ears to listen, to catch the sound of breathing, moaning, anything, any sign of life, but he heard nothing. His eyes slowly adjusted at the dark again and the small beam of daylight that penetrated through a tiny opening in the roof was enough for him to finally see the body sprawled on the floor next to him.

Marc gasped as he recognized the clothes the man was wearing. Although it was none of his unit, he knew it was an American, and that meant that at least somebody had attempted a rescue mission.

The Major ordered his sore muscles to obey as he slowly crawled closer to the bars between him and the deathly still form lying on his stomach in the other cell. Fighting off the dizziness that was threatening to overwhelm him he lowered himself into the prone position, his left arm reaching through the bars, attempting to touch the unmoving body, while he desperately hoped for a sign of life.

His hand touched the other man's shoulder and he probed, carefully, waiting for a response.

Nothing. The other man definitely was out cold.

Marc didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, given the circumstances. If the man stayed out cold, then maybe… just maybe the guards would leave him alone…

On the other hand, the man could be dying and he wouldn't even know his name…

If only his head didn't hurt so badly… He needed to make up his mind, but it just seemed impossible.

Marc stretched and stretched, reaching with his fingers for the other man's neck and sighed in relief when he felt a pulse, strong and steady.

Then, the body shifted, and Marc drew his arm back, taking a deep, startled breath.

"Oww," the other man moaned softly, before pushing himself slowly to hands and knees.

"Hi," Marc said softly. "Are you okay?"

"Sure," a familiar voice answered. "I get caught in a mine detonation all the time…" The man suddenly raised his head, searching for the person who'd just asked him a question. "Marc?" he asked.

That's when Marc Crook realized who it was in that cell next to him. Although at first relieve overwhelmed him for not being alone anymore, he immediately realized that this was the last place on Earth we wanted to meet his old friend. He cursed inwardly. "Jack? What the heck are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too, buddy. I came here to rescue you," Jack shifted, wincing as the movement hurt his arms and legs, but he managed to get closer to the bars. His eyes weren't adjusted to the dark just yet and he could only make out a slight silhouette close to him.

"Well. Nice rescue then," Marc mumbled.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm working on it, okay?" Jack said, optimistic as ever. He fidgeted with the straps of his helmet until he was able to remove it. He absently dropped it on the floor next to him. He then let his fingers gently touch the gash above his eye, noticing that it wasn't bleeding anymore.

A thought suddenly occurred to the Major, as he hopefully asked, "My team?"

Jack rested his aching head against the bars. "I've got them out, Marc. Relax, they're safe."

Marc let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. At least that was one worry less for him. "You should have left with them, Jack," he continued, hating to be the one responsible for O'Neill's capture.

"No one gets left behind, Marc. I thought you of all people would know that."

Now that O'Neill had moved closer to him, Crook was able to examine him more thoroughly. He could see the blood trickling down the Colonel's arms and it was only now he truly realized what the other man had said earlier. "What happened? You stepped on a mine?"

Jack sighed. "No, I was hiding between that building and the mountain wall when two guards on the roof started arguing about something. One of them kicked something, a box, or a barrel, I don't know. It landed in the field and detonated one or two mines. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…"

"Damn," cursed Marc. He moved closer, biting back a groan as his own body protested the movement and gently grabbed O'Neill's right arm. "Let me take a look at you. You're bleeding," he said.

Major Crook spent the next thirty minutes letting his fingers run softly over O'Neill's skin through the torn fabric of his clothes, looking for debris and shrapnel, attempting to pull it all out of the man's arms and legs. The dim light and the fact that he only had his bare fingers made it impossible to get rid of the smaller pieces so he was forced to leave them where they were.

By the time he was finished, he had also told O'Neill all about what had happened, from how they got caught by the Elite forces until he was being taken away from his team.

O'Neill sat up straight, stretching his sore legs out in front of him and stared at his old friend, taking in every visible scar, the exhausted and haunted eyes, realizing all too well how miserably the Major had been treated. "How are you doing?"

Crook shrugged. "Mother of all headaches, bruised, battered, sore… Nothing to worry about."

O'Neill stared at the floor. "I'm sorry, Marc," he said in a low voice.

"For what?"

"I should have gotten you out of this rotten place. I've screwed up…"

"No you haven't. There was nothing you could have done. We'll get out of here. We will, Jack. We've got to." Marc Crook tried to keep his voice as confident as he could, but to be honest, he was having a hard time believing it himself. He'd spent hours, days, looking for a way out, but the opportunity just hadn't come. Marc knew, however, that Jack had escaped from this place before, so it could be done. He had to hang on to that thought or he would lose it completely.

"Yeah, we will," Jack agreed, then looked up as the door opened and the guards unlocked the door to his cell.

"You," one of them barked. "Come."

O'Neill shrugged his shoulders, got to his feet and looked back at his friend, giving him a comforting smile. He wasn't allowed any more time as the guards grabbed him roughly by his arms and pulled him with them, completely ignoring his protests that he was perfectly able to walk on his own.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

Captain McKean successfully led his men through the minefield, using the signs the Colonel had placed to stay on track. Lieutenant Olsen, the one with the injured leg, had been able to keep moving where they were not able to support him. As soon as they reached the end of the minefield, perfectly marked by a special marker, the other two officers rushed forward to assist their injured colleague.

"Well done, Leo. Are you able to move on?" McKean asked, worried about the Lieutenant whose face had turned deathly pale.

Olsen just nodded. They had to get out of here and he wasn't going to slow them down.

Captain Mckean used the compass the Colonel had given him to determine the direction as he led the men away from Camp Ockeloen. Colonel O'Neill had told him where to go and was counting on him to reach the destination. He was not going to let the man down.

They had made good progress, despite the injured leg of the young Lieutenant, when they heard the explosions. Stopping in their trek, the three men stared over their shoulders, taking in the enlightened sky.

Sergeant Wilson eyed the Captain. "That was at least one mine, Sir. Do you think the Colonel is all right?"

McKean's mind raced. Colonel O'Neill could have deliberately detonated the mines to create a diversion. In that case, he would have succeeded in rescuing Major Crook and the men would probably be on their way out. On the other hand it didn't sound logical for the Colonel to detonate mines in the same field they had to escape through; that could be dangerous. The Elite Forces wouldn't detonate the mines themselves, however. That made no sense either. So in the worst case the Colonel had stepped on a mine and was either dead or captured and the Major was still a prisoner.

One way or the other, McKean and his men were on their own and had to move on to reach the pick-up in time so they could report back to base. "We'll find out soon enough," he said grimly. "Let's move, people. Colonel O'Neill is counting on us."

Pushing all worst-case scenarios to the back of his mind the Captain concentrated on the task on hand and the three rescued men continued their trek through the mountains.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

O'Neill soon found himself in the familiar interrogation room. There was a square heavy wooden table in the middle of the room, flanked by two chairs. The chains on the ceiling were still in place. A violent shiver ran down his back and he forcefully pushed his painful memories away. The guards who'd escorted him here blocked the way out of the room as they waited for the commander to appear.

It didn't take long as the small, black-haired commander marched into the room, snapping his fingers at the guards. They immediately stepped forward, grabbed O'Neill and forced him to sit down on one of the chairs. The commander took the other chair and sat down opposite to the Colonel. He glared at his prisoner, trying to estimate the strength of this man. He deliberately kept quiet, merely glaring.

O'Neill glared back. He knew there was no way out at this moment. He needed to concentrate on staying alive long enough for them to get tired of him. Once they would take him back to his cell he would have to come up with a plan to escape. Maybe Marc knew a way out. Although the chances were slim, the Colonel was determined to find one. No way he was going to die here in this stinking Tyberian camp. He had a life back home, a job he cherished and people he cared about. He definitely wanted to see them again. He was going to get out of here. Even if it meant he had to crawl on his bare knees. He'd done it before. He'd had another life to fight for then. A loving wife, a beautiful son… Jack swallowed at the memory. Concentrate on your team, Jack, he told himself. Think about Daniel, Carter and Teal'c. They were his life now. Hell, he considered them even as family. They needed him. They were his reason to fight now. He wasn't going to give up.

The commander soon had enough of the silence. He noticed it wasn't making the other man nervous at all. "Where are the three Americans?" he asked, annoyed.

"What Americans?" Jack feigned surprise by arching his brows.

One of the two guards hit him, unexpectedly hard on his left cheek and he tumbled off the chair. The other guard grabbed him and dragged him back on the chair, the firm grip sending waves of pain through his already damaged arm. O'Neill slowly touched his cheek, which was already swelling up. At least his teeth were still in place.

"Where are the Americans?" the commander snapped.

O'Neill shrugged his shoulders and decided not to answer this time.

Although he was prepared this time, the blow still surprised him. It wasn't directed at his face this time. It landed hard and unmercifully at the back of his left arm. The guards had apparently noticed the damage that had been done to his arms by the shrapnel from the mines and used this spot to inflict more pain on their victim.

A deep groan escaped from the Colonel's lips. The sudden pressure on his damaged skin, on the small pieces of debris, which were still embedded there left him gasping from agony.

The commander smiled and nodded slightly at the guards. More blows landed on O'Neill's arms, one guard hitting him on the left, the other on the right. Jack closed his eyes to hide his pain, clenched his teeth and felt some sharp pieces dig deeper into his flesh. Soon he felt the warm flow of his own blood oozing down his arms. He was hit another couple of times, then the guards stepped back and the commander waited a second for his captive to regain his composure.

"Where… are… the… Americans?" His voice was dreadful and his eyes glowed furiously.

O'Neill opened his eyes and lifted his head to glare at the commander. "I'm the brother of David Copperfield. I've made them disappear," he hissed through gritted teeth.

The commander of course had never heard of the magician and wasn't amused at all. One guard pulled O'Neill's left arm over the table. The other guard placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, pushing it roughly down on the table. Jack heard the snapping of a knife being opened and the next second, the guard cut through his sleeve, just below the shoulder. One firm jab and the sleeve came off, exposing the damaged backside of his arm.

O'Neill tried to pull away, but his arm was locked in a deathly grip. With his shoulder and head firmly pushed down on the table he didn't even have an inch space to move. One of the guards held both hands, holding them straight above the exposed arm; just as a Japanese fighter breaking a brick stone in two pieces. Standing next to O'Neill, one foot forward and the knee bent, the man started hammering down on the bare arm with the sides of his hands, moving slowly from the shoulder downwards until he reached the elbow.

Jack groaned out loud, fought to pull his arm away but the other guard pinned him securely down. "Damn, you son-of-a-bitch," he hissed through clenched teeth as his bones, muscles and nerves screamed from the abuse. He was vaguely aware of the commander's laughter and the Colonel desperately tried to stay focused. The pain was overwhelming him and sweat appeared on his face, rolling down and dripping on the table underneath him.

The commander got up from his chair and approached his victim. "Do you wish to tell me where the Americans are now?" he asked, while bending forward to come into his prisoner's view.

O'Neill cracked his eyes open, glared at the man in front of him and thought for a second about spitting the man in the eye. Knowing that would be not a smart move, he settled for barking, "No, not really!"

The guard, who was pinning him down, steadied his grip, pushing him even harder on the table. The other guard grabbed O'Neill's upper arm, applying pressure on the already bleeding parts with his thumbs. These movements caused the embedded shrapnel to cut further through the Colonel's flesh and O'Neill couldn't stop from yelping out in pain.

This time the guard, who held him in his death grip, lifted his head up by pulling him on his hair, forcing him to face the commander again. O'Neill's face was soaking with sweat now and he wasn't able to see clearly through his pain filled eyes.

The commander looked at him, but didn't bother repeating the question. He already knew he wasn't going to get an answer and nodded at his guards. The guard roughly pushed O'Neill's head back down and leaned heavily on the man's shoulder. The other guard took his arm firmly in both hands, just above the elbow. With one firm jerk he pulled the arm upwards, while the other man pushed the shoulder down until they heard a sickening pop as the shoulder slipped out of its socket.

Jack inhaled sharply, a deep groan escaping from his lips before his body went limp, having no strength left to keep up with the game. His mind was attempting to block out the pain, but his head was spinning and his ears were ringing. He was unaware of being dragged to his feet. The guards hauled him back through the hallway, down the stairs and unceremoniously threw him into his cell. O'Neill landed on his stomach, let out another heartbreaking moan as his shoulder hit the ground and passed out.

/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\

Major Crook crawled towards the bars between the cells, softly calling his buddy's name. His friend had been thrown in only minutes ago and was unresponsive.

Marc tried to reach through the bars, stretching his muscles but still couldn't touch the still form on the cell's floor. He tried calling again. "Jack? Jack, wake up. Talk to me," he raised his voice a little this time.

Meanwhile, he let his eyes run over the prone body of his friend, visually checking for inflicted damage. He thought that O'Neill's right arm, which was closest to him, was bleeding again, but other than that he really couldn't tell.

"Come on, Jack. Wake up and look at me," Crook urged, not willing to give up. He wasn't really sure if his friend wouldn't be better off unconscious, but he needed to know how much the man was hurt and whether he could do anything to control the damage. Most of all, he was worried sick and just longed for a word of reassurance, telling him everything would be all right.

Stop fooling yourself, Marc. Everything is NOT all right and probably won't ever be.

"Jack?" he asked again and this time he was rewarded by some movement as the other man let out a deep groan and slightly lifted his head.

The effort of raising his head was probably too much as Jack let it drop back on the ground. "This sucks," he muttered under his breath.

Crook couldn't help but smile at the familiar comment. "Big time, Jack," he responded, then a deep frown covered his face. "What happened?"

Crook watched as his friend pushed himself up with one arm until he was on his knees, wincing at the sound of the other man's sharp intake of breath. He now saw the drooping left arm and the misshapen form of the shoulder. "Bastards," Marc muttered, taking in the sweat that was bedding O'Neill's face.

The Colonel raised his head, cradling his left arm in his right hand. "Yah think?"

Marc swallowed hard. He knew they had to do something about that dislocated shoulder before the swelling made it all but impossible. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he was going to get the job done.

O'Neill rose to his feet, swaying dangerously as the world spun. He waited until his eyesight cleared, then he moved towards the bars, searching for the right position.

Crook struggled to his feet.

"Don't touch me," Jack hissed through gritted teeth.

"But Jack," Marc protested.

"That's an order, Major."

Marc stepped back, doubtfully, his breathing increasing.

O'Neill assisted his left arm with his right, until his left hand could grab a bar at the height of his hip. Grimacing from the pain this caused, he inhaled deeply a couple of times before firmly putting his right fist in the armpit of his injured shoulder.

Major Crook closed his eyes.

O'Neill forced his bodyweight backwards, firmly holding on to the bar with his left hand while he cried out in pain. He held on, his fist firmly in place, his eyes tightly closed and forced his body backwards even further until the shoulder slipped back in place. Unable to release his grip just yet, he stood, his breathing erratic, in short, sharp gasps. Then, his right hand moved, opened up and cradled the injured shoulder. He released his left arm and turned, leaning heavily with his back against the bars.

"Shit," he gasped, and slowly lowered himself to the ground, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the bars. "Shit… shit... That hurt."

Marc swallowed the bile that was filling his mouth back down and let out a deep sigh. Gathering the water the guards had brought in earlier, he dropped on his knees close to his friend and handed him the canteen. "Here, drink some," he offered.

O'Neill gratefully took the canteen, drank some and then poured a little over his hand and wiped his face with it. Then he just sat there, trying to control the nauseating agony that was tearing up his shoulder and arm, concentrating on his breathing.

Crook visually inspected the Colonel's shoulder and arm from behind, taking in the swelling of both. There was still blood oozing down the arm and through the crimson stains, Marc noticed the extensive bruising. He bit on his lip, cursing silently and tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, soaking it with water. "I need to clean that arm," he warned, moving closer.

His friend nodded wearily, too tired to answer.

Marc started cleaning at the shoulder and carefully and precisely worked his way down to the elbow. It took all of his willpower to finish the job as the Colonel was moaning, flinching and constantly hitting his head backward against the bars. The Major tried to be as gentle as he could, but he also had to make sure to remove all the dirt. Hopefully some small pieces of shrapnel would come out with the bleeding as well, he thought idly. Crook moved to the right side, crawling closer to O'Neill's right arm. "You want a break?"

"And lose this loving feeling?" Jack hissed. "Nah… get it done."

Marc re-shifted the torn fabric of O'Neill's shirt to be able to clean the wounds at the back of his right arm. Although they were ugly to look at, some of them bleeding slowly and the whole area bruised; it wasn't nearly as bad as the other arm. Marc smoothly patted the abraded skin with water, looking for signs of infection. Luckily he found none but he realized that given the circumstances, it was only a matter of time.

O'Neill sighed out loud, his muscles slowly relaxing now that the worst was over. He sat quietly, with his head resting against the bars and his eyes closed. The pain in his shoulder was bearable now and the sharp stabs that had been running through his arms were replaced by a dull, numb feeling. His breathing was slowing down and the sickening feeling that had been overwhelming him after he'd relocated his shoulder was fading.

"Are you all right?" Marc broke the silence.

"Peachy… Just peachy," the Colonel cracked.

"I've got some water left. You think you could lie down? I should clean those injured legs as well. Do they hurt?"

"Hmmm," O'Neill answered, realizing that the Major was right. Although the guards hadn't hit his legs, he remembered the pain the mov