Rating: G
Audrey Lynne
April 17, 1987
Lieutenant James Ellison glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. "Where the hell is he?"
"We don't know, sir," one of the technicians in the room replied.
"He was supposed to check in with us four days ago," Jim growled. "What have we gotten? Nothing. It's been ten days; where the hell IS he?!" His time as a Ranger had taught him to master the art of hiding his concern with anger. "I knew I shouldn't have let him go alone."
"With respect," the technician told him, "I thought you and your group were ordered to remain here and wait."
Jim nodded. "You're right. He's my superior; I wouldn't have exactly defied orders and gone along -- but I've been able to 'reason' with him before. I could have talked him into taking at least me, if not the whole team."
"Risk is our business," Sergeant Harris, one of the men on the team, offered. "He knew what he was doing."
"I know he KNEW," Jim insisted, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it. This isn't like him; he always checks in on time. Something's wrong." Something being wrong in their 'business' could often mean failure of a mission. Failure could often mean death -- but that was a possibility that Jim was not going to consider just yet.
"Maybe it took longer than the major anticipated, sir," Harris offered. He was the team's optimist, always assuming the best. How he had managed it for so long, Jim hadn't a clue.
"The major would have informed us of the delay," Jim argued, turning to resume his pacing of the room. He looked out the window of their temporary base at the desert surrounding them. His commanding officer was somewhere out there. "We're not going to leave without him."
"Of course not, sir." Harris was practically beaming at Jim's statement. "That would be against policy."
Jim allowed himself a small grin. "Damn right it would." There was an unwritten policy among special operations teams -- every person who came in got out. Even if they died, they could rest assured in knowing that their fellow team members would make sure to retrieve the body if at all possible. Even on this ragtag team, a mixture of Army and Air Force, Jim knew that everyone wanted to stick to the 'policy.'
His only potential problem was that one of the colonels in charge of the mission had been hinting that their leader had likely perished, and that the team would be reassigned soon. It was a logical assumption to make -- more than ninety-six hours had passed since the deadline for radio contact. However, as second in command, Jim would do whatever he had to do to keep his team where they were until they learned the fate of their missing member.
The red phone, used for confidential calls, rang. Jim snatched it up immediately. "Ellison." He listened to the caller on the other end, a smile spreading across his face. It wasn't the best news possible, but it was certainly better than what could have been. "Thank you."
"Well, Lieutenant?" Harris asked, as Watson, their radioman, came back into the room. "What's the word?"
"The word," Jim began, "is that the major had a, and I quote, 'mishap'. He was rescued late last night. A few broken bones, lots of pain, but he's alive. He's in one of our hospitals now; they plan to transfer him to Walter Reed in a day or two. He's going to be all right."
"Thank God," Watson sighed.
"So," Harris asked, "are we going?"
"Are you kidding?" Jim asked in reply. "The Jeep's out front, and we're technically still on stand-down. Let's go."
Military hospitals were utilitarian in design, but effective. Once Jim was allowed in to see his fellow officer and friend, he pulled up a plastic chair next to the bed and sat, shaking his head at the bandages, sunburn, and IVs. "Hell of a break, Major -- no pun intended."
There was a slight groan in response. "Leave those cracks to me, huh?"
"As you wish." Jim smiled.
"Sara?"
Jim tried, but couldn't resist a soft chuckle. "You can call me anything you like, sir, but I'm NOT going to kiss you."
Major Jack O' Neill opened one eye cautiously, glancing at his visitor. "Oh. Jim. Just you." He took a breath, as though steeling himself. "Where's Sara?"
"Your wife's still in the States," Jim answered, "but she'll be meeting us in Washington when they move you to Walter Reed."
Jack groaned. "Had to be an Army hospital, huh?"
"Where else, sir?"
"Damn know-it-all grunts," Jack sighed. Though they had become good friends in their time served together, the two had carried an ongoing debate of the Army versus the Air Force. At the very least, it gave them something to do.
"Seeing as how you're injured, Major," Jim said, "I'll spare the flyboy jokes for now."
"I appreciate it, Lieutenant." Jack closed his eyes for a long moment, and Jim took that as his cue to leave.
"I'd better let you rest, sir." Jim turned to leave, but stopped at the sound of Jack's voice.
"Hey, Jim?"
"Yes?" Jim asked.
"Do me a favor. Next time you see those wacky Iraqis we're s'posed to be after, tell them they can kiss my American ass."
Jim laughed. "Will do, sir. Anything else?"
"Yeah," Jack replied. "If you talk to Sara before I do, tell her I love her."
Jim nodded. "I'd be glad to -- you'll be telling her yourself soon enough." He smiled as he left the room; they'd been lucky this time. One could only knock at death's door and run for so long before getting caught; it was only a matter of time in their world. Jim would deal with that day when it came, however. For now, he was going to go somewhere and have a beer with Harris and Watson to celebrate the end of a successful mission. The original goal might not have been achieved, but they considered any mission all of them came away from to have been a success.
The End