------------------------------
The Sentinel Project Part 9
by Lianne Burwell
February 2003
------------------------------

"Ka-*ching*! I am so good."

Stan swung the door of the safe open with a grin. Actually, 
it had been so easy that it almost wasn't funny. The guy 
whose office they were in needed to get himself a better 
safe. And some better security. Anyone who got past the pit 
bulls in blue uniforms at the front desk wouldn't have any 
trouble with this antique.

"Come to papa," he muttered to himself, pulling out the 
pile of file folders inside. The one they wanted -- okay, 
make that *Spender* wanted -- was there, near the bottom of 
the pile. Stan pulled it out and put the others back where 
he found them, despite the temptation to flip through them. 
He shut the safe door, gave the dial a spin to make sure 
that it was locked, then carefully set it back to the same 
position that it had been in before, although he doubted 
that the owner was smart enough to notice a detail like 
that. After all, he was a political appointee. Stan didn't 
think much of political types. They were so... political.

He may have restrained himself from going through the other 
folders, but the one had hung onto he considered fair game. 
He started flipping the contents, frowning at page after 
page of numbers. It looked like someone tax accounts. What 
the hell did Spender want with them?

"Stanley. Voices coming this way."

Fraser's voice pulled him back to the here and now, and he 
quickly packed up his equipment and tucked the folder 
inside his uniform jacket before he got more than a few 
pages into it. He moved over to Fraser's side and waited 
for the other man to give the go-ahead.

After a moment, Fraser nodded, and eased the door open. 
They slipped through, and headed down the corridor at a 
casual stroll, as if they'd made their appointment and were 
now leaving. There was no time to lock the door again, but 
with any luck, that wouldn't be discovered until the 
security guards did there normal pass-through in a couple 
hours, assuming that they even bothered to try the door.

They stopped twice when Fraser indicated. Stan wasn't sure 
what he had heard to make him so cautious, but there wasn't 
exactly time to ask. The important thing was getting out in 
one piece. The sense of triumph he'd felt on being able to 
crack the safe was quickly dissipating.

The elevator whisked them down the building lobby, and they 
were heading for the door when the alarms started to 
shriek. They paused, and though Stan was about ready to 
panic and run, Fraser just stopped, looked up into the air 
with a puzzled expression, then shrugged and continued on 
his way as though whatever was going on was none of his 
concern. Stan followed his example.

They were getting into their car when guards started 
pouring out of the building, guns drawn and yelling. "Hold 
on," Stan said, then gunned the engine. Instead of heading 
away from the armed guards, he headed straight for them, 
scattering them in every direction, before turning for the 
gate. The barrier was down, the guard was pointing a gun at 
them, and the others had recovered their senses and were 
shooting at them from behind.

The barrier broke apart as they hit it, and thankfully the 
official-looking car they'd been supplied with was bullet 
proof. A moment later, they were out onto the main street 
and merging into traffic.

"Well, that was fun" Stan said, slowing down slightly to 
match traffic.

"Indeed. However, I suggest that we head for the airport 
immediately. The authorities will be looking for us."

"Yep. And we wouldn't want to get caught. Might make his 
lordship peeved with us."

Fraser frowned disapprovingly at him. "And if he is peeved, 
as you put it, he might take it out on the others."

Stan took the on-ramp for the interstate heading out of 
town, towards the small airfield where the Gulfstream 
corporate-style jet was waiting to fly them back to 
wherever it was that the kidnapped men and women had been 
stashed. "Right. Sorry, Fraze."

The frown turned into that smile that melted his insides. 
"I understand. But I suggest that you control your anger. 
Until we can find a way for *all* of us to get away, anger 
will only cause more problems."

Intellectually, Stan understood, but emotionally it was 
hard. The anger had been bubbling under the surface ever 
since he'd seen that gun pressed to Fraser's head. The 
destruction of the cabin that they'd worked long and hard 
on, turning it into *their* home, worry about how 
Diefenbaker was doing without anyone to feed his junk food 
habit, the feeling of being turned into puppets dancing at 
Spender's orders: Everything merged together leaving him 
feeling like a stick of really old TnT.

In other words, ready to go off at the slightest jostle.

But for the moment he shoved those thoughts away and 
concentrated on getting them out of town in one piece.

>>>~~~<<<

"I see that you have continued to send teams on missions, 
even though the base has been locked down." Covarrubias's 
voice was completely devoid of expression, making it 
difficult to tell whether or not she was upset about that.

"Yes. However, I took it that the lock down applied to 
exposure to possible terrorist threats," General Hammond 
said coolly, not backing down. "As well, the Goa'uld aren't 
going to give us a break because we're having problems 
here. If anything, they're more likely to mount an 
offensive to take advantage of the confusion."

"There is no confusion," Maybourne said from his seat near 
the door. "The only question is when we will strike back, 
and I don't think that we'll have to wait long. Then we'll 
show those rag-heads just what happens when you take on the 
U.S. of A."

Jack had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep 
from saying just what he thought about that pompous 
statement. Sure, he agreed with the sentiment, but the man 
just rubbed him the wrong way. And there was something 
about this whole conspiracy business that also rubbed him 
wrong. Maybe he'd been fighting the Goa'uld so long that he 
just wasn't used to ordinary, every day, human nastiness. 
On the other hand, after the NSD and Maybourne and Kinsey, 
maybe he'd reached the point where triple-thought came so 
easily that he didn't trust anything.

Including the blonde sent by Washington. Who the hell was 
she? Jack had certainly never heard her before, either 
through politics or the military. The fact that she'd come 
out of nowhere to be put in charge of the Stargate Project 
disturbed him. Hell, as far as he was concerned, she 
shouldn't have even *known* about the project. What was 
she? CIA? NSA? Some other alphabet soup super-secret spy 
agency? Whatever she was, he didn't trust her any further 
than he could throw her. No, correction: He didn't trust 
her any further than Dr. Frasier could throw her, and no 
matter how strong the tiny woman was, that wasn't very far 
at all.

"Be that as it may, it doesn't change the fact that the 
Goa'uld are a bigger threat to us, to this planet and the 
human race, than any terrorist. It's blunt, but it's true," 
Hammond said firmly, showing exactly why he'd risen to the 
rank of General.

Maybourne growled softly, but he didn't protest the 
statement. His previous involvement -- and he'd been a 
thorn in their side for years now -- in the project meant 
that even though no one was going to trust him anywhere 
near the 'Gate, no matter what his boss said, he did have a 
good idea just what they were dealing with.

Covarrubias glanced at him, but Jack couldn't tell if it 
was a reprimand or just a suggestion that he keep his mouth 
shut. Jack agreed with either one.

Then she turned back to Hammond. "I quite agree, General. 
And other than the fact that the lock-down is not going to 
be lifted, I would say, for at least the next week, I want 
the project to continue, business as usual. Is that 
understood?" Hammond nodded, and O'Neal bristled on his 
behalf. "Now, I'd like to see my office. As well, I want to 
read the reports on everything that has happened since this 
so-called assassination attempt."

A moment later, she was lead away by an airman, with 
Maybourne trailing after her like the tail-end of a snake. 
Jack waited until they were well out of sight before 
letting loose with an explosive set of expletives, most of 
them in languages other than English, and some of them not 
even human. One benefit of a job where a large portion of 
your time was spent off-world was that you learned ways of 
cussing out your bosses that they didn't have a hope of 
understanding, since swear words didn't usually make it 
into the reports.

The expression on Hammonds face told him that even if the 
man didn't recognize the words, he knew exactly what O'Neal 
was saying, but he didn't call him on it.

"I thought she was supposed to just be an observer," Jack 
said when he'd finally calmed down a bit.

"That was what I was told," Hammond said calmly. Jack 
wasn't sure how the man could stay so calm.

"She sure doesn't sound like that's what she was told. She 
sounds like she's taking over command. And can you believe 
the nerve of her, bringing Maybourne with her? Come on, 
sir, that's a blatant slap in the face to all of us."

Hammond's expression tightened. "Be that as it may, I 
expect you to provide an example for your people. You will 
treat them with respect. They have been sent by the 
government that we swore an oath to protect. Is that 
understood?"

Jack lifted his hands to wave the man off. "Completely, 
sir. Respect is my middle name. I treat everyone with 
respect, whether they deserve it or not."

Hammond didn't look convinced, and Jack wasn't sure why. 
"Fine. Now, I suggest you go talk to your team before 
*they* are less than respectful." He paused, and Jack could 
almost see the light bulb going on. "Actually, maybe it's 
time for SG-1 to take a mission off-world. I believe Dr. 
Jackson was saying that he needed more time to examine the 
ruins on PX-4437. Maybe a month would be enough for him."

"Sir!" Jack protested. The world in question was a jungle 
world, and ruins were overgrown. Examining the ruins would 
require hacking away vines that made kudzu look like 
nothing, while keeping an eye out for the oversized felines 
that hunted in the trees, ready to drop down on the unwary.

"Then again, maybe not. But the first sign of trouble from 
*any* of your team, and you'll be off-world so fast that 
your head will spin. Is that understood, Colonel?"

"Perfectly, sir," Jack said. Maybourne or the jungle. Jack 
wasn't sure which was worse. However, he didn't really want 
a first-hand comparison.

Besides, even though they weren't allowed to leave the 
Cheyenne mountain base, he wanted to be around, just in 
case. As the General had pointed out, he had sworn an oath 
to protect his country, and his country seemed to be 
teetering on the edge of all-out chaos.

>>>~~~<<<

Broots pulled the last disk out of the laptop, then brought 
up the list of files that he thought might possibly be 
related to either the so-called 'Mexico facility' or their 
current situation. The list was still depressingly long. 
He'd only gotten a part of the Center's database before 
everything had blown up in his face -- thankfully not 
literally this time, for all that was worth -- and even so, 
there was more data than any one person could hope to read 
through, word by word, in a lifetime. It was what made 
smart search engines such a godsend.

He leaned back in the chair and stared at the faded 
wallpaper on the wall in front of him. It was the third set 
of wallpaper in the last few weeks, since they had kept 
moving. They'd moved the day after Mulder and the creepy 
guy who reminded him of Miss Parker had left, just to be 
safe. Where the bikers came up with all these safe houses -
- mostly farmhouses and the like in the middle of nowhere 
where no one would think to look for them -- he hadn't a 
clue. The isolation was starting to get to most of them. Oh 
well, it wasn't like he'd had the time to get out, even if 
he'd dared to.

Some days he wondered why he was working so hard at this. 
He didn't know these people, and now he probably had a 
price on his head because of them. Okay, working for the 
Center was practically a death sentence anyway, but still, 
it was familiar. Now he wondered what had happened to 
Sydney and Miss Parker. Hell, he even wondered about Lyle. 
Sure, he could probably break into the system to find out, 
but he didn't dare try. It might lead the Center's thugs 
back to them and get them all killed.

Especially Jarod. Or maybe except Jarod. Only thing was, if 
Jarod wasn't killed, he would be locked up in a tiny cell, 
guarded around the clock, never given another chance to 
escape. The thought of someone as vibrant, as... good as 
Jarod being caged like an animal made him sick.

Broots sighed, and rubbed his sore eyes. When you came down 
to it, that was why he was here. Not because of ideals or 
anything as high-minded as that. He was here because of 
Jarod.

And no matter what he said, he wouldn't change anything if 
given the chance.

Broots hooked up the printer to the laptop and started it 
chugging away, printing out some of the documents that he 
thought looked the most promising. He'd looked at so many 
files that nothing was sticking in his mind, but maybe some 
fresh eyes would help. Eyes that weren't bloodshot from 
lack of sleep and too much caffeine certainly couldn't 
hurt.

He glanced over at the sheet of paper next to the computer 
listing all the terms he'd used for searches, and a few he 
hadn't. One item on the list jumped out at him. Debi 
McCullough. The missing girl who had apparently been taken 
to this facility. Maybe it was because of the name, because 
she was young and a daughter, but in his mind, he was 
picturing his own daughter there, going through the same 
things that this young woman was going through.

He started sorting papers. Okay, maybe it was *just* for 
Jarod that he was there. Or at least still there.

>>>~~~<<<

All of the country was on edge. Many spent their spare time 
glued to their television sets, waiting to hear if 
something new had happened. American bases around the world 
were on high alert, watching for any sign that they might 
come under attack. Tensions were high, leading to a sharp 
rise in hate crimes, with fire-bombings of Mosques, 
Temples, and a few Irish pubs, where business had also 
dropped to an all-time low.

The fragile peace in Northern Ireland had fallen apart in 
the face of accusations that members of the IRA had been 
involved in the assassinations in the United States. The 
IRA had issued vehement denials, but no one believed them. 
The proof displayed by the American investigators was too 
solid. The British government was threatening to move 
troops back in, to 'keep the peace.'

And the Middle East was on the verge of erupting into total 
warfare. The leaders of Iran and Iraq, long-time enemies, 
had found common ground in denouncing the Yankee devil for 
the so-called evidence that said that Arab terrorists were 
also involved in the conspiracy. It was all a ruse, they 
said, to justify the war that the Americans so obviously 
wanted. Protests outside American bases were growing in 
size and volume, becoming more and more angry by the day.

Everyone was watching their neighbors, and strangers were 
suspect just for being unfamiliar. Most large cities had 
instituted curfews, since rumors were running wild that 
more attacks were coming, although the where and when was 
vague. The national guard patrolled the streets, and the 
highway patrol was pulling over anyone who looked even 
vaguely suspicious, although a few brave reporters were 
pointing out that blacks, unlinked as yet to the current 
problems, were the most likely to be arrested on suspicion.

Then there were the rumors. Rumors of citizens taken away 
in the middle of the night by police and army. Rumors of 
secret trials. Rumors of deportations on the flimsiest of 
evidence. Rumors that were rarely reported, for it would be 
seen as criticizing the government, leading to accusations 
of disloyalty.

And yet, there were some parts of the country that had 
pretty much ignored the panic. Areas where life went on as 
usual. Where the sun rose and set, the sun was warm, the 
beer was cold, and people pretty much minded their own 
business. Places like Key West.

So, it wasn't too surprising that the laid-back inhabitants 
of that southernmost tip of Florida didn't bother to notice 
when a few strangers rolled into town. Plenty of strangers 
came to the Key. After all, wasn't it the best place in the 
world for a vacation?

Except, these people weren't on vacation.

TO BE CONTINUED