Work Text:
To Dream of Deserts, Dunes and Mountain Storms
by johnsheppard
ltcoljsheppard@yahoo.com
Blinding snow and treacherous footing made his predicament all the more perilous. The wind buffeted him, even in his thick parka, and packed the swirling snow against the lens of his goggles. The night was blacker than pitch and he was alone. Alone in enemy territory, his chopper scattered to the four winds by an enemy mortar.
When he'd left the base this morning it was nearly sixty degrees in the desert flat lands outside Kandahar. But in January, the Afghani winters could blow up a blizzard without warning, especially in the hills and mountainous regions near Kabul where his chopper went down. Now it was the middle of the night, no sun, no heat, no blinding light... just bitter bone-chilling cold and wind-whipped snow.
Feeling his way up a slippery rocky slope, the sub-zero temperatures freezing his lungs with every breath, John grunted as he lost his footing and slid back down the slope a few yards before catching a grip on jagged rock, stopping his descent. He'd tried calling out for help, but his voice was quickly swallowed up by the howling wind. His radio useless as he could barely hear his own voice shouting over the wail. What had happened to his crew?
The chopper had hit the mountainside slope pretty hard and tilted to the side, shearing off the main rotor blades and spinning the fuselage wildly as it slid down the snow-covered rocks. He'd held on tight to the controls so they wouldn't slam back on him but the stick had been dead long before impact. Sheppard could do little but warn his crew and send out a mayday just before they hit, then they dropped off a sharp ledge and when the Pave Hawk hit ground again the body severed in half, the nose went one way and the tail, another.
By the time the ship came to a complete stop, Sheppard was totally disoriented and the best he could do was call out for his crewmembers. His co-pilot had been thrown clear and he didn't know if she was dead or alive. He'd finally managed to free himself from the cockpit and salvage his survival pack, which now came in pretty handy. He'd originally thought it was a bit overdoing it to put a winter parka with gloves and goggles in there since the days on the desert dunes could rise to 70 degrees on some days, but now he understood.
Another blast of frozen gale came up without warning, stealing the breath from his lungs. Reflexively he turned, putting his back against the gale-force wind descending down the slope like an invisible avalanche. He buried his face inside the collar of his parka, a tight fit with the hood secured so tightly. It was a last-ditch effort for survival; affording him a chance to exhale whatever warmth was still left in his lungs into his clothing so that, in turn, he could re-breathe the warmer air in an attempt to keep his core temperature above freezing.
He'd been out here too long though... and the men he'd come out to the desert mountains to rescue from behind enemy lines... how were they faring, he wondered. What about his crew? Did they survive the crash? Were they able to find shelter? Were they captured? Were they together... or as alone as he was?
A movement on the slope below him... Sheppard's heart pounded in his chest as he froze like a statue, save for the intense shivering. He couldn't keep his teeth from chattering for the past hour or so and he knew he was dying, he was so far past hypothermia he honestly didn't know if his next breath would be his last.
But if it was going to be his last, it would be due to mother nature and not by the hand of his enemy. He reached for his sidearm, the only weapon pilots carried just in case but his muscles were nearly frozen, hands shaking so bad he fumbled for his holster. Finally he found a grip on the gun, nearly frozen in its case where it lay secured to his leg. Drawing the pistol, he aimed it in the general direction of the dark shape creeping up toward him.
Exhausted, confused and nearly frozen to death and the extra stress as he realized that he'd been hunted like an animal. He'd been tracked down by his enemy and was about to be put out of his misery and all of that was taking its toll. His eyes rolled back in his head as exhaustion tried to take him under and John grunted with the effort as he fought to keep them open, to focus his aim as the barrel wavered in his outstretched hand.
A flash of lightning and he squinted against the sudden brightness. He tried to call out for the intruder to halt but he'd lost his voice. He tried to swallow against the harsh dryness in his throat, his frozen lips chapped and split, the best he could do was croak out a guttural noise. His panic rose as he tried to pull the trigger, just to give a warning shot, but his finger wouldn't move; frozen, curled around the trigger.
His eyes focused on the weapon in his hand, his arm quaking so hard it would be easy for his attacker to see that he couldn't defend himself. Another flash of light revealed the intruder on top of him and his eyes shot up to the man's face, which was also covered against the intense cold. As the flash of light disappeared and his surroundings became black again, John felt the weapon grabbed from his hand and then half a dozen hands grabbing at his clothes, yanking him up hard and ruthlessly from the frozen ground.
Hands, many hands, and Major Sheppard realized the one man he'd seen in the flash of lightning was not alone. He was captured... a pilot downed behind enemy lines. They pulled him to his feet roughly but his legs gave way, frozen and numb. He grappled with his enemy as best he could before he was hauled away over the rocky ground like a sack of potatoes. Mercifully, exhaustion finally made him succumb to the peaceful blackness of unconsciousness.
When he woke again, he was tied up in a very uncomfortable position and surrounded by hooded figures wearing robes and military garb, some holding automatic weapons and others held very large knives. He was in a great deal of pain, from both his injuries and the frostbite that had no doubt started working on his tissues.
One of the hooded figures stepped forward and Sheppard looked up at him. 'Taliban,' he told himself, 'you're so screwed, John.' The terrorist rebel demanded something from him in a language Sheppard didn't understand and John simply glanced around at the other men standing over him. Again, the same man shouted at him. Stepping closer, he slammed the butt of his weapon against John's head, knocking him over.
Other voices, angry and frenzied, began shouting at and over one another and John opened his eyes. He tried to squirm away from the shuffling feet that seemed to disregard him lying on the floor beneath them. He looked up at the group of men arguing over him just in time to see one of them look down at him, their eyes met for a long moment and then he was being kicked repeatedly.
Something clanged beside his head and he felt the breeze of it on his face. Sheppard opened his eyes again to see a large silver blade dug into the sandy floor beside his head. He snapped a look toward the ceiling in time to see the Taliban soldier pull his sword free and swing it over his head again, aiming for him. John's eyes widened in terror as the blade came down at him in a wide arc...
~ ~ ~ ~
His eyes shot open with a gasp and he lay in bed frozen for a moment. His muscles had tensed so hard he had to consciously will them to relax as he realized it had all been a dream. Just a dream... but more than that, a memory. One that he'd thought he buried a long time ago.
"Easy, son," Beckett's voice wove through the misty tendrils of the memory and John swallowed, letting his eyes slide over to see the doctor hovering over him. Carson rest one hand on the Colonel's shoulder and told him reassuringly, "You're safe, Colonel. Everything's going to be fine."
John nodded that he understood, although he didn't remember much at all. Dr. Beckett excused himself after making sure all seemed fine and let him compose himself in private.
Sheppard pulled the covers back and rolled himself up carefully to sit at the edge of the bed, his lungs demanding oxygen as his rapidly beating heart slowed its pace. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the cool air in the room against his sweaty skin.
"Damn..." he muttered.
"That bad?"
John blinked and looked to his right to see Ronon standing there looking a bit worse for wear as well.
"What happened?" John asked.
"You don't remember?" Ronon asked in turn and John shook his head slowly. "Three days.... we were stranded on 379, no food or water, sub-zero temps dropped on us just before the blizzard hit... and our ammo ran out. We barely stayed one step ahead of the Wraith squads before they gave up. We found a cave, used that as shelter from the storm..."
Ronon sat down in a chair a few feet away and just looked at John for a minute. His face and hands were bright red and peeling from the frost nip he'd suffered on the planet's surface. The Satedan's long heavy mane and natural leather and skins clothing had protected Dex alot better than Sheppard's short cropped hair and light military BDUs. He watched as John sat up slowly in the bed, wincing with the ache of thawing muscles and bones frozen to their centers. "You having bad dreams?"
Sheppard raised his eyes only, shooting a glance toward his friend, remembering he'd mentioned a like story to Ronon not long ago. Something that had happened once on a planet far far away. "It's nothing. Just an old memory."
"You want to talk about it?" Ronon asked sincerely as he looked at his friend concerned. John looked at him for a moment and then shook his head.
"When I dream... it's usually deserts that I'm crossing inside my head," John told him quietly. "Just not this time."
Ronon studied him for a moment. He knew what those dreams were like, the ones that weren't really dreams but more like memories you're forced to re-live. Nearly every combat soldier, in any galaxy, is acquainted with them and Sheppard had shared a few of his experiences with Dex, just enough for him to know how bad John had had it a couple of times in the wars on his own planet. 'The enemy loves downed pilots,' Sheppard had told him and Ronon was sure there was a special, and dreaded, meaning behind the statement.
John never spoke of his experiences in detail, only alluded to them in that usual, casual way of his and that's all he really had to do for Ronon to know and understand. Then John feigned a smile at him and added, "Lucky for me I don't dream that often."
Ronon just sat quietly watching his friend as John turned his face to watch the setting of Lantea's sun through the tall stained windows. There were alot of layers to this man he called 'friend' and he kept most of them carefully hidden from view. He winced lightly as his thoughts shifted to realizing how lonely John must feel - to have so much to tell, and yet feel as though he can't, or shouldn't, tell those around him of the things he'd seen and done.
The two men sat silently in the twilight of Lantea's day looking out over the vast and seemingly unending ocean that went on in all directions as far as the eye could see. Ronon thought how strange it must be, as they sat within a floating city, to dream of deserts, dunes and mountain storms.
(End)