SG-999: The Informant.
Prologue
"The Ghost"
"The Ghost"
They called him Der Geist. German for The Ghost. And he was an assassin.
One of the best. According to the world's security services anyway.
He'd never failed an assignment yet.
His nickname came courtesy of a member of German counter terrorist unit GSG-9 who'd made an unguarded comment to the press, saying that only a ghost could've got inside a heavily guarded Federal Judge's house, via the front door it was discovered later, killed the man while his unsuspecting wife was hosting a dinner party in the next room, then calmly exited the way he'd come in, right under the noses of the bodyguards.
No one knew what he really looked like. Or rather, no one who was in fact still alive knew what he looked like. His services came at a price – six figures, minimum – and as such he was in a position to pick and choose who his targets would be.
At best, he could be described as being of medium height. Medium build. Plain features. No distinguishing marks. Brown hair.
The kind of person you wouldn't look twice at. Just another face in the crowd.
In fact, the most remarkable thing about him was that he was remarkably unremarkable.
He had no particular favoured method of assassination, nothing that could be called a signature move. Sometimes he'd use poison. Another time a bomb. Or a pistol, or strangulation, or tampering with a gas line. Even, on one occason, by the simple expedient of throwing the target off the top of a very tall building.
Der Geist didn't anticpate any problems with his newest assignment. Go to a particular country, go to a particular city in that country, go to a particular hotel in that city, go to a particular suite in the hotel and kill a man before he had a chance to speak to the wrong person. And if the afforementioned wrong person – a military officer of some sort - got in the way, kill him as well.
Seemples, as the well known advertising Meerkat would say.
Chapter One
"A Wake Up Call"
"A Wake Up Call"
Jack Hunter struggled awake in a tangle of blankets, gasping for breath.
That damn dream again. A battle – somewhere. Hunter leading a squad against an unknown and unseen enemy. The incessant hammering of artillery in the dream resolving itself into the sound of someone knocking at his bedroom door.
"Alright, alright. I'm coming." He hauled himself out of bed, being careful not to disturb his still sleeping wife, grabbed his watch, groped for the door handle.
Night watch duty NCO Sgt. Dede Rake, a tall blonde female Marine of Amazonian proportions stood in the corridor, looking far too bright eyed and bushy tailed for oh-dark-thirty.
"Sergeant, this'd better be damned good..." said Hunter, quietly. A glance at his watch, "It is... Within spittin' distance of oh-four-hundred, and I was very much asleep."
He decided not to mention the dream. Whatever it meant, it was something he'd prefer to deal with himself.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir. Urgent communiqué from the SGC. General Landry wishes to speak with you."
Hunter sighed, muttered "Crap." to himself. If General Hank Landry himself was calling, bypassing the normal chain of command, it could only mean trouble for someone.
SG-999's chain of command was relatively simple. Major Jack Hunter (Field Commander, Team SG-999) reported to his immediate superior Colonel Catherine Procter (Officer Commanding, Team SG-999). She in turn reported to her immediate superior Brigadier General Nick Procter (Officer Commanding, US Armed Forces Special Warfare Command). He then reported to Major General Jack O'Neill (Commander in Chief, Department of Homeworld Security), who reported to Major General Landry (Commander in Chief, Stargate Command) who then ultimately reported to a nice gentleman who lived in a big White House in Washington DC.
Team SG-999 had been formed a little over ten years previously as a dedicated Combat Search and Rescue unit to render medical aid, technical support and heavy weapons fire support where and when necessary to SG teams in the field.
Originally, SG-999 had drawn its members only from the ranks of the United States Air Force. But as the team had expanded, it had begun to recruit more from other branches of service – Major Hunter was formerly an officer in the US Army 75th Ranger Regiment, Sgt. Rake came from the US Marine Corps. Others came from non-US military services - the RAF, the Royal Navy, the Royal Marines to name but a few, plus the odd civilian specialist.
Hunter said, "Gimme fifteen minutes to find some pants, I'll take it in my office. And see if someone in the mess can scare me up some coffee. Clear?"
"Aye aye sir. Fifteen minutes in your office, with coffee." Sgt. Rake paused, a gleam of amusement in her baby blue eyes, "Don't feel you have to put on pants on account of li'l ol' me, sir" She eyed him appreciatively – tall, lean, tightly muscled, dark hair with just a touch of grey, the penetrating steel grey eyes, the firm jawline. Dressed, or strictly speaking undressed at the moment, in a pair of army issue boxer shorts and plan black t-shirt.
Hunter smiled a mirthless smile, held up his hand to show his wedding ring, "Still married, Dede."
She shrugged, "A gal can dream..."
"Thank you, Sergeant. Dismissed."
Hunter closed the door. He manoeuvred himself carefully around the darkened bedroom, managing to locate a pair of sweatpants, socks, a sweatshirt, and a battered pair running shoes as he did so.
Sitting on the edge of the bed to tie his shoelaces, a sleepy "Wurblefarg?" issued from the general location of his wife.
"Nothing, honey. Just Hank Landry wanting a word with me."
"Flarglewurp?"
"No, I don't know why."
"Waflurgle."
"Yeah, probably does mean trouble."
"Flurp?"
He glanced at his watch, "Oh four oh six. Go back to sleep, I'll see you later."
"Luvoo..."
He smiled, "Yeah, love you too."
Shortly, in his office, Hunter switched on his laptop and waited for it to boot up. He took a hefty belt of coffee, waited for the phone to ring. He stared into space for a while, just thinking, it was preying on his mind, the dream. What the hell did it mean?
Abruptly, the phone rang, jolting him from his reverie.
He hit the switch to put the call on speaker, "SG-999 command post, Major Hunter speaking."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the sound of someone clearing their throat, then, "Major Hunter? I must ask you for your authenticator, sir."
Hunter frowned. If Chief Master Sgt. Walter J. Harriman at Stargate Command was asking for his security authenticator, that meant something was amiss somewhere.
Another muttered, "Crap." then aloud, "Hunter, Jack A. Authenticator – Broadsword Echo Seven Zero Niner Seven Bravo. Confirmed?"
"Confirmed. Thank you Major. Please hold for General Landry."
A swift (or as swift as one could be at just after 0400hrs) mental calculation, it was 2015hrs or thereabouts back at the SGC, so – "Good evening, General."
"Mornin' Jack. First off, let me 'pologise for rousting you from your rack at such a Godawful hour of the morning. Ordinarily, I would've waited until a more civilised time, but something's come up and we may need SG-999."
Hunter sighed, rubbed his free hand across his face. "Sir, if you give me a moment, I can call up the current duty roster, but I can tell you we're desperately short handed. We've got people injured, on leave, injured and on leave..."
Quickly, Hunter scrolled through the the duty roster.
"Lemme see now... Captain Beaton is on leave, visiting his family, his father's health isn't so good at the moment. Captain McEwan is also on leave, enjoying fatherhood by all accounts. Lieutenant Tamari is leading the ready team at the SGC. No one has a clue where Captain McPaul is, probably half way up a mountain somewhere..."
SG-999 kept a dozen operatives, divided evenly between security, medical and technical sections, stationed at the SGC at Cheyenne Mountain and who provided a mission adaptable pool of personnel able to perform whatever the situation demanded, whether it be a straight CASEVAC operation, explosive ordinance disposal, a fighting retreat back through the Stargate, or whatever.
Their tour of duty would last two months or four off-world missions – whichever was the sooner. They would then be rotated back to SG-999's home base, a somewhat dilapidated looking 18th century country house and associated outbuildings somewhere in the Highlands of Scotland.
How the team actually came to acquire the estate remained something of a mystery. When pressed, General Procter once said that he'd won it in a card game. Whether this was true or not remained to be seen.
Landry interrupted, "I realise the team isn't at 100% efficiency Major, but hear me out."
"Sorry sir. Go ahead."
"Well, here's the skinny - we've had intel that the Lucian Alliance is trying to make inroads into organised crime here on Earth. Seems there's been a rash of execution-style murders in downtown Moscow that have the local police scratching their collective heads. The corpses of several alleged members of the Russkaya Mafiya - that's the Russian Mafia, have been found with their heads neatly blown off, and it appears that the perpetrator or perpetrators used a Staff-Weapon to do the job."
Hunter winced, "Nasty."
"Very." agreed Landry, "Alien technology in the hands of criminals here on Earth was bound to happen sooner or later."
"And of course, the retrieval and safe disposal of dangerous off world tech is part of SG-999's area of operations."
"Exactly."
"Ok, I'm with you so far, sir. I'm assuming there's a few complications?"
"You assume correctly, Major. The good news is, we got this intel from an informant. Former foot soldier with the Lucian Alliance, from some backwater planet, ass-end of nowhere. He's on Earth and we have him in police custody. The bad news is, he doesn't speak much English."
"So we'd need an interpreter?"
"Yeah. Fortunately we've managed to secure the services of such a translator, but he won't reach the informer's location until tomorrow."
"And that would be...?"
"Glasgow, Scotland. Believe it or not. And for reasons best known to himself, he'll only pass on his information to you. In person."
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