The Road To Nevada
by lamardeuse
A/N: This story is set in the past, and thus in the interests of historical accuracy, the politically correct terms we know today are not always used.
Many thanks to Femme for her generous encouragement, to _inbetween_ for her correction of my German and to Jim for his expertise on planes and matters military, for the name of Rodney's company and for his suggestion about the final destination of our heroes. Any errors are mine.
Written for the SGA Santa community on LiveJournal in December 2005.
Chapter One
The day John Sheppard met Rodney McKay happened to be, by an astonishing coincidence, the day he fell out of the sky for the second time.
John’d been having trouble making ends meet the past couple of months, and so when he’d gotten a telegram from an old Army buddy telling him about a big opportunity to be had at a race in Toronto, he’d jumped at the chance. It took him three days of hitching rides, but he made it over the border and out to the field, a grass strip on the western edge of town.
The sky was clear and perfect, and the wind was moderate but steady off Lake Ontario. John settled his pack over his shoulder and headed straight for the nearest plane, a sleek, gorgeous monocoque design that looked a little like one of the new Supermarines. He walked around the nose and found a pair of legs and an ass encased in greasy blue overalls sticking out of the engine compartment.
The ass was pretty nice, actually, and it was wiggling back and forth in a way that made John forget what he was going to ask for a minute.
“Uh, excuse me,” he called.
A soft thud emerged from the engine compartment. “Goddammit!” the ass yelled. John winced.
“Sorry. I’m looking for the—” he fumbled the crumpled telegram out of his pocket and scanned it “—Dominion Aeroworks plane. Could you tell me where I can find it?”
“You’ve found it,” the ass said, slowly wiggling its way free from the guts of the engine. It was attached, John soon discovered, to a beefy torso topped by a scowling face and a thinning thatch of hair that had been severely rearranged by its abrupt contact with the cowling hatch.
John countered the sour expression with a smile; the first thing you learned as a pilot was never to piss off the ground crew. “Hiya,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m Sheppard. Max Anderson’s friend.”
The other man continued to scowl, but he took the offered hand after wiping his own on the leg of his overalls. “Another American?” he asked with a curl of his wide lip.
John reminded himself that he really needed this job before answering. “Last time I checked,” he replied easily.
“Hm,” grunted the stranger. Crystal-clear blue eyes as bright as the sky above them looked him up and down like a disapproving drill sergeant. “Considering that less than four days after he was hired Anderson managed to get drunk, smash his car and break his fool leg, I’m not sure why his buddy should be an acceptable substitute.”
John’s gut took a nose dive. He’d come eight hundred miles to walk onto this field with exactly two bits and the hope of a good paying job. It was starting to look like he’d have to manage another eight hundred on just the two bits. “Listen, brother, Max said Dominion had a job for a top notch flier. If you don’t mind pointing the way to your boss, I’ll just—”
“You’re top notch, are you?” That dismissing gaze roamed his rumpled clothes, and John felt his face go hot.
Patience finally exhausted, he growled, “It took me three days to get here, traveling nonstop. I’m beat, I need a bath and a shave, and I haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday.” He returned the visual reconnaissance sweep, ending it at the top of the man’s disheveled head. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the freshest daisy in the field either.”
The other guy’s mouth thinned dangerously, and John noticed it had a tilt to it. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” he sneered. “Perhaps I should introduce myself: my name is Rodney McKay.”
John raised his eyebrows. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
McKay’s lopsided mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m the owner of Dominion Aeroworks.”
“Oh,” John said, his gut crashing and burning on the tarmac. “Good for you.” He paused, then thought, what the hell. “So, do I get the job or what?”
McKay stared at him, mouth slackening. “It’s really true,” he marveled. “All of you Yanks have got balls of brass.”
“Solid, four inch radius.”
This time it was McKay’s eyebrows that climbed. “You mean diameter.”
“I mean radius.”
McKay stared at him for another moment, then to Sheppard’s surprise snorted and smirked. “I take it you’ve flown monoplanes before?”
“A few,” John hedged, figuring two was close enough to ‘a few’ to pass inspection. “None as gorgeous as this one, though.”
McKay’s demeanor brightened considerably at that. “This is my latest design,” he said proudly, laying a hand on the aluminum skin. John noted absently that his hands were broad and callused. “Variable pitch propeller, retractable landing gear, and a supercharged engine. She’ll cruise at two eighty and never break a sweat.”
John tried not to be charmed by the way McKay looked at his machine with real affection. It was a look he’d given planes himself on occasion, usually when they carried him safely back to earth after a dangerous flight. “What’s her top speed?” he asked.
McKay shook his head. “It hasn’t been fully tested yet,” he replied sadly.
“You must have a regular test pilot,” John said, surprised.
“I did. He disappeared last week. That’s why I hired your friend Anderson.”
John frowned. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
“You don’t know what ‘disappeared’ means?”
“I know what ‘disappeared’ means, McKay…”
“—vanished, gone, no longer there?”
John groaned and threw up his hands.
“He was another Yank,” McKay mused. “Maybe you knew him?”
John rolled his eyes. “Sure, because everybody knows one another in the U. S. of A.”
“His name was Marshall Sumner.”
“Holy shit,” John breathed.
“So I’ll take that as a yes?” McKay asked acidly.
Marshall Sumner. John hadn’t heard that name in almost twenty years. He’d been a good CO, if a little too by-the-book. He was also a hell of a pilot, and John was glad to hear he’d obviously recovered from the mishap that had gotten him invalided back to England and back home shortly thereafter. Too many good men had never made it back from that hellhole.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve heard of him. He was my squadron commander in the war.”
McKay eyed him skeptically. “You don’t look old enough to have served.”
“I lied about my age,” John said, shrugging. “I wanted to fly.”
McKay’s crooked mouth got slightly more crooked at that; John figured that meant he was thinking about something. “All right,” McKay said after a moment. “Since I’m hard against it, I’m going to have to give you a try. The race starts at two and it’s now…” he checked his wristwatch “half past eight. That’ll give you time to take her up to get the feel of her before the race.”
John’s stomach chose that moment to emit a loud growl.
“But before we do that,” McKay said, “We’d better feed you, hm? I don’t want you passing out from manly hunger when you’re racing my ship.”
John thought about his twenty-five cents. Fifteen would get him a decent breakfast, but unless McKay paid him right after the race he’d have to sleep under the stars tonight. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it before.
“There’s a great diner just down the road,” McKay said. “My treat.”
John shook his head. “No, thanks. I mean, yes to the diner, no to the treat.”
“Don’t be stupid,” McKay said shortly. Surprisingly strong fingers wrapped around John’s bicep and began tugging him toward an open top coupe. “When you work for me, food is one of the perks.” He blinked. “Well. Actually it’s the only perk, but that’s beside the point.”
Sighing, John let himself be dragged, because he was too hungry by now to really give a damn about his pride, and because he really wanted to fly that beautiful bird of McKay’s. It had been six weeks since he’d been up in the sky, and the itch was turning into an ache.
“Are flapjacks part of the perks?” John asked as he walked around to the passenger side of the car.
McKay met his gaze. “All you can eat.”
“Mister, you got yourself a deal,” John said, opening the door and climbing in.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
“Remember, she’s a little unstable in a steep turn!” McKay yelled over the roar of the engine. “So make sure you—”
John waved at him impatiently. McKay had already told him everything he needed to know about his pride and joy six times over breakfast. “I got it!” he yelled back. “Don’t worry!”
McKay flung up his hands. “I always worry!” he shouted.
“Get off the wing, McKay!” John ordered. “Or I’m taking off with you on it!”
McKay shot him a murderous glare, but did as he was told. As soon as he was clear, John nudged the stick slightly and the plane began to move forward.
Soon he was racing down the strip, feeling the aircraft respond to his every twitch, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as he picked up speed. He opened the throttle, trimmed the nose up and lowered the flaps, and the bird shot into the air like a perfectly aimed arrow.
“God, you are a gorgeous creature,” John murmured as the powerful vibration of the engine suffused his body and the wide, streamlined wings lifted him higher and higher. Times like this, John knew exactly why he’d been put on this earth; flying gave him a sense of purpose like nothing and no one ever had.
Because he didn’t really want to give his new boss a heart attack, he took it up slowly and spent a good ten or fifteen minutes learning the way it handled. McKay’s design was a sound one, if slightly revolutionary. John’s initial impression of a Supermarine had been off, because this ship was much more fluid than that company’s designs, the wings sprouting almost organically from the fuselage. They were wide for a racer but not as round as the British ones, tapering more like a Dak’s. It was like flying on the back of a living thing, and John needed only seconds to know he loved it. He had a sudden burst of jealousy for his old CO, because as soon as Sumner got back from wherever he was, John wasn’t going to get to ride this beautiful animal any more. Any flier would have to be dumb, dead or crazy not to want to keep this job for as long as he could.
After he’d learned the feel of her, he opened it up again and took her into a steep climb, grinning when he pictured McKay’s wide mouth dropping open in shock. McKay was a strange duck; John had figured that out somewhere between his fifth and sixth flapjack. He was obviously well-educated, but he looked and moved like a grease monkey, and the clothes under the overalls were as messy and cheap as John’s. He was abrasive and seriously lacking in manners, but he had a deep passion for aircraft and technical innovation, as was made clear by his nonstop patter while John ate. John knew enough about the mechanical side of the machines he flew to perform some basic maintenance, but the level of knowledge that McKay exhibited was stunning.
McKay might have the arrogance and temperament of a genius, but John was beginning to think it was warranted. The ship climbed like it was being pulled by a wire attached to the moon, and when he turned her over, she dove almost sweetly toward her death, just because he asked her to. When he pulled back, she barely shuddered before responding, fighting gravity with every ounce of strength in her and winning easily.
Just for the hell of it, he leveled out at a hundred feet and went screaming down the length of the field before climbing again. He picked out McKay easily; he was hopping around like a flea on a hot griddle, hands flailing madly in the air. John gave him a merry salute and pulled into another steep climb.
When he was up at about three thousand, he leveled off once more and tried a couple of bank-and-rolls. The stick did balk a little at that, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Time for a little more maneuvering practice, he decided, nosing her over into a more shallow dive this time.
He was halfway to the deck when the engine gave out.
There was no warning, not even a splutter; suddenly the power cut out like it had never been there. John took a deep breath and tried the electric starter McKay had showed him, but wasn’t surprised when it didn’t engage.
Okay, he asked himself. What’s the situation? He had a parachute – McKay had insisted on it – but he didn’t trust the damned things and by now he was too low to use it anyway. He immediately grabbed the trim wheel and spun it to keep the nose nice and high, trying to slow his descent and avoid a ground loop when – if – he landed. Deciding there wasn’t much hope of a restart at this point, he next feathered the props to cut back on the drag.
Heart hammering in his chest, he finally pulled back on the stick and leveled off a couple of hundred feet above the ground.
“Judas Priest,” John gasped, taking a couple of seconds to breathe, “I’m still alive.” He looked around him and spied the runway ahead and on his left, but with a dead engine he wasn’t interested in doing a lot of fancy-ass banking to try to line up with it. The ground straight ahead of him was flat enough, and with the gear still up he figured he could manage a decent belly landing.
Gingerly, he lowered the flaps a little more, wincing when the bird shuddered and dropped suddenly. By some miracle of McKay’s engineering, she stayed straight and level, and after swallowing his heart again he just let her continue her natural descent as she glided for home.
“Come on, sweetheart, come on, come on, just a little bit more, yeah, you can do it,” he heard himself saying, the encouraging words about all he could contribute at this point. He was a couple of dozen feet from the ground when the nose dipped; desperately, he cranked the trim wheel all the way, kicking her back enough to lift the nose at the last moment. The resulting loss of speed brought her down more swiftly than he’d hoped, though, and she slapped the ground with all the grace of a falling brick, skidding only a couple of hundred feet before coming to a stop.
And then everything got incredibly still for a couple of minutes, as it always did whenever John survived something that probably should have killed him. The fact that he recognized the phenomenon probably meant it had happened far too many times in his life, he reflected.
The silence was soon broken by the drone of a siren. He’d missed the runway by about five hundred feet, but like he figured, the adjacent farmer’s field was the next best thing. He was kind of sorry about the corn, though.
And then he heard what at first sounded like an approaching freight train. He peered up above the rim of the cockpit and caught sight of Rodney McKay galloping between the rows of half-grown corn as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him.
“Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ,” he puffed with every step. Spying John, he skidded to a halt. “Oh, Christ. You’re not dead. Say you’re not dead.”
“I’m not dead,” John assured him.
“Why should I believe you? Stand up. Can you stand up?”
In lieu of an answer, John undid the weird belts and harnesses McKay had insisted he wear and stood up. His back was a little sore, but he was shockingly uninjured considering how hard he’d hit the ground. Maybe there was something to those “safety measures” McKay had babbled on about after all.
When he was down on terra firma, McKay stepped up to him, closer than most American guys usually did. John wondered if things like that were different in Canada.
“You’re not dead and you’re not hurt,” McKay said flatly.
John shook his head. McKay took another step closer, his face unreadable.
“Then would you mind telling me,” McKay said slowly, jabbing a finger into John’s chest with every word, “why the hell you broke my plane?”
John leaned forward, using his extra couple of inches to best advantage. “I didn’t break your damned plane!” he shot back. “In case you didn’t notice, your plane nearly broke me.”
McKay stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “You must have done something.”
“I’ve been flying planes for twenty years, McKay. I’ve never had one stall on me like that. It should have been impossible to stall it in that situation through pilot error.”
“Are you saying it was a mechanical flaw?” McKay bristled.
John sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe one of your ground crew missed something.”
“I am my ground crew,” McKay growled.
John frowned. “You’re kidding.”
McKay drew himself up like a peeved puffin. “I don’t trust anyone else to work on my planes.”
John turned around and walked over to the plane, then climbed up onto the nose, reached down and lifted the hatch on the engine cowling. McKay scrambled up beside him. After about a minute John found it.
“One of the fuel lines is disconnected,” he murmured, moving aside so that McKay could see it. “It must have been loose to begin with, and then the vibration of the engine did the rest.”
“What? But that’s – that’s impossible. I always check and double-check all my connections—”
“Was anyone keeping an eye on the plane while we were gone?”
McKay blinked. “No. Are you suggesting sabotage?”
“It’s been known to happen in some races in the States.”
McKay looked away for a moment. “I didn’t think I’d have a problem with security for – never mind,” he murmured, finishing abruptly.
“You got any rivals who want to put you out of business?”
McKay shot him a sharp look. “Not that I know of,” he snapped, but there was an edge to his voice that was hard to miss.
You’re a lousy liar, McKay, he thought, but there was no point in saying that aloud. John sighed and replaced the engine cowling. “Well, it’s been fun,” he said heavily, as the gravity – pun intended – of his situation descended on him like a plummeting elephant. He had no money, no job, and he was stranded in a foreign country. And he’d thought that 1932 was a shitty year.
“You’re leaving?” McKay asked.
John shrugged. “Unless you’ve got another plane I can wreck.”
McKay opened his mouth, closed it, then seemed to come to some kind of decision. “I might have one you can fly, not wreck.”
Well, hell. That was unexpected. “Sure you can trust me?” John asked, frowning.
McKay gave him that assessing look again. “Frankly, I don’t know. All I know is I’ve never seen a pilot land a dead ship as well as you did just now. I need someone with that level of skill.”
“You want me to fly gliders?”
McKay shook his head; that gleam that John was starting to recognize lit up his eyes. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
McKay made arrangements for the plane to be towed from the farmer’s field, and then he and John drove up to McKay’s home, which he said was on the shores of the lake a couple of hours out of town.
Somewhere along the way John must’ve fallen asleep, because when they pulled into McKay’s lane he jerked awake, his neck protesting the sudden movement.
“I tried to wake you up a couple of times,” McKay informed him. “That position isn’t good for your neck.”
“No kidding,” Sheppard grunted, wincing at the crack of his vertebrae as he pushed himself upright in the passenger seat. “I hate to be whiny, but are we there yet?”
McKay nodded toward the scene out of the front window. “As a matter of fact, yes we are.”
John looked up – and stared. “Holy smokes,” he breathed.
Now the wad of bills McKay had handed over to the farmer in exchange for his ruined corn made sense. His house was a mansion, three stories high and built in the Georgian style, with wide crenulated pillars gracing the front of the building. Huge oak trees lined the gravel driveway, and there was a four-car garage sprouting from the left wing of the house. Off to the right, just peeking up over the ridge of a small hill, John could see the wide, curved roofs of what had to be aircraft hangars. There were three of them.
“Hm?” McKay had turned at John’s words, trying to see what he saw, but of course since this was his idea of home it didn’t faze him. “Oh. Well. You see, the main plant is in Ajax – we’ve got a contract to build a line of mail planes – but this is where I do my research and development.” He made a face. “I prefer to work alone.”
“Yeah, I kind of caught that already,” John murmured.
McKay’s expression grew even more pinched. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
John barked a short laugh. “Believe me, I understand better than you think. If I had this kind of dough, I’d probably hole up like this, too.” He eyed McKay. “But if you’re such a world-hater, how come you compete in races?”
McKay didn’t answer at first. When he pulled the car up to the garage door closest to the house, he turned to John and said, “Because if I were a complete recluse, I’d get far more unwanted attention than I’d like. People are generally stupid, but they can become curious about what they don’t understand.”
John considered this. “And you like to watch your planes beat other people’s planes,” he suggested.
McKay’s face burst into a truly evil smile that John tried not to find sexy. “That, too,” he said.
They climbed out of the car and walked up the broad steps to the house. “I imagine you’ll want to get cleaned up before supper,” McKay said. “I’ll have Beatrice serve around seven?”
“Sounds delightful, old chap.”
McKay narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t be cute.”
John only grinned at that. The strange euphoria that hit him after a near-death experience was walloping him right between the eyes, and it made him giddy, weightless. Hell, ever since he’d seen that ship this morning he’d felt like he was caught in some kind of fairy tale, and now he was about to enter the castle of the mysterious lord of the manor.
Yeah, a lord of the manor who has engine grease under his nails, John thought. Reaching the landing, he turned and looked at McKay. The other man paused on the next to last step, looking up with a half-annoyed, half-confused look on his face.
“What?” McKay demanded.
John shook his head. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
McKay’s mouth thinned. “Don’t try. I’m beyond you.”
“I’m not just a pretty face, McKay.”
“No, I’ll grant you’re also an excellent pilot.”
John took a step toward McKay, so that the other man had to tip his head back to maintain eye contact. “So you think my face is pretty.”
Two spots of pink appeared on McKay’s cheeks. “I didn’t say that.”
“You agreed with the statement. It’s implied.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” McKay breathed, flushing even more. “What’s your point?”
John clasped his hands to his nonexistent bosom dramatically. “I’m just wondering if you’ll try to have your wicked way with me once I’m ensconced in your lair.”
“Ensconced in my – my—” McKay spluttered. John bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “What kind of lurid dime novels have you been reading?”
“You have to admit it’s got all the right ingredients,” John persisted. “Rich, powerful business tycoon, pretty peasant boy down on his luck, a secluded location…” John waggled his eyebrows like Groucho.
Scowling, McKay pushed past John and strode to the front door. “I’m sure it’ll be difficult, but I think I'll manage to resist your peasant charms,” he muttered, fumbling with the latch.
John laughed and came up behind him. “You really need to lighten up, McKay,” he said as McKay pushed the door open.
“And you really need to – oh my God,” McKay said, racing forward and dropping to his knees.
John opened the door a little wider to reveal a woman crumpled on the carpet a few feet beyond the entrance. She was so elderly as to be cadaverous, her skin papery and mottled with age spots, her hair wispy and bone-white.
“Oh, my God.” McKay looked up at John, horror etched on his features. “It’s Beatrice.”
“Is she—”
But McKay just stared down at her stupidly. John dropped to his knees on the other side of her and pressed his fingers to her neck.
Nothing.
“She’s dead,” he said flatly. It was a terrible thing, but at least it looked like she’d lived a long and full life.
“It’s Beatrice,” McKay said again, voice trembling now. “It’s Beatrice.”
“Yeah,” John agreed gently. “You said that already.”
“You don’t understand!” McKay snapped. “This can’t be Beatrice.”
John frowned. “Why not?”
“Because when I left the house this morning, Beatrice was forty-two years old.”
John tried to wrap his head around that. It refused to wrap. In fact, he was so stunned by the revelation that he didn’t even notice the three figures approach them until they were standing a few paces away. He sprang to his feet, but it was too late; the two guys on the end had pistols trained on them. The middle one was a giant, well over six feet tall. His face, hands and body were hidden by a huge black cowl.
“Doctor McKay, I presume,” the left hand one said. He looked and sounded a little like Conrad Veidt.
McKay rose slowly, his face twisted in pure, seething fury. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?” he growled.
John’s gut tightened in anticipation of battle, and in anticipation of…something else. Okay, just for the record, he admonished his libido, this is a really bad time to be getting excited by McKay’s angry voice.
“Did you do this to Beatrice?” McKay persisted, but there was no answer to that question, either. Meanwhile, John’s mind was racing. He didn’t know the layout of the house, so his best escape route was through the front door, still half open and about six feet behind him. He’d probably make it outside, but would he be able to reach the car before they plugged him? And even if he did, it was an open top car – not great for avoiding bullets. And what would happen to McKay if he did?
“Please do not attempt escape,” Conrad said to John, almost lazily. “It would be very tedious to have to shoot you.”
“You’re gonna shoot me anyway,” John said, matching his lazy tone and raising him a hundred. “I thought I might save you the big buildup.”
Conrad raised his pistol, and John took a deep breath. Yep, looked like 1938 was turning out a lot shittier than ’32.
“Wait.”
McKay and Sheppard both looked up at the sound of that grating, sibilant voice. That doesn’t sound human, John thought, knowing as he thought it that it was crazy.
“You do not give the orders here,” Conrad told him – it – him.
“I hunger,” it – definitely it – said, and John fought the chill creeping up his spine. Jesus.
“Well, then,” Conrad said, eyeing John speculatively, “I suppose we should attempt to satisfy your – craving, hm?” He waved his pistol toward an entranceway off the hall, and John and McKay reluctantly walked toward it. John cast one last glance at Beatrice’s crumpled form, and wondered if he was going to be wishing for that bullet soon.
Chapter Two
“It is most inconvenient that you arrived so early,” Conrad said calmly as he herded them down the hall. “We were nearly completed our task.”
“I take it since you bastards saw fit to kill a helpless woman that Bates is also dead?” McKay gritted.
This time Conrad did bother to answer. “If you mean the disagreeable armed Schwarze, then yes. Him we had to shoot.”
“And I suppose you’re the ones who sabotaged my plane,” McKay added.
“Yes. Our man assured us that the aircraft – and the pilot—” he shot John a withering glare “—would not survive the crash. We imagined this would keep you occupied for most of the day.”
“Sorry to be such a disappointment to you fellas,” John drawled. He winced as a hard object – he’d bet the butt of Conrad’s pistol – made contact with the back of his head.
“Jeez,” he said. “This is not the way to make new friends.”
“Let me guess,” McKay interrupted, forestalling another blow. “You thought you’d have more time to help yourself to my plans.”
“Yes, but in the end it is good that you have arrived. It appears we are missing one vital piece of information.”
John was surprised to see McKay smirk. “You are?” he asked, turning with a sneer. “I can’t imagine what it might be.”
The little guy who didn’t talk raised his hand to belt McKay across the chops, but Conrad stopped him. “No. We have better methods.”
John didn’t like the sound of that at all.
Shorty shoved McKay into the room, which John now saw was a library. The floor-to-ceiling built in bookshelves were full to overflowing with books and papers, as was the surface of a huge oak desk over by one wall. John scoped out the room quickly, looking for potential weapons. He saw two: a nasty-looking poker over by the fireplace, and a half-hidden glint of metal peeking out from beneath one of the papers that he hoped was a letter opener.
Judging the moment, he stopped just inside the entrance of the room. Sure enough, Shorty gave him a push, which he used to his advantage. Pretending to trip, he stumbled into McKay, shoving him in the direction of the fireplace, then wobbled and came to rest as close to the desk as he dared. He was pleased to see that McKay was well-positioned to grab the poker when the opportunity presented itself.
And then McKay’s eyes widened, and he strode to the wing chair facing the fireplace. John suppressed a sigh.
“Oh, no,” McKay murmured. “Sumner.”
John couldn’t afford to relinquish his position, though he did twist sideways so he could see the man in the chair. God, it was Sumner all right, but he’d gone through the same horrible aging process that the housekeeper had suffered. His hands were trembling and breathing was obviously difficult. He whispered something to McKay that John couldn’t hear, and McKay’s jaw twitched.
McKay’s hand covered Sumner’s briefly, and then he rose to his feet. “What in God’s name have you done to him? What kind of weapon could do this to people?”
“A very powerful and ancient weapon,” Conrad said silkily. “One we were destined to use by virtue of our superior birth and breeding.”
Oh, geez, John thought. Here we go again. Same song, different year.
And then Tall and Scary reached up to remove his cowl. The first thing John noticed were the hands, now revealed by the movement.
They were long. And they had claws. And they were green.
And then he pushed back the cowl, and holy shit, the rest of him was green, too.
John glanced at McKay, whose wide mouth was hanging open in shock, which John expected. And then he said something that was, well, unexpected.
“You found it, then.”
Conrad smiled thinly. “Yes, we found it.”
“Where?”
Conrad hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose there is no harm in telling you. Antarctica. We have had an expedition working there for well over a year.”
McKay closed his mouth and looked at the guy – thing – whatever – like it was an interesting painting. “Hm. I’m ashamed to admit that never occurred to me.” He raised his chin. “How did you find him?”
“He was frozen in the ice. We thought at first he was dead, of course, but the Wraith have…amazing powers of recuperation.”
“Wraith, huh?” John said, nodding. “Great name. Suits you. Of course, I would’ve gone for something a little friendlier, like, say…Steve.”
The Wraith guy hissed at him. John took a step back, getting him a few more precious inches closer to the letter opener.
Conrad kept his eyes on McKay. “You know what we want. I suggest you give it to us.”
McKay pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shorty took a step forward, but Conrad just looked bored. “I do not insult your formidable intelligence, Doctor; please do not insult mine. Give us the location of the American Stargate.”
McKay rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, since you’re going to kill all of us anyway, I fail to see the incentive.”
Conrad smiled thinly, and John’s blood ran colder than it had when he’d first seen that thing. “I offer you the choice between a quick, clean death and a slow, excruciating one.” He nodded at Steve, who walked toward McKay with slow, measured steps, like Boris Karloff in some B picture.
John risked a glance at the letter opener. He could reach it, but they were too close together; he didn’t want to take a chance on hitting McKay.
Steve shoved McKay aside and loomed over Sumner. Before John could make a choice, the Wraith raised his right hand and slammed it into Sumner’s chest, right over his heart.
Sumner was too weak to scream, but from the way his legs and arms stiffened, John knew he was going through hell. He tamped down the surge of rage that flowed through him. Shorty was still watching him like a hawk; the opportunity wasn’t there yet. Wait. Wait. You’ll get your chance.
“Stop it!” McKay shouted. “Stop it now!”
The Wraith took his hand away, and Sumner slumped in the chair. John was surprised when McKay boldly pushed his way past the Wraith and kneeled down in front of Sumner.
“The location, Doctor?”
McKay shook his head fiercely and glared up at Conrad. “Go to hell.”
Shit, John thought, because this was it, they were going to go for him first to try to get McKay to talk, and he had a split second to make a decision before they were all focused on him.
He made it.
Grabbing for the letter opener as quickly as he could, John drew his arm back and sent the makeshift weapon flying. He didn’t think about his aim, because he’d long since learned that he was most accurate when he just threw on instinct.
It was nice to see he hadn’t lost his touch, because the handle of the letter opener looked really good sticking out of Shorty’s throat.
As Shorty made a small, startled sound and crumpled to the floor, John caught the motion of Conrad’s arm and dived behind the desk. Before he disappeared altogether, though, he saw McKay launch himself at the other man with a roar. Swiftly changing plans, he popped back up again and raced around the desk, trying to reach Shorty’s gun before anyone else could.
He was almost there when he felt Steve’s hand close around his shoulder and yank him back. This was not turning out to be his year, he thought as the superhuman strength of the guy sent him flying back against the wall.
He shook his head to clear it – hey, if you hit your head hard enough you really did see birds – and looked up just in time to see the Wraith grinning at him with double rows of pointy, rancid teeth.
“Hey, Steve,” John managed, nodding weakly in greeting. “They got dentists who can fix that now, y’know.”
Evidently, Steve didn’t find that funny, because he hissed again and raised his hand like he’d done before attacking Sumner. John tested his limbs, but they didn’t seem to want to work for him.
This is the way the world ends, John thought, oddly calm as the green monster prepared to literally suck the life out of him.
And then he heard a deafening crack! crack! crack! crack! and watched in amazement as Steve jerked like a marionette in the hands of a toddler.
Steve staggered back drunkenly, then fell to his knees. McKay, hands shaking as he held Conrad’s broomhandle Mauser in both hands, emptied six more rounds into the Wraith’s chest. Steve let out a gust of air and nose dived into the carpet.
“That ought to kill you, you son of a bitch,” McKay breathed.
John couldn’t do much but smile, but that seemed to be enough for McKay, because his red, sweating face broke into a matching grin. “You're all right.”
Managing a nod, John winced as some of the feeling began to return to his extremities. “Just tell me this isn’t one of the perks, ‘cause if it is I quit.”
McKay actually laughed at that. He reached a hand down and seized one of John’s in a firm grip. “Come on,” he said, hauling him to his feet. John gritted his teeth and fought the scream that tried to escape from his throat. Shit, his head was going to be murder in the morning.
“How’s Conrad?” John murmured.
“Who?” John pointed with his chin. “Oh. He’s out, I think, but I’d better tie him up.”
John looked down at the remains of what used to be the Wraith. “I don’t want to sound too nosy, but what the fuck was that?”
“Hm?” McKay asked, distracted as he hunted through his desk. “I’m not sure exactly. I assume it’s some kind of extraterrestrial being.”
John stared at him. “You say that as if it were perfectly normal.”
Triumphant, McKay held up a length of rope. “Well, to tell you the truth I am surprised I took it as well as I did. I’m not especially fond of change.”
John raised an eyebrow. “You do realize you have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”
McKay only grunted from his spot on the floor beside Conrad, where he was currently trussing him up like a prize steer at a rodeo.
“Sheppard…”
John’s head snapped up at the thready whisper.
“Sheppard.”
Jesus. It was Sumner.
“I’m here, Colonel,” John said, squatting down in front of the ruins of his former commander.
“It…is you.”
“Yeah, it’s me,” John said. “Long time no see, huh?” He forced himself to meet Sumner’s gaze. “Save your strength, okay? As soon as we’ve got these characters under control, we’ll get you to a hospital—”
Sumner shook his head. “No. Too…late.”
“You’re gonna be okay,” John persisted.
“Lieutenant,” Sumner rasped. “Asking…you. Can’t…myself.”
God. John sprang to his feet; when he looked around, the library faded, to be replaced by the blasted landscape of Flanders. Fuck, he’d spent twenty years running from that place, but try as he might he kept ending up there over and over again.
“Sheppard,” Sumner whispered, his sunken eyes watering. “Please.”
One more duty, John told himself, stiff legs carrying him toward Shorty’s broken body. You can handle one more duty.
The gun was a .32, a small Browning whose streamlined grace belied its deadly function. Trying to clear his mind of everything that mattered and failing miserably, John walked over to the wing chair, placed the barrel against Sumner’s left temple, and pulled the trigger.
“God!” McKay exclaimed, jumping up and staring at John.
John thumbed the safety and flung the pistol on the carpet, then turned away and threw up.
He had no idea how much time had passed before he felt McKay’s gentle hand on his shoulder. Still shaking, he looked up into the other man’s grim, drawn face.
“I know this is a rotten time to ask,” McKay said, “but do you think you could fly me to Nevada?”
Chapter Three
McKay ran around the house like a demented squirrel for almost an hour, taking armfuls of papers and drawings and books and, with John’s help, forming them into a huge pile outside.
And then he emptied a can of gasoline over it and set the whole thing on fire.
“I don’t mean to state the obvious here,” John observed, “but isn’t this something the other guys do?”
McKay grimaced as he watched the flames leap higher. “I wish I could keep them, believe me, but we can’t take them with us, and I can’t afford to let them fall into the wrong hands.” He tapped his skull. “The important stuff is all up here anyway.”
“You think there are more of them coming?”
“It’s a distinct possibility,” McKay admitted. “We have to get out of here as quickly as we can.”
John said nothing, his thoughts roiling like the black smoke rising from the fire. After a moment, he heard McKay gasp and looked over at him.
“What’s the matter?”
McKay gaped at him. “I’m an idiot.”
John smiled. “Not the last time I checked.”
“No, honestly, I’m an idiot. There’s no earthly reason why you should want to come with me.” He paused. “Well, of course I’ll pay you handsomely, but I don’t know if that will be sufficient to make up for the definite risk of messy death and arrest.”
“I think if I’m dead, the arrest won’t matter so much.”
McKay blinked. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“Noooo,” John breathed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“My point is,” McKay continued, “you can leave anytime. No one will be looking for you.” He waved a hand in the direction of the garage. “Take one of the cars. I’ll be happy to sign it over to you.”
John went back to his contemplation of the fire. He was a little amazed that the option of leaving McKay in the lurch hadn’t even occurred to him. “Can you fly?”
McKay’s jaw clenched. “No.”
“Is it safe for you to drive?”
“Possibly.”
John looked at him. “What does ‘possibly’ mean?”
“You don’t know what—”
“Don’t start that again.”
McKay rounded on him, his voice becoming increasingly agitated as he spoke. “It means probably not. The police will doubtless want me for questioning when they find an unconscious Nazi fifth columnist and five dead bodies, including a space alien, on my property. I anticipate that will be hard to explain, which means I may be arrested. Once they have me in custody, it’s going to be painfully easy for the bad people to find me!”
“Christ, McKay,” John said, chuckling, “a simple ‘no’ would’ve been easier to say.”
He could practically hear McKay’s teeth grinding. “Don’t worry,” John murmured. “I’ll take you where you need to go.”
“I’ll pay you—”
“Forget it,” John interrupted, the image of Sumner’s pleading face rising before his eyes again and making his stomach turn over. The thought that McKay might meet the same fate through some action – or inaction – of his was simply unacceptable. “You keep me in flapjacks for now and we’ll worry about the rest when we get to Nevada.”
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
John wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
“This is a jet,” he said wonderingly, hand reaching out automatically to caress the darkly painted skin of the plane that McKay was currently fueling.
“That’s correct,” McKay said. John could hear the smile in his voice.
“This is a real jet,” John repeated.
“Mm-hm.”
John spun to face him. “There are no real jets, McKay. Last I heard they were still working on a prototype in England.”
McKay smirked. “Let’s just say I’m ahead of my time.”
John stepped back to get a good look at the plane. The single jet engine emerged out the back of the fuselage, and the tail was high and graceful. The fuselage was elliptical, the sides tapering into the wing surfaces. And the wings themselves were even more bizarre: they were an astonishing triangular shape, sweeping back from the nose at a dangerous angle and ending in near points at the ends.
“It looks like something out of Things to Come,” John marveled.
“That movie was claptrap,” McKay said dismissively.
“I liked that movie,” John shot back. “And Raymond Massey is Canadian.” McKay snorted. “I’ve never seen wings that shape on a real plane.”
McKay puffed himself up. “I call it an alpha wing.”
John stared at him.
“Because it’s shaped like…a…never mind,” McKay finished sourly.
“Listen,” John said uneasily, “I know this is stating the obvious again, but I’ve never flown a jet before.”
McKay climbed the steps leading up to the cockpit and peered at the fuel gauge. “Yes, well, don’t feel badly. No one’s flown a jet before.”
John threw up his hands. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? To know that this bird is completely untested?”
“She’ll fly,” McKay said confidently. His gaze dipped. “At least, I think she will.”
John rolled his eyes. “What’s her range?”
McKay’s mouth thinned. “I’m hoping she’ll make it to Chicago.”
“What do you mean, hoping?” John demanded.
“That’s pretty much the extent of her range without drop tanks.”
“Where are the drop tanks, then? Let’s stick a couple on her.”
McKay fidgeted. “I haven’t built them yet.”
John sighed. “So what’s in Chicago?”
“A friend.” McKay stared into the cockpit for another moment, then ran down the steps and turned off the fuel pump. “We can’t exactly land this on any old airstrip.”
“No, I don’t suppose we can. What’s the plan?”
McKay coiled the fuel line neatly and closed the tank, then ran around to the far side of the plane. “I’m still working on it. I think we’ll have to leave the plane in Chicago. It should be safe there until the – until it can be picked up.”
“Picked up? By who? The same guys you were calling earlier?” When he’d been hauling out the bundles of papers earlier, he’d noticed McKay talking earnestly on the phone to someone, but he’d stopped short at eavesdropping. Now, though, he kind of regretted not being nosy, because he realized he was going to have to fight for every bit of information he got out of McKay. “Are they the same guys we’re going to Nevada to see?”
McKay didn’t even deign to answer, and that pissed John off. Sure, he was going to get paid for this, but he was still risking his neck, and he wasn’t really doing it for the money anyway. He didn’t exactly know what he was doing it for, but he was sure he’d figure it out soon.
Filled with righteous indignation, he strode around the nose of the plane, intending to give McKay a piece of his mind.
And stopped dead when he saw Steve advancing on a cornered McKay.
Quickly he stepped back, looking around wildly for a weapon – any weapon. He still had Shorty’s pistol, but that obviously wasn’t going to be enough.
He found it: over by the wall there were several lengths of iron rebar. Quietly, he hefted one about three feet long and ran back to the other side of the plane.
McKay was on his knees now, one of Steve’s fingernails trailing along the side of his face in a grotesque imitation of a caress. His eyes were wide but defiant, his wide mouth set in a hard line.
“Where…is it?”
With what looked like a great effort, McKay moved his head left, then right. John crept closer, trying to make as little noise as possible. Just three more steps and he could take a good swing—
McKay’s eyes flicked to John, then widened for a split second.