• WARNINGS: Not for the faint-hearted (see Authors notes)
• SUMMARY: My take on what happened to Jack during his 4 months in Iraq.
• NC-17 [A] [HC] [D] [V]

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison
Iraq

US Marines, Sgt Andy Harriman and Cpl Manuel Sanchez had been tasked with searching the seemingly endless corridors of the prison. The intelligence reports they had been given said that this fortress prison in the middle of the desert was being used to hold political prisoners. All they had found so were farmers, shopkeepers and businessmen.

Their crimes? To have spoken out against Saddam and been heard.

Their punishment? Imprisonment, torture and, in many cases, death.

The two Marines turned into a darkened corridor, this was the last place they had to search and then they would be done. As before they kicked in each cell door, loudly proclaiming who they were and what they would do to any who disobeyed their orders. Each cell so far had been empty but they still carefully checked every room, not only searching for prisoners but also for anything the fleeing troops may have left behind; papers, plans, maps, booby traps.

The two soldiers could not have been more opposite, Harriman was a 25 year veteran of some of the world’s worst trouble spots, this would be his last combat mission before, hopefully, a quiet posting and retirement.

Sanchez was just a rookie, straight out of Parris Island and seeing more action than he could have imagined when he watched the Marine’s recruiting video.

Dimly, over the sound of his rasping breathing as he struggled to push the air from his tortured lungs, Jack thought he heard the cries of soldiers. The voices seemed to fade in and out as they moved from the corridors to the cells and back again. He was sure the voices were getting closer though… they had to be.

The tiny part of his mind that wasn’t overwhelmed with pain and drugs raced with a jumble of thoughts, what if they didn’t find him, if they gave up searching before they reached him, what if it was another hoax, another illusion?

He was dying, slowly, breath by agonizing breath as his heart was gradually crushed and he was certain that if they didn’t find him then, he would die in this stinking place and nobody would ever know that he had been there. He wanted to cry out, to shout that he was here, to make himself heard, to save his life. However, suspended as he was, the effort of trying was too much for his abused body, his shouts came out as nothing more than quiet, pitiful cries.

"Saédni.. Men Fadlek" <Help me… please.> Without conscious thought he had spoken in Arabic, another legacy of what had been done to him.

His body was racked with a bout of coughing that would have brought tears to his eyes had he had any tears left to cry. A fresh smear of blood trickled from his nose.

Jack could do nothing but wait and hope and believe.

He had believed in Frank, but that belief was shattered when Frank left him behind, after all they had promised to each other the bastard had left him behind. He had turned tail and run leaving him to the unspeakable horrors he had endured.

He had believed in Sara and Charlie and they had believed in him too, until in the darkness of his despair he had turned his back on them. He had failed them by choosing pain over hope, humiliation over love, death over life. With the failure went his belief.

Loud shouts right outside his cell, a crash, and the door was practically broken off its hinges as the Marines burst through. They quickly swept the room, looking for signs of anybody hiding in the dark recesses, for booby traps, for anything that might endanger them and hamper their search. They found nothing and turned their attention to the helpless form that dominated the room.

Harriman, who had served in Vietnam, South America and more tiny tinpot African states than he cared to remember, had seen scenes like this way too many times before. Small men trying to prove how big they are by degrading and humiliating those who could no longer fight back. He was not surprised by the inhumanity that man could heap on his fellow man in the name of some, usually misguided, ideology.

Sanchez had never seen anything like the sight that greeted him when he burst into the room. He thought he would be glad if he never saw anything like it again. What he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Sweet Jesus." He muttered, automatically crossing himself.

In front of them was the naked, semi- crucified form of a man. His skin hung loosely from his skeleton, evidence of a prolonged period of malnutrition, most likely starvation. His body was covered with cuts and abrasions, a large yellow and purple bruise marred his torso. Both sides of his chest were misshapen, his right knee was swollen and scars criss-crossed his back; these were the obvious signs of torture both old and new. The less obvious signs would be found in the weeks to come.

At least half a dozen crocodile clips were still attached to his body, electrodes taped to his temples, the small red burn marks that dotted the skeletal frame told their own story. There was a cannula still in his arm and an empty stand lay discarded on the floor. Whatever had been on the stand was long gone, pushed into the helpless victim for what? Some perverted pleasure? Neither man was in any doubt as to what had gone on in this room.

As Sanchez drew closer whispering a prayer for the man’s soul, he noticed a smell; it was a mixture of sweat, vomit, bodily waste and infection. His stomach churned and, as he looked into the hollow eyes, seeing all Jack’s pain in them, he knew he couldn’t stand to be in that room any longer. He turned and ran, just getting outside the room before he vomited violently.

Jack couldn’t believe it as his cell was suddenly filled with the onrushing forms of the two marines.

Dare he believe it?

They looked like US soldiers but was this just another cruel trick, a sick joke, another way for them to get what they wanted?

They had messed with his head before; beating and starving him until he didn’t know where he was, torturing and drugging him until he almost didn’t know who he was. They had showed him a glimpse of freedom then snatched it away; they had given him hope and then crushed it. Was this their final way to break him?

Even as he watched the looks of disgust and pity cross the soldiers’ faces, he still daren’t believe that they were who he wanted them to be.

He looked into the young man’s eyes, into his soul, he saw the horror of what he saw reflected back at him.

As the soldier ran from the room, despite everything he had been through, a tiny flicker of hope touched Jack’s heart.

Harriman watched as Sanchez fled the room, he knew it was hard on the young soldier. Hell it was hard on him. This was as bad as he had ever come across, worse even than Vietnam.

Keeping his face as impassive as he could he looked straight at Jack.

"Don’t worry, we’ll get you down from there in just a second."

He quickly crossed the room to where the remains of the door lay shattered on the floor, sticking his head out he found Sanchez wiping his mouth with his hand. The young rookie looked a little pale and more than a little shaken.

"You OK Sanchez?" he asked kindly, knowing there was no point in admonishing him. His reaction had been only natural; Christ, Harriman wished he could have run too, he was getting far too old to have to face those kinds of sights. He’d done his time.

"Yes Sgt, I’m sorry about that. It’s just, how could people do …." he waved his hand in the general direction of Jack, fighting back the fresh wave of nausea that threatened him when he thought about the sights in that room.

"I don’t know Sanchez, I really don’t know." Harriman’s voice was weary. "But I do know that we will find the bastards who did this and when we do…" the threat was left unspoken.

"Right now though we have to get that guy down and to a hospital before it’s to late, so let’s go marine."

"Yes Sir" Sanchez said. He squared his shoulders, took a long deep breath and headed back into the room of horrors.

Their first order of business was to lower the frame that supported Jack, taking the weight off his chest and diaphragm, hopefully helping him to breathe more easily. As soon as the frame was on the floor, Sanchez set about cutting the ropes that held Jack in place. The wounds on his wrists and ankles were infected, pus and blood seeping from them.

Sanchez once again smelt the sickly smell; it was, he thought, the smell of death. His stomach rolled and, for a moment, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to carry on but, one look at Jack’s broken and battered body and he knew that if he faltered now he would be as good as killing him so, praying for himself and for Jack, he carried on.

Once the frame was on the floor Harriman was at Jack’s side, rubbing water over his dry cracked lips, allowing just a little to seep into his parched mouth. He thought he heard Jack whisper something and leant in closer.

" Laa <no>" Jack mumbled, " Trick… not real… Laa <no>."

"No sir, we’re real. US Marine Corps and we’re here to take you home."

He heard the hiss of pain and a low moan escape Jack’s lips as his arms were finally freed from their long held position. Sanchez moved Jack’s arms so that they rested by his sides.

"Can you tell me who you are?"

The frequently repeated litany still came easily to Jack’s mind, less easily to his lips. His voice was barely audible, pain laced through every word.

"O’Neill" a pause, a cough.

"Jonathon." More coughs racked him, his breath seemed to come in painful gasps. This time a longer pause.

"Major, United States Air Force."

The last words left him drained, coughs once more shook him, leaving a trail of blood stained spittle at the corner of his mouth. He had no energy to say any more and he closed his eyes, trying to still the spasms in his limbs, gathering what little strength he still had.

Harriman reached for his first aid kit. Taking out a clean dressing he soaked it with water from his canteen and carefully wiped away the fresh blood from Jack’s mouth and nose. He knew that these were the symptoms of a man suffering from serious internal injuries and he thought that maybe their rescue had come too late. As he cleaned the blood away, he noticed that Jacks’ eyes flew open and he tried to recoil from his touch, he wondered if this was because of the pain he was in or was there some deeper fear in the touch of another.

"Well Major, you just rest easy now, we’ll get the medics straight away and get you out of here."

He finished cleaning Jack up and started to rise. He felt the faintest pull on his arm.

For Jack, the change in his circumstances was both a blessing and a curse. Lowering the frame and freeing his arms had taken the immense pressure off his chest. His breathing had become less labored and he took the opportunity to take some long deep breaths.

That was a big mistake; the pain from his broken ribs flared through his side pushing him close to the welcoming arms of unconsciousness. He gasped; sweat breaking on his lip and forehead. Stupid move O’Neill he thought; he was about to find out just how stupid.

The final traces of the psycho-stimulants he had been given rushed into his system. Fuelled by the now more powerful beats of his heart, they flooded his mind and body with sensations of pain and terror that, despite all he had been through, he still wasn’t prepared for.

He was once more aware of the pain in every fibre of his body, the weeks and months of abuse; physical, mental, sexual seemed like they had only just happened, and maybe they were still happening. His mind was overloaded with uncomfortable and terrifying memories of pain and questions, pain and no questions and pain, endless, endless pain.

All he knew was that he couldn’t tell them anything, couldn’t let them know how much he hurt, how much he was crying out inside for it all to end, so he said nothing, hoped he gave nothing away and waited for them to do or say something.

Then the questions started again: Can you tell me who you are?

So he told them, or tried to tell them. His voice, whilst quiet to them, seemed to scream in his mind:

He heard himself repeating his name and rank. The pain he felt in every cell of his body stopped him from completing his mantra, driving his breath from him in a spate of agonizing coughs.

The soldier beside him was speaking as he reached out to touch him.

He tried to pull away – a touch was always followed by… More.

More pain, more humiliation, more hurt, more questions. More that he never wanted to remember.

This time though there was no… more. Nothing followed the touch. The soldier just wiped away his blood.

No pain followed his touch, no questions followed his touch, no further violation followed his touch.

He reached out and caught the soldier’s arm.

Harriman wasn’t sure that he actually felt the hand on his arm as much as sensed it. The grip was weak, not really a grip at all. He looked down at Jack, realizing that he was trying to speak and bent back down.

Once more he tipped water from his canteen into his hands and wet Jack’s lips. He watched as Jack feebly tried to lick at the moisture, desperate to quench the raging thirst he felt inside.

Beside and around them Sanchez was at work carefully removing the crocodile clips from Jack’s body. The drugs in Jack’s system meant that he never noticed each tiny reduction in the level of pain when one was removed.

Sanchez was disgusted by what he had to do and by what had been done to the man beneath him. There seemed to be no part of his anatomy that had been spared the vicious bite of the crocodile clips – arms, legs, feet, hands, face, even his genitals bore the tell tale red burn marks.

He worked as quickly as possible, he just wanted to get out of there, to see the sun again, to see his buddies again, and maybe to forget what he had seen. He knew that the last of those wishes would never come true.

Jack looked at the older marine, his face seemed kindly, and he didn’t smell like the others had smelt; of strong cigarettes, stale coffee and cheap cologne. He wanted to trust this face, but could he?

"Why?" His voice was full of suspicion and mistrust.

Harriman went to take Jack’s hand in his own then, remembering how Jack had reacted when he had touched him earlier, stopped himself.

"Because we never leave anyone behind." He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Never leave anyone behind .

The same promise he and Frank had made.

Except Frank had broken his promise and Jack’s life had become a living hell. A never-ending living hell that had taken his hope, his belief and nearly but not quite his life.

He was still breathing and, deep inside the very center of him, the fight for life would not give up. He just wanted it all to end, to close his eyes and let the pain and the horror just stop, forever. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

"Right now I have to get the medics in here, so that we can get you home Major."

He moved to get up again.

"Just lie still Sir, it won’t be long now."

"No…" a groan of pain from Jack as he tried to move. He was still not sure that this wasn’t some kind of trick, another drug induced image to make him believe in something. But maybe he didn’t care if it was, if it made the pain stop even for a moment then it was worth the risk.

The fight for life inside him grew, until he knew that it could no longer be ignored. He would take the risk and he would live.

"No… walk. Need to walk." Jack’s plea was cut short by a violent bout of coughing, blood once more seeped from his nose and mouth. He grimaced in pain as the knife wounds in his side began to bleed again. The drugs still in his system allowed him to feel everything far more than he could ever want to.

Harriman looked at Jack and noticed that, despite all the pain, all the torture and all the horror that he had endured, a flicker of pride still burned in his eyes.

"I can’t let you do that Sir. If I let you try anything without seeing the medics first I’ll spend my last posting cleaning latrines."

For Jack it had suddenly become important that he walked out of this hell. It was the most important thing in the world to him. Even if it killed him, he had to walk out, he had to prove to them, and to himself, that they may have broken his body but they had never, quite, broken his spirit.

Jack took a deeper breath, fighting the pain that was building up inside him, threatening to pull him into the waiting arms of unconsciousness and death.

"Please.. I need…" a pause to allow a fresh wave of agony to pass through him, his body shuddering under its cruel and merciless onslaught, " walk… out." He couldn’t speak any more. He wanted to close his eyes but was afraid that if he did so he might never open them again. Instead he fixed his gaze on the war weary Marine Sergeant, and tried to will him to grant his request.

It must have worked.

Harriman knew that he couldn’t deny Jack his chance for dignity. He believed that Jack was probably going to die anyway, so why not give him his last wish? He would deal with the consequences later.

"OK Major, you win. I’ll let you walk out of here if you promise not to die on me." His voice was light, a trace of a smile crossed his face.

Jack managed a weak half smile.

"Promise." He whispered back.

Inside he wondered if he really would be able to walk when the time came. His ribs and knee ached with a dull endless throbbing and he had lost so much blood. The pain he was feeling never seemed to get any less, in fact he was sure that it was getting worse. Every breath sent pulses of agony blazing through him, unconsciousness was never far away, but maybe just far enough.

He would try, he had to.

Harriman stood up and went across the room to where Sanchez was standing. The young soldier still looked shaken. Quietly Harriman spoke to him.

"Go and find the General, tell him what we’ve found. Ask him to get the medivac choppers here ASAP. Oh, and find me some pants for the Major will you?"

He patted Sanchez on the back and sent him on his way.

Never had a soldier been so glad to get out of somewhere as Sanchez was to get out of that room. He ran from the room and out of the dank dismal corridors faster than he thought was possible. He didn’t stop until he felt the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his face.

Looking round he found the General and his entourage set up in the corner of the yard and hurried to report their gruesome findings.

In the cool dark cell below, Harriman was trying to stop the wounds in Jack’s side from bleeding. He had applied a pressure dressing to each, taping them in place. It seemed to be working…for now. He wasn’t sure how much longer it would continue to work.

Jack lay as quiet and still as he could, given the occasional shudders of pain that still radiated through him. Usually he didn’t feel them coming and they drew the breath from his lungs and forced a moan of pain from his lips.

He needed to conserve what little energy he still had if he intended to keep his word and walk away from hell.

He had to hold on just a little longer.

*******

5 months previously
Elgin Air Force Base
Florida

Major Jonathon ‘Jack’ O’Neill stood outside the small neat house in the warm sunshine wondering how he was going to tell Sara that he had finally received the order that they both knew was inevitable. In 48 hours he and his unit would be on their way to the Middle East as the ground offensive got under way in operation Desert Storm.

The 55^th Special Operations Squadron were being deployed to Kuwait from where they would take part in covert missions into Iraq to seek out and destroy Saddam’s hidden scud missile launchers before he had a chance to use them against the advancing allied troops.

Jack was glad that the orders had finally come through, he and his men were tired of simulated missions, practices and drills. They wanted to be out there doing it for real. Helping to rid the world of another unwanted, unnecessary tyrant.

He wasn’t sure that Sara would share either his view or his enthusiasm and how would he tell Charlie? What could he tell his young son that would help him to understand why his dad had to go away?

Best get it over with he thought, brushing non-existent dust from his uniform before he turned and walked purposefully up the path to the house.

Sara had been watching him as he had stood in the garden thinking. She could tell by the way he had squared his shoulders, straightened his uniform and started up the path that the news would not be what she wanted to hear. She smiled to herself as she realized that Jack went through the same ritual every time he had to tell her that he was being sent overseas or on some covert mission. He was so predictable she thought.

She decided to spare him the agony of having to tell her and, as he entered the room, she simply asked "When?"

Jack breathed a huge inward sigh of relief, he always hated telling Sara when he had to go on missions. He smiled at her, crossing the room and grabbing her in his arms.

"48 hours." The smile changed to a wicked grin, and he kissed her long, hard and passionately. When they finally broke free from the kiss, he whispered in her ear, "So we don’t have very long, and while Charlie is still at school…..", his intent was obvious as one hand caressed her breast the other reached for the buttons on her blouse.

Later, as they lay in bed, comfortable in the feel of each other, safe in the love of each other, Sara asked "Do you want me to tell Charlie?"

"Would you? You’ll make such a better job of it than I will."

"Coward." She said laughingly, playfully punching Jack on the arm.

The punches turned into tickles and the pair were soon wrestling in each other’s arms their passions once more rising. Suddenly Jack stopped and looking down at Sara he said, "I love you, I have always loved you, I will always love you. You know that don’t you?"

Sara’s voice was quiet, a little choked as she replied "Yes I know,… we both know."

They made love slowly, passionately, sensuously like it was their first time, or maybe their last.

For Jack the next two days passed in a whirl of briefings, meetings and preparation. He had to be sure that everything and everybody was in their right place when it came time to go. The Middle East was too far and too hostile to arrive unprepared.

Jack was not the kind of officer who liked to leave anything to chance, so he checked and double-checked and then checked again until he was satisfied that he could do no more.

Sara hardly ever saw Jack, he left early and came home late, and she could never reach him on the base.

She had tried to explain to Charlie but she knew that he didn’t really understand what was happening or why and, at times, she wasn’t sure that she did either. She tried to keep herself busy, so that she wouldn’t have to think about Jack and what he had to do and how she was going to miss him but, living on an Air Force base, it was a next to impossible task. At every turn there was another wife going through the same emotions as she was, and there were times during those two frantic days when she was glad of their support.

All too soon it was time.

Jack, Sara and Charlie were waiting on the edge of the hot tarmac as the giant transport plane loomed into view.

He turned away from the runway and looked at his family. They were his life, his soul, his center, and his reason for living. God, he was going to miss them, it would be like leaving a part of himself behind. The look on Sara’s face told her that she felt the same.

Sara had seen Jack’s best friend in the Air Force, Major Frank Cromwell standing just a little way off.

She spoke quietly to Jack " I’m going to talk to Frank, have a last word with Charlie, he’s really going to miss you."

With that she turned and walked away, leaving father and son alone in the shimmering heat.

Jack wasn’t really sure that he knew what to say, how could he explain what he had to do and why he had to go away. He squatted down so that he was the same height as Charlie and, taking his small hand in his own, he took a deep breath and said "You know that I have to go away, don’t you?"

Charlie nodded, but said nothing.

Jack thought that his heart would break, Charlie looked so sad and lost. A tiny child struggling to understand a strange and dangerous world. Jack swallowed the lump in his throat and carried on.

" I need you to take care of your Mom. Can you do that for me? I need you to make sure that she isn’t lonely, or worried or scared because you will be there to look after her. If you do that for me I promise I’ll be home in no time, you’ll hardly even notice that I’ve gone. Do we have a deal?"

Charlie seemed to think long and hard and then drawing himself up to his full small height he said proudly "Deal Dad!"

Jack was so proud of his son. In that moment he had gone from a child to a young man. Jack knew that he would never forget the look of pride on Charlie’s face, pride in the fact that he had asked him to step up and look after his Mom.

Jack’s heart was fit to burst as he picked Charlie up and swung him in the air, before hugging him tightly.

"I love you Charlie."

"And I love you too Dad."

Sara had been watching the two men in her life out of the corner of her eye as she chatted to Frank. They had been talking of anything and of nothing. Idle chatter in an attempt to relieve the growing tension as the time crept inexorably past. Suddenly Sara turned serious and she grabbed Frank by the arm.

"You have to promise me something Frank. You have to promise to watch out for Jack for me."

Her voice faltered slightly " I….we need him Frank, we need him to come back safely and I need you to help. Will you Frank? Will you bring him back to me, to me and to Charlie?"

By now tears filled her eyes and she angrily wiped them away on her sleeve. She had vowed to herself that she wouldn’t cry in front of Jack or Frank or Charlie or anyone, she would save her tears for when she was alone.

"You know I will Sara. I always do. I’ll bring him home, for both of you I promise."

He hugged Sara tightly and whispered " I promise."

Frank kissed her lightly on the cheek before they broke their embrace. Sara dried the last of her tears and smiled at Frank.

"Thanks Frank, look after the both of you."

"You’d better get back to Jack before he thinks there is something going on between us." Frank joked giving her arm a final reassuring squeeze.

Jack still had Charlie in his arms when Sara rejoined them, she almost felt guilty for breaking up this precious moment, but Jack belonged to her as much as to Charlie.

Jack reached out with his free arm and encircled Sara, drawing her in to the embrace.

All around the airfield the same scene was being played out a hundred different times. Husbands and wives, fathers and their children, a hundred good-byes, a hundred broken hearts, a hundred prayers for safe returns.

The time had come.

Jack put Charlie back down and looking solemnly at him said "Remember our deal Charlie."

"Yes Dad." Charlie’s eyes were filled with tears.

Jack turned to Sara, framed against the afternoon sun he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. He stared long and hard at her, trying to imprint the picture in his mind. He kissed her gently.

"I love you." He whispered. "I’ll miss you, but I promise I’ll be home real soon."

"I love you too. Now go, get on that plane."

She didn’t want him to go, but she knew that she couldn’t hold her tears much longer and she didn’t want Jack to see her cry.

Jack turned and started to walk away, towards Frank, towards the plane, towards his destiny.

Sara ran after Jack, catching him just before he reached Frank.

"Please be careful Jack."

" I will." He replied favoring her with one of his best smart-ass O’Neill grins before turning back toward Frank. The pair made their way to the plane, seemingly deep in serious conversation.

Sara made her way back to Charlie and, as they and all the others watched the plane load-up, taxi down the runway and climb into the hot afternoon sun, she felt a shiver down her spine.

She knew then with a cold dread certainty that it would be a long time before she saw Jack again.

*********

3 weeks later
Somewhere in Kuwait

Majors Jack O’Neill and Frank Cromwell left the relative coolness of the briefing tent and stepped into the blazing desert sun.

They had just received their latest set of orders, another night time raid into Iraq looking for the hidden scud missile launch sites that were now beginning to become a problem for the allied air attacks.

It wouldn’t be the first mission they had been on, nor was it likely to be the last. So far all their incursions into sleepy Iraqi towns and villages had yielded nothing. No weapons, no soldiers, no dangers, just ordinary people trying to live ordinary lives while all about them the world went not so quietly crazy.

" I don’t like going on such short notice." Jack grumbled, "I mean tonight! We’ve only just got back and the guys need a break."

"I know, but if the Intel is right we don’t have long before Saddam moves those scuds again. This is the best chance we have had to actually find something; we can’t let it go to waste." Frank reasoned.

Jack knew that Frank was right, they had to go now or miss the best chance they had had since arriving to deal Saddam a crippling blow and further turn the tide of the conflict in favor of the allies. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something, that there was something just not quite right about this mission.

He pushed his reservations to the back of his mind, he had a job to do, they both had a job to do. He told himself that he would just be that little bit more careful this time but, with Frank to back him up, what could go wrong?

********

The choppers hovered close to the ground, just far enough away from the town to not be clearly heard. After all, Iraq was a country at war and the sound of military might was not an unusual one, even at night. The members of the US Air Force 55^th Special Operation Squadron jumped from the choppers and quickly blended into the desert scrub. The choppers left as quietly as they had arrived. The desert was once more silent and apparently empty.

From their positions hidden amongst the sparse desert scrub that bordered the small Iraqi town, Jack and Frank scanned the desert for signs that they had been seen. Nothing moved anywhere. The town slept on, the night’s silence only punctuated by the faint sounds of animals

"Looks quiet, let’s get this show moving." Frank whispered to Jack.

A silent nod of agreement.

This was a well-worked routine. They both knew what they had to do, all the men under their command knew what to do. Words were not necessary.

Jack signaled his group to move out and begin the approach to the town.

He turned to Frank.

"See you on the other side of town and don’t leave without me!"

Then he was gone, a silent figure all but invisible in the clear desert night.

"Promise." Frank whispered after the departing figure, before himself calling together his men and setting off towards the town.

The town looked like all the others. No signs of life, no movement, nothing.

Jack and his team were at the outskirts, they stopped and waited, watching for anything that might tell them they had been seen. Just like all the other towns nothing changed, so they moved on.

Suddenly, Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle; it was his early warning system telling him something wasn’t quite right. This usually only happened just before things really turned to shit.

The reservations he had about this mission surfaced again, and he knew, he just knew that this one was going to go bad. The only thing he didn’t know was how or when.

Hoping that Frank wasn’t too far away, he thumbed his personal radio.

"Alpha 1 this is Bravo 2 do you copy?"

Franks voice faint in his ear.

"I copy. I thought we were observing radio silence."

"We are, well we were. Is it all still quiet on your side of town?"

"Yes. Why?"

Jack suddenly felt a little foolish. Nothing was amiss either here or with Frank. Had he let his misgivings get the better of him? Maybe, but when he had these feelings he usually wasn’t wrong.

" It’s nothing I guess, just …well watch your back that’s all. Bravo 2 out."

Jack thumbed off his radio and signaled to his team to carry on.

On the other edge of town, Frank did the same, wondering what had prompted Jack to break radio silence in the first place. He knew that Jack didn’t spook easily and that maybe he had some good reason behind his strange call.

As he once more watched the silent town, he couldn’t for the life of him work out what that reason might have been.

Jack and his team were quietly prowling the empty streets, searching for anything they could find when it happened. The feelings that Jack had about this mission were about to be justified. Suddenly, the streets were bathed in light and gunfire rained down onto the hapless soldiers.

They had been set up and were now as helpless as fish in a barrel.

The soldiers broke for cover, trying to return the gunfire, but still unsure as to where it was coming from. It seemed to come from everywhere at the same time.

As Jack ran for cover he saw one of his team go down, his body riddled with bullets as he fell, his blood staining the dusty street.

Shit! He thought as he made the safety of an empty barn. This is just peachy.

The rest of his team had also made the safety of the barn, most were unhurt but a few were wounded, a couple seriously. Jack knew that he had to get them out of there quickly, he didn’t know the strength of the Iraqi forces that opposed them, but he was certain that they would be heavily outnumbered, and they couldn’t defend the barn for long.

" Alpha 1 this is Bravo 2 . We have run into heavy hostile fire, I repeat heavy hostile fire. Do you copy?"

Frank’s voice sounded breathless in his earpiece and he could hear the sound of gunfire in the background.

"Copy Bravo 2 , we’re also under attack. Let’s call in the choppers and get the hell out of here."

"Roger that Alpha 1. Where are you? We’re holed up in a barn about half a click North of our entry point."

" We see you. You’re not that far from our position. We’ll make our way to your position." The sounds of shouting and more gunfire cut Frank off before he could say any more.

Jack turned his attention to his own team. They had set themselves into defendable positions and were returning the gunfire as best they could. Jack was proud of them, they were good men and none of them deserved to die. And all of them deserved to go home.

He found the radio operator and sent his message back. They were in deep shit and needed to get out of there real quick. The promise that choppers were on their way heartened his team and they resumed the firefight with renewed energy.

Frank and his team had fought their way through the narrow streets and alleys until they reached the barn. They were lucky, casualties amongst them were light.

It was a morale boost for all the men to see each other again, and hands were shaken and backs slapped as friends were re-united.

" Well this is going well!" Frank quipped.

" Ya think!"

The two friends laughed and then, looking around the barn, went back to the job at hand. They still had to get the men under their command out of this hell and back to safety.

The sound of choppers. A cheer went up from the trapped men, hope at last. The pick-up point was on the other side of town, past the hidden snipers. Not an easy task.

An explosion on the other side of the street from the barn suddenly silenced the gunfire. The rescue choppers were not alone; a Black Hawk Attack Helicopter was punishing the enemy positions. Laying down covering fire and targeting buildings with its missiles. This was their one chance and they took it.

Jack and Frank urged the men out of the barn and into the streets, helping the wounded and giving covering fire themselves. As they spilled into the streets Jack saw the body of the dead soldier.

Jack caught Frank’s arm.

" Get to the pick-up point. I’ll be right behind you, there’s just something I have to do. Hold the last seat for me!"

Frank nodded and took off into the streets. He knew what Jack was doing, he too had seen the dead soldier in the street.

The gunfire once more erupted as the remaining Iraqis tried to stop the fleeing Americans.

From somewhere the bullets whizzed down close to Jack, never actually striking him. He zigzagged down the street trying to dodge the bullet with his name on.

Another attack run from the Black Hawk, and this time the explosion was close to Jack, the percussive force blowing him off his feet and sending him rolling back into a wall, where he lay dazed for a few moments.

The sound of a bullet and the chip of stone that blew out from the wall grazing his cheek, was all the encouragement he needed to get back on his feet.

Shooting as he ran, he made his way back towards the dead man. This time his luck didn’t quite hold as a shot from high up on a rooftop grazed his temple, the pain driving him to his knees. His vision blurred and the street seemed to come up to meet him. Darkness swam at the edge of his mind, calling him.

Frank heard the explosion from the Black Hawk and turned to look back in Jack’s direction. By the time the dust had cleared enough, he was just in time to see Jack running and then stopping and falling to his knees and then onto the ground as the bullet hit him in the head.

"Jack!!!" He shouted, starting to go after him. A tug on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

" It’s no good Major, nobody could survive a hit like that. We have to go. Major! We have to go NOW!"

Frank looked at the young soldier beside him and then back to the now unmoving form of his best friend lying in the distance. He knew the soldier was right, nobody could survive a hit like that.

He had to take charge, he had to make sure that all the other good, brave men got home. It was too late for Jack, there was no time for sorrow. That would come later.

"I’m sorry Jack" he whispered, then turned to the young soldier. "OK, let’s get out of here!"

Jack was lying on the dusty street. Blood ran from the furrow made by the bullet, it ran into his eye making his vision go a strange shade of red. He tried to sit up, his head spun with the effort, he couldn’t seem to get his limbs to co-operate. He just wanted to close his eyes and wait for the world to stop spinning.

One more effort and he managed to lift his head, he thought he saw Frank in the distance.

But it couldn’t be Frank because this figure was turning away and leaving. Frank would never leave him - they had made a deal. A deal in blood that they would never leave each other behind, so it couldn’t be Frank ,,,, could it?

In the very far distance Jack saw the choppers, rising out of the desert into the night.

A night that was now turning to a red dawn.

Red like the blood that ran down his face.

He noticed that as the choppers rose, turned and flew off towards safety, the gunfire stopped and the town was once more eerily silent. He didn’t notice the gun butt until it struck him on his already sore head sending him into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

*******

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison
Iraq

Jack woke to darkness and silence, his head pounding and fuzzy. He was lying on his side curled up and, as he rolled onto his back, the pain flared in his head causing him to cry out. He took several deep breaths, fighting down the pain until it seemed to recede to a steady throbbing.

The darkness was not the comforting darkness of night but a complete, suffocating, claustrophobic darkness. Unsure if he had opened his eyes he reached his hand to his face and found that his left eye was caked with dry blood from the bullet wound but, with a little gentle persuasion, he managed to open it. It made no difference to his situation, the darkness was impenetrable.

He couldn’t see anything.

Slowly and carefully he sat up, trying not to aggravate the gnawing pain in his head. He pushed himself backwards, until he hit something solid. Using the wall, he forced himself to his feet his head pounding nauseatingly. He used his fingers to slide along the wall, feeling for any change in texture, any opening, anything that might tell him where he was and even better how he might get out.

The texture of the wall never changed and within six feet he had reached a join. Counting his steps in the darkness he continued along the wall, until he came to another join and another wall. He repeated the process until he was sure he had been round his cell at least twice, each wall was exactly the same length, twelve feet, and there seemed to be no obvious sign of a door.

Shit he thought they’ve buried me alive!

"HEY." He shouted, "Get me the hell outta here!" Silence greeted his shouts; he listened hard for any sound that might indicate that he was not alone.

Nothing.

Nothing but the roaring of the pain in his head and the sound of his own heartbeat.

Jack sank back down the wall, his head swimming sickeningly, panic started to fill his mind and, try as he might, reason seemed to elude him.

He closed his eyes and tried to fill his mind with thoughts of wide-open spaces, clean air and cool breezes.

Come on O’Neill, he chastised himself, you’ll find a way out. You have to.

Jack had no idea how long he sat in the dark, but it was long enough for the cold from the cell walls to creep into his body, making him shiver and his joints begin to ache.

A growing hunger and the start of a raging thirst now joined the pounding in his head. He realized that the last time he had eaten or drank anything had been before they had left for the mission – whenever that had been.

Needless to say he had no idea when, if ever, he would again.

He had tried walking round his cell to keep warm, but the effort of standing and moving usually made his head spin and left him feeling tired and disorientated. He decided that, until the pain in his head subsided, he wouldn’t try again.

So he sat in the dark, waiting and hoping that something, anything would happen. He started drifting in and out of a fitful sleep.

The darkness was abruptly shattered.

The cell was bathed in strong light, so bright that Jack, accustomed as he was to the total darkness, was temporarily blinded. He screwed his eyes shut against the intruding glare but he could still feel the burning at the back of his eyes.

The silence was abruptly shattered.

As the light filled the room, so did the noise. A mind numbing cacophony of static. Compared to the preceding silence it was deafening and he immediately covered his ears trying to block out the screeching sound.

The light and the noise persisted and slowly he became accustomed to them both. He carefully opened his eyes and was able for the first time to see the full extent of his ‘accommodation’.

The light was pouring from behind panels fixed into the roof and Jack guessed the noise was too. Maybe this could be a way out he thought.

Standing up he tried reaching for the panels but, as he had suspected, they were a good way above his head. He was never going to reach them.

The next thing he looked for was a door, he hadn’t felt one in the darkness but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t one.

Slowly he went round the now familiar walls, carefully examining every inch. He finally found it set flush into the wall. It was made of the same stone as the walls of the cell it was no wonder he had not found it before. Obviously, there was no means of opening the door from his side.

No way out there either.

Having fully explored all the options, Jack knew that there was nothing he could do to get out of this place. He realized that his only chance was to be ready when…if… they ever came for him. He sat back down, facing the door, trying to conserve his strength, trying to develop a plan.

He thought that the fact that he was now being subjected to the light and noise meant that he hadn’t just been left in there to die.

Didn’t it?

As abruptly as they had come, the light and the noise were gone. Jack was back in the suffocating silent darkness.

The continuous noise had left him drained, the aching in his head worse. He needed to sleep. Resting his head on his knees, he thought of home, of his own bed, of sharing it with Sara. Her face smiled at him as he eventually fell into a troubled sleep.

He was woken by the return of the light and the noise. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, he just knew it wasn’t long enough.

He knew what they were trying to do to him. Sensory deprivation was one of the oldest tricks in an interrogator’s arsenal, but knowing that didn’t make it any less effective.

The vicious cycle was endless.

Darkness and silence.

Light and noise.

Noise and light.

Silence and darkness.

Jack didn’t know how much time had passed, but his body told him it had to be at least a couple of days already. He was still dying of thirst, but strangely he no longer felt hungry. His body was beginning to shut down and he knew that if he didn’t get fluids into his system soon, he would be dead in another couple of days. His whole body trembled continuously and cramp spread into every tiny muscle.

He didn’t want to die.

He didn’t want to die here, wherever here was.

He tried to think about home, about Sara and Charlie, but he was tired, so very tired.

Light once more bathed the small cell rudely waking Jack from his now near comatose state. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to raise his head from his knees.

Something was different this time. It took Jack a few moments to realize that there was no noise this time. His brain struggled to work out why. Then the answer came.

The door to the cell swung open on silent hinges and two mean looking guards strode in. In the corridor outside Jack thought he saw more guards, they were heavily armed.

"Kef" <Stand up>

Jack didn’t understand what they said so he stayed where he was. Even weakened as he was by dehydration, injury and lack of sleep, Jack was determined to make them work for everything they wanted.

"Kef" <Stand up> this time the statement was accompanied by one of the guards roughly grabbing Jack by his arm and pulling him to his feet.

The sudden movement made Jack’s head spin and the muscles in his legs burn. He was glad that the grip on his arm was firm otherwise he feared he might have collapsed.

The guard spun Jack round and slammed him face first into the wall. The force of the impact caused fresh blood to seep from the cut on his temple.

"Hey." Jack protested "All you had to do was ask!"

"Hodoue" <Silence> the guard who had hold of Jack grabbed him by his hair and once more slammed his face into the stone wall. This time blood came from his nose as well as his head.

As the first guard ground Jack’s face into the stone wall, the other forced his arms behind him and with a ruthless efficiency bound his wrists tightly. Jack bit back a moan of pain. A blindfold swiftly followed and Jack was back in the suffocating darkness. The guards pushed Jack from the cell.

They jostled and shoved him through a series of corridors, laughing every time he stumbled down steps or fell over objects he couldn’t see.

Every time he fell, Jack staggered back to his feet and forced one foot in front of the other. If he was too slow to get up the guards would help him by grabbing his hair and dragging him to his feet, pushing him once more in the desired direction.

Bastards he thought Stinking rotten bastards. The anger gave him strength, but not enough. He stumbled and fell to his knees once more and this time try as he might he couldn’t get to his feet.

In the darkness of the blindfold he never saw the kick coming, never knew anything about it until it impacted into his stomach driving the air from his lungs and doubling him over in pain. Still gasping for breath, the next blow rocked him, pain flared in his side and he slid to the floor.

He was grabbed by the back of his uniform and pulled to his feet. This time the guards just dragged him until they reached their destination.

Suddenly the grip on him was released and he was thrown forward. He managed only a few steps before falling once more to his knees, he could hear nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing as he fought to gain control of his shaking limbs.

The smell was the first indication that he was not alone; it was a mixture of cheap cologne, the kind of stuff that had been popular in the USA back in the seventies and strong blended cigarette smoke. He heard the footsteps now, echoing on the stone floor. He tried to follow them as they came closer and closer, eventually circling him.

The smell was cloying, overpowering, repulsive as the figure stopped in front of him.

Jack was scared inside, his stomach in knots. He wondered what was in store for him; he didn’t really want to know. If he was going to die then he would do so bravely, not cowed on his knees. With a supreme effort of Will Jack pushed himself once more to his feet and, whilst he swayed unsteadily, inwardly he felt stronger, more able to face whatever was to come.

That was until the first blow sent him crashing back to the floor.

More footsteps and then hands grabbed Jack and pulled him back to his feet. They held him firmly by his arms as again the strong unpleasant smell filled his nostrils.

The softest of grunts as a fist landed on his jaw, rocking his head back, splitting his lip.

Another grunt, another fist, another bruise.

Not a word was spoken, not a question was asked.

The room was silent but for the soft grunts of the interrogator as he landed blow after blow.

Jack had no defense, he couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t tell where the next blow would come from. He couldn’t move away, couldn’t try and protect himself. He tensed when he heard the grunting, hoping to shield himself from whatever was to come. He tried to hold in the cries of pain that fought to escape his lips, sometimes he succeeded, sometimes not.

The questions flooded Jack’s mind. The answers were more blows to his abused body in the still silence.

A sudden agonizing pain in his groin stopped the thoughts dead, doubling Jack over, leaving him gasping for breath. Tears streamed from his eyes and soaked into his blindfold.

If it hadn’t been for the still firm grip on his arms he would have collapsed to the floor. The hands pulled him upright, still gasping.

Another kick, this time straight to his ribs. What little breath he had left was driven from him in a cry of agony as he felt the bone give.

Jacks’ knees buckled and he sagged into the guards’ hands. Quiet laughter rang in his ears as they let him go, watching as he tumbled onto the unforgiving stone floor.

Jack managed to land on his sore side, jarring his ribs again, sending waves of pain through his body. The blackness of unconsciousness played at the corners of his mind.

The hard edge of a combat boot struck him in the back and he groaned. More boots landed on his back and legs and he tried to curl up to protect himself, as kick after kick rained down on him. Soon there wasn’t any part of him that wasn’t sore and bruised, every inch of him ached, every muscle quivered with abuse.

He wasn’t sure how much more his body could stand. Pain on top of pain, abuse on top of abuse, agony on top of agony.

A wayward kick caught him square on the temple, once more opening up the wound caused by the bullet. As the blood flowed, the pain overwhelmed him and, before he could cry out, the blackness claimed him and pulled him into its waiting arms.

Jack awoke back in his cell, curled on his side, free from his bonds and blindfold. The fact that he woke at all surprised him; the beating he had taken was severe, the aching and pain in every cell of his body was testament to that.

He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious but the stiffness setting into his battered body, told him it must have been several hours at least. He felt the cold stone beneath his feet, and realized that his boots and socks were gone, as was his jacket.

Aw great he thought they were my best boots too.

He started to roll onto his back, groaning and cursing as each new part of him made contact with the floor. His chest and ribs burnt with the effort, and he was soon sweating despite the coldness of his cell.

Once on his back Jack allowed himself time to try and recover his breath and assess his injuries. He carefully felt along his ribs, crying out with pain when he found a particularly tender area. He knew what broken ribs felt like and they felt at best cracked and at worst broken.

Jack moved to sit up, cradling his ribs with one arm, he pushed with the other. The whole world spun crazily, nausea overtook him and he vomited.

Only he had nothing to vomit and the resulting dry heaves further punished his bruised torso. Once the feeling passed and the walls and floor had stopped spinning and changing places he tried to move again. This time he made it, grateful for the feel of the wall behind him as he slumped against it.

He tried to think, to work out why him, why now when his life had so much meaning, why was he still alive? But the pain plagued him catching at his reason with a merry viciousness.

He let his head fall back against the wall, closed his eyes and allowed the pain to take him again.

The next time Jack woke it was to the sound of footsteps in his cell.

He didn’t want to open his eyes and see the horror that he was sure awaited him or the leering faces of the guards as they grabbed him and dragged him away. Instead he heard the footsteps stop, turn and leave, the cell door shutting behind them. Slowly he opened his eyes, which was in itself a difficult task, caked as they were in dried blood. He hardly dared believe what he saw, in the corner of the cell was a pitcher and a small lump of old dried bread, now turning green with mould.

He had to reach them!

Summoning his failing strength and gritting his teeth against the pain to come, Jack started to edge along the cell wall. Every movement jarred his ribs and the walls and floor abraded his bruised and battered flesh.

He groaned with the effort, cursing everyone and everything until at last he reached his precious goal.

He looked inside the pitcher.

With shaking hands Jack reached for the jug, holding the cool moist container, relishing the feel of it. As soon as he had got his breathing back to somewhere near normal after the exertions of moving, he lifted the pitcher to his lips and drank, long and hard. Never had anything tasted so good, better than fine wine or a cold beer on a hot Florida afternoon, and he didn’t stop drinking until the jug was drained. Putting it down Jack realized that he suddenly felt nauseous, the bile was rising in his throat.

His body had been shutting down, and the sudden influx of liquid was too much for his system to cope with.

As he vomited the precious life giving fluid back onto the cold stone floor, he knew that he had made a terrible mistake. His stomach cramped as he heaved, his ribs flared with the effort and he felt tears in his eyes.

Damn stupid move. That could have been your only chance for water and what do you do – drink it down like some teenager downing his first beer. What did that get you – sore ribs and a WORSE thirst.

Jack raged at himself, and once the worst was over he slowly and painfully moved away from the offending area, all thoughts of the bread gone from his mind. He felt a wave of desperation wash over him.

Maybe he wouldn’t get any more water.

Maybe he’d get another beating.

Maybe he would never see Sara and Charlie again.

He thought about them, Sara and Charlie, the two most precious things to him in the whole world. He pictured their faces, laughing, carefree and wondered what they were doing now. He hoped they were still laughing and carefree, enjoying life, enjoying freedom.

God he wanted to be with them. He needed to be with them.

He was with them in his mind and those thoughts gave him strength, those thoughts drove away the despair that threatened him, those thoughts helped him steel his Will to stand what was to come.

Jack was exhausted, not just tired but bone deep exhausted. He had got precious little sleep since he had arrived and with no food and water on top of his recent beating his body’s need to recover was overpowering and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

They came for him again, shouting to rouse him.

"Kef Alaan!" <Stand Up. Now!>

Jack could hardly lift his head this time let alone his body, so just as before they dragged him to his feet, slammed him into the wall, bound and blindfolded him and pushed him into the corridor.

This time they dragged him more than he walked.

Back to the large room and the man with the cheap cologne.

He was pushed to his knees and held there. He heard the footsteps approaching, he tried to tense his body to absorb the blows to come but he was too weak. For what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact no more than minutes nothing happened, no noise, no questions and no blows.

He wondered what was going on and tried to look beneath and around his blindfold.

Nothing.

He had no defense against the blows when they started. How could you defend against something you couldn’t see?

Once more the soft grunting was all the warning that Jack got and it was never enough.

Blows rained into his face, splitting his already cracked lips. A glancing blow from something that felt like a ring cut his cheek. The next blow broke his nose, blood coursed down his face.

The arms let him go and he fell to the floor. They picked him up, only for the next blow to drive him back down again.

So it went on, a blow, hit the floor, dragged back up, a blow, hit the floor….

Jack was barely conscious, when they stopped beating him leaving him in a pool of his own blood. At least this time they hadn’t kicked him like before. His breathing was ragged and shallow, his chest hurt like hell, with every tiny movement fire raged inside him. He almost wished he was dead, anything to stop this pain. A vision of Charlie standing proudly on the hot airfield filled his mind and he knew he couldn’t die. At least not yet.

Once more they dragged him to his knees, he thought with Charlie beside him he was ready for them.

He was wrong.

The man with the cheap cologne was now behind Jack, he could smell him. The smell was mingled with the sweat of the two guards who held him, close, far, far too close.

He felt hands grasp his still bound hands, stroking each finger almost lovingly until they reached the little finger of his left hand. The hand took a firm grip of Jack’s finger and bent it backwards.

Jack realized just too late what they intended to do to him, and he had no time to prepare for the new wave of agony that pulsed through him as the finger reached the limit of its movement and snapped with an audible crack. Jack couldn’t stop the cry that spilled from his lips.

"Fucking Son of A Bitch."

The pain was intense, spots danced in front of his eyes, he gasped like a fish out of water, trying to draw enough air into his lungs to quell the rising agony.

He felt the hands at his again.

The index finger on his right hand, bending backwards, until it too reached its limit.

His trigger finger, he noted absently just before the pain exploded once more.

The laughter of the men in the room was the last thing he remembered.

This was now Jack’s world, his whole existence.

Waking in his cell, aching and tired, battered and bruised, bloody but not quite broken.

Waiting for the door to open and the horrors to start again.

Sometimes it seemed that they left him alone for days at a time, other times they came back way too soon.

But they always came back.

The routine never changed, bound and blindfolded, dragged, shoved and jostled, beaten and kicked.

They never spoke, never questioned him.

Once he tried to ask them why.

The beating that followed was more vicious than usual, not stopping even after he fell unconscious.

They broke another of his fingers, he never asked again.

Sometimes when he woke, there would be food and water in the cell, sometimes not. After the first time, Jack had learnt his lesson, now he slowly sipped the water and always ate what they left for him, no matter how disgusting it looked or smelt.

He didn’t know how long he had been there, suffering at the hands and feet of his captors, but he didn’t think that he could last much longer. He never saw daylight, never had enough to eat or drink, never had enough sleep.

The only thing he had enough of was pain.

It was becoming harder to draw strength from the thoughts of Charlie and Sara, their images were difficult to focus on, their faces gradually becoming indistinct as the pain became the sole focus of Jack’s life.

*********

Elgin Air Force Base
Florida

Sara O’Neill was in pain too. The pain of missing Jack, the pain of not knowing if he was safe, the pain of a life that suddenly seemed so empty.

She had Charlie, and that helped, but at the end of the day she still went to bed alone and woke the same way.

Charlie did his best to help her, he tried to make her laugh, he tried to help her forget, he tried to be just like his dad. But he was only a child.

Sara wasn’t worried that she hadn’t heard from Jack since just after he arrived in the Gulf. He had spoken to her over a crackle filled satellite link, reassured her that he was fine and told her not to worry. He said he would be in touch when he could. Sara knew from experience that the type of work Jack and Frank did often meant long periods with no word.

So she wasn’t worried, besides the two of them would look after each other.

They always did.

As she wasn’t worried, she didn’t expect the knock on her front door to herald the news it did. As soon as she saw the worried faces of the two Air Force officers on her porch, she knew, she knew it was bad news about Jack.

"Mrs Sara O’Neill?" One of the officers asked.

"Yes… It’s about Jack isn’t it?"

"If you mean Major Jonathon O’Neill then yes Ma’am it is. I think it might be best if we come in."

Nobody but his mother and the Air Force called him Jonathon.

She swallowed hard motioning them inside the house, the cold dread feeling that she had felt when Jack had left was returning.

They sat down and Sara listened as they told her in Air Force jargon what had happened. Jargon that tried, and failed to hide the fact that Jack was missing.

Presumed dead.

Lost.

Left behind.

Forgotten.

Betrayed?

She numbly accepted their words, their sympathy, and their explanations. They told her that as there had been no body returned to the unit that he would be listed as ‘missing’. They said that the Air Force would use all the facilities at its disposal to find out what had happened to Jack, they wouldn’t stop looking for him, they WOULD bring him home. All she had to do was to believe that and be ready when he did come home.

She asked about Frank, expecting to hear that he to was ‘missing’.

After all he promised her he would bring Jack home, and she knew that the only way that wouldn’t happen was if he too was ‘missing’ – for missing read dead.

They said they had no news of a Major Cromwell and even if they did, rules and regulations and red tape would have prevented them from telling her.

They asked her if she needed somebody to stay with her.

"No, my son will be home soon. I’ll be fine until he gets here."

They told her they would be in touch as soon as they had any news and that if she needed anything she should call their office. She thanked them for their concern and showed them out.

Sara went back inside the house, a house that, until moments ago, had been a home. Now it was an empty shell, just walls, devoid of life and laughter and love.

Alone in the silent, empty house she picked up a picture of her and Jack on their wedding day. He was resplendent in his uniform; she was the perfect blushing bride, their love for each other obvious.

As she stroked Jack’s face through the glass the tears formed. Try as she might, they fell, splashing off the picture to form sad, empty pools on the floor.

"Damn you. Damn you to hell Jack O’Neill. How dare you up and die on me, you bastard. You promised. You promised you’d come home."

Sara suddenly dashed the picture to the floor, the glass shattering.

Her anger and frustration and loss overwhelmed her and she wept until she had no tears left.

By the time Charlie came back from school, Sara had regained her composure, cleaned up the broken glass and dried her tears. She had also decided that until she knew more, until she saw Jack’s body for herself, she wouldn’t tell Charlie.

He was too young to have to face the loss of a parent, to understand the reasons why, to accept death as a part of life.

For his sake, Sara forced the smile back on her face and tried to get on with her life, with their life without Jack, just as she had done every other day since he had left.

Over the coming days Sara badgered everybody she knew on the base, and some that she didn’t, trying to find out about what had really happened.

Those in authority would tell her nothing other than the official line.

Jack was missing in action.

Stonewalled.

Those who knew her and Jack, promised to do what they could, if they heard anything they would call.

She didn’t hold out much hope, they meant well but the Air Force was the Air Force and it ran a well-oiled machine.

All she got was the official line. Jack was missing in action.

Frustrated.

Life or what passed for life went on.

********

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison
Iraq

It had been some time since they had last beaten him, not that he minded, it had given him time to heal, just a little.

It had given him time to think, to renew his inner strength, his resolve to survive this place.

He had made a promise to Sara and almost more importantly to Charlie, and he couldn’t break his promise.

That would make him just like Frank, and he NEVER wanted to be like Frank.

He knew that he had to be able to look Charlie in the face and tell him that he kept his promise and he came home.

Once more the door swung open.

Jack pushed himself wearily to his feet, turning to face the wall. It was easier than being slammed into it.

The guards bound his hands but didn’t blindfold him; they led him out into the hallways of the prison.

For the first time Jack could see the rows of windowless doors each leading, he imagined, to cells like his. The halls were dark, damp, musty. There was no doubt that this was a place of pain and ultimately death.

It was soon obvious to Jack that there weren’t going to the usual place; he knew that route well enough by now.

Where to now?

What to now? He wondered as they jostled him along.

As he tried to look through the partially opened doors on the way, some of the things he saw made him wish for the comfort of another beating. Broken men, mad men, mutilated men, dead men.

Jack thought he saw shafts of daylight in the not far distance.

A short flight of stairs and they were outside. To Jack the feel of the sun and the gentle desert wind were to be treasured. He had thought he might die without ever seeing the sun again, he had prayed that he wouldn’t.

He stopped and lifted his head towards the early morning rays, savoring the feel of them on his face. It reminded him of fishing trips off the Florida Keys, just him and Charlie trying to catch that ever-elusive ‘big one’. He smiled as he remembered.

His thoughts were cut short by a hefty shove in the back and he staggered a few steps before regaining his footing.

The guards pushed him out into the middle of a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high, thick, impenetrable walls.

A few sad, lost looking men were already in the courtyard, they too were beaten, their clothes no more than rags. They looked at Jack with the hollow eyes of souls beyond caring, beyond saving, beyond hope.

The guards returned them to their jobs with harsh words and harsher actions.

Jack noticed that all the prisoners he saw were of Middle Eastern descent.

In the center of the courtyard was a small circular open barred metal cage, just large enough for a man to stand in.

This was Jack’s destination.

Without warning one of Jack’s guards swung his fist hard against his still sore ribs and as Jack doubled over they were upon him, forcing him to the dusty floor. They untied his hands and replaced the ropes with heavy iron manacles. The metal rubbed against his already raw flesh, causing blood to start seeping from the wounds.

They hauled him to his feet and pushed him inside the small cell, forcing his arms out and above his head, where they were securely fastened. The cage was just tall enough to allow Jack to keep his feet on the floor.

A glint of sunlight on a knife.

One of the guards approached Jack and grabbing what was left of his T shirt sliced it from neck to waist so that it fell away leaving Jack’s bruised torso exposed.

He wasn’t to careful as he cut, catching and scoring Jack’s flesh on more than one occasion. Small trickles of blood smeared his chest. Jack just grimaced slightly.

They shut the door on him, leaving him to the growing heat of the day.

"Hey, thanks guys, I needed to work on my tan!"

Jack was grateful that the guards either didn’t understand him or chose to ignore him. He thought that one of these days his smart-ass comments would get him into real trouble!

At first the feel of the sun on his skin was pleasant, reminding him of happier times. He had taken Sara to Hawaii for their honeymoon and they had lazed in the sun, laughed in the sun, made love in the sun.

But as the sun climbed higher into the cloudless desert sky, the sweat began to pour off him, his skin itched and tingled as the sun began to wreak its dangerous revenge.

Revenge for the good times, revenge for the enjoyment, revenge for the love that had given life to their son.

The day blazed on and on, there were no clouds, no shade and even the slight breeze had gone. Jack’s eyes were sore from the reflected glare off the sand, his body was turning a painful shade of red, and he would have killed for water.

Around him other prisoners came and went, some stared at him, some avoided him, their guards barked orders and dished out punishments in equal measure.

The first time Jack tried to talk to one of the other prisoners, the nearest guard jabbed his rifle butt through the bars, straight into Jack’s ribs.

How original Jack thought sarcastically as the pain flared again.

He kept trying to talk to the others, he didn’t know if they heard him or understood what he said. All he did know was, each time he tried, it ended with a painful confrontation between rifle butt and bruised, sunburnt, body.

The body always lost.

Seeing that their efforts were having little effect on Jack, the guards tried another method to keep him quiet. The next person Jack spoke to was thrown to the ground and beaten to unconsciousness.

Jack was stunned, shamed, disgusted with himself. He knew he was responsible and he had to live with what he had done, but he could make sure that nobody else suffered because of him.

He was silent from then on.

His arms and shoulders were aching from the position they were held in, but there was little he could do to relieve that. He tried standing on the balls of his feet, it helped a little, but he couldn’t sustain it for long. His feet were cut and sore from being dragged across the stone floors of the prison, the hot sand just irritated them more.

He tried to picture cool things, rivers, waterfalls, the sea. He imagined himself immersed in them, their iciness chilling his burning body. It didn’t help, in fact if anything it made him thirstier.

He thought about the skiing trip he had taken Sara on. He had promised her a great time and she had hated it. Hated the cold, hated the fact that Jack was a better skier than her, hated all the little kids who sped past her whilst she was picking herself up…again.

He made it up to her by taking her on a moonlight sled ride, out into the silent snowy wilderness where they watched the stars in a crystal clear night. Like they were the only people left in the world.

That was the memory to hold on to and he clung to it like a dying man until the sun finally, thankfully, mercifully fell.

The desert night was cold. Jack body was frequently racked with bouts of shivering, brought on by both the sudden drop in temperature and the effects of being out in the blazing sun.

He was so thirsty, so sore, so tired.

Every time Jack tried to close his eyes it seemed that a guard was there, jabbing him through the bars, making sure he never rested.

The next day dawned, promising more of the same, endless, cloudless skies and sunshine.

Jack was on the verge of collapse from the heat, his body falling against the hot metal bars, burning him, jolting him back to reality.

As the day drew on, even though he was outside, Jack felt like he was suffocating, the hot dry air, burning into his lungs. Every breath was like liquid fire, his nose and mouth were so dry that the simple act of drawing breath was getting harder and harder.

His eyes were sore, and he could barely open them, sand and grit grated under his puffy red sunburnt eyelids. His whole body was burnt and blistering, Jack was just grateful for the fact that he still had his pants on. He didn’t want to think about what the sun would do to ‘that’ part of his body.

His muscles ached from being held in the same position for so long, the cramping in his shoulders was vicious and he had long since lost all the feeling in his hands. He had no where to move to ease the pain, and even if he had, he didn’t have the energy to do so.

He tried to think of other places, other people, other times but the heat made it hard to concentrate on anything other than the simple act of breathing.

The day drew to an end, the cold desert night that followed yet again brought its’ own set of trials to be endured and overcome. Jack struggled to do so, he fought hard against the betrayal of his own body.

This time he won, he didn’t think he would, could, wanted to win again.

The pre-dawn light was not a welcome sight for the exhausted, beaten sunburnt, Air Force Major. He didn’t know if it was better to know how many days passed, or if he preferred the timeless, darkness of the cells.

In the early light the guards came for him. Unchaining him, they had to drag him from the cage, he couldn’t walk, he didn’t have the energy. He didn’t even have the strength to cry out as the pain of being released from his long held position hit him. His body just shook.

They half dragged, half carried him across the courtyard, to a corner that was still in the shade. As they drew closer, Jack recognized a by now familiar smell – cheap cologne.

Standing by a large metal horse trough filled with water was Jack’s tormentor, aggressor, interrogator.

He was a well-built man in full military uniform, he sported the short hair and beard favored by the Iraqis.

As Jack was thrown to the ground at his feet, the man removed his sunglasses putting them carefully into a top pocket, he looked down with disgust at the pitiful figure sprawling, gasping for water in the sand.

"You must be dying to quench your thirst." His English was fluid, the accent pronounced but with a clipped crisp articulation.

He motioned to the guards, who grabbed Jack and hauled him to his feet. Jack dug deep inside himself, to the very center of what made him who he was.

Jonathon O’Neill

Major

United States Air Force

And in his book that stood for something, so he forced himself as upright as his body would allow and stared straight into the face of his nemesis. He forced out the words through his cotton dry mouth.

"O’Neill, Jonathon, Major, United State Air Force, 66 789 7876 324."

With an almost imperceptible nod of his head, the man in the uniform signaled the guards holding Jack. They dragged him to the edge of the trough, and then grabbing him by the hair, pushed his head and shoulders into the water, holding him down.

At first Jack was grateful for the cool feel of the water on his face, it eased his burning skin, washed the grit from his eyes and nose. Then, as his lungs started to burn from the lack of oxygen, he wasn’t quite so grateful any more. Just as Jack thought he had reached the limit of his breath he was pulled clear of the water.

He gasped in the precious air, but it wasn’t enough.

Within what felt like seconds, his head was once more being pushed into the water.

Again and again the guards forced Jack’s head into the water, holding it there until they were signaled to release him. A brief respite to try and gain his breath back and then it started again.

The man in the uniform signaled the guards and they dragged Jack from the water for a final time, pushing him to his knees, holding him there by firm hands on his shoulders. The water ran from Jack’s head and body pooling in the dry sand. He licked the moisture from his lips, his thirst still raged.

"Now then Major, do you want to tell me why you are in my country?"

"I cannot answer that question." He rasped, his throat and mouth were still so dry.

"Ah, Major. That is not a satisfactory answer so let me ask you again and this time I suggest you think carefully before answering. What are you doing in my country?"

"I cannot answer that question."

The blow that followed was not unexpected but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Jack’s head rocked with the force and he could feel the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He carefully ran his tongue around his mouth, finding the broken tooth with a painful gasp.

He looked down, spitting blood and tooth into the dust, then raised his eyes to once more look into the face of his aggressor.

"O’Neill, Jonathon, Major, United Sta…"

He got no further before another punch silenced him. More pain, more blood, more of what he had become used to.

"I know who you are Jonathon. What I need to know is what you are doing here. You will tell me. Now or later, the choice is yours."

It was only figures of authority that called him Jonathon, his mother, the nuns at school, the police, the Air Force.

Jack HATED it when anybody called him Jonathon.

"I guess that will be later then." He quipped back.

The man in the uniform smiled slightly, revealing pure white teeth against his dark beard. It was a sinister smile, one that promised nothing pleasant, nothing to look forward to, nothing but the prospect of evil and horror to come.

"Good. I had hoped our time together would not be brief. I have so much I want to talk about, so much I want to…" he paused for a moment as if searching for just the right word to use "…share with you Jonathon. Now though you need time to think, to realize that I have power over your life. You WILL tell me what I want to know, it is just a matter of time."

"I won’t tell you anything, not now, not then, not ever."

The Iraqi officer issued an order to the guards holding Jack and they pulled him to his feet.

"We will talk again soon Jonathon. Maybe then you will tell me what I want to know. But I hope not."

"Can’t wait."

The guards started to drag Jack in the direction of the prison.

" Hey guys, I CAN walk you know." That wasn’t strictly true, Jack hardly had the energy to put one sore, cut, burnt leg in front of the other, but he knew that he was NEVER going to let some jumped-up little dictator with overblown delusions of grandeur get one over on him.

They threw Jack into one of the first cells they came to, slamming the door with unnecessary force. There was food and water in the cell but not enough to quench his thirst or fill his hunger.

Jack lay wearily on the floor and before he realized it fell into a troubled sleep, punctuated by nightmares of the man in the uniform torturing him; only it wasn’t him it was Sara or Charlie. Jack woke, shaking and breathless, unsure for a moment of the distinction between life and dreams.

The unchanging passage of time in the windowless cell was only marked by the arrival of more food and water. The guards usually took the opportunity to jostle and push Jack around, they would spit in his water and drop the food onto the floor. Jack didn’t care, he couldn’t afford to, and he needed the food and water if he was to have any hope of surviving whatever this place still had in store for him.

The door swung open again, Jack looked up into the face of his captor. He stood just inside the cell looking at Jack, what he saw cut a pretty pathetic impression of a man. The weeks of enforced starvation meant that Jack was now pitifully thin, his ribs and collarbones were evident through the tissue thin skin, which still bore the fading marks of his earlier beatings. His hair was longer and he had a good growth of beard, both were unclean, unkempt and matted with his blood. His face was hollowed from lack of food, dark rings circled his eyes; eyes in which there still burnt anger and pride but above all, hope.

The man motioned Jack to his feet. Reluctantly, wearily, and with a huge effort of Will he complied.

"I am sorry that we have not spoken in a while Jonathon, but other matters have taken me from you. Now those matters are resolved and I can once more give you my full attention."

"Gee thanks, I was kinda missing our little chats, although I don’t think I have anything to say to you."

"That is what you think now Jonathon, but I believe that you will tell me everything I ask of you. In fact I would bet your life on it."

Seemingly from nowhere the guards appeared and Jack allowed himself to be led out of the cell. The officer followed them.

"You seem a little pale, perhaps you would enjoy some more time in our sunshine. Yes?"

"Sure, I always like to come back from vacation with a tan." Jack hoped his sarcasm hid the fear and pain in his voice. He knew the LAST thing he wanted was to spend any more time in the sun, the effects of the last time were still evident on his blistered skin.

The guards took him outside, back to the cage. This time they hadn’t bound him so, when they tried to chain him, he took the opportunity and fought back, managing to land a few solid punches before a blow to his head stunned him enough for them to overcome him and complete their task.

Just as before they left him there for two days in the blazing sun and two nights in the chill of the desert. Just as before they stopped him from sleeping. Just as before life in the prison went on around him.

His skin burnt, his eyes were so sore he could barely open them, his lips cracked and his thirst built to monumental proportions. He was glad when they came for him, even though he didn’t know what awaited him.

He walked where they shoved him, back inside the walls of death. When he stumbled on the hard stone floors, his feet cut and bleeding, they would grab him by the most sunburnt piece of skin they could find and ‘help’ him back on his way. Usually they were laughing.

"Want to let me in the joke guys?" the effort of speaking made Jacks’ dry throat burn and set him off with a hacking cough. The guards just ignored him.

They reached their destination, Jack wondered if this was the same room in which he had been beaten before and if that was what awaited him this time. The room contained two chairs and a large table, on the table was a jug and glasses. The Iraqi sat behind the table; he looked immaculate, clean, well fed, all the things that Jack wasn’t.

"Good morning Jonathon. Please take a seat, we have much to talk about."

He indicated to the other chair, Jack wanted to sit down, fall down, anything but stand, but he wasn’t going to do anything this guy asked of him, not without a fight at least.

"I would prefer to stand" his voice was barely more than a dry rasping whisper. He hoped his shaking legs would hold him as he pulled himself up to his full height and tried his best to look like the soldier he was.

"Very well. As we are going to be spending some time together I should introduce myself, you may call me Kamil. Are you certain you do not want to sit down, this might take some time?"

"No thanks, Camille, I’m just fine where I am." Jack deliberately mispronounced his name, hoping maybe to provoke a reaction.

Nothing.

"Then tell me what where you doing in the village of Tarasha?"

"Never been there, don’t know the place, is it nice?"

The Iraqi’s expression never changed.

"You were there, you were left behind there by your … friends. Why would they do that? What were you all doing in Tarasha?"

"Told you already, never been there." For Jack every word was an effort; an effort to force past his dry lips and an effort to remain standing, he swayed slightly as he spoke.

The Iraqi reached for the jug on the table and poured two glasses of water. To Jack they were the one thing he needed more than anything, he tried to wet his dry lips but he had no moisture left, his resolve was weakening.

Kamil made a great show of placing one of the glasses on the table by the side of the empty chair, the other he raised slowly to his lips, drinking from it with an over exaggerated gesture.

Replacing the now half-empty glass on the table, Kamil looked at Jack and licked the moisture from his lips in a slow deliberate motion. If Jack hadn’t been so thirsty and tired he might have realized that there was more suggested in that action than just the act of tormenting him.

"It is hot in our country." A statement not a question. "I am sure that you find it hot, would you like some water Jonathon?"

Jack was at a point where he knew that the decisions he made right now would determine if he lived or died.

He needed the water to live, but he knew that it would come at a price and that price would be the betrayal of his honor, his sacred oath to serve and protect his country.

But what about his promise to Sara and Charlie, the promise to come home, was that more important than his honor?

Jack looked once more at the water.

It was no good, there was only one decision to make:

He walked slowly, unsteadily, unwillingly towards the empty chair and sat down. He looked at Kamil as if asking for permission to take the glass.

"Please Jonathon, take the water, there is no trick, no danger. Enjoy it."

Jack reached for the glass, inwardly cursing the weakness of his body that made his hands shake as he slowly drank the cool, clear life saving liquid. He savored every mouthful, finally replacing the empty glass on the table. He was still extremely dehydrated, his throat still dry and sore, but any water was better than none he reasoned.

"Now that you are refreshed, I shall ask you again. What were you doing in Tarasha? Why would you want to attack an innocent town, murder innocent civilians in their beds? This is the typical action of the imperialist aggressor. Are you an imperialist aggressor Jonathon, a murderer in the name of freedom?"

Jack knew that wasn’t how it had gone down. They were ambushed and had fought back, they had never murdered anyone. He wondered if protesting his innocence would do any good, he suspected not. That didn’t mean he would admit to anything though.

"I’m not a murderer or an aggressor, I’m just an ordinary soldier trying to do my job."

"What was your job? To kill harmless people? To turn them against our glorious leader? What was your job, Major?"

Kamil leant forward on the table, his posture aggressive, his tone still neutral, the effect, intimidating even to a soldier of Jack’s experience. Training taught you how to act, how to respond, it didn’t, couldn’t teach you how to feel.

Jack was scared, although he was determined not to let it show, deep down inside he was scared.

He knew this man could hurt him, the fading scars and bruises proved that, and he was sure that he would do so again.

That didn’t scare him.

He knew this man might kill him, eventually.

That didn’t scare him.

What scared Jack was what might come between the hurt and his death.

*******

Elgin Air Force Base
Florida
75 days later

For Sara O’Neill every day was the same as the one before, they had long since blurred into one indistinct passage of time.

She did the same thing time and time again, the routine giving her a purpose and a meaning to her life as she waited, waited for news of Jack.

She took Charlie to the base school, she cleaned up the house, she phoned for news of Jack, she helped Charlie with his homework and lied to him when he asked about his Dad, and she cried herself to sleep.

As the days drew on she felt more and more like the Air Force was giving up on finding Jack, they said they had looked, searched the surrounding area time and again and found nothing, no trace of anyone. It was as if Major Jonathon O’Neill had vanished, as if he had never existed in the first place.

Now they told her resources were limited, that Iraq was a big country that they had to reassess their priorities. More Air Force jargon that just meant they were no longer looking quite as hard for him.

Sara was convinced that Jack was still alive, she knew deep down inside that he was… didn’t she?

The unexpected knock at her door made her jump. Did it herald news of Jack and, if so, did she really want to know?

Yes…No… Oh God.

Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door to find Frank Cromwell on her step.

"Hello Sara, how are you?"

Sara didn’t know if she should kiss him or hit him. Did his presence here mean that they had found Jack, that he was alive? Or maybe it meant that he was dead.

Her emotions were on a rollercoaster, she didn’t know what to think, what to say, what to do. She just stood there. Finally she found her voice.

"Frank? What, why …. Oh God its Jack isn’t it?"

"Can I come in Sara; I have to talk to you."

"Is he dead Frank, tell me, is he dead?" The words tumbled from her lips, her eyes filling with tears as she waited for Frank to confirm her worst fears.

"Come inside Sara, I’ll tell you everything I can, promise."

He took Sara by the arm and led her inside the house, sitting them both down on the sofa.

For long moments they sat in silence, Frank looked at the pictures that dotted the surfaces, Jack and Sara, Jack and Charlie, hell even Jack and him taken the day they graduated the Academy. Good times he thought.

Sara fought back her tears and waited for Frank to say something. The time dragged on, the silence became overwhelming. She steeled herself, tried to prepare herself for whatever might be waiting.

"Frank, why are you here? If it’s to tell me that Jack is dead then just do it."

"Sara, I don’t know if Jack’s dead or not. I don’t know where he is or what has happened to him. I just know that it is my fault …it’s all my fault."

Frank’s voice was cracking, tears were forming, his hands shook. He got up and started pacing the room as if that would somehow help.

"What do you mean it’s all your fault? What happened Frank? What did you do?"

Frank told Sara about the mission, about how they were ambushed, about how Jack went back for his fallen comrade. He told her how he saw Jack get shot and how he tried to go back for him.

"I tried to go back Sara, I really did. It’s just I couldn’t… I wanted to but I couldn’t… God I’m sorry Sara… I left him there…. I left him there…"

By now Frank’s tears were flowing freely, as he picked up the picture of their Academy graduation his hands were shaking.

"Jack I’m sorry, I tried buddy. I really tried."

Sara got up slowly from the sofa, crossed to where Frank stood and took the photo from him.

"I’m sure you did Frank. I’m sure Jack knows that too."

She looked at the photo of the two of them ready to take on the world, best friends …forever?

She put the photo down and took Frank in her arms, giving into the tears she had been holding back. Frank returned her embrace, whispering in her ear.

"Sara, if I could take his place I would, you know I would. I wish it was me Sara, I wish it was me."

No more words were necessary as they cried themselves dry in each others arms.

By the time Charlie came back from school, Sara was in the kitchen fixing coffee and Frank was sat back on the sofa.

"Uncle Frank…Uncle Frank." Charlie rushed into the room and jumped up beside Frank, giving him a great big hug as he did so.

"Hi there champ, how you doing?"

"Is my Dad with you Uncle Frank?" Even though he was only young Charlie knew that his dad and Frank were always together.

Sara came with the coffee just in time to hear Charlie ask about Jack, she glanced quickly at Frank telling him with her eyes not to say anything.

"No Charlie, I’m afraid your Dad’s not with me, you see he still has some very important work to do but he’ll be home real soon now. You know what though, he told me to tell you that he is real proud of the job that you’re doing looking after your Mom and that he thinks about you every day."

Sara thought that the lie came easily to Frank, maybe too easily. Had he told her a convincing lie too? Had he really tried to help Jack, to go back and look for him, or had he just saved his own butt? Her emotions were in turmoil, was Frank really Jack’s friend? Suddenly she wasn’t as sure as she had been.

"Your Dad told me to tell you that he loves you and your Mom very much."

"Charlie, go upstairs and do your homework now. Uncle Frank and I need to have a talk."

Charlie looked sad and lost, like he had on the airfield all those months ago. He didn’t really understand why if Frank was here his Dad wasn’t; none of it seemed to make any sense. But he still believed in Uncle Frank and if he said that his Dad would be home soon, then he would be. He trudged slowly from the room.

"Good bye Uncle Frank, will I see you again soon?"

"Of course you will champ, and next time I’ll have your Dad with me, promise."

Once more Frank and Sara were alone. Before she had felt sorry for Frank, sorry that he had been forced to leave Jack behind, now, well now she wasn’t sure what she felt. She was mad at him, sorry for him and crazy with uncertainty all in equal measures.

"Frank did you really do everything you could for Jack?" Her voice was low so as not to disturb Charlie upstairs. "Did you really try to help him, try to find him, try to save him?"

The tears that formed this time were not of sorrow but of anger and maybe even a little hatred.

"After all Frank, here you are large as life in my house, with not a mark on you and my husband is out there somewhere…" her voice was wavering with emotion "and nobody in this whole damned Air Force seems to care if he’s even alive any more."

Frank stood up and slowly approached Sara, as he got closer she flung herself at him, crying and hitting him on his chest and shoulders.

"You lied to me Frank, you lied to me… You promised me you would look after Jack for me and you lied to me and you lied to Jack."

Frank was helpless to defend himself against her words and her actions, because he knew, he knew deep down in his soul that she was right, he had lied to her and worse than that, he had betrayed Jack’s trust and lied to himself.

*******

Sijn al-Tarbout Prison
Iraq

After his first bout of questioning by Kamil, Jack had been returned to the prison but not to his own cell, he was put in with the general population. The other inmates looked pitifully on the gaunt, bruised, exhausted man thrown unceremoniously into their midst. They were grateful that, whilst the prison hierarchy were dealing with the American, they were left relatively alone.

Jack struggled to his feet and staggered to a quiet corner of the bunkroom, where he settled with his back to the wall and tried to sleep. Many of the other inmates were in no better physical shape than he, but they had numbers on their side, and he was wary of an attack.

His sleep was broken by the touch of a hand on his arm, another prisoner was shaking him awake. Jack acted instinctively, defensively, grabbing the man’s hand from his arm with one hand whilst the other balled into a fist, preparing to strike if necessary. He looked into the frightened face of a young man; he was probably no more than 20 years old. Jack, realizing the boy was no threat, released his hand and relaxed his fist.

The boy looked relieved and smiled at Jack.

"Food." He said, pointing towards the long table at the side of the bunkhouse.

"Thanks." Jack responded taking the proffered hand to help him off the floor.

They made their way to the table and sat down. The food was what Jack had become used to, thin watery soup and dry bread. It was not enough to fill the empty bellies of the prisoners but they fell on it like it was a gourmet meal and Jack was no exception. He had long since learnt to eat and drink whatever there was, whenever it was available, never knowing when the next ‘meal’ would be.

Between mouthfuls, Jack introduced himself to the young man.

"I’m Jonathon O’Neill, but you can call me Jack."

"My name is Taraq. I used to drive taxi in Baghdad, play rock and roll music. Now I am here." He looked sad and frightened. "My English is good yes?"

"Yes it’s very good. How long have you been here?"

"Many months. I think I will not leave."

They both fell back to silence, each lost in their own thoughts, their own worries, their own fears.

Taraq showed Jack the ways of the bunkhouse. He got him a place to sleep, showed him how to get extra scraps of food and water, never missing a chance to practice his English.

Jack was grateful, for everything, for not having to sleep on the floor, for the extra food, for the exercise they were allowed in the yard, for not being beaten any more. He was getting stronger, slowly, his body was recovering, the bruises were now all gone, his broken bones healed.

He was also suspicious; was Taraq a way for Kamil to find out the things he needed? Why would he be the one to help him, after all, he was the infidel in their midst, the murdering American, the tool of the capitalist Bush.

They were in the courtyard when Jack decided to ask Taraq the one question he couldn’t square in his own mind - Why?

"Taraq, why are you helping me, after all, am I not your enemy?"

"Laa <no> Jack, you are friend. When war is over you look after me. Take me to America, to Rock and Roll music. I drive taxi in America, you help me."

His eyes glistened as he thought of his new life in America, the land of the free.

"Naam <yes> I’ll help you Taraq."

Jack looked at Taraq, at the sincerity and hope in his eyes and he thought that, if they both survived this place, then he would do what he could to help him. He owed him that.

"Taraq,…. Chokran <thank you>"

As much as Taraq liked to show off his English, Jack liked to take the opportunity to show off the few Arabic words he had learnt.

The pair smiled at each other, an understanding reached, and carried on walking round the courtyard.

Jack used these opportunities to look for ways that he could escape from this hell, so far he hadn’t found any. There was only one gate in the walls and that was always heavily guarded. Armed guards patrolled the tops of the high walls and anyway a fall or jump from them would be suicide. If he could somehow get outside the walls he had no idea where he was, where the nearest town might be, which way led to help and which to death.

Escape, or at least the possibility of escape was, for now, not an option, but he knew that he had to keep looking for a way out, he had a promise to keep.

He felt like he was stuck in some freakish time loop; he kept returning to the same room to face the same person asking the same questions in the same manner. He gave the same answers.

Time and time again, nothing ever changed, until one day it all changed.

For the worse.

Jack was taken to the usual room and left there, alone. He sat in his usual place and waited, wondering what fate awaited him, what game Kamil was playing.

The door was flung open and Kamil stormed in, looking less than his usual calm and collected self, he strode to where Jack sat and without warning backhanded him across the face. Jack was stunned, it had been a long time since the last attack of physical violence and he wondered what had provoked this one.

" Stand up." Kamil’s tone was slightly raised, the tight lines in his face and the tension in his posture told Jack that he could be in serious trouble.

Not wishing to provoke another beating Jack did as he was told.

"I am sorry Jonathon but we can no longer continue in this manner, the results of our conversations are …. unsatisfactory. I must try something else or I will loose you."

"Bad day at the office Camille? Boss not a happy camper? Well I’m heartbroken."

Kamil raised his hand as if to strike Jack again then changed his mind, instead reaching out and gently, almost lovingly, he touched Jack’s face, smiling as he did so.

Jack jerked his head back from the touch, fury blazed in his eyes but, before he had a chance for further action, Kamil had issued an order to the waiting guards and Jack found himself being dragged away.

The guards took Jack to the shower area. One of them grabbed him from behind, wrapping his arm across his throat, restricting his breathing, whilst another handcuffed his hands in front of him. They tried to take his torn, blood stained trousers off him and, despite the chokehold, Jack fought back.

He used the guard behind him as a support and kicked out at anyone who came near to him, landing several solid kicks that caused his aggressors to become more determined. The hold on his neck tightened, his breathing became more and more labored, until he couldn’t breath anymore and he passed out.

He was awakened by the feel of water on his body. Opening his eyes he saw that he was lying naked on the floor of one of the showers, the guards stood close by. He took a deep breath, feeling the bruising in his throat as he drew the precious air down into his lungs, slowly he got to his feet.

The guards threw him a tiny scrap of soap and indicted that he should clean himself. The water was cold, but to Jack it didn’t matter; he was just glad to be able to wash the stench of the weeks and months of his captivity from himself.

He didn’t normally take a shower with an audience and so he turned his back to the guards whilst he cleaned himself. The guards shouted at him to turn round but, despite guessing what they wanted, he chose to act as if he didn’t understand.

After all too short a time the water was turned off and Jack was once more grabbed and shoved towards a nearby chair. Next to the chair was a small mirror and shaving equipment, a scared looking prisoner held an open bladed razor in his hand. Jack was pushed onto the chair and held there, whilst the prisoner, under the watchful eye of the guards, shaved his beard off. He tried to be careful, but the shaking in his hands meant that, by the time he had finished, Jack’s face was cut in several places.

Wet, naked and now bleeding Jack was led away, protesting and resisting with every step.

Kamil was waiting for him, his normal composure had returned and he was once more in control. The guards knew what to do, attaching a length of chain to Jack’s handcuffs they passed one end over a high beam and pulled his arms tight above his head. They hoisted him up so that he could just touch the floor if he stood on his toes.

The guards withdrew, only to return a few moments later with an assortment of items that made Jack’s blood run cold. Chains, a baseball bat, rubber hoses and what looked to Jack like a bullwhip.

Kamil came round to face Jack.

"You must understand Jonathon, I have a job to do. We have not got very far have we?"

"Fuck you Camille. I won’t tell you anything, you should know that by now." Jack licked his dry lips, tried to steady his nerve and prepare himself for the pain that he knew was to come.

The baseball bat was the first weapon of choice.

"I am sorry that it has come to this Jonathon, but I have no choice."

"Yea, I bet you’re real cut up about it."

The bat landed across Jack’s right knee with a sickening thud and, despite himself, Jack screamed with the pain as his kneecap smashed into what felt like a million tiny pieces. With hardly a pause for breath Kamil swung the bat again, this time into Jack’s ribs, the newly healed bones just crumbled. The pain stole Jack’s breath away and he passed out without another cry.

Cold water drenched him, bringing his senses screamingly alert. As he tried to shift the weight off his injured leg he was sure that he could feel the jagged edges of the broken bones grinding against each other.

He tried to draw in a deep breath to help quell the rising agony, but that just made his broken ribs explode with pain.

He was in deep trouble and it was about to get deeper.

Kamil came closer, swinging the bat in his hand, his eyes were bright with the look of a man who enjoyed his work. Walking round and round, he drew out the next moment of agony. The anticipation of what was to come was both torture for one man and pleasure for the other.

The whoosh of displaced air as the bat made contact high up on Jack’s back was all the warning he got, he gasped and flinched against the contact. A flurry of quick, short sharp blows rained down on Jack’s back. None were hard enough to cause permanent damage, but all were hard enough to leave bruises and set Jack swinging against the chains that held him.

Jack fought against the pain, holding back the cries that threatened to spill from his lips, gritting his teeth and taking his mind away to a place where nobody could hurt him.

In his mind he was on the beach with Sara and Charlie, they were playing in the surf, their faces as clear as the day he had last seen them, their voices echoing in his mind: Come on Jack… Please Dad…

They were pleas for him to survive.

Kamil was like a man possessed as he wielded the bat, his breathing became quicker, low moans escaped his lips like a man nearing his orgasm.

In fact for Kamil the power he held over Jack, the pain he could inflict on him, was a powerful aphrodisiac and he could feel the effects on his body as he continued to rain blows on Jack’s helpless form.

The bat swung one last time, straight into Jack’s groin, dragging his mind back from its sanctuary with a cry of agony. Tears formed in his eyes as he squeezed them shut against this latest wave of hurt.

He felt a gentle touch under his jaw lifting his head up. He opened his eyes to Kamil’s face, just inches from his own. He could feel his breath on his face, smell the remains of the spicy food he must have eaten. As he tried to pull his head away Kamil tightened his grip slightly, holding him.

"Does it hurt Jonathon?" His voice was low and seductive, he stroked Jack’s cheek with his other hand.

"You must be in a lot of pain, let me help you. I want to help you Jonathon but you must help me first. Tell me what I need to know."

"Screw you." Jack spat the words through gritted teeth.

God yes he hurt, his knee and ribs were no more than molten pools of liquid fire threatening to consume him with their burning agony at any moment. His shoulders ached from holding his weight and trying to keep the pressure off his damaged limbs. His back was aching and sore, he was sure that he would be pissing blood for days to come.

He hurt, he hurt really badly.

Kamil took his hand from Jack’s cheek, still holding him firmly with the other hand. He let his free hand trail down Jack’s body, tracing the outline of his ribs on his gaunt frame. Jack shuddered with repulsion under his touch. The hand stopped just above his broken ribs.

" Do you want my help Jonathon?"

Jack stayed silent.

"I can not help you if you do not help yourself." And with that he placed his hand on Jack’s broken ribs and pushed until the silence was broken by the scream that Jack could no longer contain as he fell once more into the welcoming pain-free arms of unconsciousness.

Kamil released his grip on Jack’s face he brushed the hair from Jack’s forehead and kissed him.

"Oh Jonathon." He whispered.

Jack came round to a world of hurt. He was no longer chained up but he was still handcuffed, still naked, still in a whole heap of trouble.

His knee was swollen and stiff, he knew it wouldn’t ever be the same again. The pain in his ribs pulsed in time with his heartbeat, never ending, just changing in tiny degrees, sometimes less, sometimes more but always there.

He tried to move, to push himself into a sitting position, but the fire in his ribs flared higher, pushing him back towards the darkness, so he just lay where he was.

Waiting.

As the door opened Jack looked up expecting to see Kamil, or the guards come to finish the job, but instead found it was Taraq.

"Am I glad to see you, help me up off the floor will you?"

Taraq seemed hesitant as if he was unsure of what he should do, but he crossed to Jack and, with much cursing and swearing on Jack’s part, helped him to a sitting position, with his back resting against the wall, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. Both men were sweating, despite the chill of the cell.

"Chokran <Thank You>."

Taraq was unusually quiet and seemed to be ill at ease, his face showed signs of worry. He kept looking nervously around as if he was being watched.

"They want me to get you to talk. I say no. They beat me." Taraq raised his shirt to show Jack the bruises and what looked like whip marks that disfigured his chest.

"I’m sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt because of me but you know that I can’t tell them anything. Don’t you?"

"I tell them. I say you not talk. They say I must get you talk or bad for me."

The fact that Taraq would be beaten, tortured, maybe even killed just because of his stubborn attitude made Jack’s insides twist with guilt. But what could he do? If he told them what they wanted to know they would probably kill him and Taraq as well. As long as he held out there was hope for them both, he had to believe that. The hope that they would find a way to escape, the hope that the war would end and they would be freed, the hope that he would see his wife and son again.

"I can’t tell them Taraq. I’m sorry. I made a promise and I have to keep it, do you understand?"

"Yes. I will be good. Not for you to worry. I tell them you will not talk. We see what happen. Yes?"

"You’re a good man my friend. I’ll not forget this."

Kamil, who had obviously been listening, choose that moment to enter the room. He looked at Taraq.

"You may go now Taraq, I will finish our business later." The use of English was not lost on Jack, he knew that Kamil intended him to know that he had condemned Taraq to his fate.

As he stood up to leave Jack caught Taraq by the arm.

"Thank you."

Taraq patted Jack’s hand.

"I see you in America my friend."

As Taraq was hustled from the room, they both knew they would not see each other again.

"Very touching Jonathon."

"Bastard, sick murdering bastard." Jack’s voice was full of rage and guilt and helplessness. He had sent Taraq to his death to save his own soul, he knew he would have to live with that for the rest of his life, however long that might be. All he could do for Taraq now was to hold on, hold out, hold up and ensure that his death would not be in vain.

The guards pulled Jack to his feet. The movement caused fresh waves of pain and nausea to wash over him, his body shook, his head was spinning. They tried to get him to walk, but his right knee couldn’t support his weight, so they just dragged him to the nearby chair and dumped him on it.

Jack groaned with the effort of moving and breathing and trying not to retch. He slumped in the chair instinctively protecting his damaged ribs with his arm.

Kamil started again with the questions, this time it was a non-stop torrent of questions and raging rhetoric, not giving Jack the chance to answer even if he had wanted to. He was starting to shout. Flecks of spit landed on Jack’s face. The speed and harshness of this verbal assault made Jack wince a little, he felt like he was a naughty child on the receiving end of a good telling off.

Suddenly Kamil stopped, the silence was as deafening as the words had been.

He had been in Jack’s face, standing right over him, now he moved away straightening his uniform.

"Would you like some water Major?" the sudden change in questions, attitude, direction threw Jack, "and maybe some food as well?"

Jack realized that, yet again, he couldn’t remember the last time he had had food or water, he was suddenly hungry and his mouth felt dry. He wondered what he would have to do or say to get them.

"Yes please."

Kamil issued an order to one of the guards and then turned back to Jack.

"You do not look well Major."

"Ya think! I’m fine Camille, just peachy in fact. Don’t you go worrying about me."

"But I do worry about you. I do not want to have to cut short our time together. I still have a lot to learn about you Major and I think you have something to learn about yourself as well."

"Not from you, you’re just a psycho. You can’t teach me anything about myself. I’m already a better man than you will ever be."

"You are the tool of your government Major and very soon you could be dead for something that means nothing to you. Do you want that or do you want to let me help you?"

" I won’t tell you anything, ever. Asshole."

Silence once more.

Jack wished he had kept his big wise-ass mouth shut as he was sure that his last outburst would cost him the chance for the food and water.

Kamil stood patiently by the far wall, his need to break this man was consuming him although he didn’t show it outwardly. He would break him, he would make him talk, or he would be replaced.

Being replaced before he had the chance to fully enjoy Major Jonathon O’Neill was not something he would allow to happen.

********

For Jack it was a case of same shit different day. Kamil was getting seemingly more desperate in his attempts to get Jack to talk.

He had beaten him with the chains, the rubber hoses, his fists, his feet, Jack’s body was a mass of bruises and cuts, the imprints of the chains marked his skin. Blood smeared his arms from where he had ripped the skin around his wrists as he jerked again and again against the handcuffs.

He had questioned him and got no answers, now he was running out of time, running out of patience, running out of options.

Jack was hanging onto life by the thinnest thread. When the beatings started he sent his mind away and survived on the thoughts of his wife and son, survived on the thoughts of the promise he made.

Now though, it was getting harder to picture them, to hear them in his mind. His body hurt so much the pain was following him into his mind, robbing him slowly of the only thing he had left.

They came again and Jack thought that this might be the day he died, his body was failing him, the endless beatings pushing it to a limit beyond which lay only darkness and death.

He looked like a luckless prizefighter far enough down on his luck to tackle an opponent well out of his class. His face was heavily shadowed with bruising and, amongst several cuts, was a particularly nasty gash over his left eye.

Today though, today would be different.

Without speaking, the guards released the chain holding Jack and he slumped to the floor, agony pulsing through his arms, his ribs and his knee. They pulled him to his feet and half dragged, half carried him from the room, down the damp dark corridors until they reached a heavy door.

Beyond the door it was like another world, brightly lit corridors, the smell of food and the sounds of Arabic music. These were the quarters of the guards and their masters, people like Kamil.

Jack had no idea why he had been brought to this part of the prison but, as they reached their destination, he was sure that it wasn’t going to be anything he wanted to think about.

From inside the room Jack could hear Western music, he thought it sounded like Michael Jackson’s "Thriller".

The door opened. The guards dragged Jack into the room and Kamil bolted the door behind them.

The guards held Jack between them, he sagged in their arms, he hardly had the strength to support himself.

"Welcome Jonathon. Do you like my quarters?"

"A little gaudy for my taste, but hey, nobody could accuse you of having class now could they?"

"I may not have class Jonathon but I do have you and now I will break you."

"Don’t bet on it." Jack growled.

Kamil barked an order to the guards. One of them held Jack upright whilst the other released the handcuffs. The freedom was short lived as a length of coarse rope was bound tightly to each wrist. The guard released his grip on Jack and they each took hold of their respective ends of the rope walking away until Jack’s arms were stretched taut between them supporting his weight and stopping him from collapsing to the floor. Jack winced as they pulled him the action sent fresh waves of pain through his broken ribs, making every breath nothing short of an agonizing effort. He leaned heavily on his good knee, but it didn’t stop the endless ache in the broken one.

Kamil turned the stereo up a little louder, the music was to drown out the noise of the torture to come. He carefully removed his uniform jacket and shirt, leaving him bare-chested, he picked up a short bullwhip from the bed and approached Jack.

Jack swallowed hard, his mouth was suddenly dry, he put the trembling in his limbs down to the effects of the beatings. He wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself.

Kamil stroked the curled whip along Jack’s face and down his chest, watching amused as Jack tried to pull away.

"Pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin Jonathon."

He moved round the back of Jack, slowly unfurling the whip as he did so.

"I will teach you this, I will teach you to embrace the pain and the pleasure."

"Bite me." Was Jack’s shaky response.

The crack of the whip was barely audible over the music. The first Jack knew of it was when he felt the sting of the leather high across his shoulders and felt the warm blood ooze from the cut. He let out an involuntary gasp through gritted teeth, and flinched against the ropes that held him.

The next lash cut his flesh again, this time lower on his back, but no less painful. He didn’t make a sound this time, only tensed his muscles in anticipation of what was still to come.

Again and again the whip flew through the air, the music masking its deadly passage, preventing Jack from ever really being prepared for it’s cruel embrace.

He bit his lip until it bled in an attempt to stop himself from crying out. In his head he ran to his sanctuary, to the beach, to Sara and Charlie.

This time they weren’t there, he couldn’t picture them, couldn’t hear them, couldn’t find them.

The cry that escaped his lips was not just a cry of pain, but also of anguish. He had lost them, just like Frank they had deserted him, and he was alone. For the first time since he had been in this hell he was truly alone, he wanted to scream.

It was obvious that this was not the first time Kamil had ever handled a whip. His blows were measured in pace and timing, never leaving Jack enough time to recover from the last stroke before the next one fell.

Not every time the whip fell did he draw blood, but more often than not, sometimes it was a new cut, sometimes criss-crossing existing wounds, always painful for Jack, always pleasurable for him.

Jack flinched with each lash, struggling to keep his feet, hardly now noticing the pain in his knee and his side. Sweat ran into his eyes and slicked his body. The salt burned in the sliced flesh.

He endured the strokes with a silent stoicism, just the occasional low hiss giving any indication of his agony. Finally he stumbled, falling onto his bad knee; he couldn’t stop the scream as his crushed bones collided with the unforgiving floor. The pain was so intense he thought he would pass out, the edge of his vision greed and swirled, he closed his eyes in one last attempt to picture his saviors. He knew another stroke from the whip would send him into the darkness. But it never came.

The by now familiar smell of cologne and spicy food assailed his nostrils as a gentle hand on his arm helped him back to his feet. He didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to see that face close, too close to his, but he had to.

Kamil’s face was slick with sweat as was his torso, the muscles rippling from the exertion of wielding the whip. His eyes were bright, his breathing rapid and shallow. His erection was obvious through his uniform trousers.

A whispered voice.

"Now embrace the pleasure Jonathon."

Kamil turned away crossing the room to a large ornate desk, with a sweep of the furled whip he cleared the desk of contents, allowing them to fall noisily to the floor.

With a brusque nod of his head, Jack’s fate was sealed as the guards dragged him towards the desk. He was too weak to put up much resistance even as the realization of what was to come dawned on him.

They threw him, non-to gently, across the desk securing his arms to the far side, effectively pinning him down. He gritted his teeth, stopping the cry of pain that threatened to escape him as his lacerated back was stretched, the blood once more seeping from the cuts, the pressure of his ribs against the table caused him to see stars as his breath was ripped from his lungs.

He clamped his legs together as tight as possible, using all his failing strength. There was no way he was going to let this happen, he couldn’t.

Jack cried out with pain as one of the guards grabbed his broken knee, viciously pulling his legs apart. More coarse rope quickly secured them to the desk. Now he was completely helpless, completely at Kamil’s mercy, completely lost.

The pounding sound of Michael Jackson pleading that Billie Jean was not his lover covered the noise as Kamil unzipped his pants, letting them fall to his ankles as he stood behind Jack. With the smug look of a man who had finally got what he wanted, he plunged his engorged penis into Jack’s ass. He didn’t stop pushing, deeper and deeper inside Jack until he was buried balls deep. He groaned at the sensation of Jack’s tight ass as he started to pound in and out of the helpless man.

Jack cried out in pain as he felt Kamil breaching him, pushing hard inside him, stretching him, forcing himself deeper with every agonizing thrust.

"You Fucking sick son-of-a-bitch. I’m gonna kill you. You bastard." Jack’s tirade against Kamil was lost on him, the music drowned out most of his shouts and cries, besides which Kamil was too lost in his own ecstasy to hear much of anything except his own heartbeat.

Kamil had got what he wanted, to hurt the American, then to use him. The power he felt surging through him made him feel strong, invincible, untouchable. He wielded that power now, driving into Jack, pushing himself closer to his ultimate release. Jack writhed against his bonds, trying to escape the nightmare he was enduring, his helplessness only fuelling Kamil’s desire.

Kamil knew he could no longer hold back, he had to take what he wanted, what he needed, what he had worked so long to achieve and with a cry that drowned out even Michael Jackson, he came long and hard, shooting his semen deep inside Jack.

As Jack felt the warm heat of Kamil filling him inside, he felt tears in his eyes.

What had he let them do to him?

Why had he let them?

Kamil finally withdrew from Jack with a satisfied groan and stepped away, he smiled as he saw the blood and semen on his now flaccid penis. The same blood and semen that stained the top of Jack’s legs.

He indicated to the guards and they took their turns in raping Jack. They were rough, driving deep into him, mercilessly plundering his sore, tight ass, laughing at his cries of agony.

"Stop… please stop." Jack whispered. The guards ignored him, the one who wasn’t inside him lifted his head from the desk by his hair and slammed it down again.

"Hodoue" <Silence>

The brutalisation continued, first one then the other. Forcing themselves into him time and time again, bruising his skin where they held him.

Jack tried not to cry out with pain and humiliation but he couldn’t stop himself. He hated Kamil, he hated the guards but, above all, right now he hated himself.

Finally they were both done with Jack, they looked satisfied with their work as they watched the fresh blood and semen staining his legs.

Jack was burning inside, his anus was split and bleeding inside and out, he felt sick at the thought of what had been done to him. One of the guards again lifted Jack’s head from the desk. His face was wet with tears, tears of frustration, tears of pain, tears of hate. Kamil was there.

"Well done Jonathon. Now you are mine, you live and die in my world, in my time, at my whim."

Before Jack had a chance to reply, to even form a reply, the blinding agony of a foot driving his broken knee hard against the desk sent him spiraling into the waiting arms of the peaceful, pain-free blackness.

********

Later, in another part of the prison another type of interrogation was taking place.

Kamil was sweating slightly beneath his crisply pressed uniform as he stood ramrod straight in front of a tall gray-haired man, who wore the black fatigues of the Fedayeen, Saddam’s most feared elite militia.

These men had a reputation to uphold, they always got the confession they wanted and their methods were questioned by no one, ever.

The gray-haired man waved another photograph of the battered body of Major Jonathon O’Neill at Kamil.

"This is all you managed, to beat the American half to death and still learn nothing?"

"He is strong Sir, in his body and his mind, but now I have him Sir, I believe he will tell us everything."

The gray-haired man threw the photograph down in disgust before turning his anger once more to Kamil.

"You fool! Anything he tells us now is useless, outdated, rubbish. If I had been called in earlier we would have known the enemy’s plans and turned this war into a glorious victory!"

"But Sir, I tried…"

"Be quiet whilst I think." The gray-haired man paced the room trying to work out how he could salvage something from the incompetent ruins of Kamil’s handiwork.

Kamil didn’t dare move; he thought that when he broke the American, when he forced the information from him, he would be honored by the great Saddam himself. Now he thought he would be lucky not to be joining him in the dark bowels of the prison.

" Yes.. that’s it. That is what I shall do." The gray-haired man was talking partly to himself and partly to Kamil.

"As you have wasted the chance to learn anything from this American, I will use him to show our people the corrupt ways of the decadent Western world. I will use him as a propaganda tool; I will make him denounce his God, his leaders, his country, even himself and then I will make him beg me to kill him."

Kamil said nothing, he knew that the gray-haired man could, no, would do what he threatened, and he had no desire to anger him further and find out about his favored torture methods for himself.

"You will make arrangements to ensure that the American.. what is his name?"

"Jonathon O’Neill, Sir he is a Major in their Air Force."

"O’Neill… is given food and basic medical care until I am ready for him. I need him to be stronger than he is now if I am to properly show how the corrupt Western Infidel will fall beneath the might of Allah."

"Yes Sir, I will see to it personally Sir."

"No Kamil, you will stay away from him, I don’t want you near him again. Do you understand me?"

He knew what Kamil and his favored guards liked to do to their prisoners, how they got their kicks.

"Yes Sir."

"Very well, I will return at the end of the week to begin my work. Make sure O’Neill is ready for me."

The gray-haired man collected up the photographs from the desk and strode purposefully out of the room, leaving Kamil in no doubt as to his fate if he failed.

********

Jack knew he must be dreaming, he felt like he was in a bed, soft sheets under his battered body, a plump pillow supporting his head. Had it all been some terrible dream, a nightmare? Was he really at home with Sara and Charlie, safe in their arms, safe in their love?

As he tried to roll over, the pain that seemed to be in every inch of his body flared angrily and he was suddenly awake, all thoughts of Sara and Charlie lost in a fresh wave of hurt.

The dream was reality.

The nightmare was now.

As he pushed the ripples of agony away, steadying his breathing, he slowly opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

He was lying on his side on top of a narrow metal-framed cot, he was still naked and one wrist was handcuffed to the frame.

Carefully he pushed himself onto one elbow and looked around the room. He was alone and the room was bare except for his cot. The effort of even this small movement made his battered body shake and the fire that burned deep inside him reminded him, unnecessarily, of the violation he had endured. He couldn’t hold back the wave of nausea that overtook him at the thought of what they had done to him, how they had forced themselves on him and he leant over the side of the cot, until the dry heaves and retching had passed.

He curled back on his side, exhausted, and closed his eyes again. In his mind he could see Kamil and the guards, they were coming for him, they were going to rape him again and, just as before, he was powerless to stop them.

The tears squeezed past his scrunched up eyes, falling silently down the side of his face. The disgust he felt at himself was deep, it went to his very core, his very soul, to the essence of who he was.

Or who he used to be.

He let the pain and hatred consume him and passed out into a dreamless sleep.

The smell of food assailed Jack, pushing its way slowly into his consciousness. He opened his eyes to find that, yet again, nothing had changed. He was still naked, still sore, still restrained and still in hell.

He raised his head from the thin pillow looking round for the source of the smell. A guard he had not seen before sat on the floor nearby, the food at his feet, another paced nervously in the background.

Jack’s stomach growled as the smell of the food once more reached him, he was so hungry and thirsty.

The guard, noticing that Jack was awake, got up and crossed to his side; Jack could barely control the shiver of panic that rippled through him as he wondered what fate awaited him now.

The guard reached down and unhooked the handcuff from the frame pulling Jack into a sitting position before cuffing his hands in front of him, the other guard was not far away his hand on his gun, his senses alert for any sign of trouble or resistance. The one who had cuffed Jack’s hands went back to the food and, picking up the tray, placed it beside Jack on the cot, he indicated with gestures that Jack should eat.

Jack was confused, the food was not the normal prison fare that he had become, albeit infrequently, used to but was some sort of hot meat stew and rice. There was water and a cup of the hot sweet tea that the Arabs favored. Once more the guard gestured to Jack to eat.

Jack ate the food with his fingers, slowly and carefully in small mouthfuls. He hadn’t had this much to eat before and he was wary of his body’s reaction. He sipped the water and the tea, grateful for every drop. He left none of the food, even licking the plate clean when he had finished.

"Chokran" he said "For the food."

The guards did not respond as they collected up the empty tray and left, the nervous one never taking his eyes from Jack as he backed out of the room. He had been told that the Westerner was a dangerous man who would try to kill them and escape. Looking at the battered figure who was now once more asleep he found that difficult to believe.

The food had warmed Jack and, despite the small quantity, had left him feeling full, his senses dulled. He remembered how he had felt like this back home at Thanksgiving and Christmas when he had eaten too much and then fallen asleep in front of the TV. His eyes felt heavy, too heavy to keep open, and as he lay down, sleep claimed him before he had a chance to realize that his food had been drugged.

Kamil had to see Jack again, despite what he had been told.

He was obsessed with him, he needed him, he wanted him.

He accompanied the prison doctor as he attended to his unconscious patient. He watched as the doctor splinted and bound Jacks damaged knee and put several stitches in the deeper lash marks on his back.

Wisely the doctor chose not to mention the all too obvious signs that his patient had been raped, brutally. Despite the drugged food, Jack moaned as the doctor finished his examination.

Kamil watched with undisguised lust in his eyes, enjoying once more the sight of the pain he had inflicted on Jack, remembering how he had felt at the moment of his sexual fulfillment. Those thoughts and the sight of Jack, naked and carrying his scars, caused Kamil’s erection to return.

The doctor pulled a hypodermic needle from his bag and, after locating a vein, carefully injected the contents into Jack’s arm.

" That is a dose of high strength pain killer to help him recover, now he needs plenty of good food and liquid for the next few days. He also needs to rest."

The doctor got up from Jack’s bedside, he had done what he could for him, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He knew about the gray-haired man, he knew what he was capable of and he felt pity and a little sadness for his soon to be victim.

"I’m done here." He said, as he picked up his bag and made for the door, "Food, water and rest." He reiterated as he left the room.

"Yes doctor, thank you. I will join you in a moment." Kamil looked again at Jack, his need to have him growing inside. He crossed to the small cot and bent down listening to the steady breathing of the unconscious man. He stroked Jack’s face, murmuring softly as he did so.

"Oh Jonathon, such a shame, I would have looked after you Jonathon, now, now I can do nothing."

The ache in Kamil’s groin told him to take Jack again now, but his mind told him to be patient. Where was the enjoyment if the other person wasn’t aware of what was being done to him? There would be another chance, a better chance to get pleasure from Major O’Neill before the week was out. So he would wait.

As he rose slowly from the cot, he spoke quietly, even though he was now alone and Jack was still unconscious

"I will see you again soon Jonathon, I promise you that."

The sedative they had put into his food made Jack slow to respond to the guards attempt to wake him. He didn’t want to wake up, to leave the warm, safe pain-free place that was undisturbed drug enhanced sleep, but the insistent shaking on his arm just wouldn’t go away, so reluctantly he opened his eyes. For a moment his focus wavered and the face in front of him morphed between, Kamil, his henchmen, Taraq and Frank before finally settling. It was the new young guard, the one that had sat on the floor, and once more he was helping Jack to sit upright before pressing more food into his hands. This time it was warm fresh bread coated in honey and more sweet tea. Jack’s mind was still not clear of the effects of the previous dose of drugs and so he didn’t question why, he just ate and drank greedily. Again, after he had finished the guards collected the plate and left him once more to his lonely vigil.

As he sat on the edge of his cot, he noticed that he didn’t seem to hurt quite so much any more, his head was still clouded and fuzzy from the sedative, but he was sure he didn’t hurt like he used to. He looked down at his battered and abused body. He had never been overweight, always tending to the lean and muscular, but now he was skeletal, his ribs clearly visible and his skin hanging loosely. His broken ribs were misshapen giving him an odd lop-sided look. He noticed that his knee had been splinted and bound with a bandage. He wondered when that had been done, had his head been clearer he would have also wondered why.

The day wore on, Jack dozed, and each time he woke up his head was a little clearer, the sedative wearing off slowly.

Once more he thought about Sara and Charlie, once more he tried to picture them in his mind, once more they failed him. All he seemed to be able to picture was the sight of Frank turning away from him, leaving him behind, leaving him to this seemingly endless cycle of pain and humiliation.

"Bastard. Two faced lying bastard." He was shocked to hear his voice against the crashing silence of his solitude. He hadn’t meant to voice his thoughts out loud, but now that he had he felt better, so he let his tirade run on.

"When I get out of here Frank, I’m going to find you and then I’m going to kill you. You lying shit, I bet you are back home now with a beer and the football game. Warm, dry, safe….and I’m here Frank, here in this stinking rotten prison. Here in this never ending hell, here dying inch by inch."

What had started as anger and hatred was slowly turning to frustration and desperation. Jack’s voice which had started strong and full of venom, was now broken and full of tears.

"You were supposed to be my friend Frank, is this how you treat your friends? At the first sign of trouble you turn tail and run. I thought we were friends Frank, friends forever… remember. We said." Jack choked back the tears. "We said, Blood on Blood Frank, One on One, we would be there until the end. Until the very end."

The tears fell as Jack let himself be overwhelmed by the betrayal of his friend. He was lost in the dark pit of hell and he knew there was no way out. No way other than death.

The guards came again with more food, Jack ate in grateful silence watching them watching him and wondering what lay in store for him. He wasn’t sure that he cared any more, that he had the strength and the Will left to keep on fighting.

He had lost all the things that mattered to him, the trust of his friend, the love of his family, his belief in the strength of good over evil, his dignity, maybe even his hope.

No trust, no hope, no comfort and only one end.

There was a growing part of him that wanted it all to be over no matter what the consequences might be. He was certain that he was never going home, that he would never see Sara and Charlie again, so what did it matter if he told them what they wanted to hear, signed their ‘confessions’, agreed with their lies?

He was giving in to the hollow empty darkness that threatened him. It was rolling closer like a malevolent storm cloud, swallowing up all the light, all the goodness, all the last traces of hope in its path. It was sucking him in, snapping the threads that helped him to cling to his life, swallowing up his hope with every passing moment.

The cloud was at the edge of Jack’s mind, the safety of its dark center offering Jack the comfort of the end. He closed his eyes, he was ready to welcome the end, to tell them whatever they wanted to hear, to sign whatever they put in front of him, just to stop the pain, the pain in his body and the pain in his mind. He knew when he opened his eyes he would give them his honor and then he would be no more.

He took a deep breath, the cloud rolled in, getting closer and closer and then suddenly it stopped.

Jack could see Charlie, for the first time in what felt like forever, he could see him. At first he was far away but he was running towards Jack getting closer all the time. Jack thought he was shouting something but he couldn’t quite make out the words.

Jack let out the breath he had been holding and opened his eyes. The guards were still there, the pain was still there, but now the hope was also there.

Since the first time the guards had appeared they had not bothered to re-handcuff him to the bed, instead just leaving his hands cuffed in front of him. Jack decided it was time to try out his leg and carefully pushed himself off the bed. Initially favoring his good leg he slowly and cautiously put a little more weight onto his damaged limb. The pain was intense, the sweat broke out on his forehead as he staggered, stumbled and forced himself to take a step.

"Shit that hurts." He mumbled to himself through teeth gritted against the flaring pain.

Again he forced the un-cooperative limb into another step.

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck." He cursed as the third step proved to be a step too far and his leg gave way beneath him, dumping him unceremoniously onto the cell floor.

He dragged himself the short distance back to the bed and, using his good leg and with a lot of cursing and effort, managed to get himself back up into a sitting position. His body was shaking from the effort and his breathing took several minutes to return to anything near normal.

Undeterred he tried again, this time he managed four steps before he once more found himself on the floor. Again he got himself back on the bed ready to try again.

His body told him to quit now, his broken knee screamed with pain and he was once more becoming aware of the aching in his chest and his back.

He thought back to the time he had last visited the Middle East at the invitation of Uncle Sam. That time he had broken his leg when his parachute failed to open properly and had spent 9 days dragging himself through the barren desert. He hadn’t given up trying then, and he wasn’t going to give up now.

Now that he had Charlie.

God he HATED this part of the world!

Jack kept pushing himself and his leg until he was completely exhausted and he collapsed back onto the bed. He had managed a few more shuffling agonizing steps each time until he could almost manage to cross the small cell. As soon as he was rested he would start again, he reasoned as sleep took him.

Jack thought he heard the sound of the cell door opening. He had been deeply asleep, deep in the dreamless sleep of a body trying to heal itself. He was still only partially awake when he recognized Kamil and his favored two henchmen as they loomed large in his small cell.

Kamil sat in an ornate wooden chair that Jack thought he had seen in his quarters…before.

His mind was still clouded with sleep as the two guards were upon him, forcing a cloth gag across his mouth and dragging him up off the bed.

They hauled him to the recently vacated chair and threw him over the arms, one of them holding him down as his ass was left vulnerable and exposed.

Jack was awake now, all too aware of what was coming.

He struggled against the guard holding him and was rewarded with a blow from a gun butt that left him dazed.

This time Kamil let his guards go first. Just as they had been the first time, they were once again ruthless with Jack. They forced themselves inside him, harder and deeper, time and again until they could hear Jack’s quiet cries even through the gag. They violated him again and again, taking pleasure from his weak attempts to break free. If his struggles became too annoying to them, they would strike his already abused body with a fist or a gun butt until he was still once more.

Finally they were both done, their desires sated, and it was Kamil’s turn.

Watching his two henchmen abusing Jack, listening to his helpless cries and seeing his feeble attempts to stop them had driven him wild with anticipation, with need, with want.

The knowledge that he was going directly against the orders of a member of the Fedayeen did nothing to ease his aching erection. In fact it made his desire stronger, more powerful, more dangerous.

He tormented Jack, by walking slowly round him, touching him, stroking him, tracing the outline of his scars with gentle caresses. He watched as Jack shuddered and trembled under his touch, his pleas for whatever, lost behind the gag, his struggles futile against the tight hold and occasional blows on his body. All the time he was building his own need whilst allowing Jack to think about the inevitable act that was to follow.

Then it was time, Kamil could wait no longer. Taking a firm grip of Jack, he pushed himself as deep inside him as was possible, listening to the barely audible noises of pain and anguish from his helpless victim.

Kamil was slow and deliberate in his punishment of Jack, holding out as long as he could. He was careful to inflict as much pain and humiliation as possible by pulling his penis out of Jack and changing the angle of his next thrust so that Jack was torn and split and bleeding within a few strokes.

He made sure that he found Jack’s prostate striking it with as many thrusts as he could, causing a reaction in Jack that pleased him and sickened Jack.

Kamil could hold himself no longer, seeing the change in Jack’s body drove him to the limit and beyond. With a final long deep thrust he came, quietly mumbling in Arabic as he did so.

Kamil pulled free from Jack satisfied that once more he had wielded his power over the American that he had humiliated him and made him suffer. Without a word he dressed and at the doorway looked back at the sight inside the cell. Jack was still held over the chair, fresh bruises marked his face and body, blood once more stained his backside and legs, smiling widely at his handiwork he turned, straightened his uniform and left Jack to the ‘care’ of his guards.

When Jack regained consciousness he was once more alone, the deep flaring fire he felt in his ass a reminder that the nightmare he had endured was in fact a reality. A reality that once again left him sick to his soul, more so this time because his body had reacted to the brutal invasion and that went against all his instincts of what was right.

His body was stiff and sore, obviously the guards had beaten him after the blow that had sent him to unconsciousness, what else they might have done Jack refused to even contemplate.

He closed his eyes once more, he had to look for Charlie, to tell him why, to explain, to ask him to forgive him?

Jack opened his eyes, he had to deal with the reality, survive whatever they threw at him, do whatever he needed to do to get through and maybe, just maybe, at the end of it all he would get to keep his promise and go home.

For the next few days Jack’s life fell back into a steady routine. The guards came twice a day with food, watched him eat and left without ever uttering a word.

On one occasion the doctor accompanied them. He used broken English to explain who he was. He changed the support on Jack’s knee and checked the stitches in his back.

When Jack saw him produce a syringe he tried to back away, pressing himself against the cold cell wall. He had no idea what was in the syringe and there was no way he was going to let anyone inject him with anything if he could help it.

The doctor issued an instruction to the guards and they soon had Jack immobile, despite his valiant attempts to keep them away.

"For pain." The doctor tried to explain as he quickly injected the clear amber liquid into Jacks’ arm. Jack winced slightly as the needle broke his skin and he glared at the doctor, who smiled apologetically before administering the drug.

The morphine quickly flooded Jack’s body, easing the aching and soreness in his muscles and limbs, but at the same time depressing his respiration rate making him feel drowsy, by the time the doctor and the guards left him he was barely awake.

Jack never heard his cell door open, never saw the gray-haired Fedayeen officer watch him as he slept, never realized that the hell he thought he was in was to be nothing compared to the hell that awaited him.

The gray-haired man watched the sleeping form of his latest ‘victim’ with the detached air of a surgeon about to perform an operation. In fact he often thought of himself in those terms, he was a specialist whose prowess lay in extracting information from previously uncooperative prisoners. He was proud of his work, proud of the fact that nobody had ever failed to tell him what he wanted to know, proud of the fact that he had never failed to rise to the challenges put before him. He relished the thought that Major Jonathon O’Neill would be his greatest challenge yet, and therefore, his greatest victory.

He walked over to the still sleeping figure, appraising the gaunt and battered body with the trained eye of a man who knows what he wants, what he needs. He rolled Jack onto his back and watched him sleeping for a few moments longer.

Satisfied with what he saw, he removed his wire-framed spectacles, cleaning them carefully before putting them back on and leaving Jack’s tiny cell.

Outside the door his trusted lieutenants waited, he nodded at them brusquely.

"He is ready, clean him up and bring him to me."

Hell for Jonathon O’Neill was just beginning.

*********

Jack looked up as the cell door swung open, two new Iraqis dressed in all black military fatigues entered his room.

"Kef Men Fadlek." <Stand Please>

The polite wording and the soft tone used made it more of a request than an order and was certainly not what Jack had become used to over the past few months.

Carefully he stood, trying to keep as much weight as he could off his bad leg and allowed himself to be led from his cell back into the dank, dark hallways and corridors that he had come to know so well.

He limped heavily, the sweat breaking on his forehead despite the chill of the prison. He had to stop every few steps to catch his breath and push away the pain from his leg. The guards never rushed him, waiting patiently until he was ready to go on and then falling back into step beside him. They never spoke, but that suited Jack, he needed all his energy and all his thoughts to keep putting one leg in front of the other.

They passed several other prisoners, all of whom looked at Jack with a sadness borne from the knowledge of what the men in black represented, Jack, lost in his own world, never noticed.

It was probably for the best.

Their destination was the shower block and Jack was glad to be finally allowed to stop, he gratefully accepted the chair thrust in his direction. As the pain in his leg decreased to a manageable level and his breathing returned to normal he began to wonder what this latest trip was all about.

He had never been treated this way before, the food, the rest, the medical care maybe they all meant something. Maybe they meant that he might be on his way out of this nightmare.

He wanted to believe that, so he allowed himself to believe that until he saw the one sight that dashed those hopes onto the rocks of despair.

Kamil.

Kamil strode purposefully to the two black-clad guards and engaged them in a quiet conversation. Jack had no idea what was being said but Kamil was punctuating his conversation with a lot of grand gestures, which seemed to have the desired effect as eventually the two guards strode away, albeit a little reluctantly.

Jack and Kamil were now the only people in the shower block - not a situation that Jack relished. As Kamil came towards him he pushed himself upright in the chair, unconsciously dropping his cuffed hands in front of his groin. He hid his disgust and fear behind a mask of calm indifference.

"Hi Camille, how’s tricks?" His voice was steady.

"Hello Jonathon, it is good to see you looking so well."

"Well you know the room service leaves a lot to be desired and there’s not much of a view but apart from that.."

Jack left the sentence unfinished and gave Kamil a weak smile.

Kamil was beside him now and, despite his best efforts, Jack’s body shuddered slightly when the all too familiar smells assaulted him again.

He had wanted to be strong, to show Kamil that he wasn’t afraid of him, that he may have raped his body but he hadn’t raped his mind. His body may have betrayed him but his mind was still strong, in fact, thanks to Kamil, it was stronger now than it had been for a long time. He drew in a deep breath, the air filled with the pungent aroma of cologne, spicy food and cigarettes.

"You know Camille, I should have told you this before. That cologne is SO seventies, and all those cigarettes, they’ll kill you in the end. Unless I do first."

Jack kept his voice even, the threat sounded just a little hollow given his current predicament, but he said it anyway.

Kamil pushed Jack back against the chair by his shoulders, his face just inches from Jacks.

Jack squirmed uncomfortably, torn between using his hands to try and push Kamil away and leaving them to protect his most vulnerable areas. He decided just for now they were better off where they were. Kamil leant in even closer.

"I have come to say goodbye Jonathon, for I fear we will not see each other again."

"Gee, got somewhere else to be. Well don’t let me keep you."

"I will miss you Jonathon, you were to have been my greatest triumph and now you are my greatest loss."

Before Jack could form a witty answer Kamil had sealed his lips over Jack’s in a searing embrace. Jack, with his head pressed against the back of the chair, had nowhere to go as Kamil held his head in his hands and kissed him long and hard.

Jack was momentarily stunned and then, as he tried to react, lifting his hands from his lap to push Kamil away, the silence was shattered by a single gunshot and Jack found himself covered in what was left of Kamil’s brains.

The lifeless body slumped towards him and he pushed it away watching with a strangely detached air as it fell to the ground, the cold unresponsive eyes holding him still with their piercing stare. Jack had seen men die before, hell he had even sent more than a few to their death himself, but this time it was like he wasn’t really there, like he was watching it from afar.

The smells of death mingled with the smells of Kamil and his stomach churned threatening to return his last meal. He swallowed deeply, closing his eyes against the sight before him, pushing back his feelings of relief and regret.

"I’m sorry that I had to do that, but I had told him to leave you alone. What I say I mean."

Jack opened his eyes to see the owner of the quiet, cultivated voice. It was the gray-haired man with the steel-rimmed spectacles, he still held the smoking automatic pistol in his hand.

"Thank you." Jack’s voice, calm and collected amid the scenes of horror and death.

The gray-haired man said nothing, without holstering the pistol he turned and walked away. Outside, another single gunshot rang out as he shot one of his lieutenants in the head.

The price for disobeying him was death.

The remaining Fedayeen guard took Jack to the showers took the splint off his knee and pushed him into the cold spray. Picking up the small scrap of soap, Jack set about the task of washing the death of Kamil, the stench of the prison and the grime of himself from his body. The jets of cold water were like needles against his skin, like millions of tiny shards of glass were being ground into his flesh. Jack grimaced as the jets pummeled his heavily scarred back, setting the nerve endings screaming.

The agony ended and this time Jack was thrown a small rough towel to dry himself with, not an easy task in handcuffs. The rough cloth on his skin sent further pain flaring through his body, especially when he touched his swollen, broken ribs. By the time he was dry he was sweating again and his knee was aching furiously.

The guards, now replenished in numbers, helped him back to the chair where this time his head as well as his beard was shaved. It was the same prisoner as before, and his hand still shook, leaving Jack not only with cuts on his face but also several deep gashes on his head.

They led Jack away to a part of the prison he had not seen before. It was soon to be a part he wished he had never seen.

The room was larger than all the others he had been kept in, it needed to be to accommodate all the gray-haired man’s favored means of torture.

On the floor was a large square metal frame, in one corner was an industrial battery surrounded by wires and jump cables. Jack shuddered at the sight and swallowed hard, he knew what they were for.

Jack tried to resist the guards’ attempts to push him to the floor, but they were ruthlessly efficient and highly trained. They clubbed him unconscious with ease.

They undid the handcuffs and, using nylon ropes tightly bound to his wrists and ankles, secured him to the four corners of the frame. He was splayed, spread-eagled, his limbs extended outward by the taut ropes. He was utterly defenseless and when he awoke and realized that, the gray-haired man would begin.

He expected that the realization of his defenselessness would begin the psychological game, a game that he was sure would end in Major O’Neill’s confession and ultimately his death.

Jack woke slowly, not wanting to open his eyes, not wanting to know what horrors awaited him. He thought he might have been getting out of here, now he knew that was never going to happen.

The pain is his extended limbs forced him to open his eyes, a gray ceiling filled his vision, he turned his head slowly from side to side, the movement sending waves of nausea rolling in. He tried to swallow it down and was mostly successful, small amounts of vomit escaping his lips and falling onto his outstretched arm. The sound of his retching must have alerted the guards that he was awake as he heard footsteps and then he heard a cry of pain.

The cry of pain came from him as the guards, using a series of pulleys, lifted the frame from the floor. The tension of the nylon rope lifted Jack, his body weight supported by his tightly bound ankles and wrists.

He was in agony now, his limbs hyper-extended, his arms straining in their sockets, his knee felt like it was being pulled apart and his ribs burned with an intensity that he had never felt before. He felt more than heard the last of the stitches in his back rip apart under the tension, the warm trickles of blood seeping from them to drip onto the stone floor.

The gray-haired man in the steel-rimmed glasses appeared in his line of vision. When he spoke his English was perfect, with just the hint of a mid-Atlantic accent, like that found in so many people who have learnt their English from tapes and television.

"They tell me you haven’t been co-operating."

"No? What’s the matter – did I bleed on the wrong bit of floor?"

Jack was determined that, while he still could, he would fight and words were all he had left to fight with.

The gray-haired man seemed unimpressed – he had seen it all before. He had seen many, many men so full of defiance in the beginning, begging to die in the end. He was sure that this would be just one more.

He crossed to Jack and pulled a long bladed hunting knife from his belt, without words he made a small slice in Jack’s right side and then repeated the action on his left. The skin and the fascia beneath immediately sheared, pulled apart by the tension of the ropes.

Jack screamed, the gray-haired man smiled, the guards lifted the frame another notch higher.

The torsion of the position made breathing extraordinarily difficult requiring a tremendous exertion for Jack to arch his chest and extend his diaphragm, made worse by his broken ribs. With every breath the tension on his straining limbs seemed to worsen, blood began to drip from his wrists were the nylon rope had broken the fragile tissue-thin skin.

The gray-haired man was speaking now, Jack struggled to hear his words, concentrating as he was on pushing away the pain and drawing another breath into his tortured lungs.

He didn’t care what the man was saying, what he wanted, what he was asking. He wasn’t going to tell him anything, ever.

With a great effort Jack recited his mantra.

"O’Neill Jonathon Major," a pause to draw another breath, "United States Air Force," another pause " 66 789 7876 324."

By now Jack was gasping for breath as the pressure on his chest made every breath a battle, a battle he had to keep on fighting, a battle he had to keep on winning.

Blood ran freely from the cuts in his side, from his back and his wrists staining the floor beneath him with a river of crimson life.

The gray-haired man stood right in front of Jack, his face an impassive mask as he watched the man beneath him struggle not to cry out with the pain, struggle not to let the helplessness of his situation overwhelm him, struggle for every breath.

"Do you think you are a hero Major? A hero for your God, your country, your ideals? Let me tell you something, you are not a hero you are just a sad misguided man, a sacrificial puppet in a much bigger game. I will show you that you are nothing, nobody, just a dupe of the Imperialist aggressors who even now try to destroy our way of life. A way of life that is centuries old, older than anything you can ever imagine, it is as old as time itself. Many have tried to change us, to mould us to their ways but we have stood firm, we have resisted, Allah has held us in the care of his embrace and we have survived. You will not defeat us Major, you will not defeat me."

"You’re full of shit." Jack growled, the lines of pain on his face deepening with the effort of talking.

"If you resist me Major, I can and I will ensure that nobody ever learns of it. Your bravery, your heroics, your pain will all have been for nothing. Look into my eyes Major and believe me when I tell you that I am the balance of judgement, do not be found wanting."

The dark pools of the gray-haired man’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses as he stared intently at Jack. Jack thought that he could feel those eyes burrowing down through him into his soul, into his essence, into every fibre of his body. He thought that perhaps he was in the hands of some delusional madman but, as his eyes burnt through him, laying him bare, exposing who he was, he knew it was worse than that. He was sane, all too sane, too in control of his actions and their consequences.

Jack knew with a cold dread certainty that this man meant what he said, and that he would do whatever he felt necessary to get the answers, to get the desired result, to get his death. All Jack could do was to make it as hard as possible for him to reach his goals. He would cling to every breath and fight for every breath and treasure every breath until he no longer had a life to fight for.

The Fedayeen officer spoke once more, his voice low and calm, evil flowed in every word.

"I know you think you are a brave man, I know you have a high tolerance for pain and suffering. Perhaps you would like me to test how high, like an … experiment? Or will you tell me what I want to know? Ask yourself that question."

Jack shuddered inwardly, his insides churning at the thoughts of what might be to come, somehow he fought down the rising panic, the feeling of pure cold fear, the realization of his own mortality. Fighting for each breath over the rising tide of agony spreading through his limbs, he fixed his gaze on his tormentor.

"Is talking me to death the torture or should we get down to business?"

The effort of forcing the words out left Jack gasping, his hyper-extended chest barley able to drag the air through his lungs. He felt like a great weight was pressing down on him, squeezing the life from him, whilst cruelly allowing him just enough respite to prolong the inevitable.

The gray-haired man smiled once more.

"I think you need time to think Major, to decide on the course of the rest of your life."

He was walking away from Jack as he spoke. Bound and suspended as he was, Jack couldn’t move to watch him, he was just left to wonder as he heard the sounds of searching from somewhere behind his head.

The calm, calculating, evil voice continued, rising in tone just enough to compensate for the noise of his searching.

"Pain is not the same as torture. You will learn the difference between pain and torture Major."

He was back in front of Jack now, his arms behind him, holding something hiding something. He looked at Jack, his face expressionless.

"This is not torture, this is just pain."

With those words he produced a cattle prod from behind his back and activated it.

Jack’s eyes widen in horror as the Fedayeen officer approached him, the cattle prod crackled in his hand. The knowledge of what was to come made Jack’s flesh go cold and, despite the tight restraints, he shivered slightly. He found his mouth was suddenly dry as he fought down his rising dread.

The thoughts did nothing to dim the panic, the fear and ultimately the excruciating agony as the cattle prod was held against his penis.

For just an instant Jack felt nothing, and then the agony spread from his groin, running wildly along his nerves and through his muscles. It spread like wildfire leaving no part of him untouched. Despite the tight hold of the ropes that bound him to the frame, he managed to rip more skin from his wrists and ankles as his body jerked with the pain. He had never felt anything like it, the pain was worse than anything Kamil had ever inflicted on him and he couldn’t hold back the cry that spilled from his lips.

Even after the cattle prod was removed he could feel the decreasing jolts of energy setting his muscles quivering and making him gasp for breath. He had squeezed his eyes shut as if that would somehow make it all hurt a little bit less, of course it hadn’t and when he opened his eyes it all started again.

The man in black, the crackle of electricity, the moment of nothing and then the mushrooming explosion of pure agony.

In Jack’s mind she enveloped him in her arms at the precise moment the pain enveloped him.

Jack passed out without ever realizing that her name was on his lips as he did so.

The Fedayeen officer turned off the cattle prod, smiling as he did so, he now had something he could use to help him break the American.

Jack’s slow return to consciousness was accompanied by what he was sure was popular US chart music and American voices. He was confused, the last thing he remembered was a crazy Iraqi with a cattle prod and pain like nothing he had ever experienced before, but now he could hear music and voices.

Had he been rescued?

Was he now somewhere safe, away from the questions and the pain?

Would he soon be going home?

The only way he was going to find the answers to the questions in his mind was to open his eyes and see what was happening.

So he did.

The sight that greeted him made him want to cry with joy and relief. Two young soldiers in the uniform of an army infantry unit stood just to one side of him. They were drinking beer and laughing over some private joke.

Jack felt detached, distant and estranged from his surroundings, like he was looking in through a frosted glass window. He chose not to remember or notice that, although his breathing was easier, he was still a prisoner, still bound, still naked and helpless in a dark underground cell. He didn’t seem to care that while he had been unconscious a cannula had been inserted into the main vein of his arm and that even now a clear liquid was steadily being introduced to his system.

All he cared about was getting the attention of the two soldiers and getting a beer.

"Hey soldier." He called a little weakly. There was no response, the music kept on playing and the soldiers kept on talking.

"Hey, soldier, over here." This time louder. The soldiers looked up as if noticing Jack for the first time, they crossed to his side and threw half-hearted salutes before swigging once more on their beers.

"Hey Major how ya doin?" The soldier’s accent and mannerisms were perfect.

They should be, he came from a small town in Middle America and had spent time in the US military before deciding to throw his lot in with those who paid the most and becoming a soldier of fortune.

"Me and my buddy here, we’re just enjoy a beer, blowin’ off a little steam. Ya know, celebrating the end of the war and all." He swigged again at his beer and his buddy nodding in agreement, slapped him on the back and downed the last of his drink.

"You want a beer Major, I’m sure I can find ya one round here somewhere."

Jack couldn’t believe his eyes and ears, he blinked several times and looked around him as far as was possible. No signs of anything other than the two soldiers, some loud pop music and a crate of beer.

One of the soldiers was right beside him now, an unopened beer in his hand.

"You are Major Jonathon O’Neill right? One of those flyboys out of Elgin – right?" He turned to his friend. "See I told you it was him, I knew he was a flyboy. That’s 10 bucks you owe me!"

Jack’s speech was beginning to slur as the drug being pushed into his arm took a stronger and stronger grip on his weakened and abused body.

"I’m O’Neill, but give me a beer and you can call me Jack."

He was now so drawn into the illusion before him that it became his reality.

He would have a couple of beers and then he would go home.

"OK Jack, I’ll give you a beer if you tell me what you did in the war, if you tell me why you murdered innocent people, farmers, women, children. Why did you do it Jack… why?

In a darkened corner of the cell the Fedayeen officer looked up from the eyepiece of a tripod mounted video camera. The camera was trained on Jack and had been recording everything since he regained consciousness. The gray-haired man was certain that if Jack didn’t confess to everything he wanted him to, didn’t make the right statements then he would still have enough footage to ‘manufacture’ whatever he needed.

Jack was trying to convince the soldiers of his innocence, telling them over and over that he hadn’t done the things that they were accusing him off. They just didn’t seem to want to listen, asking him again and again what… why… where until he wasn’t sure himself anymore.

His vision was becoming distorted and his speech was slurring badly, his mood seemed changeable, one minute he was glad to be helping his fellow soldiers, telling them whatever they wanted. The next he was paranoid and suspicious, telling them nothing. His respiration had become shallow and his face was flushed. To Jack it felt like he was drunk, although he never remembered getting the beer he kept asking for.

Jack’s thoughts and answers were becoming just a random jumble of words and phrases as the drug finally pushed his mind and body too far and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Thank you gentlemen." The Fedayeen officer approached the two soldiers of fortune, stopping to turn off the music as he did so. "I think that one more dose should do it, if you will come with me I’ll tell you what I want to know."

The three left the cell, leaving the naked, helpless and now drugged man, alone but for the red recording light of the video camera.

Jack woke briefly, his head throbbed and he had a raging thirst. He was once more aware of the pain in his limbs, the aching in his leg and his chest. Once more he knew he was in hell. He didn’t remember the soldiers and their questions and he certainly didn’t remember anything he might have told them.

Pain, thirst, drugs, sleep.

The soldiers were back in place and the music was playing again as the gray-haired man hung a fresh bag of Phencyclidine behind Jack’s head and squeezed the bag hard forcing the drug back into his body.

"Time to wake up our guest. You know what you have to do?"

They nodded and the Iraqi took a small syringe from his pocket. He plunged the needle directly into the heart muscle allowing the action of the organ to push the adrenaline quickly round Jack’s body.

Within a few moments Jack’s eyes suddenly shot open and the illusion began again.

The questions this time were about home, about America, about his family and his friends. They asked about his beliefs, his religion, his politics, his favorite football team, his favorite food.

As far as Jack knew he was just shooting the breeze with his buddies, talking about the same things that all guys talk about.

He told them about growing up in Minnesota, about going fishing, about Sara and Charlie and about his best buddy Frank. He told them God and he had an understanding in which they each left the other alone, he said he hated football but loved ice hockey and his favorite food was ice cream.

He told them he felt hot, that he was sweating and that he was having trouble breathing, they told him he was drunk. They told him they would look after him and take him home.

They asked him to denounce his President, his Commander-In-Chief, to say that the war against Saddam had been a terrible mistake and that they should have left well alone.

Jack wanted to agree with them, so he could get home, get back to Sara and Charlie to the NHL and ice cream but deep, deep down somewhere in his very core something was telling him that this was wrong, so very, very wrong.

The strange feelings of being there but not there, being strong and yet weak, being sane and yet insane returned. He couldn’t remember the questions, couldn’t remember the answers, couldn’t remember seeing the soldiers before, couldn’t remember who he was.

"NO." His voice was slurred but the meaning was clear. "I won’t do it, I won’t say it. You can’t make me. I’ll kill you all!"

Jack’s mood swung from defiant to scared, his voice from commanding to cracking, his body from strong to weak.

"Please don’t… I’ll say anything you want, just make it stop…Please."

He suddenly felt sick as the world around him started to spin wildly. His blood pressure, pulse and respiration all started to fall. He couldn’t hold back the wave of nausea and with a loud groan he vomited, the smell making him heave and retch until there were nothing but dry coughs left.

Through blurred vision he saw the gray-haired man standing with the soldiers and his last conscious thought was that it had all been a trick, a trick that he had fallen for.

The Fedayeen officer knew that Jack’s last realization had been that this reality he had tried to create was just a sham. He would have to try another way to get him to denounce his way of life, but that was all right he had plenty of other methods.

"My thanks again gentlemen, but now I think your work here is done. Let’s get out of here, go to my quarters and conclude our business."

********

The gray-haired man returned some time later, he wasn’t surprised to find that Jack was still unconscious. He took the now empty bag of PCP from behind him and replaced it with a fresh bag. This one contained a cocktail of drugs: naltrexone an opiate antagonist, dexmethylphenidate, atomoxetine and adrafinil all psycho stimulants. The combination was of his own making and he was sure that it would allow him to show Jack exactly what torture was all about.

He changed the tape in the video camera, there was no way he wanted to miss a single second of what was to follow, as he tortured, broke and finally killed his hapless, helpless, lost victim.

He summoned his lieutenants, they raised the frame supporting Jack, once again putting the strain back on his chest and lungs, then they wheeled the industrial battery closer and stood back waiting.

Everything was in place and with another shot of adrenaline directly into his heart muscle Jack was dragged back to a reality he never wanted.

Jack’s return to consciousness was swift and unpleasant as the adrenaline hit his system forcing him awake with a moan of agony on his lips. He was tired and thirsty, he ached all over and once again he discovered that every breath was a battle against pain. He had a raging headache and seemed to have no memory of the time between the agony of the cattle prod and now.

"Ah, I see you are awake again. Now Jack, it is time we had a little chat."

Jack wondered how he knew to call him Jack, until now it had always been Major or Jonathon.

Try as he might to force the memories nothing would come, there was just nothing, no images, no sounds, just a dark void of emptiness. He had no idea what if anything might have happened to him, what he might have said and done. The dark cloud of despair loomed large once more as he battled to remember something… anything.

"Now Jack, tell me what gives purpose to your life? Is it your uniform and all it stands for, is it your culture, is it the fact you believe you are free? No? Then maybe it is your wife and child, do they give meaning to your life Jack?

The dark cloud rolled closer with the sickening realization that he had given them what they wanted, he had given up his wife and son to be used against him. The two most sacred things in his life and he had sold them out, Jack felt guilty, ashamed and totally disgusted with himself.

"Fuck you" his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I’ll tell you nothing."

"Jack, you have already told me everything, now … well now this is just for fun."

Jack locked eyes with the Iraqi, he thought he saw the briefest flicker of doubt in his eyes. Maybe his suspicion was right, he had told him something but not everything. Jack saw he had lied, he had won that battle but the war was far from over.

The gray-haired man cleaned his spectacles and replaced them, looking at Jack as if seeing him for the first time. Jack refused to look away and held his eyes, glad that the dread he felt inside wasn’t visible.

"Look into my eyes Jack and tell me what I want."

"O’Neill. Jonathon. Major. United States Air Force. 66 789 7876 324."

"No Jack… tell me the purpose to your life."

"O’Neill. Jonathon. Major. United States Air Force. 66 789 7876 324."

Jack stubbornly forced the words out, past the pain in his limbs, the pain in his chest, the pain in his heart.

The gray-haired man walked to the battery and picked up a set of electrodes. Jack tried hard not to show his fear as the guards forced his mouth open and the electrodes were attached to his teeth.

The pain was incredible, it was as if a series of bombs were going off in Jack’s head. His body jerked time and again against the restraints, which were now slick with his blood.

He could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten himself in a futile attempt to stop the pain.

The drugs were starting to work, intensifying every sensation and, with the second jolt of electricity, Jack’s body once more jerked against the restraints as the cries of agony fell from his lips.

"You are alone now Jack. All alone. If you think you are a hero then you must act like a hero, you must rely on yourself for you have no one else. No one at all."

Another blast of electricity, another scream of agony, another tiny part of a man’s soul ripped apart.

Even after the power was cut and the electrodes removed Jack’s body twitched and shuddered from its effects. He could hardly breath through the pain, which he could feel in every cell, eating away at him, draining him, draining his Will.

"I told you Jack that I would show you the difference between pain and torture. I think now is a good time to begin."

Despite the pain he was in Jack summoned the strength to recite his mantra again - it gave him some comfort, some strength, even some hope. It gave him something to think about other than the pain and the fear.

"O’Neill. Jonathon. Major. United States Air Force. 66 789 7876 324."

"Now Jack, we already know who you are, or rather who you were. Now you are nothing, you have gone from hero to zero. Nobody cares anymore Jack, nobody will come to save you Jack, you can not even save yourself."

"They WILL come and then you’ll be sorry." Jack hoped he sounded more defiant than he felt.

The gray-haired man was pacing back and forth in front of Jack, hands clasped behind his back as if giving some important speech. He acted as if Jack had never spoken.

" Do you know that pain is not the same as torture? Torture requires an element of human intention. The experience of torture, you see, requires not only the intention to inflict pain. It also requires that the subject of the torture recognizes that intention."

He was warming to his subject now and as he spoke he absently fiddled with the leads and wires attached to the nearby battery, finally settling on a string of small electrodes.

He passed them from hand to hand as he spoke, allowing Jack just glimpses of what was to come.

"You must recognize my intention to cause pain. To be very precise, and I am always very precise, you must recognize that I intend you to recognize that I intend to cause you pain. Would you say you and I have done this Jack?"

"What?" Jack tried to act dumb, in fact he knew exactly what his torturer meant and he was right, knowing that pain and torture were on the way just increased the expectations, increased the fear, increased Jack’s feelings of helplessness.

The officer needed no words as he handed the string of electrodes to his aides.

With an unnecessary callousness one of the guards picked up a short metal pipe and drove it hard into Jacks’ side. Another rib shattered and as Jack opened his mouth to scream they forced him to swallow the string of electrodes.

When the electrodes did their job it was as if Jack’s insides were being ripped apart by a thousand pieces of glass.

To Jack the pain was so horrific that he couldn’t even scream, in fact he couldn’t make any sound at all. His body went into convulsions and he vomited, almost choking as he did so. His body failed him and he urinated and worse over his defenseless form.

His insides felt like one single horrible wound, he didn’t know that he could stand pain like this. He prayed for unconsciousness but it never came.

Another shot, more convulsions, more vomit though now it was stained with blood. More pain than his body should have taken. Still the relief of unconsciousness eluded him, the drugs flowing through his veins made sure of that.

He tried to close his mind to the agony, to find comfort in thoughts of Sara and Charlie, but the pain drove them from his mind as he fought to think about just drawing another breath.

Then, mercifully it was over, the electrodes were removed causing him to choke and cough. The coughing racked his body, which still shuddered and twitched from the aftershocks, it left him with a raging thirst.

The gray-haired man looked at Jack, surprised to still see defiance behind the pain that reflected back from his brown eyes. He knew that he hadn’t yet broken him, although many men before had begged to sign, to confess, to die after the torture Jack had been through.

Inwardly he was impressed, outwardly his face was an emotionless blank.

"Are you surprised how much pain you are capable of surviving? Are you wondering how your consciousness can even contain suffering of this magnitude?"

Jack stared silently back at him.

His thoughts battled with the pain, giving him just a little more hope, just a little more strength, just a little more belief.

"The body is really no different than it was thousands of years ago, but now our evolving understanding of neurochemistry is really quite valuable. Ordinarily the body has the equivalent of a safety valve, when the pain reaches a certain level, unconsciousness occurs."

Smiling a smile that never quite reached his eyes he joked, "Do you know how much that used to, how would you Americans say, piss me off?"

"No? No matter. But now thanks to chemistry the whole game has changed. Have you wondered what is in the drip?"

Despite himself Jack reacted, turning his head slightly to watch the clear liquid running into his body. Even this simple movement sent shock waves of pain through him. Once more he set off coughing, this time it produced a trail of blood stained spit. His newly broken rib had splintered causing internal damage and bleeding and Jack was sure he could feel the sharp edge of the bone against his skin with every breath he took.

"It’s a substance called Naltrexone, it’s an opiate antagonist, it blocks the natural painkillers in your brain, so the limits of pain can be pushed past. Just think Jack, because of this drip you can experience levels of pain that the human body was never meant to know. What I like most about this Jack is that I don’t know what the limit of your pain will be and all that stops me from finding out is my own level of patience. I think you will find Jack, that I am a very patient man."

"You also talk too much." Jack grumbled before the effort of speaking set him coughing and gasping for breath once more.

"Good, very good. Soon though you will yearn and beg for unconsciousness, but the drip also contains potent psycho stimulants – a combination of my own making, dexmethylphenidate, atomoxetine and adrafinil – which will keep you maximally alert indefinitely. You won’t miss anything."

He smiled again as if pleased with himself. The end maybe drawing near but he fully intended to get every ounce of pleasure, every ounce of pride, every ounce of pain available.

"I know you think you’ve experienced agony beyond endurance, beyond comprehension. But I can increase it tenfold, a thousand fold! What you have experienced so far is nothing at all, compared to what lies ahead. Are you ready Jack, are you ready to suffer and die for what you believe in?"

Jack had had enough of listening to the man in black. If he was going to kill him then fine, but just get on with it.

The drugs were really beginning to work now, allowing Jack to feel everything, every breath, every beat of his heart, every drop of blood in his veins. It was like he could feel every cut, every bruise, every scar, every violation inflicted on him since that first day in Tarasha. The feelings overwhelmed him, causing him to look once more to the sanctuary of his mind.

They came to his call

They came to his side

They were as he remembered – young and beautiful, happy and free, waiting, waiting for him to come home to them.

He couldn’t fail them – could he?

"The purpose of my life is to rid the world of scum like you." Jack struggled over the pain to force the words out.

The gray-haired man just smiled and turned away as his guards, too well practiced in their actions, started unraveling the thin wires from the battery.

Using alligator clips they attached the wires to Jack’s feet, his hands, the skin of his stomach, his ears and his nipples.

The first jolt of electricity slammed into his body stopping his thoughts dead. His body lifted against the restraints tearing yet more skin from his ankles and wrists. The drugs amplified every sensation; it was as if he could feel the electricity in his veins, his muscles, even in his bones. The cry that came from his lips was like the wail of a dying animal.

Jack was so immersed in his own world of pain that he hardly registered the low rumbling and the slight tremor in the ground as somewhere high above him the liberation of his hell began.

Another bolt of electricity, another cry of pain.

Blood formed at the corners of Jack’s mouth as he struggled for breath.

Then suddenly there was nothing, nothing but the silence of the room, the rasping breaths of a dying man and the low rumble of his salvation.

The gray-haired man and his guards, aware of the bombing going on above them, left quickly.

Jack was alone, alone with his pain. His body was still shaking slightly from the effects of the last bout of torture. His mind couldn’t properly handle the sensations he was feeling, too much pain, too much confusion.

He tried to take some deep breaths, thinking they would help him box the pain away, they didn’t. The effort set him coughing again, his broken rib blazing like a fire in his side, blood seeping from his nose and mouth and the pain….

Boy the pain!

As suddenly as they had gone, his three antagonists were back again.

They moved the alligator clips.

This time as well as nipples, his gums, his nose, over his heart and his penis felt the biting sting of the clips.

They taped an electrode to each temple.

Jack knew what was coming, he had been there before.

His body was still reacting to the last onslaught and he was scared, really sacred, of what another attack would do to him.

He looked into the blank emotionless eyes of his captor and knew then that he was never going to get out of this hell alive. He was just the plaything of a delusional madman, who would torture him until he died.

As the next bolt of electricity lifted his helpless form and he felt every cell in his body erupting, tears formed in his eyes and Jack did what he prayed he would never do. He wept.

He felt guilty and humiliated, his body had failed him. He had put his faith in everything he had believed in, his skill, his training, his family and now that faith was finally destroyed.

He was broken.

He was lost.

He was destroyed by the pain and the humiliation.

He closed his eyes, the tears still falling from beneath the lids and for what he was sure was the last time looked for his sanctuary, his love, his hope.

In his head he saw Charlie and Sara, they were distant, fading memories and he knew that they could no longer save him , no longer help him, no longer give him the Will to live and the strength to fight.

He turned from the images in his mind, walking away, alone, towards his destiny and his death.

His decision made, his destiny now firmly in his own hands, he opened his eyes and stared defiantly at the perpetrator of his living hell.

"Make me die.. there’s nothing else you can make me do!"

The gray-haired man smiled obligingly.

"Akthar." <more>

For Jack every burst of electricity dragged him closer and closer to death, and now he welcomed that closeness. He had no way to turn back the relentless tide of pain and every attack drained his Will to fight.

He was lost.

Completely lost.

Death was his only escape and he willed it to come.

Above him in the clear desert sky, the US Air Force continued their attacks on the prison, now backed up by a large number of ground troops.

Jack, in his world of agony, knew nothing. His captors however, did. They knew that their time was running out, the guards at the prison walls would not be able to hold off a superior force for long.

For the Fedayeen officer it was decision time. Should he stay and finish his work, kill Jack and risk his own capture. Or should he turn tail and run, leaving the only person to ever defeat him still alive?

Well, barely alive.

One last time he turned on the battery and watched as Jack writhed under its cruel touch. Watched as he tried to scream and the pain stole his breath leaving him gasping. Watched as again his body failed him and he wept with the shame of what he was unable to stop. Urine and faeces stained his legs, blood and vomit his chest and arms. He left the charge running as he watched Jack slowly dying before his eyes, the hope and defiance he had seen was fading. Maybe he had not been defeated after all.

Another loud rumble from above and there was no time left. They had to go – now.

The gray-haired man turned off the battery and came close to Jack. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight and the smell. As he spoke his lieutenants raised the frame to a virtually upright position, effectively crucifying Jack. He wouldn’t be able to force the breath into his lungs for much longer, he would die slowly, drowning in his own blood.

"I’m sorry I can’t watch you die Jack but... well I’ve got to run. You have been, what’s the word? Ah yes … an interesting subject. Goodbye Jack, enjoy the rest of your death."

Then the three of them were gone, escaping from the cells and the prison just ahead of the advancing troops.

********

Sanchez hurried out into the sunlight, crossing the central square of the prison and coming smartly to attention when he reached General Andrews. He waited for the General to acknowledge his salute and then, with his words tumbling out, he told the General about what he and Harriman had found.

"General Sir, We’ve found an American Sir, in the prison Sir."

The Generals’ eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Slow down now Corporal, tell me exactly what you have found and where."

Sanchez took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts of what he had seen to the back of his mind.

"In the final sector Sir, just over there." He indicated to the door from which he had just come. "There were more cells, we found a prisoner in one of them. He’s an American Sir, and he’s been hurt pretty badly."

By now the General had been joined by several other ranking officers, one of whom held several sheets of computer printout. These contained information on the missing American and Allied personnel, both military and civilian.

"Does this American have a name Corporal?"

"Yes Sir, he says he is Major Jonathon O’Neill of the Air Force."

There was a few moments of silence whilst the officer consulted his computer printouts and then spoke in whispered tones to the General.

"Well done Corporal, our information tells us that Major O’Neill was reported as MIA after an ambush in the village of Tarasha over four months ago. I’ll organize for an immediate medical evacuation and as for you Corporal, I think it is high time we got the Major home, don’t you?"

"Yes Sir."

Sanchez saluted once more and left the coolness of the General’s command post for the blazing heat of the prison yard. He crossed to where the rest of his unit were eating and relaxing, wishing above all else that he could just sit down and join them. Instead he found his pack and rummaged until he found his spare BDU pants.

"Hey Sanchez where’ve you been? We got done ages ago, didn’t find anything worth squat though. Did you?"

Sanchez looked at the faces of his unit, many like him were just fresh-faced eager rookies.

He didn’t think they needed to know about the horrors of Sijn al-Tarbout.

"No nothing really… gotta go, the Sergeant is waiting for me. I’ll see you later."

Ignoring their strange looks he trotted back towards the cells.

In the General’s entourage the calls were made to summon the choppers. There was a solemn air to the officers, they had seen the brutality that the Iraqis were capable of inflicting on their own, what they would have done to a Western prisoner didn’t bare thinking about.

"Four months, poor bastard," one of the officers said quietly. There was a murmur of agreement and then a sad contemplative silence.

In the darkness below, Harriman and Jack waited in silence, Jack was too weak to talk and Harriman didn’t know what to say. The only sound was the occasional moan from Jack as the pain swept over him in unending waves.

After Sanchez had left, Harriman had looked once more at the contents of the cell, the battery with its wires and clips, the empty stand which had held who knew what kind of drugs, the broken, battered body drifting at the edge of death.

"Bastards" he mumbled.

"Yes they were", was the quiet reply.

"Sorry Sir, didn’t mean to disturb you." But Jack had once more drifted away into semi-consciousness.

Harriman took the opportunity to try and make Jack more comfortable. He took off his jacket and placed it under his head and then, using more dressings and some water, did his best to clean up the blood, vomit and other bodily waste. Occasionally Jack would be dragged back to the painful reality by a bought of coughing or by a spike of pain.

Whenever he opened his eyes Harriman was there, offering a soothing word or a precious sip of water. If this was just another trick then it was a damn good one.

A noise made Harriman look up, Sanchez had returned and was hovering by the broken remains of the door. It was as if he didn’t want to cross the threshold of the cell, as if maybe by staying on the outside he could somehow make himself believe that what had seen in that cell had never been more than a twisted dream.

"Just a little longer Major, we’re nearly there now."

Harriman rose from Jack’s side and crossed the cell. Sanchez thrust the BDU’s at him.

"They say he’s been here for over four months." He whispered, casting a quick glance Jack. "Four months!"

Behind them Jack shuddered and moaned as once more the effects of the past few days made themselves known in every muscle, every fibre, every cell of his body.

"Ok Sanchez, I’ve got it from here." Harriman said taking the pants from his outstretched hand. "I want you to go and find Barlow and finish checking this sector."

Sanchez looked crestfallen; he had hoped that this would be the end for him, that he would never have to go back into the prison again. Another groan of pain, another moan of agony and without the need to look he knew he had to finish what he started.

How many others like Major Jonathon O’Neill were there behind the remaining locked doors?

Harriman was back at Jack’s side, slowly rousing him, trying to get him awake and keep him awake.

"OK Major let’s get you out of here and on your way home. You’re going to have to help me though, do you think you can do that for me?"

Harriman waved the BDU’s at Jack and he weakly nodded his understanding of what he was required to do. He just felt so tired, so very, very tired. If he could just close his eyes for another moment then everything would be fine, he would be fine, all the pain would stop and then….

Amid a long and protracted bought of cursing and swearing, from both men, they eventually got Jack into the BDU’s. They hung loosely from him but they were better than nothing. The feel of the material against his skin felt to Jack like rough sandpaper. He had been so long without clothes and his skin was sore and sensitive from lack of food and water and from the constant beatings.

Getting ‘dressed’ had left him utterly drained, completely exhausted and gasping for breath. It was several minutes before he could bring his breathing under control and even think about what was still to come.

"Ready?"

"As I’ll ever be."

Harriman put his arm out to Jack who seemed to think for a long moment before taking it. Using all of his willpower and most of his strength he did what he could to help himself up off the floor and to his feet. It took all he had and left him empty, drained and gasping once more for breath.

Coughing up blood as he fought to stay upright, he leant on the comforting solid form of Harriman until he could force down the pain in his ribs and his knee and stop the world from spinning.

Harriman draped one of Jack’s arm’s over his shoulder grimacing as the action made Jack’s ribs flare and he heard him grunting back the agony. He put his own arm around Jack’s waist, shocked by how thin he was, and supported him until he was ready.

Even in his thoughts he couldn’t face Sara and Charlie, he had given them up and then turned his back on them. He had chosen death over his promise to live.

He wasn’t ready for them now. He wasn’t sure that he ever would be.

Slowly Jack took a step and then another, his knee hurt like hell, his chest burnt like fire.

The solid rock beside him never wavered and his strength became Jack’s strength.

Stopping frequently for Jack to catch his breath or to let some new wave of pain pass they made their way from the place of death towards the daylight and salvation.

Eventually they were at the doorway, sunlight streaming in making both of them squint against its harsh glare. Jack hadn’t dared believe that he would see the sun again before he died, he was sure the darkness of his cell would be his life and his death. Even if this was still some nightmarish trick he had seen the sun again, breathed fresh air again, felt alive again and that gave him hope and strength.

Gradually Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the sunlight and he could see the full extent of what had become of the prison yard.

From the high walls a Stars And Stripes fluttered occasionally in the light desert breeze, groups of soldiers stood or sat around, talking, eating, relaxing. On the far side of the yard he saw what looked like a command tent, armed soldiers at the entrance and a steady stream of coming and goings through its tented flaps.

Slowly, through the pain, through the last remnants of the drugs, through his own nightmare Jack began to believe that this was not an illusion, not a trick.

This was real.

He was saved.

He had survived.

He was free.

"Not a trick?" he stammered. "Real?" He looked once more at the groups of soldiers filling the yard.

" Jarheads!"

"Yes Sir we are. Saving your flyboy ass….Sir."

The two men smiled at each other before another crushing spasm of agony made Jack’s whole body shake, his legs turned to jelly and only the strong arm of Harriman prevented him tumbling to the floor. Harriman held him firm until the shaking stopped then, wiping the fresh blood from Jack’s face, he indicated to the command post.

"The General is waiting for us, when you’re ready."

He took Jack’s arm from around his shoulder and let go of his waist, keeping just a supporting hand in the small of his back.

He would give Jack the dignity of walking unaided as far as possible.

Jack knew what he was doing and why.

Word had got around the camp about a POW that had been found and as the two of them made their slow progress toward General Andrews the camp fell silent. The Marines looked on with sadness and with pride, he may have been a flyboy but he was still one of their own.

Jack never noticed the looks on the Marines faces, his world was narrowed down to just one thing.

Taking a step and then another and then another.

Fighting down the pain, believing that if his step wavered there would be a hand to help him, if he wanted to give up there would be a word to encourage him, if he wanted to die there would be a reason not to.

Finally they reached the General’s tent, Jack closed his eyes and stood for a while gathering his breath and his thoughts. Harriman was behind him, supporting him without seeming to.

He opened his eyes and once more looked around the prison, the Flag still flew, the Marines still went about their business, the reality still seemed intact.

He noticed a large contingent of heavily armed Marines guarding a group of prisoners. The prisoners knelt on the sandy floor, their hands bound with plastic ties and Jack recognized several of the faces. He had seen them before in and around the prison, they were the perpetrators of his nightmare, guards and interrogators.

With this sudden realization he looked harder at the group, looking for the gray-haired man and his aides.

Hoping he would find him.

Hoping he had been caught.

Hoping for… retribution?

"God… no" he mumbled as the fear he suddenly felt inside made his limbs shake and his heart pound.

"You OK Major?" Harriman asked, taking a hold of his shaking arm.

"He got away.. oh God he got away." Jack was still mumbling, seemingly unaware of Harriman, unaware of the Marines, unaware of anything except the picture in his own mind.

The picture of a gray-haired man laughing as he sent Jack screaming to his death.

Jack was now gasping and panting for breath like a man who had just run a marathon. Harriman tried again, more forcefully this time.

"Major, are you OK Major? Come on now don’t give up on me, just stay with me a little longer. Major? Major?"

Jack turned to the sound of the voice, his eyes were staring into the middle distance, focused on something only he could see.

Harriman persisted in talking to Jack, telling him time and again that he was nearly there, that home was just around the corner and that he was going to be all right. He held him firmly by the arms, supporting him until finally the shaking and shuddering in Jack’s limbs subsided and the focus returned to his eyes.

"You with me now Sir?" he asked.

"I think so…thanks. Let’s get this over with, I’m tired and I hurt."

As if to emphasize the point an unexpected flash of pain forced Jack to double over and once more the desert floor was stained with his blood.

Inside the tent the General and his senior officers had waited patiently, they had watched the slow progress of the two men across the yard. They had watched as Harriman supported, guided and cajoled the frail Airforce officer, never letting him give up until they were just outside the tent.

Now they rose from their seats and left the tent.

As Jack looked up wiping the blood from his mouth with his hand he saw the General and several other officers standing in the tent’s entrance.

Instinct drilled into him from years of being in the military made him force himself upright, grateful for the still steady, solid form of Harriman behind him, and attempt a salute.

The movement jarred his ribs and as he spoke his voice betrayed his pain.

"Major Jonathon O’Neill, United States Air Force." He paused to fight back the rising nausea. "Sir."

The General and his officers returned his salute.

"Welcome back Major."

Beside Jack, Harriman could feel something wet and sticky, looking down he saw that the pressure bandages he had applied to Jack’s side were soaked with blood.

Jack’s skin was cool to his touch as shock began to set in. He guessed that it wouldn’t be long before the exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him and he still had his promise to keep.

He had to get Jack beyond the prison walls before it was too late.

"Permission for the Major and I to leave the theatre of operation Sir?"

The General looked at the two men before him, the proud Marine and the man he was keeping alive.

"Permission granted, the choppers are waiting. God Speed Major."

Jack tried to thank the General, but his head was suddenly spinning, his limbs felt like lead and he was cold really, really cold.

He felt Harriman supporting him again, leading him from the tent, helping him cover the short distance to the gates of hell.

It might have only been a short distance to the prison gates but for Jack it was almost too far. He could no longer take more than a few steps before he had to stop and each stop lasted just a little longer than the one before.

His eyes were glazed from the effort of walking, of breathing, of holding the spectre of death away. He could no longer distinguish the pain in his side from the pain in his leg. Every inch of him hurt and with every slow shuffling step toward freedom it hurt a little more.

Too many more steps.

Too much more pain.

At last the final step through the prison gates, another step and then one more. He could go no further.

He had done it!

He had been to hell and survived.

He had stared at sure and certain death and somehow he had walked away.

He had nothing more to prove and nothing more to give.

He turned to Harriman, his savior, the man who had cared when he was beyond caring, the man who had taken him from the darkness to the light, the man who had maybe done just enough to give him his life back.

"Thank you." He mumbled before the pain, the shock and the exhaustion finally pushed him too far and he collapsed unconscious.

Harriman caught him as he fell, lowering him to the ground as the medics arrived. He stepped aside letting them do their jobs, watching as, after the briefest examination, they put Jack onto a stretcher and hurried him to the waiting chopper.

He watched as the chopper rose into the clear desert sky and flew away.

He wondered what would become of Major O’Neill, would he live or would he die? Deciding that tonight he would say a prayer for the Major, he turned back to the prison.

Way too old for this he thought… way too old!

*********

Elgin Air Force Base
Florida
1 week later

Sara O’Neill felt like she had counted every minute, every hour, every day since Jack had left. She knew she had counted every SECOND since they had told her he was missing. Knowing just how long he had been missing didn’t help but it gave her life a focus and without that she would have been lost.

She still had hope, she needed that both for herself and for Charlie. On the darkest days and during the long and lonely nights she clung to her hope and somehow she got by.

Charlie kept her sane, she knew without him and his laughter the months since Jack had left would have seemed like an eternity.

It was the first dry day in over a week and Sara was replacing the battered yellow ribbons that hung forlornly from the porch. The sound of a heavy transport plane landing made her look up from her task. More troops returning home. Every time she heard a plane landing she wondered would this be the one that brought Jack back to her?

Would he walk from that plane smiling in his devil-may-care way, as if the last few months had been nothing?

Would he be carried from that plane, in a coffin draped with the Flag?

She pushed that last thought from her mind.

Turning her attention once more to the ribbons she noticed the official Air Force car as it drew to a stop outside her house. The two young officers who had come all those months ago to tell her Jack was missing, were once more on her porch.

As she watched them approach her heart was suddenly in her mouth and her hands shook as she finally retied the last new ribbon.

Was this it? Was this the day her hope was finally crushed? Was this the day her life ended or the day it began again?

"Mrs O’Neill, we have some information about your husband. Could we step inside please?"

The officers’ faces were impassive, over the past few months they had made this journey and told this tale way too many times.

Numbly, Sara led them into the house, offered them a seat and coffee. She was acting on autopilot, trapped between wanting to know and not wanting to know, she paced nervously and eventually she knew that she had no other option but to ask.

"Is my husband dead?"

There was a moments pause.

The young male officer had taken a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and, after quickly scanning its contents, he spoke.

"Mrs O’Neill, I have been authorized by the United States Air Force to tell you that during a combined Air Force and Marine Corps operation to liberate an Iraqi prison, Major Jonathon O’Neill was located. He is alive and is now in a military hospital where he is undergoing treatment for his injuries."

A million different emotions suddenly seemed to being vying for Sara’s attention. She was happy he was alive. She was worried that he was hurt. She was delighted he had been found. She was scared for him and for her.

"Thank you, thank you so much." Her voice shook with emotion as she made her way to an empty chair and sat down. "You said he was in hospital. What’s wrong with him?"

The thoughts of Jack maimed, or burnt, or blinded forced themselves into her mind. That for him would be worse than death, for her, well she didn’t know…

The two officers glanced at each other, they had already decided that there was no need to tell Sara everything. No need to tell her that for the last four months her husband had been systematically and repeatedly, starved, beaten, drugged, tortured and raped.

"Major O’Neill had been held in the prison for several months and during that time he had suffered some injuries, the extent of which is not yet fully known. The hospitalization is just a precaution until we can fully assess his condition and then repatriate him to the United States."

This time Sara caught the brief glance between the two officers. She knew then that she wasn’t getting the whole story, she also knew that maybe she never would.

She had discovered in the past few months that the Air Force only told you what they wanted you to know. She knew that if she pressed them for more details they would just stonewall her with regulations and red tape. For now she had to accept what they told her.

"Can I talk to him?"

"I’m sorry but just at the moment that is out of the question. The Major has still to complete his debriefing and until that has been done we can’t allow him to talk to anybody else."

"Oh." The disappointment in her voice was obvious.

"As soon as we can we will let you speak to him, but you must realize that after such a long period of imprisonment the debriefing will take time. You may not be able to speak to him before he returns home. I’m sorry but there is nothing more we can do at the moment."

Sara felt like the wind had gone out of her sails. The initial elation she felt at being told that Jack was still alive was gone. Blown away by the growing certainty that she wasn’t being told the whole truth about what had happened to Jack and what was still happening to him.

The two officers rose and excused themselves.

"We’ll go now Mrs O’Neill, but as soon as we have any further news on your husband we will be in touch. You can of course call our office at any time and we will do what we can to assist you."

"Thank you. Hopefully it won’t be too long until I hear from you."

Sara’s voice was laced with insincerity. From her previous experience with the Air Force she knew she would probably not hear another thing until Jack walked back through the door, telling her he couldn’t talk about it.

She showed the officers out and when she turned back to the house, it seemed a little bit more like the home it once was. Jack may not be back yet but he was on his way.

In the living room she idly picked up a photo of them all at the beach. Frank had taken it last summer and they all looked happy and carefree as they played at the edge of the water. For some reason she always chose this picture to look at when she was at her lowest, it had never failed to make her smile. Sara knew that Jack loved this photo too, he loved the beach, he loved her and Charlie and now he was finally coming home.

She sat holding the photo to her chest and smiling to herself until the sound of Charlie returning from school broke her reverie.

" Hi Mom."

"Hi Sweetheart, did you have a good day at school?"

She put the photo down and motioned to Charlie to come and sit beside her.

"Come here Charlie, I’ve got some news about your Dad."

Charlie had long since stopped asking when his Dad was coming home, but Sara knew he still missed him. She had heard him crying in the night when he thought she couldn’t hear and she heard him praying for him, asking God to look after him and her.

"Is he here Mom, is Dad here?"

His face had brightened and he was once more full of the infectious optimism of the young as he ran to Sara’s side. As he settled beside her she took his hand in hers, holding it tightly.

"No Charlie, your Dad is not here, not yet, but he will be real soon. I promise."

"You said that before Mom and he never came home then."

Sara couldn’t deny the truth in that statement. Time and again she had told Charlie that his Dad would soon be home, and time and again she had lied to him. He had every right not to believe her this time either.

" I know Sweetheart, I know. But this time it’s different, this time I know for sure that your Dad is coming home. The Air Force people came today and told me."

She squeezed his hand, and smiled, willing him to believe her.

"When?" The childlike simplicity of the question seemed to signal Charlie’s acceptance of her words.

"Soon Sweetheart real soon. Your Dad got hurt while he was away and once he’s out of the hospital he’ll be right home. Isn’t that great news? What should we do for him? Should we have a big party when he gets home?"

Sara and Charlie fell into deep discussions about what they would all do when Jack got back. They made plans for parties and barbecues. They would go to ball games and hockey games and on trips to the beach. Life would be great and everything would be just as it was all those months ago.

What they couldn’t know was that the man who would come back to them would be so very, very different from the man they watched leaving on that hot summer day, 5 months ago.

*********

Air Force Hospital
Vandenberg Air Force Base
California

For Jack, the last two weeks had passed in a haze of drugs and doctors, occasional stabs of pain and every now and then questions.

He had been flown from Sijn al-Tarbout to the allied military hospital in Kuwait. On route the medics in the chopper had given him a thorough examination and as a result he was rushed into the waiting operating theatre for emergency surgery to stop the internal bleeding.

His weakened condition made the surgery a dangerous option, but without it he would certainly have died, probably within hours. The surgeons were quick and efficient, finding and repairing his damaged spleen with the minimum of trauma to the rest of his body.

Their work done it would now be up to Jack to decide if he wanted to live or die, if he had the strength and the will left to battle one more set of demons, face up to one more set of trials and overcome them.

They would give him every chance, give him all the help they could but in the end there was only one man who could decide if Major Jonathon O’Neill lived or died and that was Major O’Neill himself.

They cleaned his wounds, stitching the gashes made by the hunting knife, braced his knee and put supporting bandages around his chest to help his broken ribs. They put him onto drips to help replenish his body fluids and others to fight infection and keep down the levels of pain. They kept him sedated as much as possible, letting his body begin the long and slow process of healing and recovery.

Jack never seemed to be able to quite wake up properly, he would hear voices quietly talking to him, about him, around him but they were never clear enough or loud enough. He tried to open his eyes but they always seemed to feel so heavy, he tried to speak but his voice failed him. Mostly the effort of trying to battle against the sedatives he was being given, was a battle he couldn’t win and so he stopped trying.

If this was still some evil twisted trick at least it didn’t hurt like before and to Jack that was everything.

No pain, no questions, no trick?

After about a week, the doctors in Kuwait decided that Jack was ready to be shipped back to the United States. They had stabilized his condition, fixed up the worst of his injuries and started the healing process, there was nothing more they could do here that couldn’t be done as well, and in some cases better, back home.

Quietly one night they put Jack onto a military transport plane accompanied by a doctor and a nurse and he began his long journey home.

For the rest of the hospital staff, they were told to forget they had ever seen or heard of Major O’Neill and what had been done to him. It was to be as if he had never existed, ever.

The Air Force Hospital was one of the best and well used to dealing with the after effects of war, conflict and covert operations on both the bodies and minds of those who passed through its doors.

Jack O’Neill would be in good hands, hands that would heal his body, hands that would piece together his shattered life, hands that would save him – if he would let them.

Jack heard a voice, softly talking to him.

"Come on Major, let’s see you open your eyes for me. Come on now I know you can, open your eyes for me Major."

He tried to open his eyes, they still seemed too heavy, and it was too hard to open them. Jack just wanted to leave them shut and drift back into wherever he had been. The place with no dreams and no pain. The voice wouldn’t go away though, it kept telling him to open his eyes until eventually he had no choice but to do what the voice told him.

He blinked against the light, even though it was low and stared up into the eyes of an angel.

"Hi there! Glad you could join us, I’ve been waiting a long time to see what color your eyes were." The angel spoke and laughed as she reached out to check Jack’s vitals.

"Where.." Jack tried to ask, but his voice was hoarse and rasping and he felt very, very thirsty.

"Don’t try to talk just yet," the angel told him as she carefully spooned some ice chips into Jack’s parched mouth. "You’ve been asleep for several days and it will take a little while for everything to start working properly again."

She put the ice chips down and returned to checking Jack’s blood pressure and heart rate.

"I’m not really supposed to tell you anything but, what the heck. You’re in the Air Force hospital at Vandenberg. You’ve been here now for 3 days, before that you were in The Gulf. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I’ll go tell the doctor that you’re awake. Don’t you run off anywhere now." She laughed again as she turned and left the room, stopping briefly by the door to look at her patient. She watched as he looked around him, slowly turning his head to take in everything, watched as he realized that just for now at least he was safe.

Over the next few days a succession of doctors came and went. Doctors for his chest, doctors for his knee and doctors for his head. Jack soon decided that the psychiatrists and psychologists were the worst, they tried to get inside his head, to make him talk, to make him tell them how he felt and why.

Hell how did they think he felt?

He had been beaten and tortured. His mind and his body had been brutalized and raped. He had lost everything he believed in. He had been ready to give them what they wanted. He had wanted to die.

At the end he had felt nothing, nothing but the unending physical pain, the unending mental anguish.

And now….

He felt….. empty. Like he was no longer the man he had once been. He had let them take his body and his mind and he didn’t know if he could ever get them back.

He told the doctors what he thought they wanted to hear, anything to help get him out of this place. He lied to them over how he felt, told them that as soon as he got out of there and back home he would be fine.

They knew he wasn’t telling them the truth but they couldn’t prove it, soon they would have to let him go, let him get back to whatever would pass for a normal life in the shattered remains of the mind of Jack O’Neill.

Jack had just returned from another grueling session of physical therapy on his knee. The doctors had operated soon after his return from the Gulf to repair the worst of the damage, but further operations would almost certainly be necessary, in-between times he had to strengthen the knee and the supporting muscles with hard physical workouts.

One of the resident psychologists was waiting for him.

He did his best to ignore the doctor as he limped heavily to the bed and sat down at its edge. He was tired and as usual after these sessions his knee and his leg ached badly. Almost as badly as they had done back in prison, when Kamil had smashed them with his baseball bat, when he had been forced to walk to his humiliation, when he had been stretched taughtly on the metal frame waiting for death.

Jack shuddered slightly as the physical pain once more gave way to the memories.

"You OK Jack?" asked the doctor after noticing the shake in Jack’s limbs.

"What? Yea I’m fine, it’s just those guys in physio, you know what they’re like. I’m just tired that’s all."

The doctor didn’t miss the brief look of fear that passed across Jack’s face, but he chose this time not to pursue the matter. Jack stilled his trembling limbs and swung himself up onto the bed.

"You have a visitor Jack."

"Oh?" Jack was curious. He had not seen anybody but authorized military medical personnel since he had woken that first day.

"Yea, are you up to seeing him Jack? I can tell him to go away if you’d rather wait until you are stronger."

Now Jack was really curious. It obviously wasn’t Sara, and deep down he was glad. He wasn’t ready to face her just yet, he still needed more time, a lot more time. Maybe it was his CO, come to check on him. That was probably it, his CO.

"No, I’m Ok, It will be good to see a new face instead of your ugly mugs for a change."

"Very funny Jack! Now, if you’re sure?"

"Just get lost Doc and show in my mystery caller."

"OK Jack I’m going." The doctor laughed as he got up and made his way to the door. "You know you can’t tell him about, well what happened to you out there."

Jack just nodded.

A few moments passed and nobody came, Jack closed his eyes against the throbbing in his leg. But when he closed his eyes the memories were back, flashbacks to the times of pain, of horror, of torture. He couldn’t make them go away, they haunted him until a sharp knock on the door made him open his eyes.

The figure that now stood just inside the doorway was that of the one person Jack never wanted to see.

Frank had stood for a minute or two at the door to Jack’s room, his hand raised ready to knock. He looked at his friend, and was both saddened and shocked by what he saw. Jack was still gaunt, his clothes hung loosely from him, like they were a couple of sizes too big. He could still make out the fading bruises on his exposed arms and legs. His face was hollow, dark circles were evident around his eyes, a new scar slashed through his left eyebrow. As he watched Jack he noticed how the lines of pain came and went from his face as he fought with … well whatever was going on his mind. Jack seemed smaller, like a frail old man battered by what life had thrown at him. As Frank watched he realized that Jack looked scared and scared was not a word he had ever associated with Jack O’Neill.

Having seen enough of his friend suffering he rapped loudly on the door and stepped inside.

"Hi Jack. How are you?"

"Frank." Jack’s voice was tight as he forced the words out through gritted teeth. He could hardly believe that, just a few feet in front of him, was the one person in the whole world he held responsible for what had happened to him.

"Hey Buddy, glad to see you." Frank had moved inside the room now and was slowly making his way towards Jack.

"Do you know how difficult it’s been for me to get to see you? I had to call in some pretty big favors just to get them to tell me where you were."

Jack just couldn’t believe his eyes. There was Frank, bold as brass, large as life acting as if nothing had happened. He was behaving as if Jack had been in some sort of minor accident, not missing in action for over four months, being starved and beaten and worse for the sadistic pleasure of a couple of crazy men.

He forced himself upright on the bed and swung his legs back over the side. The pain flared back up his leg, jarring his ribs, which were still healing and making him grimace.

"Get out Frank. Just get the fuck out of my sight." Jack was on his feet now, his anger masking the pain in his leg.

"Hey Jack, come on now. I’ve pulled a lot of strings to see you, at least let me know you’re OK before you throw me out."

"Don’t come any closer Frank, or I swear I’ll kill you. You fucking son-of-a-bitch Frank. YOU FUCKING SON-OF-A-BITCH."

Jack was rigid with anger and hatred, his abused body quivered with the emotions running through him. He hardly felt the pain in his leg any more, he just felt an uncontrollable rage, a burning desire to make Frank pay. To make him suffer like he had suffered, to make him bleed and scream and beg.

"Hey Jack, come on buddy. Just calm down now – I just wanted to see you, to make sure you were OK, to…."

"To ease your guilty conscience?"

"No Jack, well not… maybe. You know I had no choice Jack, don’t you? You know I had to go. I had no choice buddy.. really I didn’t."

Frank had started to move towards Jack as he spoke, hoping maybe that he could somehow pacify the angry man before him.

"Bastard!" Jack spat back at his ‘friend’. "We made a deal Frank remember? We don’t leave ANYONE behind."

Jack took a shaky step towards Frank, the adrenaline fuelling his anger was the only thing that kept him from collapsing where he stood.

"Anyone." Suddenly Jack’s voice was quiet, hardly more than a whisper as a sudden unbidden wave of memories flooded his mind. Savagely he pushed the memories down, back into the box he tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep them in.

"Just let me explain Jack, I had…"

"Shut up Frank.. just shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses not now, not ever. I just want you out of my life Frank; I never want to see you again. I trusted you Frank and you, you.."

Once more the memories sprang free from their box and once again they were all too real. Memories of pain, of torture, of humiliation. Memories of darkness, of the loss of love and the despair of man who no longer had a reason to live. They threatened to overwhelm him, to swallow him up and take him back to those dark, dangerous places. He closed his eyes, briefly, taking as deep a breath as his still healing ribs would allow, and when he opened them again he took the pain of those memories and turned it on Frank.

"You have no idea do you Frank?" Now Jack’s voice was edged with disgust, hatred dripped heavy on every word.

"You can’t imagine how I felt when I watched you leaving, or how I hoped and prayed that you would come back."

"Look Jack…" Frank started to interrupt him, he needed to explain what had happened and why he had done the things he had, but it seemed that Jack just didn’t want to know.

"Don’t Frank, please just don’t tell me any more of your lies. I put my trust in you and you betrayed me. I put my life in your hands and you let me down. I have nothing more to say to you Frank. Just go, do what you are best at….leave."

The sound of raised voices had finally brought Jack’s nurse and a burly orderly to his room, they saw the two men squaring up to each other.

"Is everything OK here?" The orderly asked as he stepped between the two officers.

Jack glared at Frank.

"Yes. Major Cromwell was just leaving, weren’t you?"

"If that’s how you feel Jack, then I’ll go." He turned and started to walk away, then he stopped and, looking back over his shoulder, he said "For what it’s worth Jack I’m sorry, I really am. Say hi to Sara and Charlie for me?" Then he was gone, striding away down the empty hospital corridor.

Jack felt like a door to a part of his life was closing, Frank had been his friend forever and with that one action he had destroyed everything and almost cost Jack his life. There would be no going back for them, no reconciliation, they were through as friends for good.

As Jack turned back to his bed the adrenaline and anger that had kept him on his feet, that had kept the pain at bay began to dissipate and he staggered, almost falling. The strong arms of the orderly caught him and helped him to the bed, by the time he got him settled again Jack was white with pain and his limbs were once more trembling.

His nurse took over, checking his vitals and preparing a dose of painkiller.

"Do you want to tell me what all that was about?"

"Not really."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Not any more." Jack let his head fall back onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

The conversation was at an end.

*******

Jack woke with a sudden start.

"Kef …Mn Fadlek Balach <No… Please Don’t>"

He was drenched in sweat and breathing hard, the bed was in complete disarray where he had been tossing and turning, lost in the powerful grip of his nightmares.

For just the moment of his waking he wasn’t sure where he was, wasn’t sure if the nightmare was reality… again.

The clean, quiet, sterile atmosphere of his hospital room was comforting, the familiar sights of the TV and a pile of unread magazines helped to bring him back.

Another night. Another nightmare.

They always followed the same pattern, he was back in Iraq, being tortured all over again. The pain was so real he was sure he could feel it even after he had woken up.

He hadn’t told anybody about his nightmares – after all, they were nobody’s business but his own.

He was getting closer to being allowed to go home and if he told them about his nightmares then he was certain they wouldn’t let him go.

Going home.

Jack had managed to avoid really thinking about going home and what it meant until now. Today was his final session with the psychiatrists, if he could fool them one more time into thinking he was ok, that he had dealt with the emotional after effects of what had happened to him, then they would discharge him and send him back to Elgin. Passed fit for duty.

Going home.

To face a wife and son who he had given up to the enemy to be used against him. To face a family, who he had turned his back on, ready to take the easy way out, and die.

Would they know what he had done? Would they care? Would they understand why? Would they forgive him, when he couldn’t forgive himself?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the psychiatrist.

"Good morning Jack. How are you today?"

"I’m fine. Shall we?" He indicated to the empty chair at the side of his bed.

"OK Jack, tell me how you felt when you realized you weren’t going to be rescued."

"I was angry, but I used that to help me. I tried to find a way to escape, but it just wasn’t possible."

"They questioned you?"

"Eventually – yes."

"What did you tell them."

"Nothing. Just the usual, name, rank serial number. Nothing more."

"What did they do when you refused to answer their questions."

"They tried to … shall we say persuade me to answer their questions. When I didn’t they let me go back to my cell."

"How did you feel towards them, those who were ‘persuading’ you?"

"They had a job to do and so did I. The code of conduct says that I must resist by all available means. That is what I did."

"So when they tied you down and raped you, were they just doing their job then?"

"I guess they thought it would focus my mind on what they wanted. Didn’t work though. I still didn’t tell them anything."

"How do you feel about that ‘ incident’ now Jack?"

"It’s history. It’s not something I think about any more. It’s done, I’m over it, I’ve moved on and I think you should too."

There were a few more questions about the same old things, how did he feel then, how did he feel now. Then the big question.

"So how do you feel about finally going home Jack? Back to your wife and son. Are you ready to go home?"

"Doctor, the one thought that kept me going through all my time in prison was that my wife and son would be waiting for me, expecting me to come home and I couldn’t let them down. I have been ready to go home since the day I was captured. Now, are you going to let me out of this place or not?"

"Well, that’s not just my decision alone Jack, you know that, but I shall be recommending your release at our next review meeting. I think you will be going home real soon now."

The doctor rose and, patting Jack on the shoulder, he turned and left. Jack let out a long breath.

*************

Sara O’Neill paced nervously about her living room, glancing furtively at the telephone, as if it were some malevolent being. She had finally been told that she would be allowed to speak to Jack, but now the time was almost upon her she suddenly found that she didn’t know what to say.

She had lost count of the number of times over the last few months that she had played out this scene in her head, talking to Jack, telling him everything and nothing, being the strong and resourceful Air Force wife. When the reality struck she was like a lost child, frightened, alone, scared.

The shrill ring of the phone stopped her thoughts and her pacing in mid-flight. There was no more time to wonder about what might be, the time was now.

Taking a steadying deep breath she crossed the room and, with a slightly shaky hand, picked up the phone.

"Hello."

Nothing.

Silence.

"Hello."

Then at last the voice she knew and loved.

"Hello Sara. How are you?"

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It seemed like it had been a lifetime ago that she had last heard Jack’s voice. Then he was telling her he would be home in no time and she shouldn’t worry about him. Now he sounded, well like Jack but not like Jack. His voice was different, a little guarded maybe?

"Oh God Jack.. is it really you?"

"Yea it’s me. Did you miss me then?" Jack’s attempt at humor didn’t quite work.

"Yes, oh God yes, more than you could know Jack. Charlie missed you too, we both did."

In the Air Force hospital Jack swallowed hard as the mention of Charlie brought his raw emotions welling up to the surface again.

"Is he OK?.... Are you OK?"

"We’re fine Jack. We’re BOTH fine, we just want you home Jack. When will you be home?"

Emotion cracked through her voice and silent tears fell as she listened to the sound of her husband’s voice.

"I’ll be back on Friday Sara, can you believe that I’ll finally be back on Friday?"

Jack’s voice too betrayed his emotions, emotions that he hadn’t expected to feel.

"Will you come and meet me?"

"Try and keep me away." She tried to laugh, to lighten the atmosphere that seemed to have descended on the conversation.

"Sara…" A pause.

"Yes Jack."

"Please don’t bring Charlie with you."

"Why Jack? He’s dying to see his Dad again, you know what kids are like."

"You know the Air Force Sara; it will probably turn into some sort of media circus. The place will be swarming with top brass all trying to take the credit for something. He’s just too young to understand all that sort of stuff. I’ll see him later, at home when it is just us. Ok?"

"If you’re sure Jack, you know he’ll be disappointed not to be there."

"Please Sara, just do this.. for me."

The sound of Jack’s voice almost pleading with her, made Sara’s tears fall harder. She had never heard him sound like that before, she never wanted to again.

It wasn’t the voice of the Jack O’Neill she knew, the strong, confident, devil-may-care loving husband and father but the voice of a scared, hurt, lonely man.

"Don’t worry Jack, I’ll keep him away until later. Now tell me how are you? Do you need anything?"

"No I’m fine, honestly. I just need to get out of here this place is driving me nuts! I just want to come home and get back on with my life, with our life, all of us."

"I’ve got to go Sara. I’ll see you on Friday."

"I love you Jack."

Sara got no reply other than the sound of the phone.

Across the country, in a hospital bed a man still more scared, more troubled, more broken than he showed stared at the phone in his hand as he hung up. Why could he not tell his wife that he loved her too? Had he lost so much of himself in that desert hell that he didn’t know if he could ever love her again?

********

Friday was a beautiful sunny day, not unlike the day that Jack had left. Sara was finally ready, having been through almost every outfit in her wardrobe at least twice, trying to find just the right thing to wear. Eventually she had settled on the same dress she had worn that day, it somehow seemed appropriate.

She had had a difficult time explaining to Charlie why he couldn’t come with her. He wanted to see his Dad. Now.

Eventually after tantrums, tears and finally bribes she had managed to convince Charlie that it would be better for him to wait at home. She had told him that Daddy wanted to see him on his own, not with all those other people and to do that he had to patient for just a little longer.

A knock on the door and it was time. The day she had begun to think might never happen was here. Turning to Charlie, she bent down to him and taking his face in her hands said, "Ok Charlie, this is it. I’ve got to go now to meet your Dad. You be a good boy and wait here and I’ll be back as quick as I can. I promise."

She kissed him and stood up.

"Mom."

"Yes sweetheart."

"Tell Dad I love him."

Sara swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat and the tears in her eyes.

"I know, why don’t you tell him yourself. He’ll be back real soon now."

Another knock on the door.

"I’ve got to go now Charlie, not long now."

She turned and hurried out of the house hoping her tears wouldn’t show.

The Air Force had sent a car for her and the young airman showed her in and then drove her to the main hanger where a group of high-ranking Air Force officers were already waiting.

She felt so nervous, like she was about to go on her first date or sit a college exam. The car drew to a halt, the driver got out and opened the door for her. For just a moment she didn’t want to get out, to have to face all these people, to smile and make polite small talk while she waited for her husband to arrive.

She got out of the car and was swallowed up into the waiting crowd, introduced to people left, right and center, asked the same questions time and again.

How do you feel?

What does it feel like to know your husband is a hero?

How did you manage not knowing what had happened to him?

How do you feel?

After a few moments a hush descended over the crowd and they all turned their eyes skyward. The word had come through that the plane carrying Major O’Neill was on its final approach. At first it was just a speck against the clear Florida sky, but it gradually grew bigger and bigger until at last it circled the runway and landed.

The military machine moved into action. Generals and Colonels made their way to the tarmac ready to be the first to welcome back the returning hero. Sara was almost forgotten about, until somebody took her under their wing and lead her out to the edge of the waiting group.

"You should be able to see everything from here."

"Thank you."

Left alone, a civilian in the middle of all the uniforms and medals, the spit and polish, she once more felt nervous bordering on scared. She had no idea what to expect, nobody had told her anything, about what was going to happen, about what she was meant to do or say, or about Jack.

She never had time to finish her thoughts as the plane had now stopped just a little way in front of her and the doors were open.

Jack was stood in the doorway.

All the way from Vandenberg Jack had been wrestling with his emotions. He wanted to see Sara and Charlie again, but he still knew that he had not dealt with the fact that in his darkest moment even they had not sustained him. Even they could not have saved him from the welcoming arms of the death he sought. And yet he hadn’t died. He had been saved, by the strength of his will, the courage of a Marine Sergeant and the stubborn fight for life, which had never given up inside him.

Maybe that would be enough.

It was all he had.

It would HAVE to be enough – at least for now.

The plane landed, taxied and finally came to a stop. Jack rose slowly from his seat, his body was still recovering from the months of abuse he had suffered and sitting in the same position for hours on end hadn’t helped.

Jack thought it felt strange to be wearing a uniform again, in fact it still felt strange to be wearing anything at all. The uniform was his, sent to the hospital by Sara, but to look at it you would have thought it belonged to a different Jack O’Neill. It hung from his wasted frame like the two were strangers.

Jack limped slowly to the door, wondering what was waiting for him on the other side, dreading what was waiting for him on the other side. As the plane door opened a wave of panic and dread washed over him and just for a second he wanted to turn and run. To run back to what he knew best, the dimness of a cell, the man with grey hair and the pain.

Stopping just shy of the now open doorway Jack steadied himself with a deep breath and the thought of finally being free again.

He had not been free since that day in Tarasha, even in the hospital he wasn’t free, it was really just another kind of prison with doctors instead of guards and psychiatrists instead of interrogators but still the same questions.

Jack strode into the open doorway.

He was faced with an array of highly decorated, highly ambitious, highly powered Air Force personnel lining the edge of the runway. He balked slightly at the sight and searched for a face he knew.

Finally he saw her looking a little lost and more than a little out of place at the edge of the crowd. He noticed that she was wearing the same dress as on the day he left.

When was that – seemed like a lifetime ago?

He sought her eyes but she was too far away, so instead he fixed her in his gaze and slowly made his way down the plane’s steps.

As he reached the ground it seemed as if all the bases most senior officers were in front of him. He took a few slow steps, came to a stop in front of them and saluted.

"Welcome home Major O’Neill."

"Thank you Sir, It’s good to be home."

He watched Sara over the shoulders of the officers, she looked like she was crying, wiping the tears on her hands as she waited.

What had he done to her?

He needed her to be his focus, now more than ever before.

"I think Major that you have been away from your family for far too long, why don’t you go and say hello to your wife? Anything we have to discuss can wait."

"Yes Sir, Thank you Sir." Jack’s response was automatic; his mind was swimming, swirling with thoughts and emotions.

As he limped away past the other officers he hardly noticed that they all saluted him as he passed.

Sara looked at the figure in the plane doorway.

Looking harder she knew that it was him. By the way he stood and the way that, despite his limp, he walked.

It was him.

As he drew closer she was shocked to see just how thin he looked, almost frail, just how loosely his uniform hung from his body.

Tears fell at the sight of him.

Angrily she wiped the tears from her eyes with her hand. Just as on the day he left she had vowed that he wouldn’t see her cry.

She watched as he stopped briefly in front of the other officers, she couldn’t make out the words that were exchanged but she noticed that his eyes never left her. They never left her as he started to walk slowly and painfully towards her.

She couldn’t wait for him to reach her, couldn’t let him suffer taking another step and so she started in his direction. She walked the first few steps and then she ran, she ran into his arms nearly knocking him off his feet as she did so.

She flung her arms around him, hardly noticing the slight gasp of pain that escaped his lips as she did so. She looked into his face, past the scars and the lines of pain, past the dark circles and the pale skin and into his eyes. The deep fathomless pools of the darkest brown imaginable and she could no longer hold back her tears.

"Jack." her voice no more than a whisper "Oh God Jack it’s really you, you’re here, you’re really here."

She leant in and kissed him gently like she was afraid he would break or worse, disappear.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

Jack watched as Sara walked and then ran towards him, he tried to suppress the gasp of pain when she threw her arms around him and his still broken ribs flared at the contact. He braced himself with his good leg as she hugged him tightly, holding back the wave of agony that suddenly pulsed through him.

Carefully and without total conviction he returned her embrace, letting her kiss him, watching her tears fall listening to her words.

He couldn’t return those words – not yet.

He lifted her head and looked at her tear stained face, beaming broadly back at him.

His heart broke, weighed down with guilt and anguish for what he had done and what he had so nearly done.

His voice cracked as he spoke, "I’m here and now I want to get out of here. Let’s just go home, please."

"Sure, Charlie can’t wait for you to get back."

She took her arms from around him and took him by the hand, helping him, supporting him on the long slow silent walk to the car.

Jack sat quietly in the car trying to sort through his emotions, Sara was sensitive to his needs, and she just held his arm and caressed his hand. Jack had always had quiet times when he needed his own space, his own time and so she knew what to do.

The trip back to the house was short, shorter than Jack would have liked or wanted.

They got out of the car and waited until it had driven away.

"Do you want me to tell Charlie or should we surprise him?"

The choice was made for them. Charlie had been watching out of the front window from the moment Sara had left the house. As the car drew up he watched as Sara and Jack got slowly from it and, before it had fully drawn away, he was out of the house and running down the porch steps.

"Dad, Dad!"

He flung himself at Jack, unaware of his injuries, caught up in the moment. Jack grimaced as Charlie barreled into him and grabbed him tightly around his waist.

He could feel Charlie’s damp face as he pressed it against him.

"You’re home!"

Jack reached down and tousled Charlie’s fair hair.

"I promised I’d come back didn’t I." It wasn’t a question, more a reiteration of the promise they had made all those months ago.

Jack’s emotions had been knocked for six. At the sight of first his wife and then his cherished son accepting him back, welcoming him back with unrequited love the guilt he felt inside welled up.

How could he have wanted to die when this perfect love was waiting for him?

How could he have even contemplated death over life when he had this precious family relying on him?

And yet when the questions and the pain and the despair had taken everything he had, he had chosen to die.

He deserved to die – for what he had done and for what he had wanted to do.

He had been weak and selfish and now he hated himself more than he had ever done.

Jack took his hand from Charlie’s head and taking his arm pushed him away.

"Dad? What’s wrong Dad, aren’t you glad to be home?"

"Sure I am Charlie, I just need…."

"Your Dad just needs a little time on his own now Charlie. Why don’t we go inside?" She took Charlie’s hand and started to lead him back into the house.

He went reluctantly, looking over his shoulder to where Jack stood, unable to understand why his Dad had pushed him away, why he didn’t seem to be pleased to be home, why he looked so sad.

"Mom, is Dad OK?" He asked as they walked away.

"He’ll be fine sweetheart, he’s been away a long time."

She too looked back at Jack. He stood where they had left him, still staring at the house with the unfocused look of a man who didn’t really know… or care? She watched as he scrubbed a tired hand across his face and then walked slowly away towards the garden, stopping frequently to ease his still battered body.

"He just needs time to get used to being back at home with us. Ok?"

Charlie wasn’t sure he understood but if his Mom said it would be ok then it would be.

"Sure Mom. It’s good to have him home isn’t it?"

"Yes it’s great sweetheart. Let’s go inside and get some dinner ready for your Dad. What do you think he’d like?"

"Ice cream."

They carried on into the house, lost in their discussion about what to get for dinner. Despite the distraction of keeping Charlie from asking too many questions, questions to which she didn’t have any answers, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was really wrong with Jack, something deep inside him.

Jack had finally reached his favorite spot in the garden, a small bench tucked away to one side. He had sat here on many occasions watching Charlie playing on the lawn, enjoying the sunshine.

He sat down wearily, his leg and his chest and his heart all ached, he had maybe done too much too soon. He rubbed his knee to try and ease the pain but he knew that it wouldn’t work; it wouldn’t work because the pain he felt was more than just physical. It was the pain of a man who had nearly lost everything and now, when he had it all back, he didn’t know if he wanted it.

He looked around the neat garden thinking that Sara had done a good job of keeping it tidy while he had been away. He looked up at the house. It had once been his home. Could he make it so again?

He closed his eyes as his mind filled with memories, they fought within him, pulling at his emotions. He tried to focus on the good memories, the ones that were from a time before Iraq. That time had been filled with laughter and love, not like now.

Now tears pricked at his eyes as the images of his rape, torture, and humiliation ran like an endless piece of broken film in his head. He couldn’t stop them, he didn’t know how to stop them, he didn’t know if he wanted to stop them. They had made him who he was.

The tears fell.

Jack sat in the garden until the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. He had long ago ran out of tears to cry and now he just sat and stared at the house, the garden, the things that he had once taken for granted.

The things he wanted to be able to take for granted again.

He wanted to hear laughter and to laugh again.

He wanted to love again and to be loved again.

He wanted to live again.

Was he going to let the instigators of his hell take those things from him as well?

They had taken everything he had, everything he was, but he wasn’t going to let them take everything he still had to be.

Was he?

Jack looked once more toward the house, he saw Sara silhouetted against the window as she watched him. He saw her turn away and then appear at the back door, she started down the garden to him.

He got up and walked to meet Sara.

"Dinner’s ready Jack."

"Listen Sara, thanks for this afternoon with Charlie."

"It’s OK Jack, he’s just glad you’re back, we both are. He’ll be fine, you know what kids are like."

She held out her hand to him.

"Come on, let’s go inside."

Gratefully he took her hand and let her help him into the house. The cool of the evening had made him stiff and his joints ached. He tried to hide the flashes of pain that crossed his face as he walked, but she saw them and he knew she had.

"You alright Jack?"

"Yea, just stiff and tired. It’s been a long day."

Sara knew he was lying.

Jack knew he was lying.

They both knew the other knew, but they chose not to say anything as they made their way back into the house.

**********

For the next few days Jack and Sara and Charlie tried hard to act as if nothing was wrong. They talked about what Charlie had done in school and planned their next vacation. They talked about trips to the beach and the zoo and the ball games. They talked about everything except what was really important.

Each day a car was sent for Jack and he went onto the base. He had further debriefings and meetings about what he could and couldn’t say, to the press, other air force personnel and even to his wife.

He had regular appointments with physiotherapists and consultations with doctors to help his healing process.

Every night the car took Jack home, where Sara would ask him about his day and if there was anything he wanted to talk about.

The answer was always the same:

"My day was fine and no there is nothing else I want to talk about."

Sara was getting more concerned about Jack as the days passed. He didn’t talk beyond polite conversation, he hardly ate anything, she knew he wasn’t sleeping. They did nothing more intimate than hold hands, she kissed him and he never returned her kisses. She told him she loved him, he never replied. She expressed her concerns to the doctors, they said she needed to give him more time and more space to adjust. After all, he had been imprisoned for 4 months and only home a few days.

She knew there was more to it than that.

Charlie too was aware of the change in his Dad, he never laughed anymore and he always seemed to be quiet and sad. He never wanted to play ball or go to the park, he wasn’t interested in helping Charlie fix up his bike. Charlie was scared of him now, his mood seemed to change quickly and he would storm off to the garden or lock himself away in the spare room. Charlie thought he had heard him crying through the locked door, but his Dad had never cried before.

He wasn’t Dad anymore.

Jack tried to adjust to family life again, he really did, but he knew it was all just a sham, a façade and, until he could face his inner demons, that was all it could ever be.

Whenever Sara or Charlie got too close to the wall he had built around himself, he would retreat back to the safe warm embrace of his memories. To the things he knew to be true, his betrayal of them and of himself, his pain and his hatred. With every memory he tried to push them further away from him, to a place where he could no longer hurt them.

They kept coming back and he kept pushing them away, eventually something would have to give.

Another night.

Another nightmare.

These were different to those he had in the hospital, but they were always the same.

Night after night.

He was back in Iraq, being tortured again and again. The scene changed and he was watching Sara and Charlie being tortured by the gray-haired man. A glass window separated them and, while he couldn’t hear their screams, he could see their pain, almost feel it. He hammered on the window, shouting at them and at the gray-haired man. No words came out. Eventually the gray-haired man turned to face him and he found himself staring back at himself. He was torturing his own family.

That was the point at which he would jerk awake, a scream on his lips his body covered in sweat. After the first few nights he had stopped sharing a bed with Sara, preferring to sleep alone in the spare room with only his nightmares for company.

He hated to look at himself in the mirror, to see the slowly fading souvenirs of his time in Sijn al-Tarbout, the bruises were now all gone but the scars were still evident, on his face, his chest, his back. Every one of them a still vivid reminder of what had been done to him. Sleeping alone spared Sara those sights and spared him from facing up to them and what they stood for.

Tonight the nightmare had been worse than usual, more intense and had left him with a raging headache. As quietly as he could he stepped from the spare room and made his way toward the bathroom, a couple of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed him should do the trick. He saw the light was on in Charlie’s room and he could hear Sara’s voice quietly soothing over the sounds of a child sobbing.

"Shh now sweetheart it’s going to be alright. I’m here now."

He cautiously peered around the door and was greeted with the sight of Charlie held tightly in Sara’s arms, his head pressed to her chest whilst he cried against her. Neither of them seemed aware of his presence, he felt a stab of guilt as he watched this precious moment. Guilt that he was watching but more that he was the cause.

Charlie’s shoulders shook as he cried.

"What’s wrong with Dad, Mom? Why doesn’t he love me anymore? What have I done wrong?"

"Oh Charlie, you haven’t done anything wrong. While your Dad was away some very bad men tried to hurt him and he needs some time to get better. We have to help him get better."

"But he’s home why isn’t he better now? The bad men aren’t here are they Mom?"

Sara wished for all the world that the childlike simplicity of Charlie’s world, his logic, could just be transferred to the real world. Then everything would be better.

"No, the bad men aren’t here sweetheart." She ruffled his hair they way that she had seen Jack do a million times… before.

"I think your Dad just needs us to be strong for him and we can do that can’t we?"

"Yes, I guess so."

For a moment the room was silent apart from the sniffling of a scared little boy who couldn’t really understand what was happening. He couldn’t understand why anybody would want to hurt his Dad, and why his Mom still cried when she thought she was alone.

"Will the bad men come back?"

"No, they’re gone now, they won’t be coming back."

Jack wished that were true. They had captured most of the guards and interrogators from the prison and Kamil was dead, there was no way that Jack would forget that moment, but what of the man who drove him to this dark place? The man who drugged him and tricked him and almost made him die?

Where was he?

Jack couldn’t listen to anymore so, before he was spotted, he moved silently away and after grabbing the pain-killers returned to his lonely night time ritual of trying to keep the nightmares at bay long enough to sleep.

The following day Jack was in a foul mood. His headache still raged and he was snappy with everybody. Sara and Charlie tried to keep out of his way as he groused at everything, the food, the weather, the fact he still had to go to the base and do these dumb exercises. Nothing seemed to please him.

Jack was taking out the guilt he felt at overhearing Sara and Charlie in the night on everybody except himself. He knew he had no right to, but he couldn’t stop himself. They were to blame for making him feel guilty – right?

Jack was sat in the kitchen, playing with a plate of food and scowling when Charlie came running in. He had been out playing with his friends and had forgotten about the mood his Dad was in.

"Dad, guess what Tommy and I did? We built a den in Tommy’s garden, it’s cool Dad. Do you want to come and see it?"

In his enthusiasm he was shouting and grabbed Jack by the arm. That was just enough to tip Jack over the edge of his black mood. He pushed Charlie away with more force than was absolutely necessary.

"No Charlie I don’t want to see your stupid den."

He stood up and stormed from the kitchen, oblivious to the ache in his leg and the sound of his own heart breaking.

"Why don’t you just leave me alone? Both of you just leave me alone."

And with that he was gone, out into the garden leaving a bewildered child crying over something he couldn’t begin to understand.

He stormed to his usual spot and slumped down wearily. His headache was getting worse by the second, it pounded in time with the beating of his heart.

Why wouldn’t it stop?

Why couldn’t he find peace?

Why?

He held his head in his hands, his eyes closed against the incessant thumping. The thoughts that ran through his mind were a confusing jumble of memories and wishes, hopes and dreams, nightmares and visions from all through his life. He tried to catch the wishes and dreams but all he managed to get hold of were the nightmares and the vivid recollections of a time he would rather forget.

The images were strong, so strong they were almost real. They pulled him down deeper and deeper into the black pit of his soul, into a place that he didn’t want to be…ever again.

He was sliding, slipping away from reality with every fresh anguished thought that fought its way into his pain filled head.

The reality of now and the nightmare of then just became one swirling mass inside him until he didn’t know which was real and which just a viciously twisted memory.

He grabbed hold of his body to still the tremors that grew as the nightmare visions of his imprisonment took over. Then he was back, back in the cool dark cell. Back at the mercy of a man who wanted to break him, to destroy him, to kill him.

Sara had heard the commotion in the kitchen and arrived after Jack had stormed out to find Charlie, once more in tears. This time her soothing words and actions failed to stem his tears and he ran to his room. She shrugged back her own tears as she heard him sobbing all the way upstairs until he slammed his door shut.

She was mad at Jack, at what he was doing to her and Charlie, at how he seemed hell bent on destroying what was left of their life together.

She knew where he would be and went out into the garden to face whatever Jack was facing, to be by his side when he decided that he needed her.

She watched him for a while as he battled his demons and lost. She watched as he hugged himself as if supporting his body, his head was tipped back and, as the tears fell, she watched him mumbling to himself as if reciting something that was important to him.

Her heart broke to see him like and she had no idea what she could do to help him or even if he would let her, but the one thing that she was certain of was that she had to try. She just had to.

Slowly and quietly she approached him, he was completely unaware of her, engrossed as he was in his own private nightmare.

She could make out some of what he was saying but other words sounded like a foreign language.

"O’Neill. Jonathon. Major United States Air Force 66-789-7876-324." He paused. "Saédni <help me>." Another pause, but the tears still flowed.

"Mn Fadlek balach laa <Please don’t No>.

O’Neill Jonathon Major United States Air Force 66-789-7876-324."

Sara couldn’t begin to imagine what Jack had gone through in the months of his captivity, what they might have done to him to make him behave the way he was.

Stealing herself for what was to come she came and sat beside Jack, he remained unaware of her presence, hugging his body and crying through closed lids.

"Tawakaf ... Men Fadlek tawakaf < Stop… please stop>."

Gently she took hold of his arm.

"Jack? Jack it’s me it’s Sara."

No reaction.

She took him into her arms, pulling him to her, forcing him to acknowledge her presence.

"Jack you’re safe now. Nobody is going to hurt you anymore Jack."

She felt the tension in his body like an elastic band stretched to its breaking point. Slowly she kissed him, first his forehead and then his tear stained cheeks. She ran her fingers over his lips.

"Shh now baby, everything is going to be alright. You’re safe now, safe at home with me and Charlie."

She kissed him again, this time harder, more forcefully as if by this simple action she could break whatever seemed to possess him.

Jack was aware of nothing more than his return to hell. It hurt so much he had to back in hell. Didn’t he?

Arms were holding him, stopping him from moving from fighting back, he felt the brush of lips on his face.

He heard the soft whisper of a voice, a voice he knew that he should know. A voice that didn’t belong in his nightmare, and if it didn’t belong then it couldn’t be real. It was just another trick.

The whispered voice was back, telling him everything was alright, telling him it was going to be OK, telling him it loved him.

What did the voice want really?

The voices had always wanted something from him.

What now?

"Let me die. Please." The words were on his lips almost before the thoughts had finished.

Sara held him tighter her own tears now mingling with Jack’s. Her dreams of a happy homecoming and a normal family life were now in tatters, torn apart by whatever horror Jack had been through. Whatever horror he still couldn’t let go.

"No Jack, I won’t let you die. I won’t let you just give up. Damn you Jack you have to fight this, you have to let me help you to fight this. How can I help you Jack, tell me..tell me?"

That voice, that voice he should know kept penetrating Jack’s thoughts insisting he did something, something to save himself. What could he do, his body was broken, his mind was confused and in turmoil, but yet his spirit, his essence, his will to live was still with him.

The things that made him Jack O’Neill were still inside him. Maybe they were buried deep, away from the pain and the hurt, away from the prying eyes of those who would seek to possess them but they were still there.

The gentle voice at his ear held the promise of those things and it told him to go and find the things that made him Jack O’Neill.

His wife.

His son.

They were what made him who he was.

They were the purpose and the meaning in his life.

At least they had been… once.

Slowly Jack opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see. Afraid to find that once more it was a trick and he was still trapped in a downward spiral of pain, a spiral that could only end in his death.

He saw Sara, he felt her arms around him and her heard her whispered words encouraging him. He could smell her perfume as she kissed him again, that was too real.

It had to be real.

His mind was still clouded with images and Sara didn’t fit in any of them so why was she there?

"Sara?" He blinked away the tears and found she was still there. "What? Why?"

He couldn’t form the questions that now plagued his mind, scared that the answers might prove his final undoing.

"Jack.. my love. Let me help you Jack, tell me what to do. Let me help you." Her voice was cracked with emotion and the tears still fell as she watched the man she loved struggling to keep a grasp on his life. On their life together.

The wall that Jack had carefully constructed around him, the one that made it so he didn’t have to face up to what he had done, was failing. The façade was crumbling and he didn’t know how to stop it. This woman, this woman that he had once loved and wanted to love again was breaking down the barriers between them. He was scared; if he started how could he stop himself from showing her the darkest parts of himself, the parts that even he didn’t look at?

Nobody deserved to see that part of him and yet Sara was pushing, insisting, demanding he gave her everything. It was the only way to save his soul, but would it be the destruction of hers?

"Talk to me Jack, tell me what happened to you, what they did to you. Tell me so I can help you. Please Jack, please let me help you."

He wanted to tell her, he wanted to let her inside the high walls around him, he wanted to let her help him. He just couldn’t.

He couldn’t let her soul be damned along with his – it wouldn’t be fair. He had been to the place of darkness and death and it was nowhere he wanted to share, especially with the woman he loved.

"I can’t tell you, I really can’t, and believe me you don’t want to know. You don’t deserve to know, nobody does."

His voice was a mere whisper.

Neither of them had noticed that Charlie now stood nearby. Clutched in his hand was his favorite teddy bear. Sara and Jack had bought it for him when he was born and even now he still slept with it. When Sara had suggested that maybe he was too old for a teddy, he told her that it helped him keep the bad things away.

Slowly he approached them, the bear clasped tightly to his chest, he didn’t stop until he was right beside them. He took a deep breath and pushed the teddy bear in Jack’s direction.

"Dad, I want you to have my teddy bear. He helps keep the bad things away from me when I’m asleep, maybe he can help you."

Having said his piece he turned and ran off, not knowing what reaction his actions would cause.

For Jack this one single unselfish gesture, born of the love of a child was the final act.

As he held the teddy and unconsciously stroked its soft fur, the enormity of what he was doing crashed around him like the surf breaking on their favorite beach.

The final pieces of the wall around his heart and his emotions just crumbled away.

"Charlie, Charlie come here son…please."

Jack called after him, stopping him in his tracks. Charlie turned and looked at where his parents sat. Sara still had her arms around Jack and he was holding the teddy bear in one hand his other arm outstretched waiting for him. He made his way to them and was embraced by firstly Jack and then Sara.

They were a family again, maybe not quite like they had been but at least it was a start.

Jack knew it would be a long and difficult road for all of them but if they were to stand any chance of getting their lives back then it was a difficulty they would have to face.

Together.

He knew then that even in his darkest times and even in the dark times that he was sure were still to come there was one unassailable fact. That fact had given him strength before and it would give him strength again.

Sara and Charlie still loved him and they would always love him.

*******

Epilogue:
Several Months Later

Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps Andrew Harriman once more straightened the jacket of his number one dress uniform, brushing off invisible and non – existent specks of dust and for the final time placed his cap at the required angle. A last glance in the mirror and he was done. Pulling on his gloves he picked up his rifle and made his way to join his comrades.

I have the BEST job he thought as the group of Marines began their short march through the grounds of the White House. They took up positions at all the external entrances and inside at the doors to the Oval Office and the state room, where today the President was holding a reception for the heroes of the recently ended Gulf conflict.

Harriman’s recall from the Gulf had been as swift as it was unexpected. One day he was on patrol in the dangerous northern Iraqi desert, the heartland of Saddam’s supporters, the next he was packing for his return to the USA.

On his return he had been called into see his Commanding Officer who had told him that due to his bravery and dedication to duty during his tour of duty he was to be promoted to Sargent Major of the Corp and reassigned. His final posting was to be the one that all the Marines dreamed of:

Ceremonial duties in the presence of their Commander In Chief.

Andy didn’t know why he, amongst all the soldiers he had served with in the Gulf, should have been chosen. He had seen other acts of bravery and heroism far greater than his, and wondered if they too had been recognized.

He stood smartly at attention outside the huge doors to the stateroom, as the President’s invited guests began to arrive. Along with top Generals and Admirals were a mixture of other officers and enlisted men, representing all the branches of the armed forces. They mingled around discussing military matters in hushed tones as they waited for their Commander-In-Chief to appear.

Harriman noticed a lone figure walking slowly down the hallway towards the stateroom. The figure was dressed in Air Force Blues and walked with a noticeable limp. Even at a distance Harriman though there was something familiar about the man, about the way he walked and the way he stood but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The figure slowly made its way closer and closer to the stateroom, stopping every now and again to rest.

Stopping to rest!

That was what made Harriman realize why he thought the figure looked familiar. He had witnessed that action before, as he had supported a broken body fighting for dignity in the dry barren confines of an Iraqi prison.

It couldn’t be?

Could it?

Harriman had not thought about Major O’Neill in a long time. After he had watched him taken away to safety, he had returned to his unit and was all too soon once more involved in the ongoing hunt for Saddam. He had enough to think about keeping himself and those under his command alive to worry much about the fate of Major O’Neill.

But now, as the figure finally came into vision he realized that it was Major O’Neill, he knew that although he may not have thought about him in a long time he would never forget him and what had been done to him. Harriman had sent more than one enemy soldier to the arms of his God purely on the strength of what he had seen in that prison hell.

The officer looked a hell of lot better than when Harriman had last seen him, he was no longer gaunt and battered although his face still bore the tell tale signs of a man who was still not quite at peace with himself or those around him. It was obvious from his limp that he still carried the physical signs of his time in prison. Andy felt sorry for him, sorry that he couldn’t have done more to help him.

For Jack O’Neill this reception was an ‘honor’ that he could have lived without. He hated being the ‘POW who survived 4 months in prison’; he just wanted to be Jack O’Neill, Air Force officer. He hated the looks of pity that crossed peoples faces as he limped towards them, as he was forced again and again to listen to the tales of how he was a hero, how he fought the brutal regime and survived, how he never gave up hope.

He just wanted to get back to picking up the pieces of his life. It had been hard, almost impossible to lead a normal life since his return from the Gulf. It had almost driven him to the brink of despair again, almost lost him his wife and child.

Almost.

Things were better now, the media circus was abating and Jack hoped that this would be the last time he would have to listen to and tell all those lies about what had happened during those four long months in hell.

His knee still troubled him and, as he stopped to rest, he noticed for the first time the Marine Sergeant standing at the state room door.

He started walking this time a little quicker, ignoring the protests from his still aching knee, he had to know. Was this the man who saved him? Stopping by the door, he glanced at the Marines nametag:

Harriman hadn’t moved a muscle, although deep down inside he felt proud, proud that he had helped to save this man.

Jack looked at Andy and smiled.

"Sergeant Major…,. Harriman … congratulations."

"Thank you Sir."

"No. Don’t thank me.. I .. well I." Jack suddenly felt all tongue tied, he had so much he wanted to say to this man and yet he couldn’t think of anything to say.

He wanted to thank him for saving him, for not giving up on him when he was ready to give up on himself, for taking care of him and most importantly for keeping his promise to get him out of the hell he was in.

"I don’t know if I said this before but thank you, for everything you did for me, you know.. out there."

"You did Sir, but thank you. I’m glad you made it Sir."

"So am I, so am I."

Jack could think of nothing more to say, but he had one more thing to do. Drawing himself up to his full height, he gave Sergeant Major Harriman his best parade ground salute.

"I’ll never forget what you did for me."

He dropped the salute and, as he made his way towards the other officers and men he felt stronger and more able to face their questions because once more the rock that was Andrew Harriman was beside him.

"Lieutenant Colonel O’Neill."

Jack turned at the sound of his name, an Air Force General he knew by sight was approaching him, flanked by about half a dozen other senior officers.

Jack came swiftly to attention.

"As you were. Now these gentlemen are dying to hear about your experiences in the Gulf."

Jack smiled inwardly to himself.

"Well Sir…."

**********

In a small apartment on the outskirts of Baghdad a gray-haired man was also smiling, but for a completely different reason.

He looked down at the dog eared and creased photo that he had carried with him every day since he had fled from the desert prison of Sijn al-Tarbout.

The photo was of a battered and bleeding man, pain and despair on his face, tears in his eyes.

The photo was of Major Jonathon O’Neill, the only man that he had never broken.

He lit a cigarette and then, taking the match he set fire to the photo and watched as it burnt down to nothing more than a pile of blackened ash.

He didn’t need the photo any more he knew what Jonathon O’Neill looked like, how he sounded when he spoke, who his family were.

He knew everything he needed to know.

There was a knock on his door, glancing at his watch, he knew it was time.

He picked up his fake Syrian passport and his plane tickets, checking them one last time.

Miami Florida, via Paris and then London.

He smiled again, stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his suitcase and left.

There was nobody he couldn’t break.

********

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my take on what happened to Jack during his time in Iraq – but readers please beware this story contains scenes of extreme violence, torture and rape. It also contains some pretty bad language. If you do decide to go ahead please don’t say I didn’t warn you!

I must thank Mrs K for the Arabic translations (and for not asking why) and all the great fiction writers out there who unknowingly, made me want to give it a go myself. The last, but biggest thank you goes to my terrific Beta Dr D – for living the experience with me and spotting all my grammatical flaws. It’s a much better story for all her efforts so thanks a million – I couldn’t have done it without you. This one is for us!! If you don’t like it blame me and if you do like it I’d love it if you’d let me know, feedback is always welcome.

© February 2004 They aren’t mine they belong to all the powers that be at MGM / Double Secret / Gekko Production and Showtime, yadda yadda yadda. No copyright infringement was intended – I only wanted to borrow them. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.