Authorized Personnel Only? : A Stargate Crossover

Langley, VA

C.I.A. Headquarters

Office of the Director of Covert Operations

Director Marcus Dixon sat at his desk, reviewing the files spread across the polished mahogany. It had been decades since Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn had closed the book on Julian Sark, and just as long since Arvin Sloane had been buried forever beneath the ruins of Mount Subasio. In Dixon’s line of work, however, peace was merely an administrative delay between catastrophes. Under his direct oversight, Authorized Personnel Only—APO—had remained active as an unacknowledged deep-cover division, quietly handling the sort of anomalies the United States government preferred to pretend did not exist.

He reached for the classified folder resting in the center of his blotter. Stamped across the front in crimson ink was DCO EYES ONLY — TSC/TCI, the seams sealed with alternating black and red tamper tape. The primary tab read: Mulder, Fox. Beneath it rested two companion dossiers: Scully, Dana and Skinner, Walter.

Dixon paged through the reports, his brow furrowing. Every thread pointed toward impossibly advanced technology and military black-budget operations buried well past legal visibility. Decades ago, while running operations at SD-6 to track down Milo Rambaldi’s relics, he had caught persistent whispers of covert military programs operating far outside the standard intelligence apparatus. Later, from the director’s chair at APO, he had quietly pressed contacts inside both the NID and the Defense Intelligence Agency. Both had delivered smooth, rehearsed assurances that no anomalous or extraterrestrial research programs existed.

Dixon had not believed a single syllable—a healthy habit cultivated over years of surviving Sloane. Ever since the CIA had been compelled to surrender its catalog of recovered Rambaldi artifacts to the military for permanent storage at Area 51, Dixon knew there were facilities where even Langley was forbidden from pointing a satellite.

Now, three high-profile figures from the Federal Bureau of Investigation had vanished without a trace in broad daylight. No paper trail. No domestic surveillance hits. They had simply ceased to exist on the grid.

Dixon picked up his secure line and dialed a private extension.

When the line clicked, Dixon spoke without preamble. “Weiss, it’s Dixon.”

On the other end, Eric Weiss sounded startled. “Director? It’s always a treat when this phone rings. Usually means an embassy blew up or you’re auditing my lunch receipts.”

“I have a situation here that needs our best people,” Dixon said evenly. “I need Sydney and Vaughn back on active duty.”

“Marcus, they’ve been out of the field for years,” Weiss replied, his tone immediately dropping into something far more guarded. “And before your mind wanders over to CIA Records, Isabelle stays at her desk. I am not dragging their kid into this.”

“Leave Isabelle out of it,” Dixon said. “This is strictly Sydney and Michael. Have them report to Langley immediately.”

“Understood, Director. I’ll break the good news.”

At the APO field office in Los Angeles, Weiss hung up the receiver and looked across the desk at his two visitors.

Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn sat side by side, watching him with quiet amusement.

“Well, guys,” Weiss said, leaning back with an expressive shrug. “Dixon wants you activated. Not standard APO tasking, from the sound of it. He wants you on a flight to Langley yesterday. Do I hand you these tickets, or do I officially fail to find you in Brentwood?”

Vaughn turned to Sydney with a faint grin. “You did say this morning over coffee that with Izzi out of the house, things were getting a little too quiet.”

Sydney gave him a dry, affectionate look. “I meant we should get a dog, Michael, not sign up for a black op.” She sighed softly, the old muscle memory already settling into her posture as she reached across the desk. “We might as well go hear what Marcus has to say. It’s not like there’s another Rambaldi artifact out there waiting to end the world. Eric, give us the tickets.”

Back at CIA Headquarters, Dixon had barely set the telephone receiver into its cradle when his office door swung open. The Director of Central Intelligence walked inside without knocking, slamming a thick folder onto Dixon’s desk with enough force to rattle the pen stand.

“Can you tell me what in God’s name is happening in Turkmenistan?” the DCIA demanded, planting both hands on the edge of the mahogany. “Our field assets are dropping the ball every single day, Marcus, and they report directly to you.”

Dixon calmly slid the FBI dossiers closed beneath his palms, looking up with neutral composure. “Sir, in that theater, cooperation doesn’t happen without substantial, untraceable cash. Even during the SD-6 days, no one maintained reliable assets in that sector without buying half the ministry first.”

The DCIA, a political appointee and longtime personal confidant of President Hayes, understood almost nothing about Dixon’s past in deep-cover counter-intelligence beyond the infuriating reality that Dixon’s clearance made him essentially untouchable.

“Dixon, either you get a handle on this immediately or you’ll be manning the Antarctic liaison desk by Friday,” the DCIA snapped, his voice dropping to a sharp edge. “You may hold a lifetime executive appointment, but the statute doesn’t specify it has to be in this building.”

Without waiting for a response, the Director pivoted on his heel and strode out, leaving the door to shudder in its frame.

Dixon sat in the quiet for a slow beat. He exhaled once, reopened the dossier marked Mulder, Fox, and began outlining his briefing.

Cheyenne Mountain

Colorado Springs, CO

Twenty-eight levels below the granite cap of Cheyenne Mountain, an uneasy quiet had settled over the reinforced corridors.

The fallout from the Stargate program’s most delicate expansion was already in motion. Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, along with Assistant Director Walter Skinner, had officially stepped through the event horizon, relocated to the Beta Site to stand up the SGC’s inaugural off-world investigative unit—far beyond the reach of subpoenas and prying eyes. Agent John Doggett’s flat refusal of the transfer had turned out to be an unexpected blessing for Homeworld Security; the fewer questions the Pentagon asked about Doggett’s whereabouts the night Senator Matheson died, the better for everyone involved.

In the commander’s office, Major General Jack O’Neill was packing up the physical remnants of his tenure. His official change-of-command ceremony had wrapped barely an hour earlier, marking the end of his time directing the SGC and the beginning of his new post in Washington, D.C., leading the Department of Homeworld Security.

The rest of SG-1 was already scattering to the winds. Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter was boxing up telemetry gear for an advanced R&D billet at Area 51; Dr. Daniel Jackson was buried under three millennia of Ancient translations, preparing for the upcoming Pegasus Galaxy expedition; and Teal’c was finalizing his departure for Dakara to consult with the leadership of the Free Jaffa.

Jack was placing a well-traveled fishing lure into a cardboard box when Richard Woolsey materialized in the doorway, leather briefcase clamped beneath his arm and an expression of severe bureaucratic distress on his face.

“General—”

Jack held up a stalling finger, flashing an aggressively cheerful grin. “Ah, Dick! You missed the party. We had cake. Carter made it. Well, she supervised the commissary folks, but there was definitely frosting.”

Woolsey’s eyes narrowed. “It’s Richard, General. And I assure you, this is not a social call. My contacts within the intelligence community inform me that the sudden... evaporation of those FBI agents from federal rolls has tripped major alarms at Langley.”

“Oh, come on, Dick, relax,” Jack said, tossing a tape dispenser into the carton. “You of all people know Langley doesn’t have domestic operational authority on American soil. It’s in that quaint little document we call the law.”

“They have an off-the-books black-bag division, General,” Woolsey warned, stepping into the office and lowering his voice. “A deep-cover unit compartmentalized so far beneath official charters that not even the NID has visibility on them, let alone oversight.”

The breezy smirk vanished from Jack’s face. His posture stiffened, years of tactical survival instincts replacing the flippant front.

“D’oh.”

Jack wheeled toward the corridor and barked, “Walter! In here. Now.”

Airman Walter Harriman snapped into the doorway almost instantaneously. “Sir?”

“Find Carter and Jackson and get them up here double-time,” Jack ordered, sweeping his sidearm off the desk and packing it. “Landry is not inheriting a five-alarm mess on day one. Move.”

“Right away, sir!”