Dead Reckoning

Dead Reckoning

An NCIS / Stargate SG-1 Crossover

The morning sun off the Anacostia River came through the blinds of the second-floor bullpen in Building 26 at the Washington Navy Yard.

Timothy McGee rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring at three side-by-side spreadsheets on his monitors. “It’s not an accounting error, Nick. The serial numbers on the supply manifests from Norfolk don’t match the receiving dock at Little Creek. Someone in logistics shaved forty thousand dollars in outboard engine components over six months.”

Nick Torres leaned back in his chair, spinning an unsharpened pencil across his knuckles. “Or—hear me out, Timmy—the guy just lost the clipboard. You know how many times I lost a clipboard when I was undercover in Miami? Every single week.”

“You don’t lose forty thousand dollars of high-grade marine turbines on a lost clipboard,” Jessica Knight said without looking up from her desk. She was methodically clipping together witness statements from an unauthorized perimeter breach at Quantico. “Besides, the Quartermaster signed for six crates and only five showed up in the warehouse ledger. That’s not carelessness. That’s intent.”

“Thank you, Jess,” McGee said, tapping a key. “Subpoena for bank records is queued up. If this Chief Petty Officer suddenly bought a new bass boat in cash, we’ve got him.”

“Bass boat,” Torres scoffed. “Nobody buys a bass boat with stolen navy money. You buy a classic Mustang or you go to Vegas. Who steals from Uncle Sam to go catch catfish?”

“People who like catfish, Torres,” a voice rumbled from behind them.

Torres caught the pencil mid-spin and straightened up instantly.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs walked into the bullpen carrying a cardboard coffee cup and a thin file. He took in the three desks in a single pass.

He stopped at McGee’s desk, looked at the screen for two seconds, and grunted. “Norfolk supply theft?”

“Yes, boss,” McGee said, sitting up straighter. “Following the paper trail through the regional requisition hub. I should have the warrant application ready for the federal magistrate before lunch.”

Gibbs took a sip of his coffee. “Get it done before eleven. JAG wants to review the chain of custody on the dock receipts before we pull him in.” He glanced at Knight. “Quantico gate runner?”

“Just a lost tourist following bad GPS directions, Gibbs,” Knight reported, handing over a signed interview transcript. “Base security verified his vehicle, luggage, and phone. Completely clean. Released to local authorities for a misdemeanor traffic summons.”

“Good.” Gibbs tossed the thin folder onto Knight’s desk. “Review the cold hit on the ninety-eight Pendleton payroll fraud. Cold Case Unit sent it over. See if the fingerprints match the alias we flagged in San Diego.”

“On it,” Knight said, pulling the file toward her.

Gibbs walked over to his desk at the head of the pod. McGee’s keyboard clicked, the air handler hummed overhead, and traffic moved along the yard outside. An ordinary Tuesday morning at NCIS.

Across the Potomac, on the fourth floor of the Pentagon’s E-ring, the morning was just as slow.

The corner office assigned to the Principal Executive Officer for Research and Development had windows looking west over the grounds. Folders were stacked by project classification on the desk beside two secure comm pads, a small model of the Prometheus, and a framed snapshot of SG-1 standing in front of the Gate.

Brigadier General Samantha Carter leaned back in her chair with a coffee mug in both hands, wearing service dress blues with a silver star on each shoulder.

General Jack O’Neill sat on the edge of her conference table with his ankles crossed. His three-star blues were pressed, but he held an Academy mug with a chipped handle and stared out the glass toward the Washington Monument.

“I’m just saying,” Jack remarked, taking a sip, “any establishment that puts pine nuts in pasta should be subjected to an immediate Congressional inquiry.”

Sam set her cup on the blotter. “It’s pesto, Jack. Pine nuts are supposed to be in it.”

“It’s a hazard to navigation,” Jack said. “You expect a nice, predictable noodle, and suddenly—crunch. Wood.”

“It wasn’t wood. It was delicious. But if you’re that traumatized by Northern Italian cuisine, we can go somewhere else tonight.”

“Steak,” Jack said instantly. “That little place in Old Town. The one with the booths that don’t have microphones in the salt shakers.”

Sam smiled. “The steakhouse in Old Town sounds fine. What time do you wrap up with the Joint Staff briefing?”

“Oh, you know the drill,” Jack said, rolling his shoulders. “Three hours of PowerPoint slides about troop rotations in Germany, followed by forty minutes of the Vice Chairman asking why our R&D budget looks like the GDP of a small European nation.” He gestured toward her desk. “Which, by the way, I intend to blame entirely on you.”

“Naturally,” Sam said, amused. “That’s why you promoted me.”

“I promoted you because you’re brilliant, Carter,” Jack said, tapping his mug against hers. “And because nobody else knows how to explain the physics without giving the Secretary an aneurysm.”

Sam picked up her pen, looking down at a requisition manifest for the sub-light drive telemetry arrays. “Well, if you survive the PowerPoint, pick me up at eighteen-thirty?”

Jack pushed off the table and headed toward the door. “Eighteen-thirty. And I’m ordering the ribeye. Don’t even try to talk me into a salad.”

Sam watched the door close, picked up her pen, and pulled the top folder from the stack.

Two thousand miles west, on Sub-level 28 of Cheyenne Mountain, General Hank Landry was watering a potted fern on his credenza.

Colonel Cameron Mitchell sat across from him with a flight jacket slung over the chair back and a styrofoam coffee cup on his knee.

“I’m just saying, sir,” Mitchell said, gesturing with his free hand, “a full bird looks different on an Air Force uniform. It’s got weight to it. Major Davis told me the hats alone are forty percent stiffer.”

Landry snorted, setting down his small brass watering can and wiping his hands on a paper towel. “Don’t let the hat go to your head, Cam. The eagles don’t make you any smarter. They just mean the people yelling at you when something goes wrong wear more stars.”

“Oh, I’m used to people with stars yelling at me, General,” Mitchell said. “General O’Neill made an Olympic sport out of it.”

Landry sat down behind the desk. “The promotion list goes to the President next month. Hayes won’t sit on it. You earned the eagles, Cameron. The question is what you want to do with them.”

Mitchell looked down at his cup. “Honestly, sir? I’ve thought about it. Command track. Maybe a wing at Nellis, or a desk at Homeworld. But every time I think about leaving the Gate, it feels like riding the bench in the fourth quarter.”

“SG-1 is a heavy load for a full colonel,” Landry said. “Hammond knew it. O’Neill knew it. Carter carried it, too. It doesn’t get easier just because your rank matches the room.”

“No, sir, I know,” Mitchell said. “My dad used to say the hardest part of flying lead isn’t pulling the stick—it’s watching the guys on your wing. As long as the SGC needs someone out in the dirt, I’d rather take point than read the after-action report three days later.”

Landry nodded. “General Hammond would have liked that answer, Colonel.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now drink your coffee,” Landry said, tapping a stack of supply requisitions. “Before I decide to make you review the quarterly maintenance logs for the lower ventilation scrubbers.”

“Moving out, General,” Mitchell said, raising his cup.

At Peterson Air Force Base, the wind came down off the Front Range cold and smelled of asphalt and JP-8.

Hangar 14 stood apart from the main transport ramps, behind a double fence line topped with razor wire. Security Forces airmen with carbines held the gate. Inside the high bay, floodlights lit the concrete floor.

An F-302 sat on chocks in the center of the bay.

The matte-black delta hull sat low on its gear, the cockpit framed by twin intake scoops and the flush housings of the secondary thrusters.

Near the boarding ladder, the flight crew ran their final gear checks.

Major David Ross zipped his high-altitude pressure suit and checked the torso disconnects. His helmet was tucked under one arm, the oxygen seal inspected.

Beside him, Captain James Miller—an SG-3 Marine flying copilot on the ferry run—slung a sealed composite pack over his shoulder and fastened his harness.

“Manifest is locked down, Major,” Miller said. “Secondary telemetry is secured in the lower avionics bay. Transponders green across all internal channels.”

“Good,” Ross said, checking his board. “Pitot covers are pulled and actuators checked out ten minutes ago. Secondary lines are nominal.”

Two crew chiefs in coveralls rolled the power cart clear and pulled the yellow umbilical with a dull clunk.

Miller went up the ladder first and dropped into the rear seat. He hooked up his harness, comm leads, and oxygen hose, then flipped open the auxiliary power panel. The displays came up in amber and green.

“Avionics bus active,” Miller said over the loop. “Cabin pressure at baseline.”

Ross followed him up and settled into the front seat. He strapped in, locked his helmet down, and pulled his visor. His gloved hands worked the stick and checked the rudder travel.

“Master arm safe,” Ross said into his mask. “Inertial sensors aligned. Ground cleared our window for zero-nine-thirty.”

“Copy, lead,” Miller said, checking the console as the diagnostics finished their sweep. “Systems nominal. Ready when you are.”

Ross reached up and grabbed the canopy toggle.

The canopy came down with a hiss of hydraulics, and the locking lugs engaged around the sill.

Outside, the marshaler crossed two orange wands over his head. The hangar’s motorized doors rolled back on their tracks, opening to the Colorado sky.