Not that anyone on base would have read it, but George Hammond's performance review that had recommended him for promotion to Brigadier had made specific mention of his miraculous calm and unflappability. "Colonel Hammond, even in the most difficult and dangerous situations remains an island of calm in the storm, evaluating materiel, tactical position, and probable action by the enemy. He does have a passionate temper, but exercises full and masterful restraint upon it. Both his courage and his wisdom have been amply demonstrated by his career record to date, and it is this officer's opinion that he should be not only retained, but promoted to the rank and responsibilities of Brigadier General. He is a fine example of all that is best in the Air Force tradition, and one of the finest officers it has ever been my privilege to command," it read.
General Bennington would not recognize the man he had recommended in such glowing terms all those years ago. This man had beads of sweat across his bare scalp, and he brushed those that trickled down his brow towards his eyes away with an already dampened handkerchief. With shaking hands, he poured himself a stiff glass of Kentucky bourbon, slopping some of the precious liquid upon his desk, although he was too preoccupied to notice it. He knocked the drink back with a haste and desperation that was distinctly unbecoming of a man, an officer, who was the bedrock foundation of a vital and top secret command. This man was haunted.
Three utterly routine, completely-as-planned, successful missions by SG-1, with out so much as a hangnail that Dr. Fraiser could diagnose. George Hammond was worried, very worried. The Universe, he had discovered, tended to balance these things out in the long run.
Something terrible was coming. Something unknown. Something he could do nothing to prepare for or avert.
With a sigh he shrugged himself into his jacket, buttoning the buttons with hands that shook measurably less, and stood for a moment in rueful contemplation. Seeing no alternatives, no moves he could make, he opened a drawer in his desk, took out a strong breath mint, popped it in his mouth, and walked out the door and down the circular stairs to the Control Room.
By the time he arrived he had himself firmly under control, although unbeknownst to him Sgt. Harriman was wondering why, when on duty, and mid-dial, he was suddenly thinking about peppermint schnapps.
The gate bloomed and settled, and Hammond nodded down at the team before the ramp, which was waiting expectantly for his order.
"God speed, SG-1!" he said, and he prided himself that his voice emerged in its usual register.
Oh hell! Was that a nervous drumming Jack's left hand had been beating out on his thigh?
"I'm getting too old for this!" Hammond muttered.
***************
I'm glad that one of the prompts worked, and worked so well. I loved the moment when they all awaited the earthquake!
You know that when I offer more than one prompt it is out of a sense that some prompts just won't "go" for an individual, not out of a greedy desire to get many fics, don't you? Not that I would complain at many fics, mind you, but I certainly don't expect them.
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timeasmymeasure
Third Time's The Charm
General Bennington would not recognize the man he had recommended in such glowing terms all those years ago. This man had beads of sweat across his bare scalp, and he brushed those that trickled down his brow towards his eyes away with an already dampened handkerchief. With shaking hands, he poured himself a stiff glass of Kentucky bourbon, slopping some of the precious liquid upon his desk, although he was too preoccupied to notice it. He knocked the drink back with a haste and desperation that was distinctly unbecoming of a man, an officer, who was the bedrock foundation of a vital and top secret command. This man was haunted.
Three utterly routine, completely-as-planned, successful missions by SG-1, with out so much as a hangnail that Dr. Fraiser could diagnose. George Hammond was worried, very worried. The Universe, he had discovered, tended to balance these things out in the long run.
Something terrible was coming. Something unknown. Something he could do nothing to prepare for or avert.
With a sigh he shrugged himself into his jacket, buttoning the buttons with hands that shook measurably less, and stood for a moment in rueful contemplation. Seeing no alternatives, no moves he could make, he opened a drawer in his desk, took out a strong breath mint, popped it in his mouth, and walked out the door and down the circular stairs to the Control Room.
By the time he arrived he had himself firmly under control, although unbeknownst to him Sgt. Harriman was wondering why, when on duty, and mid-dial, he was suddenly thinking about peppermint schnapps.
The gate bloomed and settled, and Hammond nodded down at the team before the ramp, which was waiting expectantly for his order.
"God speed, SG-1!" he said, and he prided himself that his voice emerged in its usual register.
Oh hell! Was that a nervous drumming Jack's left hand had been beating out on his thigh?
"I'm getting too old for this!" Hammond muttered.
***************
I'm glad that one of the prompts worked, and worked so well. I loved the moment when they all awaited the earthquake!
You know that when I offer more than one prompt it is out of a sense that some prompts just won't "go" for an individual, not out of a greedy desire to get many fics, don't you? Not that I would complain at many fics, mind you, but I certainly don't expect them.