03 - The First Amendment (12 page)

It must be, Kinsey thought, a new-model weapon if they could do that. It
should have blown them all to Kingdom Come. Modern technology was a wonderful
thing.

Then he threw up, and his knees finally gave way completely.

Someone made a noise of utter disgust and pushed him aside.

Someone else grabbed him and moved him along. As his initial nausea receded,
he realized that they weren’t hauling him out of danger so much as shoving him
the hell out of the way. He found a handy back wall and staggered against it,
trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

Morley, he was glad to see, was already in restraints.

The giant circle was occluded with shimmering light, and through it came at
least a dozen figures in uniform, as if they’d been tossed through, losing their
balance on the steel ramp as often as not, supporting comrades who had obviously
been wounded. In response, the room was filling with medic teams, under the
fierce efficient direction of the brunette in the white lab coat, who seemed to
be everywhere at once.

He found his jaw opening and closing as he tried to figure out where all
these people had come from. Twisting around, he looked up to the observation
window. There was the general, no longer watching him but studying the activity
in the room below with no surprise but obvious concern.

The room stank of blood and cordite, echoed with shouts and orders and moans.

Kinsey tried edging toward the door. Bert Samuels scrambled to his side, as
if to establish that he’d been there all along.

“All right, Samuels, who are these people and what happened to them?” he
said, keeping his voice low. A line of gurneys proceeded out of the big room.
Without waiting for either reply or permission, Kinsey followed them, keeping
out of the way of the medics supporting IV poles and applying pressure bandages.
He could hear Samuels sputtering behind him. Evidently someone had thought that
a lieutenant colonel as escort counted as “under confinement,” and they were too
busy to keep track of one annoying gadfly.

The gadfly in question shortly found himself in the middle of a very busy
emergency clinic. They were well set up to handle mass casualties, he noted, and
no one seemed shocked or horrified or surprised. The staff behaved as though it
were all in a day’s bloody work.

So this happened a lot?

Apparently.

Keeping back along the wall, out of the way and beneath he hoped, any kind of
notice, he focused on what he was seeing and hearing, wishing he had his camera.

“Ringer’s lactate—”

“IV stat—”

“We’ve got a torn artery here—”

“My God, they’re coming—!”

Several of the victims were burned, their uniforms smoking and crisped and
gaping to reveal bright-red tissue seeping blood. He had seen similar injuries
from grenades, from laser burns. There were very few common, ordinary bullet
holes.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Samuels babbled, tugging on his sleeve. “Come
on, we’ve got to get out of here.” The colonel was white and sweating, his voice
too high and too loud. “Kinsey, come on. We’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Damn straight you’re not supposed to be in here,” came a growl from behind
them. Kinsey glanced over his shoulder to see O’Neill standing with one hand on
Samuels’ arm. “When exactly did you lose your mind, Samuels? I suggest you get
out of here and report to the brig. It’ll save us all a lot of time.” The tall
colonel transferred his glare to Kinsey. “You too,” he added. “There are people
here who need help, and you’re in the way.”

Kinsey couldn’t help but agree, but there was a story here.
Damn,
there was a story here! He tried to get a closer look at the casualties.

He was stopped almost immediately by a giant with a metal tattoo on his
forehead.

“You will come with me,” the giant said.

“Sure,” he answered helplessly. Why not? Right down the rabbit hole.

“Okay, General,” Kinsey said a few minutes later, when the dark giant
escorted him into the upper observation room. Not, he noted wryly, either Pace
or Cassidy; the name tag on the blue uniform identified this man as Hammond, and
the deference shown by everyone else in the room placed him at the very top of
the hierarchy. Kinsey was not impressed. “Let’s get down to it. What’s the scoop
here? What is that thing and where did those troops come from?”

The general gave him a long, considering stare. All around him other military
personnel—staff members—looked uneasily back and forth from the general to the
reporter.

“Mr. Kinsey, all of that information is highly classified. You will not be
permitted to publish anything whatsoever about what you’ve seen here today. If
you do so, you’ll be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. I’ll see both you
and
Samuels”
—he pronounced the name with special loathing—“rot in jail
for the rest of your lives, in solitary confinement if necessary.”

“Oh, come now, General. What about the people’s right to know? A little thing
called the First Amendment?” The words were blithe and brave, but Kinsey was
bluffing, and he hated the feeling.

“There’s something called overriding national security, as you well know, Mr.
Kinsey. And I’d advise you not to push me right now—you’re one inch away from
being arrested and thrown into the deepest, darkest hole I can find. And you
have no idea just how deep and dark that can be.”

Kinsey felt his lips skin back from his teeth in what could have been a
grimace or a grin. “Threats, General? Now that’s a story all by itself. Just how
far are you willing to go to protect your little secrets?”

There was a sudden stillness in the room, and Kinsey couldn’t quite read the
expression that crossed Hammond’s face.

And for his part, George Hammond could read all too well what was going on in
the reporter’s mind. He’d just witnessed the Gate in operation. He’d seen
wounded personnel come through what was previously an empty hole, out of
nowhere. It was a terrific story, one any reporter would give his eyeteeth to
have as an exclusive.

Behind Kinsey, he could see O’Neill appearing in the doorway, shaking his
head. The news about the casualties wasn’t good, then.

He saw the colonel’s gaze shift to Kinsey, standing unknowing before him, and
then back to himself. Hammond met O’Neill’s eyes, seeing the question that
haunted the colonel. His conscience was clear; he had nothing to do with the
traffic accident that killed the last reporter who’d gotten too close to the
Gate.

It had been a tragedy, of course, but a wonderfully convenient one, and he
had felt more than one pang of guilt about his own relief at the man’s death.

This time, though, no convenient accident could pull their chestnuts out of
the fire. Frank Kinsey was the son of a senator who already knew all about the
Stargate, and if anything happened to him “all hell broken loose” would be a
pale understatement.

That wouldn’t save the reporter from arrest and trial and conviction, of
course, but the secret of the Stargate would be royally blown once and for all.

Janet Frasier entered the observation room, ready to report on casualties.
Hammond shifted gears with something approaching gratitude. “Mr. Kinsey, I’ve
got more important things to deal with right now than you. You’re going to be
kept in confinement until I decide exactly what to do with you. Now”—he took
a deep breath and addressed one of the other officers—“get Bert Samuels up here.”

Minutes later, a quivering lieutenant colonel stood before him. “S-sir.”

The rest of the room was absolutely silent.

No, command was definitely not what it was cracked up to be. Hammond could
remember one of his daughters once, in the midst of an impassioned tantrum,
calling him a militaristic tyrant who thought he had the power of life and death
over everybody around him.

Looking at Bert Samuels, George Hammond almost wished it was true.

The little lieutenant colonel stood at absolute attention, oscillating almost
visibly between sheer terror and smirking glee.
Little tattletale,
Hammond thought. Oh, all right, so that wasn’t really fair.
Little
lickspittle toady. You think your “special relationship” with the Joint Chiefs
cuts any ice with me?

“Mr. Samuels—”

Several of the assembled military involuntarily swallowed at the softness of
Hammond’s tone. Not one of them missed the deliberate omission of rank.

“—would you mind telling me what on earth possessed you to bring a reporter
into this complex?

“And not just into this complex, but into
this
facility?”

“I-I didn’t,” Samuels stammered. “I mean, I brought him into the complex, but
that was at the specific request of Senator Kinsey. His father,” Samuels
belatedly added, as if it might make a difference. “He, he took matters into his
own hands, and then that major grabbed him, and O’Neill—”

Hammond shifted his gaze to target on the line of sweat on Bert Samuels’
brow. “So, Colonel, you and Senator Kinsey thought it would be a great idea to
have his son do an investigative report on Cheyenne Mountain?”

“It was the senator’s idea,” Samuels said defensively. Reviewing the
circumstances seemed to revive the junior officer’s courage. “And this incident
is a matter I’m going to have to bring to his attention, sir, since you seem to
have a very serious breach of security—”

“I’ll bring it to the senator’s attention,” Hammond agreed. “And to the
President’s. Your role will be specifically mentioned, I assure you.”

Even now the poor airman standing guard at the elevator was being grilled to
within an inch of his life, Hammond knew. Kinsey would never have reached the
elevator had Morley not grabbed him. That made no difference now; he would have
to find a way to soothe an enraged father, already antagonistic to the whole
project, as well as justify the facility’s response to the President.

“Report, Doctor?”

Standing at attention beside Samuels and reeking of distaste, Janet Frasier
kept her face impassive. “We have Major Morley in restraints,” she summarized.
“The personnel from SG-9 are under care. Five are in critical condition. We
haven’t been able to get any information from them at this time.”

Hammond raised a hand. “That’s all right, Captain. I’d appreciate it if you’d
let me know if anything changes on that front. Dismissed.”

Frasier snapped a salute, executed a parade turn, and marched out.

Hammond shifted his attention back to the quivering Samuels.

“You are not to report anything whatsoever to the senator unless and until I
specifically authorize it. I have
that
authority direct from the
President of the United States. Are you clear on that, Colonel?”

Samuels shrank into himself. It was almost a shame to send him away, Hammond
thought. It was so interesting to watch the man change colors. He would have liked to watch some more, but he needed to pass along the casualty
information first. He could always have a whole series of little talks with the
man.

“Yes, sir,” he gulped.

No matter how you cut it, it was a gawdawful mess. And he knew who the
senator would take it out on.

Hammond had never been so close to losing his own rank in his long and
spotless military career, and that realization was the only thing that was
keeping him from flaying Samuels alive.

He would save that pleasure for later, he promised himself, no matter how
this debacle turned out.

“You’re dismissed, Colonel. I want you to return to house arrest. You are to
have
no
communication with
anyone
without my personal
authorization. Sergeant, escort the colonel to the holding facility. I’ll be in
my office. Notify me immediately of any changes to this situation.”

“Yes sir,” the attendant multitudes chorused, and Hammond swept out, borne by
a wave of absolute fury, not least at himself. He should have realized in the
morning’s meeting that Morley was going to snap, should have ordered him to
report to Dr. Frasier immediately. She’d been concerned. But no, he’d had to
let the boy find his own way, and now—

He was more concerned about Morley than he was about the reporter, of course.
Morley was one of
his,
and he’d never let something like this happen to
one of his men before, even under combat conditions. Hammond sat in the leather
chair behind the desk and swiveled around, resting his fingertips on the desk
pad and leaning back to organize his thoughts.

It was a very clean desk, the surface bare of all but the essentials: the
desk pad, two telephones, a pen laid neatly to one side.

The first thing was to call the President and report the incident. He prided himself on using the direct-line red phone very
rarely indeed, and then only for major issues.

“Major” issues. He winced. Well, this certainly qualified.

And then he’d have to call the senator and tell
him
what happened.

Maybe he’d get lucky and the President would tell him to keep a lid on it.

The odds of that were less than zero. An isolationist administration, intent
on placating a powerful senator, wouldn’t dare keep such information to itself.

And what about his opposite numbers? Would Cassidy and Pace want to know what
happened to their famous visitor? He could stonewall them, but the senator would
roust their turf too, and there would go his security firewall, shot to hell and
gone.

And maybe that was the whole idea of sending the reporter here in the first
place.

He was going to
eviscerate
Bert Samuels.

But first things first. He reached for the red telephone. There was no need
to dial a number; only one connection would be made on this line.

The voice at the other end sounded just like every sound bite it had ever
made.

“Mr. President,” General Hammond said, “we have a situation…”