Chapter Text
So of course all roads (or rather no roads, given that they haven’t been able to turn up a damn lead on MacAvoy: so far as forensics are concerned he ran his happy ass to a nearby park and disappeared into thin air before the Boys in Blue could get him. Therefore they might as well go back to where this thing all started and talk to the folks there) lead to the Ass End of Nowere, Colorado, otherwise known as the Cheyenne Mountain Compex. NATO, eggheads, and Batshit Jack O’Neill, whatever the fuck that’s about. Military flight out of Norfolk at oh dark thirty, color McGee distinctly unthrilled. (“Suck it up, Probie,” says the DiNozzo in his head). Gibbs catches some rack time. Best sleep he ever gets, the roar of the engines drowning out the noise of his own thoughts. Just him and McGee on this run – Tony’s still out with the flu, and polite investigators don’t waltz into a Top Secret facility with an agent of a foreign power on their six, at least not if they want the inhabitants of said top secret facility to actually tell them a goddamned thing. So. Gibbs. Tim. No Ziva. No Tony. No body (yet), so no Ducky. Thanks be to God, no Palmer. The Dream Team it ain’t, not when you’re talking investigating spooks and really weird shit, but it’s what they’ve got and it’s gonna have to do.
By the time they’re wheels down, Gibbs wants about a gallon of coffee. Also to slap Tim upside the head, and a pilot that knows how to land a fucking plane, but there’s no sense pining after things one can’t have. Still, gotta hand it to the military – this is a damn sight better than waiting for what feels like eighteen hours while fatass tourists unload luggage containing what has to be half their property from the overhead bins and then take a leisurely stroll down the jetway in their shorts and knee socks.
Jack O’Neill’s waiting for them on the tarmac. Fatigues, not dress blues. NCIS doesn’t merit dress blues. NCIS never merits dress blues. Half the time NCIS doesn’t even merit common courtesy or a friendly smile, but then again, according to the Great Rule Book of Jack O’Neill, nothing short of the Second Coming merits dress blues, and even then, they’re probably only warranted if someone actually bothers to make it a fucking order. Doesn’t look happy (Jack O’Neill never looks happy, except maybe when he’s pissing off the brass). Gibbs watches the colonel have a quick salute-vs.-handshake argument with himself, takes the proffered hand. Welcome to Buttfuck, Colorado, Mr. Civilian.
Gun calluses there too, maybe no surprise since Jack always enjoyed blasting away at Very Small Targets at the range, but the guy is also whipcord lean and looks like he could run twenty miles before breakfast and kick someone’s ass after, which is potentially unusual given that O’Neill should have been sitting on his hiney behind some desk requisitioning $250 hammers and telling Marines when to man the booth with the little yellow arm.
“Jethro,” Jack says, with the trademark O’Neill warmth toward uninvited guests, which is to say his voice is maybe ten degrees above absolute zero, fifteen if they’re lucky. “Talk about a blast from the past. How long’s it been?”
“Since Poland,” Gibbs says shortly. (We Do Not Talk About Poland). “Which was two ex-wives ago, if you’re curious.” He nods at McGee, who has fallen in on their six and is looking around with barely-concealed glee, doubtless because this is where all the Cool Shit comes from, and maybe Sam Carter might be lurking around some corner looking like the pinup girl from Computer Geek Monthy. “This is Agent Tim McGee, NCIS.”
“Sir,” Tim says, trying not to look too terrified by Batshit Jack. Well, at least the folks here working on Top Secret Shit won’t feel threatened. Gibbs sighs internally. This is gonna be less like good cop/bad cop and more like bad cop/totally harmless cop.
“So how’s little Jenny these days?” Jack asks. “Haven’t seen her in years.”
“Little Jenny,” Gibbs says with a raised eyebrow, remembering how Jack had squalled like a cat with his tail caught in the door when Gibbs’d brought her in on that business in Russia, “is my boss these days.”
“Director of NCIS,” O’Neill whistles softly. “Never thought she had what it took to run with the big dogs. Guess I was wrong.” He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “She sent you clear out here on the government’s dime to talk to us about McAvoy? Jesus, Jethro, you guys never heard of MTAC?”
“Lot of nuances you miss on videoconference,” Gibbs retorts. “Jack.” Like the fact that the vintage-‘70s paneled hall O’Neill is leading them down is clearly window dressing for whatever the hell really goes on out here in Armpit of the Universe, Colorado, never mind that they’re two stories underground (gotta make it look good for the tourists, after all, and the good ol’ US of A never disappoints). Too damn tidy, and the folks that have been hastily installed behind identical desks in identical offices only differentiated by the nameplates on the doors (little boxes, all made out of ticky-tacky) and the handfuls of random knick-knacks tossed about to make it look like they actually work there (which is bullshit) are shuffling uncomfortably through papers like they don’t know where a damn thing is and now more than ever Gibbs would bet a stack of Benjamins whatever goes on out here ain’t whatever the fuck deep space telemetry actually is. “Nice place you got here. You pull all this out just for us?” Another pile of C-notes says that the good stuff is a really long elevator ride beneath their feet..
Startled glance from Batshit Jack (clearly he thinks Gibbs has gone soft in civilian life, too bad for him), but the colonel doesn’t say a damn thing. McGee looks disappointed at the ambiance (sorry, Probie, but they’re not gonna have the crazy technological whatsits on display in the hallway. This is a Top Fucking Secret Government Facility, not Disneyland. Or DARPA.).
They finally end up in pretty much the most generic conference room Gibbs has ever seen, which is saying a lot given the number of Agencies With Acronyms Gibbs has visited over the course of his career. Particleboard conference table that must weigh four tons, beige-upholstered chairs any self-respecting two-star General would use as target practice sooner than sit in. Hell, the place could be a conference room at the IRS or the Census Bureau or some other nest of underpaid, self-important bureaucrats but for the pictures of guys with stars that line the walls. (Bet the conference room down below isn’t so generic. Bet that one has, y’know, maps and other things that are useful to military personnel talking about Super-Duper-Secret Military Stuff. This one has a goddamn five-year-old Colorado Springs phonebook).
There are two other people in the conference room already, sipping at little Styrofoam cups of what smells like truly terrible coffee. Gibbs recognizes Samantha Carter from the photo in her service record -- short-cropped blond hair, green eyes, no-nonsense attitude. Except she’s probably 20 pounds thinner than her service photo, with the same lean, hard look as Jack. Sits with her back to the wall. Wears her fatigues with the ease of long familiarity. This lady hasn’t worn a skirt and heels probably since she came on board, and if Jack’s folks aren’t up to their asses in Black Ops bullshit of some stripe or other, Gibbs will turn in his damn badge and give up coffee. With Carter is a rumpled, bespectacled man in greens (but no rank insignia; interesting) with a distracted air that belies the piercing scrutiny he directs at Gibbs when he thinks Gibbs isn’t paying attention, and at McGee when McGee probably isn’t because McGee’s too damn busy staring at Carter like a kid who’s just seen his first rock star. The guy kind of puts Gibbs in mind of McGee on steroids with Navy SEAL training and Gibbs would give almost anything to have Ziva on his six for this one, because all his bells are clanging like it’s fucking Christmas morning and everyone’s forgotten to show up for church.
“My, ah, research team,” Jack says, nodding at Carter and Glasses Guy. “Lt. Col. Samantha Carter, Dr. Daniel Jackson. Daniel’s a civilian specialist with the program. Carter, Daniel, these are Agents Gibbs and McGee, NCIS. They’re looking into what happened to John McAvoy.”
“Ma’am,” McGee gulps. “It’s really great to meet you. I’ve seen you on TV, and I’m, uh, kind of a fan. The stuff the Air Force has been working on is light years ahead of anything else. I mean, that hologram alien was so cool.” Gibbs feels his hand itching to deliver a headslap, and restrains the impulse. No need for them to see Bad Cop abuse Completely Harmless Cop, at least not yet.
Carter looks perplexed. "Uh, thanks?" Her gaze cuts to Gibbs. "Agent Gibbs, we're all really upset about McAvoy, so anything we can tell you that might help ..." The energy in the room is fucking weird. Something about these three puts Gibbs in mind of that year in Russia with Jack and Jenny when close encounters with the KGB and other garden-variety dangers had driven them so close that they could communicate more in a shared glance and a nod than most folks in the Beltway could communicate in a forty-page memo with footnotes and a glossary. Even the way they've arranged themselves around the table speaks of long habit, which is really fucking curious since they've left what looks like a space for someone else.
“This all of you?” Gibbs asks. May have been years since he served with Batshit Jack, and his recall might be a little shy of crystal clear and stunningly accurate, but damn if he can’t still read the guy’s face, and damn if every muscle in said face isn’t saying aw, shit while simultaneously trying to look totally unconcerned.
“…No. Uh, the other member of our team is … a foreign national on loan to the program. He’s … overseas, dealing with family stuff right now. Has been since before McAvoy disappeared.” (Now why the fucking fuck does the word ‘overseas’ sound like a euphemism to Gibbs’ ears?) Thee entire sentences so goddamn full of Top Secret Bullshit Doublespeak that Gibbs isn’t even sure he can parse them. If this nonsense is representative of the general level of truthfulness and candor Gibbs is going to be able expect from the folks here in BFE, Colorado, he might as well go on back to civilization, swipe Abby’s Ouija board, and ask his questions that way, because it would probably be more informative than this goddamn interview has been so far and wouldn’t leave Jenny busting his balls (not that it’s anything new) about wasting precious budget dollars on a pointless flight out to the fucking middle of fucking nowhere.
“How ‘bout we cut the crap here, Jack,” Gibbs growls finally (maybe he should have had some of the goddamn coffee; maybe then he wouldn’t be so fucking cranky) “How about you tell me what you guys really do around here, and what McAvoy was actually doing for you, and maybe we can figure out what the hell he’s doing in Washington shooting people.” Gets to watch Jack and Carter and Glasses Guy exchange some very concerned mental telepathy. Jenny warned him that SecNav wanted Gibbs to ‘tread carefully,’ and probably this doesn’t exactly count, but (call him nuts) what Gibbs mostly cares about is the crazy fucking Marine who shot up Starbuck’s then disappeared into thin air and who was probably still running around D.C being crazy.. “Any reason that McAvoy might want NCIS to come down here and do some digging? Because that’s sure as shit what it’s looking like right now.”
O’Neill sighs, sits down at the table, puts his head in his hands like it weighs about a million pounds, closes his eyes (Gibbs can practically hear him thinking, God grant me patience). “Look, Jethro, I’m sorry you got dragged into this – it’s an internal matter, and we did a crap job of handling it. McAvoy worked with us overseas,” (again that damned feeling that overseas is a euphemisim for God-only-knows-and maybe-doesn’t really-even-want-to-know what), “and the work we do over there is stressful. Some guys – even the best of the best – they can’t take it. Sometimes they snap. We didn’t catch it soon enough. This never should have ended up in your lap.”
Jesus H. fucking Christ on a crutch, this is the biggest pile of horseshit Gibbs has stumbled into yet this century, and he’s going to need about fifty times more coffee than he’s had today (which is to say, any, because as usual NCIS is being treated with all the courtesy and manners one usually reserves for door-to-door vacuum salesmen and Jehovah’s Witnesses) if he’s going to deal with it. “Well, it is in our lap, and there’s two dead colonels at the Pentagon and fifteen injured people back in D.C., so I’d say it’s a fair guess you’re stuck with us until we get this straightened out. What’re you guys doing ‘overseas’ that’s so fucking stressful? Torturing innocent people at Abu Ghraib?”
“Actually boss,” McGee speaks up at last (halleh-fucking-lujah for Totally Harmless Cop), “I think it’s something more like technological espionage. Bringing it back here, reverse-engineering it . . . though who they’re stealing it from I have no idea, because even the stuff they’ve released to the public is some of the most advanced tech I’ve seen anywhere.”
More Very Concerned mental telepathy flying between O’Neill and Carter and Glasses Guy (Gibbs supposes he ought to start thinking of him as Daniel, or as Jackson, but right now he’s liking the name Glasses Guy so much better and figures that Glasses Guy ought to be thankful he hasn’t earned a worse moniker Though that may come later, given that Glasses Guy hasn’t yet opened his mouth).
May as well strike while they’re all freaking out that Totally Harmless Cop (aka Tim McGee, who may have just earned himself a few iotas of forgiveness) has apparently hit a target somewhere in the vicinity of the truth; maybe then Gibbs’ll get an answer that’s less than eighty percent evasive bullshit, so Gibbs asks, “What’s your connection with Colonels Harcourt and Evans? I’d appreciate a truthful answer, if it’s not too much trouble.” Okay, so he’s snarling, but Gibbs figures he’s earned it, because his blood pressure is probably six inches from Heart Attack Central and still climbing.
And it’s Glasses Guy who turns out to be the weak link in the group, because he blurts out that Colonel Harcourt is their program’s liaison with the Pentagon, but they don’t have any clue what Evans has to do with any of this because they’ve never had contact with the guy so far as he knows, and he can’t figure out why on Earth McAvoy would have shot either of them because there’s no indication they’ve ever had any contact and McAvoy’s security clearance shouldn’t have been high enough for him to even know that Harcourt was connected to the Program. And then Jackson attempts to sink into the floor, probably to avoid the synchronized death glares that Carter and O’Neill are beaming his way with laserlike precision. (Sorry, son).
Then it’s Carter’s turn to un-clam, though it’s O’Neill she’s looking at, and in Gibbs’s humble estimation, the good Captain Carter’s expression has shifted from bland concern to something in the neighborhood of real worry. “Sir, I hate to say it, but there’s a chance this could be a possible f--,” she breaks off at a subtle but emphatic hand signal from O’Neill (if Gibbs were to take a guess at the dictionary meaning of that particular piece of sign language, it would be something to the effect of Don’t even fucking go there), turns to Gibbs, takes a breath. “I mean, there’s a chance McAvoy may have been exposed to something overseas that could be affecting his behavior.”
“C’mon, Carter, there’s no reason to go jumping to wild conclusions. You know he was screened when we came back last week,” but Jack looks almost as concerned as she does all of a sudden, and Gibbs can practically hear the gears grinding and overheating in O’Neill’s head the way they did right before everything went straight into the shitter in Poland.
“But sir, if there’s any chance of it,” and Carter’s little gears are turning too, almost as furiously though with substantially less smoke, “we need to find him, and quickly, and my feeling is that NCIS may be closer to getting McAvoy than we are.”
“Fuck,” intones O’Neill, with feeling. “Just – fine. You go back to D.C. with them, give them whatever help they need. I’ll clear it up with General Hammond. Just – ugh. Don’t tell them anything you don’t have to, okay? And watch out for their Director.”
So, in the end, it’s a few more completely uninformative interviews with an assortment of Marines and oddly well-muscled civilian specialists who knew McAvoy (the ones that aren’t off overseas right now, anyway) and who claim that of course they had no idea McAvoy was going to lose it and go on a rampage in the nation’s capitol, but this was his first year and the job is damn stressful and you never know who’s going to be buying the next ticket on the Crazy Train to Crazytown, and it’s a damn shame that McAvoy did, and then they’re wheels up at 0300 the next morning, with Carter settled in beside Gibbs looking like she’d rather be flying the damn plane and Tim looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, like possibly hell or on a commercial airliner, which is pretty much the next best thing. Cater’s got a locked case with her with who-knows-what inside, but Gibbs is pretty sure whatever it is would never have made it through airport security.
They’re back in D.C. by 0900, and Gibbs’s head is pounding with irritation and caffeine withdrawal and four hours on a plane with McGee, and he’s feeling a bit like telling Jenny, “Look what followed me home,” as Carter marches through the door behind them, and then it seems like the day’s only going to get better from here, because there’s a very pissed off blonde woman in a very expensive navy Chanel suit having a staredown with Ziva. And apparently Tony has recovered from the flu.
“I’m sorry, Boss,” DiNozzo holds out his hands helplessly. “I tried to head her off at the pass, but –“ he gestures at the blonde woman, who has now turned her icy stare on Gibbs and his little entourage, “this is Charlotte Mayfield. She says she’s the VP of Farrow-Marshall Enterprises, and she wants to talk to you about what happened to Colonel Evans.”