Night Vision by Maureen S. O'Brien mobrien@dnaco.net Rating: PG Category: S (Harm/Mac) Spoilers: "Smoked", "Blind Side", "Tiger, Tiger", "The Return of Jimmy Blackhorse", "Wedding Bell Blues". Summary: The price of getting what you want is getting what you used to want. Disclaimer: JAG belongs to Donald Bellisario, Belisarius Productions, Paramount, and CBS. I believe that fan fiction falls under 'fair use' of copyrighted material. If they don’t, I guess I’m in trouble. . . . Author's Note: "To Russia with Love"/"Gypsy Eyes" didn't happen -- "Deevs" and this one did instead -- so none of the eps afterward happened either. In other words, this is an alternate universe. I got the idea for this one from all the JAG discussions which assume Mac would have to leave JAG if TPTB wanted to pursue a Harm/Mac relationship. As Virginia keeps reminding us, you should never assume.... Special warning: This story contains scenes of the aftermath of a terrorist bombing, as well as all kinds of Middle Eastern politics that I made up and stitched onto real life events. Since it all takes place in an alternate universe anyway, I didn't alter the storyline from my original conception. But if this kind of stuff bothers you, feel free to skip parts or just don't read the story. Comments on the likelihood of the whole scenario are, as always, solicited. ------------------------------------------------------------- Part 1: When the Darkness Takes You By day give thanks By night beware Half the world in sweetness The other in fear When the darkness takes you With her hand across your face Don't give in too quickly Find what she has erased Find the line find the shape Find the grain Find the outline Things will tell you their name -- "Night Vision", _Solitude Standing_, Suzanne Vega BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL BETHESDA, MARYLAND There were many women in the world who would have enjoyed gazing deep into the blue-green eyes of Harmon Rabb, Jr. Most of them wouldn't have been using medical instrumentation to do it. "Gorgeous!" the opthalmologist exclaimed. "Beautiful, healthy rods on the sides. The most complete case of spontaneous regeneration I've ever seen. You been hanging out at Lourdes or something, Commander?" Harm thought of those hissing, crystalline voices in the desert. "Not exactly." "Then you must be living right." She checked his chart. "Vegetarian, huh? Eating lots of Vitamin A, maybe? But that doesn't reverse damage from disease, just deficiency," she said more to herself than Harm. "I wonder, if we ran a few more tests...." "My flight status?" he reminded her. "Oh, yeah." She reluctantly turned her gaze from his magnified eyes to the normal version. "Sure, you can fly at night. No reason not to, now that your rods are back to normal. I'll push the paperwork through for you tomorrow.” "Could you do it right now?" She shrugged. "Sure. Though if you haven't flown at night for X many years, I don't see what's your hurry." I don't trust you to remember the paperwork, he thought but didn't say. "I'm a pilot," he said with forced geniality. "Humor me.” She shrugged, got the forms out of her desk, filled them out, and walked down the hall to process them. Harm followed. PATUXENT RIVER NAVAL AIR STATION LATER THAT WEEK "Wish me luck, counselor?" Major Sarah Mackenzie smiled at her partner. He was wearing his flight suit and a big grin. "You don't need luck. You've got too much of it as it is." "Which is how I got a partner who's such a good negotiator," he retorted. He turned his head away from her and toward the waiting Tomcat. "You and I both know I owe this all to you," he said, his face and voice devoid of emotion. Her smile turned a little sad. She'd learned that move meant he was feeling too much to let it show. "That's right, sailor," she said, making herself tease him. "You owe me big time. One of these days I'm going to collect." "Promises, promises. You never ask me for any favors, which is how I've run up such a large bill," he complained. "So, you gonna wish me luck or not?" "You're actually worried about this." He looked away again. "It's been a long time since I've flown at night, and we're going out over the ocean. It's easy to get disoriented when your eyes don't have any reference points to tell them what's up or down." "So what did your instructors tell you the first time you flew at night?" He turned back to her and parroted, "'Stay calm and trust the instruments.'" He paused. "You're good." "I may not know flying, but I do know instructors. They're usually right." She saw the check flight pilot approaching. "Looks like it's time. Good luck, Harm." "Thanks." He walked on down the flight line to the Tomcat and started his walkaround. She stood watching, feeling a little lost, as she always did in his world. Where should she go? An enlisted woman rescued her. "Ma'am, you might want to go on back that way where all those pilots are standing. It's going to be a little noisy out here." "Thank you," she said, and walked briskly. She was surprised to find a small knot of men with gold wings on their chests waiting. They were too busy talking to each other to notice her, and at the moment that suited her fine. There wasn't much to watch. Harm's plane took off, and she saw its engines glowing blue. Then it was gone, and there was nothing but the waiting. Everything except the pilots got quiet. A damp breeze came up off the river, and the air only got muggier. While they'd been out trudging through the Iranian desert, summer had taken hold back here. The pilots kept talking, which meant they were doing that hand thing. Harm was about the only pilot she'd met who wouldn't have trouble communicating if you broke his arms. She sighed and wished she could understand more of what they were talking about. She'd tried to study up a little on this stuff, but there was always more cases for her to work than hours to work them. And so far, that flight simulator game Bud had installed on her laptop had just showed her lots of ways to crash. Seven minutes, fourteen seconds and counting. Thanks for giving me that lovely disorientation image, Harm, she thought irritably. She could hear the wind blow through the grass, and the pilots talking. She thought about the Graf case, and the Eigel one. She thought about night in the desert, and wished she could see more stars and fewer clouds here. She thought about how good a cup of coffee would taste right now. Finally, she heard the shriek of jet engines approaching. She brightened as she listened. That noise used to make her want to cover her ears, but it was starting to grow on her. The Tomcat swooped down onto the runway and rolled to a stop. She watched Harm and the other pilot climb out. They seemed to be discussing something. She noticed that the pilots behind her had stopped talking. She frowned. Then Harm and the other pilot walked down the tarmac toward them. Harm saw her standing there and flashed her a grin and a thumbs up. The other pilots swept forward, giving Harm high fives and yelling, "Bravo Zulu!" She stood looking on. She had never seen Harm so happy before, for all that he tried to play it cool. I'm happy for him, she thought. Really. I am. It's just that I know this spells the end of our partnership, and I've never had a better partner or friend. She made herself walk forward and smile brightly. "Hey, flyboy. Is this the proper time to say 'Sierra Hotel'?" She missed him already. JAG HEADQUARTERS FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA Clayton Webb showed one of his State Department IDs to the gate guard. The guard studied him, studied his ID, paused for a moment, and finally let him through. Clay didn't begrudge the time; he was used to much tighter security protocols. This one was mostly for show, since there was no fence around the JAG compound and a pedestrian from the nearby Metro station would not have to face a guard until he entered the house. He'd heard that A.J. wanted more elaborate security, but had been repeatedly turned down by SECNAV for budget reasons. "SEAL paranoia," SECNAV had called it. A thin-lipped frown flitted across Clay's face. After Josh's kidnapping (shame washed through him) and Palmer's nerve gas attack, SECNAV should have relented. But he was still too much of a bureaucrat to admit he'd been wrong. "Your facility is open to the public and it'll stay that way. Deal with it." Too much of a bureaucrat. Clay's face was expressionless, but inside he was smiling as he got out of his car with his package. Pot, kettle, black? But he hadn't been wrong. The information had been far too sensitive to entrust to any foreign national they ran. The mission had been successful, and Harm and Mac had been smart and skillful enough to get out through the mountains. If anything had gone wrong, he knew they were prepared to die or stay as silent as the grave, so there'd be no breach in national security. In short, he could trust them. That was what made them such a pleasure to work with, even though their relative inexperience at this kind of op did cause the occasional snafu. Clay showed his ID to the guard at the visitor entrance and was passed through. There was another door that pedestrians usually used -- the old front door -- which was equally easy to pass. But with a constant procession of clients and lawyers coming and going, anything more than an ID check would cause complaints. Probably another important consideration for SECNAV. Still, Clay frowned, surely the Navy could afford a metal detector. The lovebirds must be back from their honeymoon. "Good morning, Mr. Webb," Harriet said, only a little stiffly. "If you're looking for the commander and the major, they're in the breakroom getting a snack." Still mad at me for missing her wedding and coming late to the reception, Clay diagnosed. "Ensign," he said, "most Washington parties are about as much fun as getting a papercut while listening to Muzak. Your reception was a pleasant exception to that rule." He shrugged. "I only wish I'd been able to get out of the office sooner. It was a good thing I'd put my suit and gift in the car." His excuse was even true. Harriet suddenly looked more friendly. Yes, that had been it. Webb, satisfied, handed her an envelope. "I hear you like horses, Ensign." She opened it and her eyes widened. "Horse show tickets? But you already gave us a wedding present!" "I expect to be owing you and your husband a few favors in the near future. Consider this partial payment in advance -- and something of a friendly warning." He nodded at her and headed over to Harm's office to wait for him. On the way he retreated to the coffee machine and dropped in the requisite amount of change. His extended hand started to tremble slightly without something to hold. He watched it dispassionately, as if it were part of someone else's body. Too much caffeine, Webb. Just as long as the world didn't start to look like an independent film, he'd be all right. He firmly grasped the pot and poured himself a cup. He was getting too old for this. Why couldn't Saddam just learn to play nice, or at least fail to avoid an assassination attempt? Webb sighed inwardly. He really didn't need any more wars in the Gulf. Not after what happened last time. Navy coffee in styrofoam. Oh what a taste treat. He grimaced and wondered if anyone had ever cleaned the inner workings of this particular coffeemaker, or if they bought oil-flavored coffee on purpose. And...never mind. When he was this tired, there was no reason to waste good fresh-ground beans on his tastebuds. He walked over to Harm's office, being careful to make it look like a stroll instead of footdragging. If he were lucky, Harm and Mac might spend enough time chatting in the breakroom to let him steal a catnap. Especially if he sat in Rabb's chair. His face stayed expressionless, but his eyes kindled with unholy mirth. Rabb was fun to play with. "You know," said Mac, "I think Clay is really starting to open up and get more comfortable with us. He's really beginning to think of us as friends." "Why do you say that?" Harm inquired. "Because he danced at Bud and Harriet's reception? Because he stuck around and waited for us in the mountains?" Mac nodded, smiling. "And because he has his feet up on your desk." Harm opened his office door and glared. "Glad to see you making yourself at home," he said, his voice as deliberately gentle as he could make it. "You were right about Pon," announced Clay lazily, lounging in Harm's desk chair as if it were his own and scarcely bothering to open his eyes. "Here's the files to prove it." "What's the catch?" "No catch." Clay got up. "I owe you and Mac a few." "After that mission?" Mac was still smiling, but her eyes were hard. "Yes. You do." "I realize there was a certain element of the unforeseen involved," Clay said almost apologetically. Harm stayed carefully expressionless. Clay didn't know the half of it, but what he knew was apparently making him feel guilty. A guilty Clay was a helpful Clay. Helpful for Clay, that is. "Here's the files," Clay repeated. "I won't wish you luck, because you two won't need it. And Harm already has too much of it." He grimaced. "Sunset isn't quitting time these days, I hear." "What's with the circuitous references? It's not classified, Clay. Yes, I passed the eye test and requalified to fly at night. I still have to get a night carrier landing under my belt, but otherwise I'm back." "Then congratulations are in order, I suppose. Waste of a good lawyer, though." Clay picked up his briefcase and threw his dead coffee cup at the wastebasket from directly overhead. He missed. Harm smirked. "Waste of a good basketball player." "Shut up, Rabb." "Bad throw, bad banter...." Mac shook her head. "When was the last time you slept, Clay?" He blinked at her slowly. "Forty-six hours ago," he finally said. She rolled her eyes. "Well, that's bright. I don't care how busy you are; you don't need to be doing whatever it is you do while your brain's fried to a crisp. Stop drinking coffee and get some sleep while you can. It'll all look better in eight hours, and you'll avoid those embarrassing diplomatic incidents." "Four. I can't afford more." "Six. Your eyes look like raw meat." Webb started to say something, then stopped. "All right, six hours. Happy?" "Happier than you are." "I'm sure. Well, have fun in Norfolk this weekend, Harm. And Mac, don't forget to invite me to Harm's farewell party. Or don't. I'll show up anyway." Webb nodded to them and was gone. Harm stared at Mac. "Why is everybody assuming that, just because I got my flight status back, I'm going to dump JAG like a dirty shirt?" Mac looked at him. "What?" She looked at him some more. "Let me feel your head. You're delirious." "What?" She shook her head and sighed. "Harm, do you ever listen to yourself?" "What do you mean?" She stood back and folded her arms. "'One hour in the air is better than a thousand hours on the ground, Major,'" she pretended to quote. "'That's not noise; that's the sound of freedom.' "The American naval aviator is the most highly skilled....'" "I get the point, Mac!" "So what's the problem?" She stepped back toward him. He frowned. "I'm a damn good pilot. But I'm a damn good lawyer, too. I'm on the fast track, I've got good friends, a good boss, and I _like_ this place. Oh, and there's the small matter of a partner." He smiled at her. She tried to smile back. "But can you honestly say you like flying a desk better than flying a Tomcat?" He looked down and was silent. She touched him lightly on the arm. "Hey. You're going to that carrier pilots convention this weekend, right?" "Yeah. The Seahawk's in port, and the CAG and some of my old shipmates will be there.” "Then talk to them. And decide what it is you really want." -------------------------------------------------------------------- SATURDAY 1705 ZULU ANDRE PLAZA HOTEL AND CONFERENCE CENTER NORFOLK, VIRGINIA Harmon Rabb parked his 'Vette in the back of the parking lot. It was the most crowded part. Vintage muscle cars sat side by side with the hottest new sportscars their owners could afford. Each one was parked exactly in the middle of its parking space. He grinned as he walked along, checking out the cars. He was home. Too bad Mac wasn't here. He could just imagine her comments. A few rows beyond, the cars began to change. They were minivans and four-doors now. They wore more Navy bumper stickers (those that weren't rentals, anyway), and they contained toys and other childhood debris. But they were all parked with the same precision. He thought of Annie suddenly, and Josh, and his steps lost a little of their swagger. If he hadn't lied to her, would they have been here with him today? He kept walking. When he reached the door into the lobby, he spent a moment collecting himself. Then he opened the door and walked in. "Hey, Harm!" "It's the Zapper! Long time no see!" "You reg'd yet?" The lobby was full of people he knew. They waved and shook hands and slapped his back, and he was happy to see them. Just plain happy, not happy-and-envious, as he had been for so long. "Just got here," he explained, amused. "Gimme a chance to sign in, guys!" He went over to the hotel front desk to check in. "Well, first you gotta find it." Harm turned. "Keeter?" "In the flesh." He grinned. "The convention registration's around the corner and down the hall over there. Guess they decided we gotta pass a reconnaissance test to get in." "So how long'd it take you to find it?" "Find it? That's too much like work. I just asked one of the girls." "Now, Keeter, you're supposed to be staying away from the ladies. This isn't Tailhook, remember?" Keeter rolled his eyes. "JAGman, this girl was about 10 years old, and accompanied by a pack of kids the same age or younger." He snorted. "With all the wives and kids...." "And husbands...." "And husbands," he agreed, "this is going to be way too wholesome. I've even been looking around for rugrats before I swear!" "Awwww, poor Keeter," Harm said, shaking his head. "You're breaking my heart here." "Go register, Rabb," he mock-growled. "I gotta go get my bags." "Yeah, go register," one of the guys chimed in. "And then come on back here. We want to hear about that stunt you pulled on the _Reprisal_." "We want to hear how a lawyer keeps getting into all this trouble. Hell, I've been in the Navy ten years and never met a terrorist yet!" "Don't give me that," Keeter said. "I've met your ex." Harm laughed and went around the corner to register. He showed his ID, looked dubiously at his namebadge before attaching it to his person, and signed his name to the big list of rules prohibiting just about everything. He suspected that all it meant was that people would do all their partying away from the hotel; but maybe that was all that the hotel and the convention organizers wanted. He handed the paper in, turned around, and handed the pen to the next person in line. It was Gary Haukhausen. The Hawk's lips thinned, but he kept his face expressionless and closed. "Commander." "Sir. Mrs. Haukhausen." Harm went back down the hall the way he'd come, which took him under the gazes of the whole Haukhausen clan. She didn't look all that unfriendly, strangely enough. Maybe her husband's resignation had come as a relief. But their son glared at Harm with true hate. Harm kept walking. At least the kid still had a father. But the thought didn't make him feel any better. Then he rounded the corner and saw the CAG. "That's great news." Captain Thomas Boone was not quite grinning, but Harm felt comforted by his welcome. "I bet you had your transfer papers filled out as soon as you got back to JAG. Admiral Chegwidden sign 'em yet?" "Actually, sir, I thought I'd talk to you about it first. I'm not sure if I should come back." "If you're worried about your age, or being out of practice, don't. We can use your experience, and I know you've kept up on your hours." "It's not that, sir. It's...." Rabb glanced around. "Maybe we should get some privacy for this." "All right." The CAG considered. "If you haven't gotten your bags in yet, now would be the time." They went out a side door and back into the parking lot, while Harm tried to think of what to say. The CAG brought out a pipe. "Might as well smoke while we can; that hotel's non-smoking." "So am I," Harm grinned. "Since when?" "Oh, a few months back. But it doesn't bother me if you smoke." That got them all the way out to the 'Vette. The CAG smiled at it. "Looks good." "Thanks." "Now, what's on your mind?" Harm looked at his feet, feeling like an ensign again. "Sir, if my eye test had come back good while I was at law school, or when I was a new lawyer, or even a year or so ago, I would never have hesitated to transfer. I regarded JAG as something of a... fallback position." "So what changed?" "I did," he said slowly. "Maybe it's because a senior lawyer gets more important cases. Or maybe it's because I've had to take a hard look at my life and make some changes." "You quit smoking." "That was one of them," Harm acknowledged. "The thing is, I've had to admit that JAG isn't just something I'm doing because I can't fly. I love sneaking up behind somebody in court just as much as I loved it in the air. I also get to help people, to change their lives for the better, and that's...addictive." The CAG stayed silent. He knew that a naval aviator also changes lives, also protects the innocent, and he knew Harm knew. The man didn't need an argument; he needed an ear to help him work things out. "But mostly, I guess I've started to settle down," he kept explaining. "I'm old enough that those minivans over there are starting to look like a good deal, and I'm not sure that's really compatible with a Tomcat. Even if it's possible, it doesn't seem fair." Oho, thought the CAG. "So what's her name?" Harm looked surprised. "Her name?" "The name of the girl who's got you doing all this thinking and making all these changes." Harm shook his head. "I’m not dating anybody right now." "Uh huh." A thought slowly swam its way up from the depths of his mind. It was an idea that had been trying to come together for a long time, and he could tell it was important. If he could just coax it up to the surface, he might even be able to figure out what to do. But.... "Harm!" "So this is where you got to!" "Trying to ditch us?" He rolled his eyes and started to reply, while the guys watched him with anticipation and the CAG with resignation. That was the moment his world ended again. ------------------------------------------------------------- Part 2: Imprint of Fear Solitude stands in the doorway, And I'm struck once again by her black silhouette By her long cool stare and her silence I suddenly remember each time we've met And she turns to me with her hand extended Her palm is split with a flower with a flame ... And she takes my wrist, I feel her imprint of fear And I say, "I never thought of finding you here" -- "Solitude Standing", _Solitude Standing_, Suzanne Vega ------------------------------------------------------ MAJOR SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT WASHINGTON DC She'd locked the bathroom door. She'd unplugged her phone. She'd turned up her CD player, pulled out the scented soap Harriet had got her for Christmas, and laid out her fluffiest towel. Because for once, she was taking a nice hot bath instead of a shower. Just when she was at her most relaxed, she heard a sound. She went still. Even over the music, she heard the sound again. She tensed, slipped out of the bath as soundlessly as possible, and got her bathroom gun and her robe. In that order. Then she eased her way out the bathroom door and went hunting for the sound. Which was coming from her briefcase. She sighed. It was her cellphone. This had better be important, she grumbled to herself as she retrieved the phone. But all she said out loud was, "Hello?" "Ma'am? Are you watching the news?" "No, Bud. I have better things to do on my day off. And so do you!" she teased. "Well, I think you better get to a television," he said. His tone of voice penetrated her annoyance. She ran for her remote and felt worry start to claw at her in the time it took for the picture to appear. Once the picture appeared, it attacked her full force. It was a pile of rubble, which the caption identified as the Andre Plaza Hotel and Conference Center. "....olice and NCIS investigators have not yet released the names of the dead, wounded and missing, pending notification of the victims' families -- which is difficult, considering that many of the victims' families were here in attendance. But it seems clear that this multiple-hotel bombing was a deliberate attack on the naval aviation convention." "I'm afraid that's where the commander was staying, ma'am." Bud's voice was low and serious. "Our hearts go out to the families," said the TV. "This is terrible, inconceivable...." "Bud." She didn't want to think, but she couldn't help it. "Bud. Did you try calling Harm?" It was an eternity before he said, "No." "All right. I'm going to hang up with you and call his cellphone. Harriet's got another cellphone, doesn't she? Have her call JAG and find out if the admiral's been told. I'll call you back as soon as I get in touch with the commander." She hung up. Waited for the dialtone. Hit the speed dial and listened for the first ring. It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. I always wait ten rings, she thought. So I'll wait. It rang out the rest of the ten. He just left it in his Corvette, she told herself. She listened to it ring some more. This is ridiculous, she thought. This is not helping. Hang up. Go to Norfolk if you have to. But do not stay keep listening to Harm's cellphone ring, as if he's more likely to answer on the fiftieth ring than the first. She reached out to hang up, but couldn't do it. "Hello?" Oh, God. It was the voice of a stranger. "Hello," she responded somehow. "I'm trying to reach Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb at the Andre Plaza that just got bombed. Please, do you know how he is?" "He's sitting right here," said the stranger. "Or at least I assume so. Temporarily deafened by the explosion...let me get a pad and pencil out...I know I have one...thanks, Tom. What's your name?" "Major Sarah Mackenzie...just write Mac; Harm'll understand." She thought she heard the pencil scribbling away, though how she heard it above the sound of sirens and shouting, she didn't know. But then she heard someone fumbling at the phone. And then she heard Harm. He sounded tired and hoarse. But he was alive. "Mac...I guess you heard about the hotel. I'm okay, just a little smoke inhalation and this stupid deafness. Look, I'm gonna try and get back in there to help, if they'll let me. If they won't, they'll probably make me go to a hospital to get checked out. I don't know when I'm going to be able to get back to DC. I guess I've got clothes," he said, sounding surprised. "I never did manage to get my luggage in from the car, so that's something. But I don't know where they're gonna want us to go. Maybe Keeter and the CAG and I can get into the BOQ." He coughed. "Unless they want us to go to the hospital. But there are people here a lot worse off than us...." His voice trailed away, and Mac felt a sharp stab of worry. That wasn't like Harm at all. She listened to the labored sound of his breath and the slight static of the cell phone, and damned all distance. She should have been there with him. He needed help. "I sure wish I could hear your voice about now," he finally said. "I'm gonna give the phone back to that reporter. You tell her what you need to say, and then we'd better clear the line. Some of the guys here want to call their families. But if you could call my mother for me now, I'll give her a longer call later." He recited the number, and Mac jotted it down dutifully. She could hear the phone being handed over, and then the reporter said, "I've got my pad ready. Shoot." "Tell Harm I'll take care of letting people know he's okay. And tell him I'll be down there ASAP." She wanted to say more, but what could she say? "Tell him to take care." "Got it." She heard the pencil scribbling, and the phone being handed back to Harm. "I read over her shoulder. I guess I'll...see you when I see you. Drive carefully, Mac." "I will," she said, knowing he couldn't hear. And then the phone hung up. She sighed for a moment and looked at the phone in her hands, feeling blank. Then she went into the bathroom, started the tub draining, and got a uniform out of her closet. She started putting it on, then blinked. She'd promised to call Bud back. She went back out in the living room, retrieved her cellphone, and hit button #3. --------------------------------------------------------------- THE ROBERTS' RESIDENCE CHELSEA GARDENS APTS WASHINGTON DC Bud heard his cellphone ringing and lunged for it. It jumped just beyond his hand. He scrabbled for it, dropped it, and then picked it up again. Then he took a deep breath, punched the button, and said, "Hello?" "Bud, I got in touch with Harm. He's a little deaf from the explosion, so the conversation was a bit one-sided. But otherwise he's fine," said the major. "Hang on. Lemme tell Harriet!" He put the phone down on the couch and yelled "He's okay, Harriet! The major just talked to him!" Harriet smiled and jogged over. "That's great, Bud! How's the major doing?" "She sounded as relieved as I felt. But why don't you talk to her yourself?" he suggested, holding up the phone. Harriet's eyes bugged out. "Bud!" she whispered. "Haven't you ever heard of putting people on hold?" "I do that all day at work. I don't want to do it at home." She shook her head and picked up the phone. "Hello, Major. Sorry about Bud leaving you hanging." "No problem. I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to start for Norfolk ASAP to pick Harm up. What's going on at JAG?" "Tiner called the admiral, but the admiral was already on his way in. I'm supposed to tell you to call him after you talk to Harm." "Next thing on my list," Mac promised. "Don't let Bud go anywhere; I bet the admiral will have us all going down to Norfolk." "That's a good bet," said Harriet, sighing. Another weekend lost. But this was more important, and the major didn't sound so good. "If Bud and I can be of any help, call us back. Even if it's just to keep you company on the ride down." "I might just take you up on that," she answered slowly. "Thanks." ------------------------------------------------------------------- JAG HEADQUARTERS FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA Admiral Chegwidden stared out the window at a sparrow as it flirted with the leaves of the tree outside his window. Behind him, ZNN droned on. Somewhere in the world, some other man had stood thinking and decided to attack the US Navy in its most vulnerable spot: its people. So down in Norfolk, Navy people and their families were dying. In the long run, they would catch that man and make him pay, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. His phone rang, and he went back to his desk and picked it up. "Major Mackenzie on line one, sir," Tiner said. "She says Commander Rabb's all right." He breathed out. One less worry. "Transfer her, please." He heard the click. "Major. Mr. Tiner said that you managed to contact Commander Rabb?" "Yes, sir," the major said crisply, and reported what had happened. "I'll be heading for Norfolk shortly to give Commander Rabb a ride home; he's in no state to drive. If there's anything else you want me to do while I'm there...." "No. The JAG personnel in Norfolk can handle what needs to be done. But give me a call when you get back, both of you. I want to hear your impressions of the situation." "You're not going down to Norfolk yourself, sir?" "No." He pondered for a moment whether or not to tell her, then decided. "There were several admirals in attendance at the convention. Only one of them has been reported in so far. Under the circumstances, SECNAV has asked me to remain here." -------------------------------------------------------------------- SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT "I see." And you're not fighting this? she wondered. Who could be that important? The CNO? Oh, tell me I'm wrong. "That's all. Goodbye, major." She hung up the phone and called Bud and Harriet back. Yes, she did want company. They told her it would be easier for them to drive over to her place. She hung up and started getting ready again. Then she looked at the pad. Oh, damn. She dialled the numbers as quickly as she could. Then she listened in disbelief as the answering machine began to play. No one was home. She left a quick and, she hoped, reassuring message. Then she called directory assistance. How many art galleries could there be in La Jolla, California? Um. Well. That was more than she thought there'd be. Well, nothing like starting at the beginning. ------------------------------------------------------------------- SEAGULL GALLERY LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA The phone rang, startling Patricia Burnett out of the depths of her accounting program. Frank had bought her the computer several years ago, insisting that it would be a great help for the gallery. And it was, once she'd learned how to use it. But now both the computer and the Peartree program were old, as these things were judged, and Frank wanted her to get a new computer and a new version of the program. She didn't want to. It had given her ten years of good service, so why did she need anything else? The phone rang again. She seriously considered not answering. It wasn't even nine yet, and she didn't open till ten. But if she didn't answer, she knew it would bother her all day. After all, she'd had customers call early before. Her hand went out for the phone, and her voice went into the familiar spiel. "Good morning, Seagull Gallery! How may I help you?" "Mrs. Burnett? This is Major Sarah Mackenzie, JAG Corps. I'm sure you don't remember me, but...." "Darling!" The endearment shot out before she could stop it. Now that was a little too Californian, she told herself. Whatever you do, don't scare the girl off. "Of course I remember you, Mac. You and Harm make quite the team!" She and Frank had gone to DC during the off-season last year, and probably would again. "And of course I hear so much about you when he calls. How are you doing?" "I'm fine. Ma'am, have you been listening to the news this morning?" "No," she said slowly, keeping her smile plastered on her face. No, it couldn't be that, she told her overactive imagination. Mac's wasn't emotional or bland enough for that. Besides, Harm was going to that convention this weekend. "Then I should tell you first of all that Harm is all right," Mac said definitely. "I spoke to him over the phone and he told me so. There was a bombing in Norfolk, at the hotels where the convention was being held, but he got out without a scratch. Harm asked me to inform you; I'm just glad I got to you before the news did." "So am I," she breathed. Then her smile grew a little more real. "Thank that son of mine for thinking about his old mother and saving her from a heart attack. For once. Now, how are you really, my dear?" ------------------------------------------------------------------- SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT It took Sarah longer than it should have to realize that she was being interrogated. It was easy to see where Harm had gotten both the charm and the investigative skills. But it wasn't until Mrs. Burnett began to inquire about whether she liked kids that she realized just where those questions were headed. "Ma'am, you seem to be under some kind of misconception," she broke in finally. "Harm and I aren't...together.” Never mind what she might like to be. “ I’m just his work partner.” "Of course you are, Mac," Mrs. Burnett said innocently. "I just want to get to know my son's best friend a little bit better." This would have been more persuasive if she hadn't heard the same note in Harm's voice a thousand times. Innocent? It meant he was anything but. Mac was relieved to hear a VW pulling up outside. "I have to go, ma'am. Bud and Harriet just got here. We're going down to Norfolk now." "Then I'll let you go," said Mrs. Burnett. "But I did enjoy this little chat. I'll have to call you again soon. Goodbye, Mac." Sarah said goodbye, hung up, and grabbed her purse and keys. She knew that tone of voice, too. It usually meant that Harm was on a scent. And Mrs. Burnett had her cellphone number now; Harm's mother'd asked for it early on, in case of emergencies. So no doubt Harm's mother would be calling again. If she only knew the truth about me, thought Mac, she wouldn't want me anywhere near her son. ------------------------------------------------------------------- NORFOLK MERCY HOSPITAL NORFOLK, VIRGINIA Bud stood next to Harriet, quietly waiting for the major to finish questioning the receptionist about LCDR Rabb's whereabouts. At times like this, it seemed best to stay out of the major's way. It wasn't that she was angry. She hadn't raised her voice. She was even suggesting ways for the receptionist to complete the task, and helping to organize the crowd surrounding the desk. It was just that she was quietly and calmly refusing to accept any answer that did not include the precise location of the man she sought. Was it a Marine thing or a Sarah Mackenzie thing? Sometimes Bud wondered. Finally Major Mackenzie said, "Thank you," and turned away. All her command presence fell away as she approached Harriet and him, and she looked like any mere mortal who'd just driven several hours to get to a friend in the hospital. "Harm's on the third floor, ready to be released," she said, and led the way to the elevator. The halls were choked with gurneys, the rooms full of family members anxiously watching over their loved ones. But there were also a steady stream of sheet-covered stretchers following the arrows that pointed to Pathology. Bud shivered. Harriet put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right, Bud?" "I'll be fine," he assured her quietly. "It's just that it's even worse than I thought." "I know. I've never seen so many people who...." The major looked at the logjam of stretchers and people waiting for the elevator. "Anybody for the stairs?" Bud groaned, but the major had already spotted the stairwell doors. "You wanted to stretch your legs after that long car ride," Harriet teased him. Be careful what you wish for, Bud reflected silently. The major started climbing the stairs, but her pace was less brisk than usual. Luckily. "Bud, Harriet, you're going to have to face some pretty rough sights here in Norfolk. I know how hard it was for me when I was in Bosnia." And what did you do in Bosnia, ma'am? He'd looked around in some places he probably shouldn't have, and still hadn't found out what that unit she'd been in was up to. "The best I can tell you is that you've got to put all the horror aside for now, because we've got work to do. Look at it all impersonally. Think of it as special effects, if that helps you, Bud. You can deal with it all afterward, when our work's done." Her voice dropped. "And at least you'll both have someone to talk to." Prosecuting murder cases had been her specialty back when she was assigned to JAG Pacific. You had to wonder where she’d gotten that kind of passion, thought Bud. Their steps echoed through the concrete stairwell. But through the walls they could hear talking, the beeping of monitors, and someone crying on the second floor. They climbed past her and up to the third floor. When the major opened the door, she suddenly stopped and looked down. "I'm sorry! I didn't see you!" "Erin, what did I tell you about sitting in front of the door!" A young woman scooped the girl out of their way. "Say 'excuse me'." "'Scuse me," the girl intoned dutifully. "But geez. There's nowhere else to sit...." She sighed. "You have a lovely daughter," Harriet said diplomatically. "You must be very proud." The woman's face crumpled. "She's not mine. I don't know where her parents are," she said quietly. "But somebody had to look after her." She tried to smile. "And keep her from sitting in front of doors." The major checked the room number signs and returned. "Harm's this way," she told them. "In between 329 and 331, the receptionist said." Bud waved goodbye at Erin, and she waved back. The CAG waited impatiently. The deafness had passed, except for that annoying ringing in their ears. They'd been treated for smoke inhalation. They didn't need to be taking up space. What was the hold-up? The nurses had threatened all of them with dire consequences if they moved away from their assigned 'room' without being released, but this was ridiculous. One of his men -- well, his by virtue of having gone back into the building with them -- looked down the hall in search of distraction, and found it. "Where'd the Marine come from?" "I don't know," said another, "but damn! She's a looker!" "Where?" Keeter turned his head and went silent for a moment. Then he nodded in recognition and poked Harm. “That her?” Harm turned his head, smiled and waved at the woman and the two people with her. “Yes. That’s her.” After a moment, the CAG recognized her from the "crossing the line" case and the later scandal with Chief Sullivan. Rabb's partner Mackenzie. She was a real hardass, he recalled, with a chip on her shoulder. Though she'd been right about Sullivan in the end. God, to think that had been going on right under his nose all those years! If Sullivan hadn't been sent to prison, somebody would have sent him to the hospital. Funny thing, though. She didn't look like such a hardass at the moment. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were full of worry as she walked toward Harm. "You'll never guess when our hearing came back, Mac," Harm started to tell her. "Right when we got into this noisy hospital." "That's not noise," Keeter informed him. "That's the sound of healing." It wasn't that funny, but they all laughed, including the major. The worry left her face, and her smile turned radiant. "Hey, sailor. Call for a taxi?" "We've been waiting for hours!" Harm mock-complained. "See if I give _you_ a tip...." Mackenzie started counting heads. "I'm Major Sarah Mackenzie, and I work with this ingrate. So do these two: Lieutenant Bud Roberts, Ensign Harriet Roberts." "Let me make the introductions...you three already know Captain Boone, of course." Boone was informed how nice it was to see him again by two former shipmates from the Seahawk whom he really didn’t recognize, and one Marine major who'd done her best to nail his butt to the wall. Life was strange. Harm introduced everyone, including the two he'd just met, ending with, "And this is the infamous Jack Keeter, my old buddy from Annapolis." Mac cocked her head. "So you're the one who's got all the dirt on Harm's Academy days." "Jack, don't you dare." Keeter smiled expansively. "Major, I will tell you one Annapolis story about Harm for every JAG story you tell me." "Jack," Harm said warningly, "I know stories too." Mac smiled back. "That's a good deal, Commander. Believe me, I have plenty of material." "Et tu, Mac?" "You brought this on yourself, by failing to make full disclosure in advance." "I'm in hell." "Harm, ol' buddy, that's what friends are for." "I've got an SUV, so I can probably fit you all in. Somehow. C'mon downstairs, and we'll get you all released." "Let me get this straight," Keeter said on the stairs. "Not only do you know this gorgeous woman, but she is your partner?" "Yup." Keeter made a disgusted noise. "First the tall blonde, and now this one? If I weren't still mad at you about Maria Elena what's-her- nombre, I'd be p-o'ed at the sheer unfairness of fate." "Guess I shouldn't tell you about my first partner, Jack." "I don't wanna hear about it," he moaned. "I just wanna know how I can get in on it." "It's a lawyer thing. Right, Bud?" "Definitely!" Bud grinned, then glanced back at Harriet, hoping she wouldn't be offended. "It's a shore duty thing," Harriet opined with a straight face. "Too much time on our hands." Mackenzie looked back at Harm as she rounded the landing. "So they assign us extra duty." "Watching their sixes," said Harriet. Very innocently. It would have seemed more innocent if she hadn't been walking directly behind her new husband at the time. Tom Boone listened to them banter. Good unit cohesion there; he could understand Harm's reluctance to leave JAG behind. Keeter caught up to Mackenzie and started telling her some story about Harm. She looked up and laughed. Harm rounded the landing, and Boone could see him taken aback. They stepped out of the stairwell, into the cries of 'stat!'. They were released at a desk surrounded by those desperately looking for their loved ones. They walked out of the hospital into the night, into a forest of television reporters reciting the latest death toll under the glare of television lights, and speculating on what sort of monster could have committed this act of terror. This act of war, they added, and wondered about the effect on Navy morale and the government's response. Boone snorted mentally. What did they think it would be? The US would come down on whoever it was like a ton of bricks, of course. Can't do anything less. You use carriers for that. And carrier pilots, which are suddenly in much shorter supply. Whatever he might have decided before, Harm was too much his father's son to ignore duty's call. So think fast, Harm, he said silently. You don't have much time left to do it in. Mac looked into her rear view mirror, amused. She hadn't seen so many flyboys crowded into so little space since...had it been on Seahawk that Harm had delivered and run a Superbowl tape two years back, as an act of mercy? Even for her eidetic memory, the carriers were starting to run together. "Where are we headed?" asked Keeter from behind her. She'd have to turn gently, or he was going to eat Bud's elbow. "BOQ?" "I'm afraid not," she told him. "Radio said quarters were full. The city's set up shelters in some school gymnasiums, so that's where we're headed." "Hell with that," said Boone. "Take the next right, Major. You boys can stay at my place...the major and the ensign included, of course. My floor'll be a damn sight more comfortable than some gym's." It was a little yellow house in an old neighborhood with tiny lots. But when Mac got out of the car, she was astonished to see a garden instead of a front yard. Even Keeter stopped talking to look. The CAG unlocked the door and turned around to motion them inside. "Well? What's the holdup?" "Sir," said Harriet quietly, "it's beautiful!" The CAG shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "Keeps me from having to mow the lawn." "But how do you do it?" she inquired, walking slowly up the path to the front door while peering all around her. "A garden this extensive would even impress my mother! And you couldn’t be here most of the time. Did you hire a service, or...." "Doesn't need much care; I planned it that way. Most of these plants are hardy and drought-resistant. Perennials or shrubs. I put down wood chips wherever I don't want plants. If a few weeds get in here or there, they tend to get choked out by the garden." He shrugged again. "Can't see much under the lights like this. Wait until morning." "Okay," said Harriet, distracted. "I really like the different views you've created at each step of the path. Though I suspect I'd see them better if I was taller." The CAG raised his eyebrows. "You know, I never took that into consideration. I may have to redesign." "Oh, don't do that! Not on my account." "I was thinking about making some changes. This just gives me a good excuse, Ensign." He smiled at her, then looked up. "Quit gawking and get in the house, people! I don't know about you, but I need some sleep. Morning comes early." Inside, the living room was furnished in a combination of Late Library and Early Home Theater. The CAG forbade them to turn the TV on. "If there were no new developments on the radio in the car, there won't be any yet on TV. And I saw too damned much live. Anything else can wait till morning." Mac scanned the bookshelves. A lot like Harm's, subtracting the law and music books and adding the gardening ones. "Excellent Phantom painting, sir," Bud commented. "Best fifty bucks I ever spent. Lady named Trish scouted that out for me. So I got me a Sinclair before he charged Sinclair prices, and Sinclair got his first square meal in two days. Oh, and Trish got Sinclair to bring his stuff to her first when she opened up her gallery." She and Keeter both looked at Harm, who shrugged. This story was new to him. "I've got one bed, one couch, and a floor. Ladies, you get the bedroom. Just let me put some fresh sheets on for you...." "Let us do that, sir," Harriet protested, holding out her hand for the sheets, and after a bit of hemming and hawing, the CAG relinquished them into her hold. It was just as well; he was exhausted. They all were. Mac could feel the effects of worry and the long drive right to her bones, and she could only imagine how the end of a day crawling around through rubble was like. One thing was for sure: most of the guys out there looked like they'd be asleep before Keeter (who'd put dibs on the first shower) reported himself done. Harm hadn't even bothered to try staying awake; he'd been out like a light as soon as he'd collected his blanket and piece of floor, pausing only to warn Bud not to mention radiators. Whatever _that_ meant. "Ma'am?" Mac shook herself. "Bud?" "You're looking orange, ma'am." "Huh?" Harriet walked over and translated from Bud-ese. "The ball is over. There's a bunch of mice around. It's after midnight, your time. In other words, you're a pumpkin." The water turned off, and she paused, tempted. She really wanted a shower herself, but if she waited till the guys were done, she'd probably fall asleep right here. Better wait till morning. "Pumpkinizing now," Mac agreed. "Night, all." "Good night, ma'am. Good night, Harriet," Bud chimed in. "Good night, Bud. Good night, Captain Boone." "Good night, Ensign, Lieutenant, Major." "Oh, sorry. I forgot. Good night, Captain Boone!" From the bathroom, Keeter chimed in. "Good night, John Boy!" "Good night!" they growled back in chorus. ------------------------------------------------------------------- SOMEWHERE IN THE IRANIAN DESERT The deevs waited in the desert for something to happen. Very little of interest ever did. Of course, they had the ongoing epic struggle to dominate the dunes within a twenty mile radius or so, between the various ant, scorpion and spider colonies who worshipped one or both of them as gods. But this was merely a minor hobby, and took up no more of their attention than a human might use to mow grass. They were, in fact, as deeply and desperately bored as Suleiman bin Daoud (peace be upon him!) had intended them to be, when he punished the deevs by binding their spirits to the desert bedrock here. #Look,# said an inhuman voice. *The mortals have sent out their soldiers again to do maneuvers.* #Maybe there will be another war,# another voice said, cold as metal in winter. #That was a good time. An interesting time.# #Yes.# It looked at the humans more closely. #No, those are not soldiers, though they have some sort of military escort. Are the mortals building something?# #I think they are preparing to do so. Amusing. Let us make a sandstorm and make it more so.# #Wait. Look there. What is it?# #A box with pictures and voices.# #It speaks in that barbarian tongue. It cannot say anything interesting.# #Read the subtitles. It speaks of sudden death; that is interesting enough.# #Is that not the human woman? The one of our bargain?# #Sarah, daughter of Kareen daughter of Gul who won our word not to harm any member of her family, or anyone they loved? Sarah, who bargained for the sight of the man she loved?# #The same. And there is her man.# #Not hers yet.# They laughed. Meanwhile, the BP executive changed the channel on his satellite TV. God. Why did building a pipeline from Baku to the Gulf have to involve so much time so far from civilisation, and so damned much desert? #Where did the pictures of destruction go? What are these boring pictures that pass by?# #The mortal keeps touching a button on the thing in his hand.# #We will fix that.# ZNN returned to the screen. The executive tried to keep channel surfing. For some reason, however, his remote was no longer working. Neither were the buttons on the TV itself. He cursed and resigned himself to "All News. All The Time. This is ZNN." The deevs watched on. #It needs more death.# #How well the leather-jacketed Chuck De Palma speaks of mortals plunging from the sky. Or at least, how well the subtitles do.# #He is surely a great poet. But now they abandon death again, to list numbers!# But still they watched. And watched. And watched. #What is cereal?# #What is insurance?# #Who is this mortal Monica?# -------------------------------------------------------------------- ZNN "....and FBI, ATF, and NCIS investigators are already on the scene, collecting evidence about the explosions and who caused them. Of course, it will be a few days before they get any results. But if we turn the camera, we may be able to see one of the investigators...there. See the 'FBI' on the back of her jacket?" Her cameraman tracked their movements through the pre-dawn gray. "Let me break in for just a minute," the anchor said in her ear. "If you've just tuned in, we're talking to ZNN reporter Jodie Shoup in Norfolk, Virginia, where there has been a multiple hotel bombing at a convention for naval aviators and their families. A list of survivors will be released as soon as the hospitals in the area can turn it in. Identification of the dead and injured will be a longer process, since there are still bodies and perhaps even survivors trapped under the rubble. Searchers are working through the night with dogs, infrared, and other detection devices; they say they'll be able to tell us more come morning. "Once again, if you had a loved one at one of the hotels, please do not call the hospitals, the Navy, or the Norfolk public safety department. Use the toll-free number on our screen. The people at that number have the most recent information about survivors. Also, everyone is being asked not to clog the circuits into or out of Norfolk. If you have friends or family in Norfolk, let them call you. If you are in Norfolk, please call one friend or family member outside and ask them to call you. "The Red Cross is now accepting donations of food and clothing, but they would prefer money donations...." -------------------------------------------------------------------- Part 3: A Silence More Eloquent If language were liquid It would be rushing in Instead here we are In a silence more eloquent Than any words could ever be These words are too solid They don't move fast enough To catch the blur in the brain That flies by and is gone ... I'd like to meet you In a timeless placeless place Somewhere out of context And beyond all consequences ... I won't use words again They don't mean what I meant They don't say what I said They're just the crust of the meaning With realms underneath Never touched Never stirred Never even moved through -- "Language", _Solitude Standing_, Suzanne Vega ------------------------------------------------------------------ CAPT THOMAS BOONE'S RESIDENCE NORFOLK VA Mac woke up before dawn -- not that that was any great feat for a career officer -- and couldn't remember for a moment just where she was. Seeing Harriet sleeping next to her brought it all back. She was tempted for a moment to forget the world and stay in bed for a few more hours. Then a higher sense of self-preservation kicked in, and she decided she'd better grab a shower and get dressed while the rest of the house was still sleeping. So she picked her way through the bodies on the floor, trying not to disturb their quiet breathing rhythms -- or snores, depending. Bud snored, but he looked so cute when he was sleeping that Mac had to grin. She hated to think about how soon he and Harriet'd be transferred away from Falls Church, when he finished his degree and passed the bar. But even surrogate little brothers have to grow up sometime. Harm was next to him, his face more peaceful than she'd ever seen it awake. But it was his eyes that gave his face most of its expressions. Without them, or the almost-physical force of Harm's personality.... Harm's breathing changed, and she quickly looked away from him. Staring woke some people up quicker than shaking them, and she didn't want any competition for the bathroom. Shower done, her stomach began to growl. She had a fairly high metabolism right now, thanks to all her daily exercise, so if she didn't eat soon, she wasn't going to be pleasant to be around. She detoured to the CAG's kitchen. Not surprisingly, the contents were designed to feed one bachelor, not the horde out there. Time for a grocery run, she decided, and broke out the local yellow pages. Yes, there was a 24-hour store near here. She grabbed a Post-It note from next to the phone, left a note on the tv screen since it was the most prominent spot in the house, and picked her way through the bodies to the back door, which she opened and closed quietly but left unlocked behind her. She didn't want to wake anybody if they were still conked out when she came back. When Mac parked her SUV back in the CAG's driveway, she was surprised to see Harm walk out to meet her. "Morning, Mac." "Good morning. I see that the dead have arisen." "Anything to get a shower," he commented. His hair was still wet. "I saw your note. Let’s walk these bags around to the back door, so we can get them into the kitchen without tripping over anyone." "So everybody else is still zonked?" she said, unlocking the back of her car and pulling out a bag of groceries. The eggs and bacon would have to go in the refrigerator, but the raisin bread she'd gotten on sale would be all right. Harm grabbed the bag with the milk and orange juice. “Yeah. I would have started some coffee, but I didn't want to wake people up yet. They probably need the sleep." He led the way around back. Mac walked slowly, taking her time. "Backyard's even prettier than the front." "Yeah." They put the groceries away without a word. Harm silently put two mugs of water in the microwave and took them out again before the machine could beep, while she snagged a couple of teabags, four slices of raisin bread, and a saucer for a trivet. Then they both went back outside and sat on the steps leading down from the deck to the backyard, eating the first installment of breakfast and watching the dawn. She could smell the yellow roses on the bush next to the steps, their scent going up into the still-warm air. It was going to be a hot day. Harm's face went dark between one sip of tea and the next, and Mac broke their companionable silence. "Penny for your thoughts." He hesitated, then looked up at her. "I was just thinking how different today is from yesterday." "I can't argue with that. But how so?" "Just look at this backyard. It's quiet and clean. Every flower in it was planted to a plan. A lot of effort and ingenuity, all put to one purpose: making life a little bit better. But yesterday, somebody put the same energies into turning a happy occasion into a bloodbath, and now a lot of people I know are dead." He shook his head. "I can understand them killing us -- the drivers and backseaters. But there were civilians there, and children." He closed his eyes. "The children were the worst. I tried not to look at their faces." ----------------------------------------------------------------- ANDRE PLAZA HOTEL AND CONFERENCE CENTER THE PREVIOUS DAY When the world ended, there was a mighty roar and the air shoved him down. The earth shook, but it was not anything as familiar as an earthquake. No. When he got up, his ears were ringing like church bells. It was not until he saw the CAG's mouth move and nothing came out of it that he realized he could not hear. But the CAG pointed, and he followed his finger to see smoke coming out of the conference center area. One of its walls had fallen into the parking lot onto a few minivans. Then they were running to it, crunching through bits of wiring and drywall, and trying not to step on the odd chunk of human meat. There must have been screaming, but they couldn't hear. They would have to work by sight and feel. Then he remembered and fished his cellphone out of his jacket. He pressed 911 and waited a minute. A bomb went off, he told them, and he told them where. He told them that he couldn't hear them because a bomb had gone off. Then he hung up and went inside. It was dark. The dust and smoke made him choke. He had to be careful how he stepped, because it was too easy to stumble over broken chairs and tiles and bodies. If he found someone who was breathing, he hauled them back out to the parking lot. If they weren't, he left them behind. He tried not to look at the faces. Once, though, as he laid one of the heavy ones -- the adults -- down on the blacktop, he accidentally recognized one. It was the Hawk. He took a minute then to glance at the other live ones. He didn't see Hawk's family. He had been doing his best to quarter the place, so he went back in and found Mrs. Haukhausen. She was alive. There was no sign of the boy. He dragged her out and laid her down, too. The CAG drew a rough diagram of the hotel and conference areas on a clean bit of pavement, using one of those pebbles Harm had called a chalk-rock when he was a kid. He systematized their rescue efforts, showing them what areas to cover next. After a while, Harm realized that there were more people helping. Some of them were guests or hotel staff they'd found inside, or who had made it out of the hotel on the other side of the building. Despite their own injuries, they often went back in. Others looked as though they were passersby who'd stopped to help, like the young man with the headphones pushed down around his neck. And then there were the children. When he picked his way back to the stairwell and up the rubble-choked stairs, he found a girl guiding a man with some sort of eye injury. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but her poise as she walked him through the debris and away from the holes belonged to someone twice her age. When she looked up from her work and saw Harm standing at the end of the hallway, she brightened and said something. "I'm deaf," Harm said loudly (he hoped). "Use your hands." She started fingerspelling as she walked. "I'm not usually deaf!" he protested, wondering if he'd have to learn all that stuff. "I meant, make gestures." She pointed to him. She pointed to the man. She pointed down. "Okay, I'll take him," he agreed, matching his actions to the word. "But you're coming, too." She shook her head vehemently and stepped back out of Harm's reach, saying something to the other man. She pointed at the floor filled with cracks, pointed at Harm, and then made little 'walking fingers' that took about three steps before falling. "I understand, but we've lost too many kids already. You should leave this to the adults!" She shook her head again, her jaw set, and carefully picked her way back down the hall. ---------------------------------------------------------------- "Did you see her again? Is she all right?" "I don't know." ---------------------------------------------------------------- He never knew when the firefighters and paramedics got there. They must have been there for a while, because he did vaguely notice that there were more people searching the conference center than there had been; but most of them seemed to be people from nearby buildings. All he knew was that, on one of his trips out with a victim, somebody made him sit down and breathe oxygen, and then they wouldn't let him go back in. They made him sit down on the curb between the CAG and Keeter. There were fire trucks everywhere, except where there were ambulances coming and going in a steady stream. There were TV vans parked in the grass. A reporter and a cameraman came over and tried to ask them something, but they all yelled that they couldn't hear. Then the reporter pointed at him. "I can't hear!" he said again. The reporter pointed more insistently. "I can't hear!" The reporter, looking exasperated, reached into Harm's pocket. She pulled out his cellphone and hit the button, and listened to someone speak. And then she wrote down a name. "Mac." ------------------------------------------------------------------ CAPTAIN THOMAS BOONE'S RESIDENCE TODAY He was too old for sleeping on floors, Boone thought. Even the shower hadn't helped. And God, did he need coffee. He shuffled into the kitchen and was confronted by a loaf of raisin bread with butter. Somebody was a damn good houseguest, he thought with approval. He got the coffeemaker going and looked out the kitchen window, to see how his garden was doing this morning. And who did he see out on the deck but Rabb talking and Mackenzie listening. Yesterday, they'd looked like friends. But today, alone together, their eyes were glued on each other. Hammer had looked at Trish like that once, right before he figured out that she wasn't just another nice girl. His heart gave a familiar twinge, and he wished once again that he had figured it out before Hammer did. But Trish had made her own decisions before either of them.... He turned away from the window. Man, did he need that coffee. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Silence fell. There was nothing they could say. Harm had done his best to tell her about what had happened. She had listened. It was all either of them could do at the moment. And that angered Mac. She suddenly wished that she were NCIS, just to be able to make herself useful. It was wrong to be sitting there in the quiet while children and civilians were dead in the rubble or perhaps still alive, and their killers still at large. "They're going to be calling in the Reserves," Harm predicted. "They'll need the pilots." Mac nodded. She knew all about picking up stakes to follow orders, from when she was a kid and from her own military career. After four years or so being stationed in DC, Harm was ripe for a move anyway. "So I guess my decision's been made for me," Harm said quietly. "I'll be transferring away from JAG, subject to the needs of the Navy." He looked out at the garden. "Which probably means I won't be seeing land for a while, since they'll put the Reserve guys in the squadrons on land rotations." Mac nodded again. "But you'll be flying again." "Yeah." "I'm glad." "Why, so you can be senior attorney?" She looked startled for a moment, and he grinned. "Yeah, I thought you'd forgotten about that part. You've still got a month on Carolyn." She rolled her eyes. "I'm trying to have a Hallmark moment here." "How do you know it's Hallmark? You can't check the back of a moment." "I thought you didn't watch TV." "ZNN -- All JAG Monitors, All The Time. It has commercials. Too many of them, actually." "Changing the subject won't help." She tried to compose herself, but her lips quirked. She fought it down and looked at those yellow roses trying to make it to July. "I'm glad you're going back because...because you stand there watching every plane on the runway like it was the space shuttle, you finagle your way into every cockpit you can -- and every time you do, you really come alive." She looked up at him and managed a genuine smile. "So you go play with your Tomcat. But first, I'm going to throw you one heckuva goodbye party." "I'll hold you to that. But I'm warning you, I've been to some doozies...." He looked out at the flowers growing over and around the deck, warming to the subject. "I remember when...." His eyes narrowed. Mac followed his gaze to the rose bush next to the steps. "What is it?" "Aren't those the same kind of yellow roses that were blooming when...." "You know, I think you're right," she decided. "Good eyes." He raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance. "I should hope so." She gave him an innocent look. "Two years since the day we met. And it's been a pretty good two years," he mused. "Aside from the odd felonious assault or attempt on our lives, which could happen to anyone who lives in DC -- at least according to my mother." She chuckled, despite the lump in her throat. "And considering I once thought I wouldn't survive a day partnered with a Marine lawyer, especially one with your prosecution record, I want to thank you for...putting up with me. Keeping my six in one piece and out of jail. You know." "Yeah. I know." "And I want to say...." His eyes locked onto hers. "You don't get rid of me this easy. You're my best friend, and if I missed you when you left JAG for a few weeks, I don't want to think about what it'll be like out at sea. So this time, I'm going to try to...well, don't be surprised if you hear from me a little more often." And still he stared into her eyes, as if he'd lost something in there. "I could write a little something every day and send it when I get a letter's worth," Mac offered. "You don't have to do that." Do it, his eyes pleaded. "I can afford a few stamps," she assured him gently. "You don't get rid of _me_ that easily, either, flyboy." He took a breath and broke his gaze away from her and the yellow roses, turning it back toward the kitchen window. "Actual movement. Looks like people are finally getting up." Mac sniffed the air. Somebody had discovered her purchases. "Mmmm. Bacon." "Yuck. You can have mine." He headed for the kitchen door, seeming relieved to have an excuse to go. "Let me clean up this mess first." Mac bent down to pick up their mugs, trivet-saucer, and used teabag. She scooped up a palmful of fallen yellow petals as well. Harm held open the door. "You're losing ‘em," he suddenly said, and plucked a falling rose petal from the air. "Hey, I'll put the dishes in the sink if you'll get rid of the trash," he offered, snagging the mugs. "Thanks." She went on through the door and threw away all the trash except for one petal. She put it in her planner for the moment, somewhere back in 'March'. She felt silly afterwards, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do the sensible thing and throw it away. She didn’t see her partner slip the other petal into the photo section of his wallet, on top of a picture of a certain Marine. Just something to remember the day, he thought. Like an interesting rock, but more portable. Sure. -------------------------------------------------------- SOMEWHERE IN THE IRANIAN DESERT #They are back to selling things. I am tired of this bazaar they hold between the good parts.# #This ZNN shows much death, but no torture. Perhaps this is the torture.# They laughed soundlessly, for they had taken the shape of air. No need to disturb the mortals -- at least until it was time to begin playing with them. #What are the mortals doing?# #Other than this lazy one, who drinks and complains of the heat while sitting still? They are digging deep into the earth with drills.# They drifted over to watch and listen. #They speak of taking bits of rock and soil for this ‘pipeline’ they are building.# #I understand the pipeline. It is like an aqueduct of the Romans, except enclosed. But why do they need these bits of rock?# #I think they wish to know if the rock will hold the weight of this oil-aqueduct. I think they send the bits back to prove it to their masters.# #They will send the bits away?# #Yes.# They were both silent for a moment. #This will free us, even without breaking Suleiman bin Daoud's spell.# #Yes. As long as we stay within a certain distance of the bits of rock, that counts as staying near the rocks where he bound us.# #Where are the bits of rock being sent?# They listened again. #Some to Tehran.# #Some to the capital of the English.# #And some to the capital of the ZNN folk.# #That is where the woman Sarah lives.# #And her man who is not hers.# #And that wizard who ran from us.# #Yes. It has not been so long since then. Even a mortal would still live.# #He abandoned his magic to elude us. Wizards do not live long without magic. They do not wish to.# #He wished to live. Otherwise he would not have abandoned his magic.# #Once we are free of this place, we will be better able to wield our magic.# #We will find that wizard.# #How happy he shall be to see us!# #What a nice surprise for him.# Again, they laughed soundlessly. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Note: The various pumpkin idioms are very common in Midwestern fandom and have been for a while. I'd be interested to know if other parts of the country use it too. Public Service Announcement: The Library of Congress and the archives of America have determined that putting flowers on top of photographs is not a good long-term idea. Flowers contain acid, which will eat through a photo eventually. This is also true of most inks, so use a pencil or an acid-free archival pen when you write on the back of a photo. And please, spend a moment during this holiday season to label your photographs. Bring 'em out when your relatives come over and have them help; it gives them something to do and talk about, and will save you a lot of trouble later. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Part 4: Searchin' All Over I've been searchin' all over for someone I can tell my troubles to. Searchin' the wide world over -- Is it you? Is it you? Is it you, baby? Is it you? ... I confide in you; You seem to understand my point of view. I moan and sigh; You can't understand why, you can't understand why.... -- "It Ain't You", Squirrel Nut Zippers, _Hot_ -------------------------------------------------------------- ANDRE PLAZA HOTEL AND CONFERENCE CENTER The parking lot had changed a lot since Harmon Rabb had first seen it. The neat rows of sportscars and minivans were interrupted by police cars parked any-which-way, camera trucks, bystanders, and ragged piles of debris. There were also investigators crawling around inside the skeleton of the hotel. Three other hotels down the road looked much the same. "We'd better ask at the command center if it's okay to move your car," Mac said quietly. "Bud, Harriet, you might as well wait in the SUV out here on the access road." She handed them her keys and walked toward a trailer that seemed to be at the middle of things. Harm followed her. He hadn't noticed all the broken glass before. Blast from the explosion, he figured. What did his 'Vette look like? He hadn't checked it for damage before he ran into the building with the others. It was a pretty trivial concern when placed next to all the fragile human beings who had been killed here, but now that he'd started wondering about it, he couldn't stop. "Has this area been searched?" a familiar voice demanded. "Not yet. We haven't had the personnel...." The grey-suited figure cut him off. "Don't explain. Just do it." He turned abruptly. "Now what?" "Nice to see you, too, Clay. Where's NCIS?" Webb almost smiled. "Good to see you in one piece, Harm...major. NCIS is busy looking for survivors and bodies, and their man in charge is over there at the moment." He waved toward a chemical toilet. "I am assisting and liaising in his absence." "So that's what you call it." Mac leaned over the map. "Found anything yet?" "Ask us again in a couple of days." A bespectacled newcomer walked in. "It's nice to see you, Major Mackenzie. You weren't caught in the bombing, were you?" Mac looked up. "No, but my partner here almost was. You two haven't met though, have you? Danny, Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb, JAG Corps." She turned. "Harm, this is Danny Vallideo from the FBI Crime Laboratory. He helped us investigate Judge Delaney's death, as you remember, and helped find an alternate explanation for the blowback residue back in November." "Pleased to meet you," said Harm, trying to be. Yeah, he'd helped catch Osborne and probably saved Harm from prison. But it was hard to like a guy who'd once asked for dinner with Mac as payment for information, even if Mac thought it was funny. Maybe because Mac thought it was funny…. "Rabb?" Danny shook his head. "Geez. You'd better get out of here before Special Agent Novack sees you. He's heading the Anti-Terrorism squad I came out with last night. Rumor says he still thinks you were guilty, and since your case got him transferred away from Counterintelligence...." "I just wanted to know if it was okay for me to take my car from the crime scene." "Where were you parked?" Webb demanded. Harm pointed to an area on the map. "We're already done with that. Take the back way and watch out for broken glass." Webb turned away and started questioning the forensic scientist as if Harm and Mac were already gone. They looked at each other, shrugged, and walked away. They both scanned the ground as they walked. Mac shivered. "You're cold?" Harm asked disbelievingly. "It must be almost eighty degrees." Mac shook her head. "It's not that. There's so much activity in the building and this parking lot's so deserted...it's just kind of eerie. I'll be glad to get out of here." Harm gave her a searching look, then relented. "So will I. Look, there's my car!" It looked okay from here. He picked up the pace, got his keys out of his pocket, and then stopped short. Gary Haukhausen was sitting on the curb behind it with his aviator sunglasses on. "I was wondering when you'd get here." The Hawk stood up, ambled over, and stiffly stuck his hand out. "I never thought I'd say this, but thank you." Harm shook his hand disbelievingly. "Sir?" "Keeter told me; you saved my boy and my wife. You got them out of there. Thank you." I did what? "Uh, you're welcome," Harm managed. "When did you see Keeter?" "Last night at the hospital." He shrugged. That explained why Keeter'd taken so long to get back from finding the restroom last night. They'd been kidding him about sending out a search party. "How are you and Mrs. Haukhausen doing?" "We're...okay," he judged. "I hear you and the boys dragged our sixes out too." "Something like that," Harm acknowledged. "And my muscles were telling me all about it this morning, believe me." "Then you haven't been spending enough time in the gym. That'll change once you get out to sea." "So you heard." "Hell, yeah. Naval aviation's a family, Harm, and we're inbred as hell. There ain't much I don't hear, even now." He shrugged. "I better get back to my kid. You take care of yourself, Harm. Make your dad proud." "Thank you, sir." Harm watched him walk away, then unlocked his car door, not saying a word until he and Mac were both inside. "Well, that was interesting." "That he'd forgive you?" "No. That Keeter said I rescued Hawk's son. I know I tried not to look at the kids' faces, but I would have recognized that kid." "Then I guess we know who really rescued the boy." Mac paused, then said, "I knew there was a reason I liked Jack Keeter." "Other than his usefulness as a source?" Harm relented. "He's a damn good friend. But he should have warned me. It's like that's against his religion." "Likes surprises, huh?" "Yeah, when they come from him." Harm snorted. "The worst thing is, no matter what you do back, you can't get him to look surprised unless he wants to. Back at the Academy, somebody once dumped a bucket of ice water on him in the middle of the night. He just opened his eyes, said 'Now I don't need to take a shower,' and went back to sleep." She nodded. "Is that why he didn't say anything about how I looked?" "Maybe. But I told him about the resemblance a while back, just in case he ever dropped by. And like I told you, you and Dianne are very different personalities." She didn't need to know that this morning Keeter had taken him aside and quizzed him about her and Holbarth, any more than Keeter needed to know about that kiss on the pier. It was just a kiss, after all. Mac had kept him from killing Holbarth. He'd told Keeter more about that than he'd wanted to, and surely that was the most important part of the story. But it was both the kiss and the guilt that had kept coming to mind at the strangest moments and making it hard to face Mac when they were alone. Now he had another memory to do that: Mac calmly explaining that she'd bargained her sight away for his. He glanced at her sideways. It was still something of a compulsion for him to make sure that her eyes were the right shade of brown. It scared him to know that Mac was willing to do that much for him, and that he could actually understand a little of why she would. They had seen and fought each other's demons. You couldn't get any closer than that. It was too close. It made it hard to breathe when she was around or quit thinking of her when she wasn't. And since she was his friend and his partner, that made life rather difficult. Last time, he'd retreated a little to deal with the problem. But this time, it looked like it was being taken care of for him. Harm pressed the accelerator and merged into traffic on the highway. It was moving fast. Good. He needed a good drive to shake out the cobwebs and this stupid cycle of his thoughts from bombs to Tomcats to Mac. Think about the Hawk, he told himself. That had taken a load off his mind. As long as he didn't get a speeding ticket, this could be a good day yet. "You're about to lose Bud," Mac observed mildly. "My vehicle doesn't have quite the acceleration yours does." "Then you shouldn't have bought an SUV," he retorted. But he slowed and checked the rearview. Bud was doing his best in the traffic, and the SUV had a little more power than his Bug, but it still was no match for a sportscar. "Think of it as practice for staying in formation," she suggested unsympathetically. "We don't generally form up with snails," he pointed out. This would have been a good time for a cigar, if he hadn't quit, and he suddenly had that extra source of tension to deal with. Time for Plan B to shake the blues away. "I've got some CDs in the glove compartment. Pick out some road music." Mac took out the CD folder and began shuffling through them. It took a little longer for her to pick than he would have expected. "Nothing you like?" "Too much," she answered. "And a lot I'd like to hear. Your taste is...um...eclectic." "'Well, if you put me in a box, make sure it's a big box,'" he sang and quoted. "But don't play the musicals right now. I don't think I'm in the mood for them." He didn't need Chess right now, and both Les Mis and The Scarlet Pimpernel had too much blood. "The Boss and the Dead right next to each other...why does that CD have a computer-printed label?" "It's one of those recordable CDs. Bud put some of my old live tapes of Dead concerts on there." "Harmon Rabb? At a Grateful Dead concert?" Mac laughed. "Did you wear tie-dye, too?" "Noooo. But my guitar case has one of those stickers on it. On the inside." She continued paging through the folder. "Dead Kennedys...Pogues...Billy Bragg...Suzanne Vega...Squirrel Nut Zippers...Harmon Rabb, you've been holding out on me all these years." "I'm always playing CDs at home." "Yeah, but it's usually instrumental jazz," she commented. "I thought that was all you liked." He thought for a minute. "When you've come over, it's usually been when I'm eating, working on a case, or thinking. So I guess I usually am listening to jazz instrumentals when you're around." "Especially that one Latin group," she teased. "I think it's your 'make a good impression on guests' CD." What could he say? It was. "What's this Cats Laughing thing?" "Kitty Pryde's favorite band in the world," he informed her solemnly. She knew enough about his old comics collection to laugh at that one. "They broke up, unfortunately. Adam Stemple's playing in Boiled in Lead, Steven Brust's put out a solo album and a few more novels, and Emma Bull's still in The Flash Girls, as far as I know. I think you'd like it." She slipped the CD into the player. "If it's good enough for Shadowcat, it's good enough for me." He punched past the first two tracks, which he usually liked, and let Adam Stemple tell him, "Sing out, sing out, the dawn's come; Shadows have fled from the sun. Daylight shines on your free and easy mind; Darkness covers mine." ------------------------------------------------------------------ OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON DC AJ Chegwidden looked around the room. There were a lot of faces he didn't see. Admiral Drake had gone down to the convention; his wife was one of its organizers. Neither of them had been found yet. Steve Windham had never been never been a friend, but his black humor would have cut through the funereal atmosphere and gotten them down to business. Unfortunately, the man was in a coma. There were a couple more names on the list, one injured, one dead. In the small world of the admiralty, the news had hit hard. There were two civilians in the room besides SECNAV. One of them was the Director of the NCIS. The other was his boss, the General Counsel to the Navy. He and AJ nodded to each other. Everyone sat down and the briefing began. "Five hundred and seven people died in those hotels, in the bombing and associated fires. 44 members of hotel staff, 192 family members, and 271 pilots. Of the surviving pilots, perhaps a third will be unfit for duty for some time to come." SECNAV leaned forward. "We are presented with a serious problem of operational readiness. What are you gentlemen prepared to do about it?" "The majority of our pilots are still alive and well," the very junior admiral who'd apparently inherited NAVAIR said. "The five airwings at sea are intact. The Reserves can fill the holes left by deaths, injuries, and forced promotions. It's a horrible and tragic problem, but we can deal with it." He swallowed. "The other losses will be more difficult to deal with. A large proportion of our Top Gun and other flight instructors were among the dead, as were many command personnel. The experience and knowledge the Navy lost yesterday will be missed for years to come." "We can deal with the longterm later," SECNAV pointed out. "Have your people make out a report and suggest remedies. Right now, we need to know which slots need to be filled, temporarily or permanently. I've got a preliminary list of survivors and the dead. We should have more of a handle on the fate of the missing by the end of the week. As of now, I want NAVAIR to have priority on getting its personnel," he told the relevant admiral, who nodded. "The President said he'd be calling out the Reserves today when he calls the press conference, but most of the air units have been ready to go since last night." At least there was one bright spot in this situation, thought A.J. "Morale is going to be a problem," SECNAV pointed out. No kidding, A.J. thought, as SECNAV called for a report on that. Nobody felt it needed to point out that striking back would be the greatest morale boost possible. "What's the current state of the bombing investigation, Sam?" The Director stood up. "The bombing took place in the City of Norfolk's jurisdiction. But the Norfolk police understood our obvious interest in the case. As of 0700 last night, we had put together a task force of local law enforcement, NCIS from the Norfolk field office, ATF bomb experts and FBI anti-terrorism agents, along with representatives from other interested agencies." Meaning Webb, thought A.J. "The FBI's Disaster Squad is also on hand to assist in the identification of bodies, since the local facilities simply weren't designed for this kind of load. The evidence we collected last night is already undergoing analysis. We should know something about the perpetrators in the next few days." "That's too long," somebody said, and most of the others muttered agreement. "That's how long the tests take," the Director said calmly. "If you know some way to speed them up, I'm sure the lab techs would be interested." Somehow, A.J. kept his face straight. ------------------------------------------------------------------ SOMEWHERE ON I-95 They had taken road trips before, but only in pursuit of a case. There was always strategy to be discussed on the way there, upcoming court dates on the way back, and nothing on but background music from the radio. They were always rushing toward something. Not today. He grinned. The motor was running well, the highway was clear, and the weather was beautiful. He and Mac had been talking for hours, alternating discussions of how to move his property (including his Stearman), who to invite to his farewell party, their best and weirdest cases, and...nothing in particular. A lot of the latter.He grinned again and listened to both his partner and Jerry Garcia noodling around. Either she hadn't yet realized that she'd gone from lip-syncing to humming, or she thought he couldn't hear her over the music. Either way, he wasn't going to tell her. She must be shy about the sound of her voice. It seemed pleasant enough to him. Okay, so occasionally her hum was not entirely on key. He didn't mind. It was actually kind of endearing that there was one part of her life where her usual perfectionism hadn't been able to conquer everything before it. Like her messy desk. He was even going to miss seeing that. Then he chuckled at himself. There was no sense being depressed about that! But he'd never heard Mac humming before, and he wasn't ashamed to regret how long it might be before he heard it again. So he said nothing to break the comfortable silence, and listened. Jerry and Mac. A great guitarist and a Marine lawyer, both making a joyful noise along the road. Bud drove up beside them. Mac broke off her humming. He looked at her, disappointed. She was staring at Bud, who was gesticulating crazily. Unfortunately, his attempts at an automobile sign language were less successful than his carrier deck one. Mac rolled down the window and let the summer air whip in. He saw her make a cranking gesture out of the corner of his eye, and soon Bud was yelling across at them. "Sir! Ma'am!" The rest was muffled by the wind. "What was that, Bud?" Mac called back. "Lunch, ma'am! Soon! We can trade cars!" Mac turned her head back into the car. "We're almost back to DC. Ready to stop?" "Yeah," he admitted. "What exit?" Negotiations ensued. "Cowcatcher Steakhouse is out!" Mac yelled. "No fast food!" "No _meat_ fast food," Harm clarified. "No MEAT fast food!" Mac yelled. "Pizza Shack!" Bud enquired. "They have salad!" Silence ensued. He glanced over and saw Bud being talked to by his lovely bride. Bud reemerged. "NO Pizza Shack!" Mac laughed. "It's like The Newlywed Game over there." Then her head went back out the window. "What about Renny's!" "We just passed it!" Mac looked over at a billboard. "Two exits to the Pickle Barrel!" She turned back inside. "If that's okay with you." "Fine with me." "Pickle Barrel's good!" yelled Bud. "See you there!" said Mac, and rolled up the window. "And now I have to comb my hair before we get in there, or I won't be able to read the menu." "You know, you could have called him on his cellphone," Harm pointed out. He grinned smugly. Mac opened her mouth, couldn't find adequate words, and then gave him a laugh-stare-and-glare combination platter. "Why didn't you say something?" "What, and spoil all the fun?" "Whose fun?" "Yours, of course." He didn't try too hard to keep a straight face. She shook her disheveled head. "So basically it was all for my benefit." "And Bud's, of course." "And my hair's." Mac busied herself with finding a comb in her purse and slipping her shoes back on. "Sure. Just tell everyone it's the latest style and you paid a hundred bucks to have your hair done that way." "And what was my stylist's name? Corvette Argent?" "Jean-Claude Corvette Argent. He has to have a hyphenated name. That's what you paid the extra fifty bucks for." She laughed and restored her hair to normal without the benefit of anything more exciting than her comb and a tiny compact mirror, getting the job done with her normal economy of motion. Apparently she decided she needed more lipstick, because she dug that out too. He must have seen her doing that a thousand times right before they got off a plane or drove onto a base, and Meg and Kate before her. Probably be a few of his fellow drivers who’d be doing that right after they got out of their flight suits, he realized. He'd done his part to help form that brave new world for naval aviation, but now he'd be living in it himself. He pulled into the parking lot and found a parking spot in the back, where his car was less likely to get bunged up. He did a walkaround while Mac waited. "It's fine," she said. "C'mon. I'm starving, and Bud and Harriet are probably waiting for us." "I still can't figure out how it survived all that blast without a scratch," he said. Then he smelled catfish. "But I guess that mystery can wait." The food was good, the prices were reasonable, and there were enough choices that it would have been hard for even a Vegan to go hungry -- though Harm was glad he wasn't. They talked about nothing in particular, and life was very good. Looking back, Harm decided that should have been a warning. Towards the end of the meal, Mac excused herself to go to the head. After a few minutes had passed and she didn't return, Harm felt restless and followed her example. Bud and Harriet took it at face value -- and why not?, he thought defensively. There's nothing wrong with going to the head. And if I happen to find out what's been taking Mac so long.... He didn't see Mac as he went through the gift shop. Huh. Maybe she did fall in, part of him thought. He pondered the mysterious and taboo world of the woman's restroom. Maybe she's doing something in there. But what? She just did her makeup in the car, and unless she met up with 'Jean-Claude' for an emergency haircut, she's not likely to be fussing with her hair. Unless she's.... Don't go there, he told himself. You had a bad scare this weekend. You're feeling twitchy, you're afraid for the friends nobody’s heard from, and you're projecting it all into worrying about Mac. Considering that's she's a Marine, I think she can manage to go to the bathroom by herself, Harm! He left the men's room feeling considerably more at peace with the world and headed back to join his friends at the table. Then he saw Mac in a corner of the gift shop, talking to a stranger. I'm not going to eavesdrop, Harm told himself. I'm just going to make sure that Mac's okay. "It's just for a month or two. Then I can pay you back, Sarah." "It's the track again, isn't it?" she said. "Chris, if you'd just...." "It was a sure thing!" this Chris protested. "If the horse hadn't stumbled, I would have made more than enough to...." "Spare me your excuses." She pulled out her checkbook, wrote furiously, and slapped a check into his hand. "Here. I don't know why I'm helping you." "Because you don't want me to starve?" Harm could have killed Chris when the guy grinned at her, and Mac rolled her eyes and smiled against her will. "Or maybe because you still love me, huh?" He cupped his hand around her cheek. Mac leaned into it, her face sad. Then he leaned forward and kissed her, and Mac responded hungrily. Dating outside her species _again_? What was she thinking? This is so stupid, she thought. But he needs me, and it's been so long since anybody kissed me, and Chris still knows just how to make me.... She suddenly felt the pressure of unfriendly eyes. Her eyes snapped open. Harm was standing there, his face unreadable. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Well, that certainly broke the mood. She pulled away. "Chris...this is not a good time. I'll see you." She hurried away back into the restaurant, ignoring Chris' noises of protest. Harm caught up with her. "I didn't know you were seeing someone," he said blandly. "I'm not." She sighed and bit the bullet. "How much did you see, and how humiliating of questions am I going to have to answer?" "You don't have to tell me anything," Harm said, his voice suddenly quiet. "But I wish you would." And he put on that damned pitiful face that was so damned hard to refuse. What was this, National Emotional Blackmail Day? "I'll tell you," she said finally. "But let me finish lunch first." She headed back to the table, wondering how she'd do that with all her appetite gone. The waitress had forgotten to make separate checks, but that didn't matter. They split the check, and Harm and Mac handed over their money to Bud and Harriet. And then it was time to talk. The long porch out front was really just an extension of the Pickle Barrel's waiting room/gift shop, and all of the rocking chairs they didn't sit in were for sale. Harm ignored the patrons inside looking out the big picture windows and followed Mac to the edge of the porch, where it seemed she only stopped walking because there was a railing in her way. He stood and watched her. Only a few strands of her hair moved. Finally she spoke. "His name is Chris Ragle. I met him back in Arizona, when I was still in high school." "You don't have to tell me." "Yes. I do," she said firmly. "He had a black leather jacket and a Harley. He was handsome and charming, and he stood up to my father for me. And he didn't mind that I was a drunk." She paused for a moment. "I was drunk when I met him and I was drunk when I married him. We were both too young and had too many problems to make it work. But he was the first man I ever fell in love with," she said wistfully. "And there were good times. Just...a lot more bad ones." She turned back to the railing. "He was always gambling and buying me things. I didn't know where he got the money; I knew I wasn't making enough, and he didn't have a good job. But then he got caught robbing a gas station. 3 to 5 for armed robbery." Her face set. "That was the end." Harm kept his voice quiet and neutral. "How long has he been in Washington?" She shrugged. "May, he said. He showed up at JAG a couple weeks ago, before we went to Iran. I didn't see him again until this afternoon. He said he needed money to pay off some debts - gambling debts, of course. So I gave him some money." "How much?" "Three hundred dollars." Her brow wrinkled in worry. "He needed a thousand, but that was all I could spare." "Mac...." "It's my money. I can give it away if I want." "You don't get flight pay, and that apartment's not cheap. You can't afford to support some leech of an ex-husband." Her voice dropped until he could barely hear her. "He's not my ex-husband." "But I thought you said...." "I never divorced him." He didn't know what to say. He wanted to shake her, yell at her, ask her what the hell she'd been thinking and which end she'd been thinking with. She was a lawyer, for God's sake! What kind of credibility could she have in adultery cases when she'd committed it herself with Dalton Lowne? But he couldn't do any of that, because this was Mac and she would take it wrong. He didn't want her to respond like a rebellious teenager, or worse, like a battered wife. So he reached for calm, and somehow his voice stayed steady. "Why didn't you divorce him, Mac?" She turned around and shook her head. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I left Chris. I managed to forget about him for a while. But even after all he did, part of me still loved him. So I put it off until I could do it without it hurting so much. But it never stopped hurting. And I still love him." He should have felt something then, he knew. Concern for Mac. Sorrow. Anger at Chris. But he felt nothing, nothing at all. Still, he knew what to say. "As your lawyer, Mac, I have one piece of advice. Divorce him." "I know, I know." She looked down at her hands. "I've started the paperwork before, but I've never been able to bring myself to start." "If you'll let me, I can handle the paperwork for you. I'll go pick it up Monday." She turned back around. "Thank you, Harm." Her tone lightened. "But now that I've heard your advice as a lawyer, what's your advice as a friend?" And suddenly, he could feel again. What he felt was cold anger. She saw it in him and looked taken aback. Good. "Have I ever told you about the planes they call hangar queens?" "No...." "Every air wing has a plane that has a lot wrong with it, so they leave it on the carrier. Whenever another plane malfunctions, the hangar queen gets cannibalized for spare parts. After a while, the hangar queen is such a hunk of junk that she usually doesn't survive the flight back to shore." His lips tightened. "The way I see it, you've nominated yourself for hangar queen. You pick these losers and keep giving them parts of yourself until there isn't much left that works. And for what? "You're worth ten of that Chris bastard. Stop being a hangar queen and fly, goddammit!" "Is that what you think?" she said. "That I'm some kind of... enabler?" Her voice darkened to that breathy tone, half-angry, half-mocking. "Sarah Mackenzie wants a man, any man, especially if he'll use her. Is that it?" "That's not what I said," he pointed out with a last shred of sanity. "But that's what you think." He couldn't stop the words from coming out. "The evidence does point that way." She turned on him, her eyes and voice as cold as he'd ever seen them. "Then you're wrong. None of the men I've dated have _ever_ laid a hand on me. Chris Ragle may have made some very bad choices, and I may have been stupid to marry him; but he was there for me when nobody else was. Not my uncle, not my friend Eddie -- noone. If I can be there for him with something as small as a few dollars, I will be." "But you told me yourself. The man's a convicted criminal, Mac!" "You would be too, if I hadn't been there." There was nothing he could say to that, and it hung in the air between them. He turned away just in time to see Bud and Harriet come outside. It was time to trade cars. Mac took over the wheel of her SUV to drive Bud and Harriet home, and she did so without another word. Bud and Harriet waved goodbye and said they'd see him on Monday, and then all three of them were gone. Harm walked around to the back parking lot and got into his Corvette. Let me get this straight, Rabb, he asked himself sarcastically. You're getting transferred. You'll probably be out of here in the next week or two. And you just managed to piss off your best friend, right after she came all the way to Norfolk for you _and_ agreed to run your goodbye party. Now that takes talent. As he drove home, he noticed her absence from the passenger seat as strongly as he had her presence. The silence in the car reminded him too much of his temporary deafness after the bombing, and he could hear his guilt whispering to him about all his ghosts and failures. They shouldn't have been able to hound him like they did. When he had problems with work, he tried to deal with them the way he'd learned back when he'd been learning to drive Tomcats. You couldn't take a screw-up personally, you see. You had to analyze your own actions, see where they'd been incorrect, and figure out how not to repeat your mistake. You weren't supposed to feel guilty about it; that kind of emotionalism just got in the way of doing it right next time. He could apply that way of thinking to law. In fact, that brand of professionalism had been a great advantage in law school. But it wasn't a great deal of help when he was dealing with problems in the rest of his life. Most of it was just plain mental laziness, he knew. There were parts of his life and his feelings that he didn't want to look at with a cold, analytical eye. Just thinking about certain things could put him in a tangle of self-hatred and despair, so he didn't think about them if he could avoid it. He could feel it coming down on him now, reminding him of how he'd waited so long for Annie, only to screw it up and lose not just a damn good woman, but all contact with his godson Josh. He could see the regret in Francesca's eyes, and wonder why he hadn’t been able to interest himself in a smart and lovely woman so obviously interested in him. He knew where the rest of the mood was headed; he’d gotten to know it pretty well lately after serving as Bud’s best man. He could still see how happy Bud and Harriet were. The married couples like Mettoni and his wife had dispensed wisdom and reminisced about the happiness of becoming a family, while exchanging knowing glances. All the dating couples had been staring deep into each other’s eyes, enjoying how romantic the occasion was. Meanwhile, he’d only had a date because his drycleaner had lost his dress whites. He was getting older, and he was still alone. Still no family. Nobody to lean on or worry about, nobody to make dinner for, nobody to give him a reason to keep going. He liked the CAG, but he sure as hell didn’t want to end up with nothing but flowers to come home to at the end of a deployment. And why Mac kept making him think of all that, he didn’t know. Except maybe that she was in basically the same boat. She hadn’t had a date for the wedding at all, which had been just as well considering how much work she’d had to do beforehand. Maybe because, if you ended up growing old alone, you’d need a few friends around. Not that Mac was going to stay single. He knew that. Someday some guy was going to be lucky and smart enough to stick with her, and he’d be watching her glow like Harriet. It was one of the things he didn’t like to think about, because it immediately threw him back into that damn mood. =============================================================== She dropped off Bud and Harriet, pretending tiredness was the reason for her unwillingness to talk. When she got home and flipped on the television, the latest news about the bombing was all that was on. She turned to ZNN and tried to pay attention to an abstract discussion of how the explosions had done what they had done. When the report moved to interviews with survivors, she flipped it off again and sat on the couch in silence. Damn Harm for saying that...damn Chris for showing up...and damn herself for not getting a new apartment with an unlisted phone the moment he'd showed his face in DC. She should have known what would happen. And it had, damn it. Her past had caught up with her once again. No matter how fast or how far she ran, it would always be waiting for her. She envied Harm sometimes. Must be nice to look back on your childhood and remember only love from your parents and between them. (And a knock on the door one Christmas Eve.) To remember your schooldays with fondness. Being on the honor roll, hanging out with your friends, starring in the school play, making Eagle Scout.... (And running off to Laos one summer when you were supposed to be at camp.) An unblemished career, with no hidden sins. No temptations like she'd had to resist with AJ, or'd given into with John Farrow. Nothing but honor. (And sexual harassment by Krennick.) No alcoholism to fight, no best friend he'd gotten killed.... (Just an addiction to flight, and the ghost of his RIO.) She closed her eyes in frustration, feeling torn apart by a hundred feelings: anger and shame, malicious glee and regret, longing and understanding and just plain stress. She wanted to step back and examine the whole thing logically. She wanted to say that Chris' appearance on top of Norfolk had just gotten on both of their nerves, and that it would all look better in the morning at work. But she knew better. In the morning, she would have managed to stuff all her thoughts and feelings back into place, but they would still be there to poison her last few days with Harm. She could probably keep from taking it out on anyone else. Probably. But she didn't want to be unable to remember saying goodbye to Harm without also calling up the acid taste of anger and shame. She'd already done that once, back in November, and once was more than enough, thank you. But how was she going to get Harm to sit down and talk it out? She sighed. It ought to be Harm getting her to talk. He was good at that. Better than anybody, really, except maybe Uncle Matt. Harm had a knack for getting people to trust him with the most painful truths; it was part of what made him such a good defense lawyer. But he wouldn't be in any mood to call her today. There was nothing that got Harm madder than a client who didn't tell him the whole truth. What he was thinking of her right now, she didn't like to think. But how could she have told him? When? Somehow, there just weren't a lot of conversations that could lead up to, "By the way, I'm married to a guy I haven't seen in years. I married him in a fit of drunken inspiration, but I still love him." She hadn't wanted to think about Chris, much less talk about him. He'd just been something else she remembered and worried about when she woke up in the middle of the night, from bad dreams where she heard her father yell or Eddie scream, before she made it safe to Red Rock Mesa. She reached out for the phone. Maybe distance and the impersonal nature of telephones would help. Maybe, if she only heard Harm's voice and didn't have to meet his eyes, it would be easier to tell him all the gory details of both the good and the bad times with Chris. Maybe then Harm could understand why she'd been so slow to cut her last ties to that part of her past. Maybe.... Damn. Busy signal. =================================================================== Harm stared at his shoes as he rode up the elevator. They were a scuffed and scratched mess. Honorable scars acquired in the line of duty, he thought with a shadow of a smile. A little vinyl cleaner might do something for the ash smudges, but there wasn't much to do about the rest. His nice new pair of gymshoes had just become his grubbies. Open the old elevator cage, step out, close it again. He wouldn't be doing that too much longer. For all that he'd complained about its frequent breakdowns, he was going to miss the rackety old thing. The apartment he'd renovated with his own hands waited for him. The sun was bright outside the windows, and the place glowed. He'd always had a talent for making himself comfortable in a new place, whether it was an apartment or shared quarters on a carrier, but he'd done his best work here. He shrugged. This would go to storage -- that, he'd leave to the next tenant. No sense holding too tightly to things. Sinks and glass bricks weren't exactly portable. He reached for the phone. He'd put off calling his mother last night since the circuits were busy, and (thanks to Mac) she already knew that he'd gotten out of the hotel all right. But now it was time and past time. He sighed and dialed. "Hello?" "Hi, Frank." "Honey? It's Harm!" his stepfather called excitedly. "Good to hear your voice, Harm," he added, sounding inexpressibly relieved. "Are you feeling all right? The deafness cleared up?" "I'm fine, just fine." Frank loves me, he thought, a little uncomfortable about it. "I was outside in the parking lot when the bomb went off." "Thank God. And thank that partner of yours for saving our sanity. We...your mother worries. And here she comes, so I'll let you go." He opened his mouth to say something to the man, but he couldn't think of anything before the telephone was handed off to his mother. "Darling!" She sounded as confident and loving as always, but he knew what it must cost her to be so calm. "Mac said you were all right, Frank says you're fine, but humor your mother and tell me: how are you?" They had been all the family there was, aside from the Reeds he almost never saw, and Grandma Rabb, whom he only saw in the summer. They were peas in a pod in so many ways, and they knew each other better than anyone else. She never yelled at him. That just made the guilt worse. "Still in one piece," he said, forced to smile. "Mac, Bud and Harriet came down to pick me up, but...." "Oh, so they're back from the honeymoon?" "Not so you'd notice. I swear, some of those mutual gazes could put you into insulin shock." Harm chuckled. "Anyway, we ended up staying the night with a bunch of the guys at some little house in Norfolk that Captain Boone owns...oh, and the CAG says hello." "Well, that was kind of him. Give him my best, won't you?" "I will. And you'll have to tell me the story behind that Sinclair he's got sometime." A surprised laugh. "Didn't I ever tell you? No, I guess not. I haven't thought about that painting for years! Oh, but you're distracting me. I see by the caller ID that you're home, so presumably Mac brought you back." "Well, my car was still in good shape, so we picked it up at the hotel this morning. Bud's been wanting to drive Mac's SUV, so she finally took pity on him, while I gave her refuge from the happy couple." "Neither of you have had a very good year, have you?" His mother's voice was thoughtful. "Depends on what you mean by good." "I certainly don't mean getting arrested, captured, drugged, hit over the head, and blown up," she replied tartly. "None of that was my idea." "So you say," she said, her tone light. "And yet my friends' lawyer children certainly don't run into all this trouble. You're lucky to have Mac to look after you." She laughed nervously. "I'm so glad I got her call before I heard the news about the bombing. She's quite the thoughtful one. Give her a thank-you hug for me, won't you, darling?" He cringed. "Moooom, she's my partner," he pleaded reflexively. "So?" He rolled his eyes. Apparently, Mac had just shot up to the top of Mom's list. He'd better warn Mac before hints began to drop with all the subtlety of your average tac nuke. "Anyway, you won't have to worry about me running into terrorists on the job anymore," he said uneasily. "What with all the guys who got injured...." "Of course," she said calmly. She'd been just as calm the other night, when he'd told her that his night sight was back and that he was requalifying. "You've wanted this for a long time, I know. I'm so happy for you, darling!" She was and she wasn't. But she understood. Nobody lived on a sea cliff who wasn't in love with the sea and the sky. "It's just too bad it happened this way," she continued. "And in such a terrible rush. But Frank and I will be flying out in a couple of days, and we'll see what we can do to help." "You don't need to come," he protested. "Oh, we want to. It's been ages since I've seen you, after all, and if you're going to go off on some carrier it'll be ages more. Besides, if you aren't going to hug Mac for me, I'll just have to do it myself." Oh, God. He'd have to warn Mac ASAP. She'd only met his mother a couple times. That didn't count as proper preparation. And when his mother realized, as she probably already had, that pretty soon she _wouldn't_ be his partner...well, she'd probably insist on that thank-you hug. Or a goodbye kiss. Something like that. That had to be avoided at all costs. Every time he got that close to Mac and looked into her eyes, he was tempted to do something stupid. Like in Norfolk, he thought, and suddenly the darkness and the mist were back, and he was kissing Mac to make amends for never daring to kiss Dianne. Her lips were warm and gentle and alive as they moved against his.... "And if there's anything you don't want to put in a moving van, and if it's small enough, Frank and I can probably take it back with us. All right, darling?" "Uh...yeah, sure." Not this again. He felt angry at himself. This was sick. He'd been attracted to her from the start because she looked just like Dianne. He'd felt as though he knew her because she looked just like Dianne. Luckily, she was different enough that he'd been able to learn to like her for herself, but that damned likeness was still dogging him. He needed to see a shrink. But she kissed me back, part of him insisted. She harbored me as a fugitive. She kept me from being a murderer. She gave her eyes for me, he thought, and saw again the fierce joy in her face when he'd seen clearly in the dark. Dianne had nothing to do with that. She's been hurt by every man she's ever wanted. The only reason she can trust me is that I treat her like a partner, not like a woman. She thinks of me as a friend, as a brother. Right? So I shouldn't be thinking of her any other way. She doesn't need more man trouble. But she kissed me back. "Harm? Are you there?" "Huh? Oh, sorry, Mom. Guess I'm still tired from yesterday." ================================================================= "Mac? This is Harm. Look, I know I was an idiot today. Call me back and tell me how big of one. I was out of line. No excuse. Just... I'm sorry. You deserved better from me than...." She hurried to the phone and cut in. "Harm? I'm here. Look, you just... told it the way you saw it. You don't need to apologize." "Considering the glass house I live in, I do." "I think I live in the glass house next door. Or is that the glass hangar?" She meant to say it lightly, but her voice choked a little on the words. "Isn't that where Wonder Woman keeps her invisible jet?" "I was never real clear on that," he admitted. "Not that I ever read a lot of DC or watched the show all the time, but all the Wonder Woman stuff I ever saw just showed the plane arriving on remote control or her flying it. I never saw her doing any invisible mechanical work on it, either." "I think it was a gift from the gods or something," she offered. "Either that, or that Amazon scientist made and maintained it." "Probably." He tried to chuckle. "Good thing this isn't court. We could never demonstrate that this line of questioning was relevant." "Maybe _you_ couldn't. Everything is relevant somehow." "I know I'm going to be sorry for asking...but tell me, Counselor. What is the relevance of this line of questioning?" "Your Honor, Wonder Woman is a highly respected veteran of World War II. Her service included thwarting many domestic terrorist organizations, and she was also a combat pilot." And she's dated a lot of gods and superheroes who turned out to be wrong for her. Let's not even mention Steve Trevor. Harm laughed. "I think you mentioned everything but the bullet-bouncing bracelets and the magic lasso. Is evidence obtained using the magic lasso admissible in a DC Universe court of law?" "I don't remember...hmm. Could be considered coercion." "Like using drugs to compel a confession." "Yeah, but it would certainly be useful to clear someone, if a person could submit herself voluntarily to lasso-questioning." "Wonder Woman would have to be very careful in the wording of her questions, I assume. But yeah, it'd be great for someone who was innocent. I'd use it." "On me." She fell silent for a moment. "What you said was true, but only in part. I realize I have problems. Nobody knows that better than I do. But I didn't like the way you said it." "Mac, I didn't mean it that way. Or...well, I did mean it that way a little. But...it's just that you're...." He stopped a moment, and when he resumed, his voice had changed into those smooth, reasonable, and emotionless tones she was used to hearing him employ in court or these personal discussions. "You're someone pretty special, and you deserve somebody a little more worthy of you." She found herself smiling like an idiot and at a total loss for a reply. "Unfortunately, my mother thinks so, too. You didn't give her your number, did you?" Ouch. "Why do you ask?" she managed. Harm groaned. "You'd better change it, then. My mother wants grandchildren, and you have become her latest hope for them. Or so I was informed today, with all the gentleness of a SEAL in a barroom brawl." "Your mother doesn't know me very well," Mac commented, suddenly depressed. "My in-laws didn't think much of me." "Yeah, I thought you knew too much about in-laws when you were talking to Bud this spring. But that was a long time ago. You were a different person then. And who do you think taught me to be such a good judge of character?" She stayed silent. "But if you want to talk to my mom, you know, go ahead. I don't call her half as often as she'd like me to. Since I'm _going_ to remember to write you, maybe you can pass some of my comments along. Mom'd be shocked and amazed." _She_ was shocked and amazed. What was going on in Harm's head? Did he know what he'd almost said, or realize what his mother was bound to think? Did he realize what kind of emotional whiplash he was putting her through? No, she decided. No, because if he did he'd be more direct about all this. You might not know where you were going when you started talking to Harm, but by the end of the conversation you were left in very little doubt. Harm was still talking, going on about when Keeter had said he was coming up to help move Harm's stuff. Mac could barely pay enough attention to say "Uh huh" in the right places, because suddenly she knew what he wasn't saying and didn't know to say. Of course he was confused. He hadn't figured out that he loved her. A cold shiver raced down her spine, followed by a rush of heat. She felt happy, scared and unbelievably stupid all at once. She hadn't been surprised to realize that she loved him; in retrospect, it had seemed inevitable. But how he could love her was beyond her. Well, there was no accounting for tastes. So. She consulted her courtroom instincts. Was it time to push him into some sort of admission? No. Not quite yet. Give him a few days. Then she would see -- if she had the courage to try it. "So I guess I'll see you tomorrow at work," he was saying. "In fifteen hours, forty-three minutes," she answered absently. "And I'll try not to give you too hard of a time before I leave," he said apologetically. "I guess I'm not too good at saying goodbye when I know I'm going to miss someone." "It makes you act like a wounded bear," she agreed helpfully. "And we're going to have to put in some very long days to clear out your caseload before you go. Also, I don't think the admiral's going to be too pleased to lose you, coming so soon after my performance." "Thank you, Major Sunshine and Light." "I'm just telling you the truth." "I know," he groaned, and said goodbye. --------------------------------------------------------------- JAG HQ MONDAY Harm showed up early that morning, looking just a little more spiffy than normal. He'd actually gone to the trouble to make his shoes shine like mirrors. He would have liked to attribute this to a sense of the occasion. The truth was that he'd needed something to do with his hands last night, and he'd broken a string on his guitar. But when he'd seen the atypical splendor of his shoes, he'd decided that he might as well try to match them with the rest of his uniform. He hadn't beaten Bud in. He and Harriet just showed up too darned early. "Admiral wants to see you, sir," he reported. "Thank you, lieutenant." And so did the Admiral. Wooden paneling with almost no ego wall. Big desk. A bird singing in the tree outside the window. The admiral stood watching it, his arms clasped behind his back. This might not be the last time he'd see this place, but it soon would be. "Mr. Rabb, I understand that you have a transfer request for me," the admiral said quietly. "Is that correct?" "Aye, sir." The admiral made a small humphing noise -- not the one that meant he didn't believe you; the one that meant you weren't in trouble. Harm relaxed a little inside, but not a millimeter visibly. He wasn't an idiot. The admiral turned suddenly. "Mr. Rabb. Are you unhappy with your work here?" "No, sir." "Are you dissatisfied with your career prospects here?" "No, sir," he repeated. "And I am aware that transferring to an air wing will be something of a step downward in that respect." The admiral pursed his lips and gave a slow nod. Harm let the silence expand. "Commander," the admiral said calmly, "I like to think of the JAG Corps as something of an elite. The people who work here are very special people, picked people. We turn many deserving applicants away simply because there aren't enough slots for them. "Not so many years ago, you were given one of those slots." The admiral paused and gave Harm a look. Some reply seemed called for, so Harm said, "Aye, sir." "And since that time, you have served in JAG with exceptional diligence -- perhaps excessive diligence -- and devotion to duty." The admiral gave him the hairy eyeball again. "Thank you, sir." "Don't thank me yet, Rabb." Oops. "You have, in fact, been given the honor of becoming senior lawyer here in Falls Church. Since that time, you have managed to maintain an unprecedented number of wins, a budget overrun, my ulcer, and SECNAV's high blood pressure. And now you want to transfer. "The whole Navy knows I don't have room to complain about transfers. What I want to know from you is why. "Why, Rabb? You're doing good work here. Your friends are here. And justice needs to be done whether this country is being attacked or not." "Sometimes justice needs to be dealt by other means, sir," Harm said smoothly. Then his tone roughened. "I need to do this. They killed my shipmates, sir." The admiral put his hands behind his back again and looked down for a moment, visibly weighing the problem. He sighed and looked up. "Very well, Commander. Submit your paperwork and I'll make sure it's expedited." "Thank you, sir." "Dismissed." "Aye, sir." --------------------------------------------------------------- NAVAL ACADEMY CEMETERY ANNAPOLIS MD They buried their dead on a day when the clouds hung low, and the wind promised a storm. The leaves in the trees fluttered above the graveyard, as did the pavilions erected in case of rain. Even the flags covering the coffins flapped their edges a little, gently. They could smell the rain moving in, and AJ suspected it'd be a doozie. AJ stood among the admirals, ranked in rigid order of rank and seniority, and wondered what the others were truly thinking. There was true sorrow from some, and a fellow feeling from all. Mortality stared them in the face. Any of them could have joined the others in their coffins, and what would it mean? Who would notice, when so many others were dead? His head stayed motionless, but his eyes shifted from the Academy chaplain to the trees. Guards walked there, and beyond them a curious crowd of onlookers. Beyond them.... He never knew just what caught his eye. But he looked up in time to see a rocket whizzing through the trees, and warn, "Incoming!" Pandemonium. Those who could scattered, which at least spread out the targets. Nobody quite got trampled, although folding chairs tripped the unwary. But for those closest to the coffins, there was little to do but hit the deck and pray. Then the blast came, and the tents collapsed on top of them, coffins, folding chairs, flags, astroturf and all. Guards chased the unknown shooter, but he was gone by the time they could get there. And on the grass not far from the coffins, five people joined the graveyard's dead, thanks to blast and the shards of a shattered tombstone. It might have been more. But AJ had been trained, among other things, in the basics of combat first aid; there were people from Bethesda among the mourners, and still more who at least knew enough to put pressure on a wound. And then the ambulances came and took the wounded away. The wind died as the tents were taken down completely. The services were completed without further speeches. Flags were folded up and presented, dirt was thrown into coffins, and the mourners left before the rain began and the investigators started their work. But there was blood on the grass, and flower petals in small drifts. Then the wind came up again, while thunder rumbled in the distance and whitecaps rose on the water. ----------------------------------------------------------------- NORFOLK BOMBING COMMAND POST ONE WEEK LATER FBI Special Agent Danny Vallideo was a legend and a necessity to his colleagues. A legend, because he knew bombs like nobody else, and could pull the answers and the evidence out of the air. A necessity, because he was a fixer by hobby, the man who could arrange for anything from expedited lab results to Superbowl tickets. Nobody in the Bureau had crossed the man or even argued with him in years. To NCIS, who owed him no favors, he was just another bomb expert. This was beginning to tork him off. "How many times do I have to tell you people? That twist of wire's his signature. He works for bin Laden and the Taliban. Occasionally they've loaned him out to some of the other groups that train in Afghanistan, but only to their allies. Sunni ones. There is no way on God's green earth that you'd ever find him working for Iran!" "All the supplies...." "I don't care about the supplies! Sure, usually the trail of evidence follows the sales slips. Fine. But the signature's what's important." "So he trained somebody who joined up with the Iranians," said one of the ATF. "Big deal. That happens all the time with the militia here in the States." "This ain't the US we're talkin' about," Danny said, trying to be patient. "I know you're used to playing with our little incestuously feuding militia groups, where some of the apprentices go off and do their own thing. But this ain't militia; it's the big time. This is like if some animal trained up in the IRA and then tried to join up with the ULA! Like the kids say, quit smoking crack, 'cause it just doesn't happen." "It did this time." The NCIS were known for playing well with others, but their patience with the Fibbie was starting to wear thin. "We've traced our bombing suspects' origins to Iran. We all agree on the chain of evidence for the supplies. Everyone except you agrees on the provenance of the bomb. This 'signature' of yours is nothing but a method of twisting wire. Even if your bomber does do it that way, anybody in the world could come up with it independently. "The Iranians did it. And that's what's going in the report." "Then it'll be wrong! Look, I don't care about who gets the credit. I don't care about that, 'cause I've been working big cases since I joined the fricking Bureau. I just want to get the UNSUBs and keep 'em from murdering anybody else, crystal? The same as the rest of you. And I am telling you, unless the Iranians have kidnapped and brainwashed this Taliban guy, it's a Taliban bomb. I'd bet my reputation on it." It almost worked. There were a couple guys in the ATF and NCIS who looked uneasy, especially the ones who'd done enough interagency training out at Quantico to know about him. But it wasn't enough. "Sometimes even the best of us can see what's not there," the NCIS boss said conciliatorily. "But the preponderance of evidence is against the Iranian-funded Sword of Feridun. That's what's going on the report." Danny sat there, shaking his head as the others left the room. "Idiots," he muttered under his breath. The other FBI agents looked at him uncertainly. He waved at them to go, and they went. At least his reputation was still worth that much. "Agent Vallideo." He looked up. Oh, look. Mr. Foggy Bottom-by-way-of- Langley. And the Agency and the Bureau were such gooood friends. Webb had been polite enough onsite, but apparently that was just for convenience' sake. "I'd like a copy of your report," said Webb. "I may need it." "What for?" "Preventing the US from attacking the wrong people, if we're lucky. If not, to say I told you so." "Why?" "I know your reputation." Danny Vallideo nodded slowly and handed him an extra copy of his findings. "Tell me, Mr. Webb, would you like tickets to the Superbowl?" Webb just looked at him. "Would you?" And Danny smiled. "Mr. Webb, this could be the beginning of a beautiful inter-agency relationship." "Just don't tell anyone. I have my own reputation to think of." But of course, it could never be that simple, thought Clayton Webb that night. It was all well and good to talk about the US taking decisive action, but actually taking it caused some big headaches. Events were now moving too fast to be stopped, and there was nothing much he could do about it. There had been a moment when he thought he could head off the big mistake that was coming. He knew some people in NIS, and they had agreed with him that it was unlikely that the Iranians would fund an attack on the US Navy that kept watch on Iraq. He'd collected reports from analysts at Langley and State on applicable topics, and done as much orchestration as he could without breaching security. It had all gone for nothing. He could smell the rat, but the president couldn't. But if he couldn't stop the disaster, he could at least soften it. For whatever that was worth. He'd persuaded the Navy to send a SEAL team; that way the US could prosecute the terrorists for a crime, while not awarding the tiny Sword of Feridun the status of a full aerial attack or openly violating the sovereignty of the Sudan, where they were training. That had of course convinced the SpecsOps crew to lobby for a press conference after their team was safe, not at the time of attack. Finally, he had made his own position far more clear than usual. When the truth came out, his stock, and Vallideo's, would increase. He would make some enemies, but next time the right people might listen. It wasn't the job he'd trained for, but it was useful. It passed the time. And someday, when he was one of the right people, he'd make sure things were done right. He walked back to State from the Foggy Bottom Metro station. The strange El Nino weather had made for a comparatively cool summer, and he had spent too much time underground today. The setting sun gilded the avenue, but he walked it alone, unobserved by anyone but the odd panhandler or passing car. The city was his: marble, brass, brick, concrete, asphalt and trees, flowing down from the heights into the river that spread out under the slowly reddening sky. A bird flew along the street, and in the silence he heard its wings beating the air as it passed overhead, black and white, black and white. His head did not turn or his pace slacken, but he followed it with his eyes until it slipped from sight. Eyes, evidence, satellites, guesses...it was all so clumsy, really. How much could you really know? Nothing, without being there. He missed that certainty more than anything else. That, and being on the ops instead of planning them. Red and pink clouds streamed out like stripes. The world was beginning to look like some Ken Burns special. He could almost hear the patriotic music start to play. Time to go home and get some sleep before the big snafu began. His expression actually relaxed a little as he stepped into the parking garage elevator. The usual fumes permeated the air, he heard the usual footstep echoes in the vehicular cavern, but he didn't see the woman sitting in his passenger seat until he'd unlocked the door and gotten inside. But it was Cindy Karr, so that was no sign of inattention. He said, "Long time no see," of course. That was the old joke. She didn't even smile. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you." He waited. "Oracle says the deevs are going to find you." "What were the questions?" he asked, his face and voice without expression. "We asked the circumstances. Oracle said, tomorrow at 8 PM, in your office. Then how we could help." She faltered for a moment. "Oracle said we couldn't. That we'd only die if we came." He nodded once, as if he'd expected that answer. "We asked how we could stop them, but we were told we wouldn't have to, that they'd be bound in that hour. So it's going to be all right in the end." "So you've finally learned to take the long view." "What?" Cindy looked blank, then reddened. "That was not what I meant, Clay! How we interpreted it was that you get a mage to help you, and that's how it gets bound. You still know how to get hold of your contacts, right?" "Of course," he said smoothly. "Thank Oracle for me, Cin. I know this is a busy time for the team." "We're never too busy for you, Clay." She tried to hug him, but he stopped her. "Please. I just got this suit back from the cleaners." She chuckled. "Still the same Clay." "Except that this Clay needs to get some sleep." He pulled out his keys. "Apparently tomorrow is going to be a bigger day than I thought." "Well, be careful," she said quietly. "There aren't many of us who get to retire, even in your condition." Then she was gone. Not quickly walking away to some car, not running...just gone. He looked down at his hands a moment. They were shaking, and not because of caffeine. The ring he wore was not King Solomon's. And there was only one way of binding a deev known to modern magic, as every mage he knew would agree. Well. There were a few people he should call from his secure phone at home. Why should they get any more sleep than him? He'd sleep for a while, come back to say "I told you so," and then he'd have to get ready. He didn't have much more than 24 hours to do it in. ------------------------------------------------------------------ More Chegwidden stuff - uncomfortable with situation of promotion and overall situation, appearing cool and competent, wanting someone to talk to but doesn't have one - makes him frustrated; calmest in strategy discussion. Who did this. Reno. NNS3917. Status of the Navy: Sept. 14, 1998 Personnel: 380,947 Active Duty 54,694 Officer 322,253 Enlisted 4,000 Midshipmen 206,842 Ready Reserve Force 202,057 Civilians Ships: 339 Aircraft: 4,666 Deployed: 103 Ships (30%) 52,554 Personnel Underway: 159 Ships (47%) Exercises: 14 Carriers/Airwings at sea: USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN 72)/CVW-14: Arabian Gulf USS Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN 69)/CVW-17: In transit, Mediterranean Sea {Home sweet home! ] USS Harry S. Truman (CVN 75): Western Atlantic Ocean USS Carl Vinson (CVN 70): In transit, Eastern Pacific Ocean USS Constellation (CV 64): Eastern Pacific Ocean USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN 71): Western Atlantic Ocean Subject: Re: Character speculation: Was Mulder abused as a child? Date: Fri, 15 Jan 1999 23:22:43 -0500 From: "Diana Williams" Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative References: 1 Abused? Maybe. But Mulder seems to fit the pattern of ACA (Adult Child of Alcoholic) much better - and we have seen Bill Mulder drinking a lot. Indications are (from ACA support literature): - He doesn't trust you or doesn't trust anyone but you - He feels that he is completely different from other people and has to guess at what is normal - He thinks that deep down inside he's an unlovable person - He is extremely loyal, even when the loyalty is undeserved - He constantly seeks approval and affirmation - He's most comfortable with a lover who's emotionally distant and treats him with contempt/ridicule since they don't expect anything different or feel they deserve anything better. -- Diana Williams web page at http://diwillia.home.mindspring.com/ All the time, I'm finding ways to make things fall in line. I know How tricky things can be. But I really do believe that You are mine, And all the stars are there before us. Listen here -- Some things are meant to be. Tried to take it slow, Tried to lose control -- But I'll tell you what the trick is: What you get is what you had to give away. When I learned, I found my eyes were opened. Long ago, I had a dream that quickly faded. Goes to show How tricky dreams can be. But wouldn't you agree that Those who know Whisper when they see us walking, "There's a love That's always meant to be." -- "Meant to Be", Squirrel Nut Zippers, _Hot_ The guitars made bubbling sounds and then questioned each other before breaking into a strong and simple tune. Emma Bull's voice came in high and sweet as she told them: "I thought you'd come from a fairy tale Where the people all were fair, But you're under wicked enchantment So you never see what's there. The witches put a sheep's head on you Just below the skin, And you think that your heart is a horrible place, So you never let anyone in. "Beauty bears the Beast inside Broken hopes in silence hide Victim of the ones who lied -- You're under the enchantment. "You know about incantations," Emma reminded him, as Lojo echoed each half-line in her alto voice a beat after Emma. "You know how to break the spell. You're looking out for a conq'ring prince; A pauper would do as well. You've given your love to things in disguise; None of them ever transformed. You say it was your fault every time And you never think you're wrong." They sang the chorus again, and then Adam's guitar sang out. He'd almost lost one today. But 'almost' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, so once again he was spared having to write Rabb's mother. He looked out and saw the pair of Marines guarding his house. There were pairs of them at every admiral's house tonight. He grimaced. SECNAV finally gets concerned about security. Part 4: What's So Small to You If you turn from me You darken my sun You snap that thin thread I call my horizon And I'd like to remind you Of something small That the rock in this pocket Could cause your fall And what's so small to you Is so large to me If it's the last thing I do I'll make you see I might be out like a light Extinguished in the throw But I'll hit my mark And you'll know Because I'm really well acquainted With the span of your brow And if you didn't know me then You'll know me now -- "Rock in This Pocket", Suzanne Vega