A Prisoner Set Free
Author: SMKLegacy
Rating: PG-13
Category: Story, Drama
Disclaimer: If I owned the ensemble and the concept, I wouldn't be in debt. If I were making money from them, I would be in a lot less debt. If DPB and TPTB would like to sell them to me on an installment plan, show me where to sign. Until then, consider them borrowed with love and the story and any new characters mine.
Archive: On FanFiction.net and at Shannon's phenomenal site.
Feedback: Always, but spare the flames, please. Life is tough enough without a hobby being stressful, too.
Author's Note and Spoilers: Companion piece to "She Who Holds the Key" and "The Keymaster". Not related to my previous stories "With Prejudice", "Raising Men: My Sailor" or "Lady Sarah". Anything is fair game up to season 8 through "Favorite Son"; based, alas, on current events, and set in Harm's voice.
I can't believe I'm doing this again. I don't cry, but this is twice in nine months and four times in four years. And every time has been in the arms of Sarah Mackenzie.
Two and a half hours ago, she called me--and woke me up--to ask if I could pick her up at home on my way to the office for our 0800 staff call. Naively, I thought it was just because her car wouldn't start or was in for maintenance or something. "No, Harm," she said in a voice that sent shivers down my spine for more than one reason, "I'm going TAD and the admiral wants you to take me to Andrews."
Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or maybe that odd connection she and I have, but I knew her destination immediately. "Iraq?"
I could see her nod in my mind. "Yeah. But mostly Centcom in Qatar," she hastened to reassure me, or to try, at least.
"I'm going with you," I declared to her, knowing even as I said it that it couldn't be a promise because I couldn't keep it.
Mac's silvery laugh almost made me smile. "Not likely, Flyboy. The powers that be asked for me by name, apparently, and before you ask, Webb had nothing to do with it."
I'm actually convinced that our favorite CIA liaison is cowering behind another agency to avoid my wrath, but Mac went on then to remind me that doing anything stupid like disobeying a direct order and following her would be detrimental to my career. "But flattering in its own warped way. 0740, Harm, and not a minute later."
I was there at 0738 to find her waiting on her front steps with her sea bag packed; it's two hours later and we're alone in what passes for the VIP departure lounge at Andrews Air Force Base. It is Monday, 24 March 2003 and I am an emotional wreck.
"Mac. Sarah. I..." I don't cry and I almost never have a problem saying what's on my mind, but this woman regularly reduces me to both tears and speechlessness. Instead, heedless of the fact that we're both in uniform, I pull her exquisite form more tightly against me, wishing we could just melt together so we never have to be apart again.
"Harm?" she questions in the same soft, caring tone she used back on the Guadalcanal when I broke down after the doctor told us Bud would be okay. She can't see my face, but she knows I'm crying.
I know this woman; she'll remember the entire conversation I'm about to reference. "Mac, you're gonna give me nightmares." It won't be the first time; when she was involved in the embassy evacuation in Indonesia before 9/11, I didn't sleep for an entire week until I saw her walk into the office in Falls Church. I can't believe I even had to ask the question of her a few months ago when I backseated with a madman. Coates told me at Christmas that I could get rich investing in Tylenol stock as long as I keep flying--Jen has never been one to keep her opinions to herself.
Sarah's fingers work soothingly at the hairs on the nape of my neck and I wonder for the millionth or more time why I can't make our relationship what it should be instead of this nebulous in-between thing that it is. I wouldn't have put a couple of my t-shirts into her sea bag on the sly if it weren't nebulous--I'd have had a stash of Victoria's Secret items in my closet with which to surprise her at a distance when she opens her bag.
Mac's voice matches her fingers. "Harm, I'm going to be fine. I'm only going to be in the hot zone for about 12 hours, in and out to get the subject, then I'll be in Doha at Central Command HQ until the whole thing is resolved to a point that I can come back."
"How long?" I hear myself murmur. Somehow, that never came up earlier.
"Two weeks tops," she declares, and her fingers stop working at my neck and move to my wet cheeks as she pulls back to look me in the eyes.
I could lose myself forever in her deep brown orbs. "Is that a promise?" That word is almost as loaded as "eternity" between the two of us.
"Promise," she nods with a small smile.
"Don't make a promise you can't keep," I say, and now we both laugh a little because we're saying the wrong lines in this conversation but this time it feels right to do so.
"I haven't yet."
I should have made her promise to wait "as long as it takes" back on that damned bridge in Sidney. How different life would be right now! "No, Sarah, you haven't. E-mail me?"
"As often as I can."
Which, since I was inspired by our court martial of that annoying ZNN reporter, Stuart somebody, and since I could avail myself of Bud's help just after Christmas, will be as often as she can get a signal for her satellite phone and a clean wireless link to her laptop. And I'll admit that the whole reason I gave Mac the hardware was as a contingency in cases just like this. She had had a smile on her beautiful face when she said, "Boys and their toys."
"Harm, will you really be okay?"
She's got the look on her face now that makes me want to throw caution to the wind and kiss her the way I've ached to since the day I met her. But I'm not brave enough to do that because I know it will tell her what I can't put into words yet, so I smile as best I can through my still teary eyes and answer her as truthfully as I dare. "I'll survive until you get back, and then I'll be okay."
She's still pondering this when the steward for her flight, an Air Force Staff Sergeant, opens the tarmac door and announces that the plane is ready for its one passenger.
"I guess I really am a VIP this trip." My Sarah pushes away a little, but stays within the circle of my arms and leaves her hands against my cheeks.
I take her hands in mine and lay a kiss in each palm. "You're always a VIP to me, Sarah."
She smiles that funny, wondering smile at me. "You be careful and smart while I'm gone, Mr. VIP Flyboy. Or I'll come back and kick your six into next year." She's being a little flippant now because we don't do well when we part with our deeper emotions showing.
"You, too, Mac." I let her hands go and she steps away from me.
She hefts her briefcase, which contains my lifelines to her, and walks to the door. There she turns to watch me watching her.
Then, because I can't let her go without reminding her that we have bigger promises to keep to each other, I say, "Take care of those babies of mine."
For a moment, I think I've scared her, but she recovers and flashes me a smile that tells me I said the right thing in the right tone. She disappears through the heavy metal door and I am alone, except for the tenuous link by satellite and the far stronger cords she has woven around my heart and soul for six years.
Nightmares? I can count on them.
I have no recollection of my workday; I'm guessing that I didn't do anything too stupid because I'm pretty sure I'd remember getting my ass chewed by a two-star admiral. I don't know why I agreed to go to the gym with Sturgis and Bud after work; Sturgis beats me at one-on-one about 6 of 10 times as it is and tonight Bud--who is admittedly getting to be a very good basketball player on that temporary prosthesis, even if he can't jump yet--beat me at 21 by five whole points. I think I made his year by losing. I declined Sturgis' offer of beer and dinner at his place, claiming that I need to prep for court in the morning. I think all three of us knew that I came home to wait for word from Mac, even though we also know that I won't hear from her until I get up in the morning to read my e-mail. Unless she calls.
Besides, I have beer and sustenance here. It's leftovers from the Thai food Mac and I shared last night, when we thought we were just in for another week of her on the bench and me praying that I wouldn't have to try a case before her. If I had only known...
Oh, who am I fooling? If I had known last night as we were sitting here on my sofa watching Spaceballs that I'd be putting her on a plane for the war zone this morning, I wouldn't have done anything differently. I'd have held her close and felt her laugh, marveled at how we always manage to breathe in synch, wondered what it would be like to kiss her--really kiss her, without mistletoe and with no one to weigh us down as Diane, Renee, and Bugme have in the past. But I wouldn't have taken that next step because I can't let go.
Not yet.
I have a year, a month, and about 21 days before I have to let myself out of my self-made prison.
I wonder, as I sit here flipping between The Weather Channel and ZNN, if the nightmares I know I'll have tonight about sandstorms and surrendering Iraqis turning AK-47s on trusting troops would still come if I could let go of the control I hold so tightly in my life. If by somehow telling Mac exactly how I feel about her would free me--free us--from the obsession we are to each other.
It's a moot point, of course. I can't even think the words coherently yet, so I don't have the foggiest idea how I could say them now. And I know my Sarah. I'll have to say them for her to know I'm really letting go, because a kiss might be down payment on the words, but she won't really believe me until I say the most important words any man can say to the woman who makes him whole.
It's 2130; she should be somewhere over Africa now because she's due to arrive in Doha about 0800 local, which is midnight here. Maybe if she has a few minutes before she checks in with the Marine officers who requested her, she'll call me. She knows I'll still be awake, because sometimes I'm at her place until long after midnight, and sometimes she's here; other times we're on the phone arguing until after 0100 just to hear the other's voice. At least, I have to assume that she hangs on for the same reasons I do; maybe she's just too polite to cut off contact until I've said something. But thinking that hurts too much, so I'm going with my original thought so I can maintain some of my remaining sanity.
The commentators and embedded reporters are hashing over the day's maneuvers and wondering when the next bombs will fall on the capital city of Iraq. The air gets very still, then I find that I can't see and I'm breathing grit. I yell for help as I see a group of men approaching me, holding their assault weapons out in firing position. When I try to fire my rifle, I find it merely spits sand in big lumps at my feet. I'm running toward a collection of coalition troops when I step wrong and fall into a tank pit--
I wake with a start when the phone rings above my head; it takes me a few seconds to get my bearings before I realize that I fell asleep on the couch with ZNN playing low on the television and am now sprawled on the floor where I fell in reaction to my nightmare. The clock on the screen conveniently tells me that it's 8:24 in the morning in Baghdad and 12:24 a.m. in New York--which prompts me to grab for the receiver fast enough that I drop it as I pick it up.
Mac's voice floats toward me from a few feet away and I hear the laughter in it before I manage to gain control of the wayward instrument and bring it to my head. "Where are you?" I ask, hoping she'll say she's back at Andrews and needs a ride home.
"Doha," she replies instead. "Sorry to disappoint you. Is your floor comfortable?"
I don't even question how she knows either of those circumstances. "How long do you have?"
"Five minutes and three seconds. I have to meet with some folks very quickly to get the down and dirty briefing and then we have to get in country and back out before the storms pick up again."
She could have gone the entire conversation without that word after the nightmare I just had. "How was the flight?"
"Not nearly as much fun as a ride in a certain Stearman would be."
We were thinking about flying this coming weekend, now that winter seems to have lost its grip on the eastern seaboard. Damn. "We'll have to find out, won't we?"
"You bet, Flyboy. You've been watching ZNN, haven't you?"
I don't know why she's taking the conversation this way, but I'm game. "Yeah. Why?"
"Because I think I can wrangle a camera shot from the crew that's embedded here at Centcom. I'm famous, remember?" There's a touch of irony in her voice and something tells me that she's already had one encounter with an overeager reporter.
Oh, yeah. Between the high profile trial a few years ago that earned her unwelcome coverage in People Magazine and the whole court martial of that Stuart guy, she's probably the best known non-flag officer in the entire theater at the moment. I'll bet that the reporter she's already seen this morning will have a passel of his colleagues with him the next time, and cameras, too, since she's got to be the most telegenic person in theater, as well. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, because then I'll be able to see her as well as read her e-mail and maybe talk to her occasionally, too. Before the next war, we're getting videophones. "Work the whole pool, Mac. I want to see your face on every channel as I surf."
She laughs again, and this time I laugh a little, too. She's the channel surfer; I'm content to let the commercials play, but she's always flipping through the range of cable stations to see what else is on while the sponsors of whatever we're watching try in vain to sell us things. I grant you, we don't need most of it, but we should at least be courteous enough to let them make their pitches. Her voice comes before I can add to my comment. "Would you surf to see me, Harm?"
"I'd rather see you surf," I blurt out before I can censor the thought that goes with the image of my favorite Marine in her azure bikini.
"No, you'd rather see me wipe out," she shoots back with more laughter. "More precisely, you'd rather see me all wet in my blue bikini, right, Commander?"
The woman is a witch, that's all there is to it. I'm sure my lack of a quick parry to her thrust tells her she's read me correctly yet again, so I give in with a dramatic, dreamy sigh that's only partially faked. "Yeah." And then it occurs to me that I might be able to get a little of my own back. "So, should I get a blue Speedo or a black Speedo?"
"Black," she says without a moment's hesitation, and I am exulting inside for all of three seconds before she adds, "trunks, Harm."
Huh? "What? You don't think I--"
"I don't want anyone else eyeing the merchandise that closely," she clarifies, and then, "I gotta go, Harm. Check your personal e-mail tonight."
"I will. Mac, please..."
"Yes?"
"Be careful. I'm waiting." Oh, that was good, Rabb. Throw that little one-liner in to screw everything up.
She sighs, but I can't quite identify the emotion in the sound. "I'm coming as soon as I can. Just wait alone, would you?"
All I can do is hope that was said in jest. Because whatever may have happened in the past, I won't allow anyone to get between us now. Even if I can't yet let go of my self-made chains.
25 March 2003
It's 0316. I've been dozing on and off as the half-conscious nightmares come fast and furious. I think I'm a little more awake now than I have been and it just now dawns on me what Mac said about the Speedo. She doesn't want anyone else eyeing the merchandise that closely. Well, well, well, Colonel Mackenzie, I think you actually let something slip tonight.
Ever since that cursed night in Sydney, my Sarah has kept herself closed off so tightly that I can't really tell how she feels about me. Okay, I know that we're best friends--that never really changed at the deepest levels even during the madness I've taken to calling the Princess Bugme Era--and I know that as my best friend she worries about me a lot. But what I don't know for sure is whether at this point she still cares for me as much as I care for her. I can't even be sure that the reason she's still with me on our Baby Deal is anything more than her desire to be a mother. But rare comments like the one about my merchandise tonight give me hope that when I can finally let myself out of prison and give myself to her unconditionally, she will do the same in return.
What annoys me is that Sturgis every once in a while gets this Cheshire cat grin when he gets me started talking about my partner, as though he knows something I don't about her. Or maybe like he knows something about me that I don't, or that he thinks I don't. Or maybe he knows that I know and is laughing at my inability to put it in words. I'm too damned tired to figure this out right now, but I'm also too damned scared to allow mys...
I am in big trouble. I just woke up in my living room, but I was supposed to be at staff call five minutes ago. Worse, I have a splitting headache, the kind I don't admit to getting after a night commiserating with a six-pack, even though the remnants of my second beer managed to survive the night unscathed on my coffee table. I give Admiral Chegwidden five more minutes before he orders either Petty Officer Tiner or Lieutenant Sims to call to ask me politely if I'm planning to make an appearance today.
The phone is down on the floor where I left it after Mac hung up last night. I reach for it and hit 3 on the speed dial, hoping to head off the admiral's surrogate's call. Petty Officer Coates answers in a voice that is just way too perky for a morning like this.
"Jen, it's Commander Rabb. Please let the Admiral know with my apologies that I will be in ASAP, and that Lt. Col. Mackenzie arrived safely in Doha." I think I manage to say that in a way that tells her I'm far more awake than I feel.
"Due respect, sir," she starts, and I know I haven't fooled her, "but you don't sound like you're okay to come into the office today." I often wonder if Jen and Mac are related somehow, because the younger woman reads me almost as well as Mac does.
"I'm fine, Petty Officer," I profess. "Or I will be as soon as I have a cup of coffee."
I hear her laugh at that before she asks the kind of impertinent question she can get away with because she's talking to me. "Tiner's or the Colonel's, sir?"
I laugh, too. "The Colonel's, not that it's coffee." Jen's only been at JAG since Christmas but she's heard Mac and me argue about the difference between Navy coffee and Marine whatever it is that she makes with the same ingredients. I've weakened my position in that particular dispute by actually drinking the stuff she makes on more than one occasion--even if it does take a half-cup of sugar and a quarter cup of cream to make it palatable. I drink the real stuff black; Sturgis takes it all regular--two sugars, two creams, and Mac won't even drink what she calls the dirty water that is real coffee because she takes her stuff intravenously black.
"That's good, sir, because she ordered me to make sure that I made the coffee her way while she's gone. I'll have a cup waiting for you at..."
"0845, Jen. Thanks." I'll have to bust my six to do it, but I won't be any later than that.
"You're welcome, sir. Will that be all?"
"Yes. See you in thirty-five minutes."
She takes a beat to look at her watch--she's not that closely related to Mac--and replies with a smile in her tone, "Thirty-nine, sir. No need to run any red lights."
The worst part is that I won't have time to check my e-mail before I leave. Damn.
I had hoped to check that e-mail at lunch, but the Admiral asked me to join him and one does not say, "No," to a two-star admiral. I think I'm about to get my ass served to me over linguine at his favorite Italian lunch spot.
"Harm," Admiral Chegwidden begins as the waiter delivers our salads, and I am taken aback at the gentleness of his tone, "how bad were your nightmares last night?"
"Sir?" That certainly wasn't what I expected the first words out of his mouth to be.
He smiles at me in that fatherly way he has. "Son, I've been around a long time, and I've seen a lot of partnerships and friendships in my time, but whatever this thing is between you and Mac defies understanding. I had a bad dream about her last night--I can only guess that the reason you were late is that you slept less than I did." He starts in on his freshly peppered salad.
I relax a little; when our CO is like this, it's very easy to let a bit of the discipline go and just talk to AJ man-to-man. "No, sir, I didn't," I admit. "It didn't help that I fell asleep with ZNN on, and that Stuart what's-his-name kept intruding with color commentary on what was happening to Mac in my head."
"Dunstan," the Admiral supplies. "You know, Harm, that I wish I hadn't had to acquiesce to the order for her services, right? I don't like having my best staff officers in a war zone. Any of them, but especially the ones I consider my best friends and family."
That would be my reminder that Mac is--has to be--a Marine first in his calculations, however much he might prefer to think of her as a woman in need of protection. He's also telling me that I need to leave that "woman in need of protection" thing out of the office the same way he does. "I know, Admiral," I admit. "But you at least had the illusion of a choice. I didn't. She just left."
"Not by her choice."
I deserve that. He of all people has to know that the day I left to fly again was the beginning of the downturn in my relationship with Mac, and I'm sure it's not because either of us has ever told him. AJ Chegwidden reads people better than any other person I've ever served with, and if I had to choose between an analysis of someone by Jordan (may she rest in peace) or AJ, it would be a 50-50 pick 'em. "I know that, too, sir. She's doing her duty with her usual Marine Corps Semper Fi and I can hear her saying 'Marines don't duck, they cover,' whenever I close my eyes and let my mind drift just a little. But I'd be a lot more sanguine if I were with her."
Chegwidden drops his fork into his empty salad bowl, props his elbows on the table around it, and lays his head into his hands. "Commander Rabb, do you have any idea how many years of my life I left in the months of March, April, and May last year? I had three of my best officers and friends in a war zone and sent a fourth on a mission straight out of Tom Clancy. One of those four came back missing a piece of his leg--though thankfully, it seems, not his soul. I don't have enough years left to have two officers in a war zone this year." He looks up at me with a steel gleam in his eyes. "I almost convinced them to let me go with her, though."
I nearly choke on the last bite of my own salad at that. He's managed to surprise me, and before I can say anything he smiles and continues.
"I said 'almost', Harm. Everyone else in the chain of command agreed, but it seems our new SecNav isn't very happy about my untimely exit from your Tomcat last month." He doesn't mention the pending results of Commander Linsey's recent witch-hunt, which I'm guessing is the real reason for the denial.
"On that score, sir, the new SecNav and I agree wholeheartedly," I say, avoiding my own supposition and hoping he takes it as the worries of a friend and not as insubordination. "Thank you for trying, at least."
Our entrees arrive; we spend a few quiet minutes eating (and at least for my part, enjoying my eggplant Parmesan immensely) before he turns to serious business. "Harm, as your friend and as someone who cares very much for Mac myself, I can both sympathize and empathize with your predicament. But as your commanding officer, I can really only give you about three inches of rope for the entire two weeks or so we expect her to be away. We won't count this morning."
That's a very generous offer. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best not to use any of that rope."
He smiles again, and I'm struck by how well he balances the tough-as-nails SEAL trained commanding officer with the marshmallow-hearted (not that I'll be saying that to him anytime soon, and besides that's Harriet's assessment) friend and father figure. "I'll do my best to give you a half-inch warning before you need it."
I feel better now, and I think I might make it through until tonight when I can check my e-mail. Or if I'm lucky, Sarah will call again.
I have two brief e-mail messages from Mac when I get home.
Harm, she wrote in a note she titled "Save the Speedo for me", choppers grounded early due to incoming sandstorms. May be taking on additional work in the meantime, waiting to hear about possible injury to a forward observer doing BDAs. More when I can--satellite quality not good enough for voice transmission, surprised this is working. We're surviving, counting the days until we're okay. Mac. The timestamp on this note is 0935, which I have to guess from the contents is Doha time. For a moment, I think that I worried all day for no good reason.
Then I open the second one, which is timestamped 1347. Harm, going forward into observer post to relieve injured post commander. Replacement due Thursday then will continue with original assignment. Storms due to be over by then and better to be busy than be in the way. Watch ZNN; SD coming to OP with me. May do "day in the life" piece. Joy--wouldn't but for you close to me all day. Surviving, will be okay. Mac.
I'm not stupid. One of the many tasks Mac learned to do in Bosnia was Bomb Damage Assessment, and the only place we're really bombing in a way that she could assess in Iraq is Baghdad, which means my Sarah is going to be behind enemy lines, most likely--or at the very least so far forward in our lines as to be the same difference. And as much as I will enjoy whatever I get to see of Mac on TV, Stuart Dunstan isn't exactly anyone I want her to be spending time with. I don't trust him all that much, even though he seems to have learned his lesson last year and did as well as or better than everyone else covering Bud's injuries. Okay, let me admit to myself that it's the man, not the reporter, that I don't trust.
The "Speedo" reference makes me smile. I get the line "you close to me all day" right away; she found my t-shirts and is wearing one. It takes me three full reviews, however, before I get the "We" reference in the first note; I'm quite sure that if I had an audience I'd be told I'm grinning like an idiot. Our children may be a ways off in the future, but it looks as though that future is more likely than not, at least in some form or another.
I flip on the TV to ZNN and settle on my couch; a half hour later it occurs to me that getting a TV for the bedroom might not be a bad idea because I doubt my poor, abused back can take two weeks of sleeping on the couch. Or I could move the TV into the bedroom, but then I'd be in bed whenever I'm home, which is potentially just as bad. At least without Mac to keep me company.
During the 2200 hour, Dunstan's first piece about Mac comes on. His new producer and his editors in New York really busted their sixes to put the introduction together; there's a picture from her senior college yearbook, a series of file photos taken by a combat photographer in Bosnia, her law school graduation picture, and several seconds of the trial that made her famous. Dunstan himself introduces the fact that she and I prosecuted him at his court martial with humility I wouldn't have credited to him, and there's a fabulous freeze-frame picture of the two of us conferring at the table during the trial. We look like we're getting ready to kiss, which brings a smile to my face.
The next two minutes explain with little more detail than Mac's notes why she and her media shadows are going forward and allow Mac to explain why a JAG officer got the nod to take over the observer post. She's very eloquent; I wonder how many takes she went through and I also have to wonder how she manages to look so squared away in the blowing sand and heat that The Weather Channel announced had been the conditions in Qatar earlier today. Dunstan's closing lines indicate that he'll be reporting on Mac's day from the observer post live during the morning show and the piece ends with a shot of Mac slinging her sea bag into an APC for the ride to the helo pad. Apparently, not all the choppers are grounded.
My phone rings the moment the commercial starts. It's my mother, and Harmon Rabb, Jr., you're the next contestant on Trish's Twenty Questions Extravaganza.
"So, Mac is in Iraq and you're still in DC. Did you two have a fight?"
To this day, I don't know what possessed me to tell her even the little bit I did about the events surrounding Mac's abrupt departure for the Guadalcanal last spring. My mother has held it over my head ever since. "No, Mom, we didn't this time." I'm going to make her use as many of those twenty questions as I can on getting the basic information so she won't have many left to dig deeper.
"Did she volunteer anyway?"
"No."
"So she went because she was ordered to go. Semper Fi and all that. Did you even think about disobeying a direct order so you could go with her?"
"Yes," I admit after a moment, and I know that this is yet one more thing my mother will hold over me in her "tell her how you feel so I can have my grandchildren" arsenal.
"And Mac, bless her olive drab heart, threatened you with bodily harm if you did?"
"Not in so many words, but the idea was there." I have no doubt that if I showed up in Qatar--or Iraq--without properly cut orders proving my allowable presence there that Mac would scissor-kick my head and I'd wake up on a transport headed stateside before I could be missed here.
"How do you feel?"
You know that part at the beginning of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home where Spock is whizzing through intricate math, science, and general knowledge questions when all of a sudden the computer spits out the question, "How do you feel?" Spock comes to a screeching halt and the computer has to ask the question again.
So does my mother after I give her fifteen seconds of silence. "How do you feel?"
I feel the tears coming again, but Sarah isn't here to wrap her arms around me, so I choke them back as silently as I can and try to find the words to answer my mother. "Terrified," I finally say, and it's as though that one word breaks a dam inside me. "Mom, I don't know this for absolute certain, but I'd bet a pretty hefty chunk of my trust fund that the observer post she's going to is on the outskirts of Baghdad. I don't even know where she's supposed to go to do whatever it is she's actually there to do, and now I have to worry about stray bombs and cruise missiles and the Republican Guard."
"It doesn't help that she's going to relieve an injured officer, does it?"
"No. It just means that she's going someplace where her getting hurt is all the more likely. Mom..."
Oh, this woman knows me all too well. "Harmon Rabb, Jr., you listen to me. Don't you go borrowing trouble. Mac is doing the job she signed up to do and she's going to do it to the best of her abilities. If she gets hurt, she's strong and healthy and she knows she has a lot to live for--but she's also a smart woman and 'the best damned Marine in the Corps'," I hate it when my mother uses my own words against me, "so she's going to do her very best to not get hurt. And God forbid, but if the worst happens, you will have nothing to blame but your own stubborn pride and irrational fear for her not knowing exactly how much she means to you."
Ouch. My own mother wields the rapier of cowardice and guilt better--or at least more forthrightly--than Sturgis does. What sucks is that she's right and I've known it for a long time; that night on the Admiral's porch I should have just said it all rather than danced around it. But no, I screwed the pooch on that one and it's gotten me precisely nowhere.
Well, that's not entirely true; Renee and Bugme are gone and neither Mac nor I have made the mistake of a lifetime by getting married to others. That's actually quite a bit farther than nowhere, come to think of it. "I'm working on that," I tell my mother defensively.
"Can you use the 'L' word in your own head yet?"
My mother is just as much of a witch as Mac when it comes to seeing into my head--except that Mac either can't or won't see what I can't yet unbind to say, whereas my mother can. I bet it's because my dad was like this, too, but I'm not going to ask her about that, at least not now. As innocently as I can, I parry her verbal thrust. "What 'L' word?" Never mind that I actually did use it on that cursed porch; it's vanished from my vocabulary as surely as Mac has vanished from JAG HQ: it's there somewhere, but damned if I have access to it now.
The noise she makes in La Jolla probably startles several of the neighborhood dogs and it hurts my ears here in DC. "I think it's time to do for you what your Grandma Sarah did for your father," she says. "I love you, Harm, and I'll be praying for Sarah's safety. And for your sanity. Good night." She hangs up.
I know that I stare at the receiver for a long time as I ponder. Just what did Grandma Sarah do for Dad? And thus what is it that my mother is going to do for me?
26 March 2003
I slept a little better last night, probably because I actually hauled my sorry six into bed about 0200. It's 0700 now and I'll barely have time after I shower, shave, and dress to check my e-mail, just in case.
I turn the TV on and the volume up so I can hear it through the open bathroom door and the running shower. Thankfully, this old place is nearly soundproof or my neighbors wouldn't be real happy with me. The morning news on ZNN leads of with the news that the Iraqi government is blaming coalition airstrikes for the destruction of a marketplace in Baghdad. General Franks and everyone else in the senior command structure have already trotted out to deny the claim, and I have to say that I find it far more likely that the damage is collateral from Iraqi defensive measures than from a dud missile or bomb. It happens, of course, but if the closest area we were targeting was more than two miles away, it's unlikely our jets even flew close enough to put a bomb into the right trajectory to hit the market. I can't speak for missiles.
As I turn off the water, I realize that Mac might be going into Baghdad under a flag of truce to inspect the area. Or have we gotten that far yet? No, upon reflection, I don't think so. Anxiety attack averted.
I have shaving cream on my face but haven't started removing the stubble when Stuart Dunstan's "Day in the Life" feature is announced as the segment following the commercial break. I hurry to finish the necessary ritual so I can eat breakfast while I watch. I absolutely cannot just listen to this.
+++
"I'm Stuart Dunstan, embedded with elements of the First Marine Division inside Iraq. We're following one of the few female Marines currently on the ground inside the battle zones, Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie, a lawyer with the Navy's Judge Advocate General Corps. She's here on a mission which has been delayed due to the severe sandstorms and torrential rains that have wracked the area of the country her assignment will eventually take her to. In the mean time, Col. Mackenzie's previous experience as an intelligence officer on deployment in Bosnia has made her the ideal choice for her substitute mission: to take command of a forward observer post until the injured unit commander's replacement can be shipped in from his current assignment."
+++
Ideal choice my ass, I think when Dunstan takes a breath. But that's the man talking, not the Naval Aviator who knows that the reporter's odious assertion is absolutely correct.
+++
"The primary mission of this observer post is what the military calls Bomb Damage Assessment, or BDA. Mackenzie and her crew of 11 men will use every resource available to them, including, you'll see in a moment, a harrowing trip into a bombed-out area, to evaluate the effectiveness of coalition airstrikes and missile attacks from the ground while photoreconnaissance interpreters do the same with satellite and overflight imagery thousands of miles away in relative safety on Naval task force ships."
+++
That was an awfully long sentence--an utterly irrelevant thought, of course, but it distracts me for a second from the fact that this Dunstan guy is going to show me my Marine going into danger without me to protect her six. Sure enough, here it comes.
+++
"You're watching Col. Mackenzie and five men from the observer post as they move forward slowly in an armored personnel carrier toward the outskirts of an area heavily targeted for bombing in the past 24 hours."
+++
I watch, fascinated, as Mac alternates between reading a map and directing the sergeant who is driving the APC. And then the small arms fire starts outside the cabin of the vehicle and the camera jerks a bit as the driver speeds up. This little trip must have been just after daybreak, because there's enough light outside for the voyeurs here at home to see the impact of what I'm guessing are grenades landing just feet in front of the APC before they explode.
Mac is amazingly calm under fire, as is the driver, but behind the camera there's a lot more commotion; it occurs to me then that she's probably got a lot of very young new recruits under her command right now. I'd bet that the driver, the platoon first sergeant, and Mac are the only ones of the 12 at the observation post who have any previous combat experience because I'm betting that everyone else signed up after 9/11 and missed out on Afghanistan while they were in advanced intelligence school.
Speaking of long sentences...
"When we stop, I want as many of those shooters taken out as possible before we ever step foot outside this vehicle," Mac's voice comes through, commanding even through the uneven audio quality. "Gunner, your weapon is free."
Dunstan's voice resumes narrating. "The top mounted swivel cannon is similar to the 25 millimeter cannon on a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Colonel Mackenzie waited until her unit was clear of a small settlement before allowing return fire at what turned out to be three small Toyota pickups with bed-mounted RPG launchers. The gunner's aim proved true and the three trucks were destroyed, although not before one grenade blew the side-mounted radio communications panel out of commission. One young Marine sustained minor injuries that were later treated on-site."
Mac approaches Dunstan; it's obvious she's been in the desert from the grit and grime smeared across her face, but she's smiling and her eyes are bright, and I can't help but wonder at how beautiful she is even like this.
"Colonel Mackenzie," Dunstan interrupts my reverie, and I see the "LIVE" logo in the corner of the screen, "not everyone will agree with your decision to hold fire until you were clear of the settlement. What do you say to them?"
"We're here because we volunteered to serve in the Marines, and that means we've taken the risk that we might get hurt or even killed doing so. The men who chose to come after us also knew the risks of combat, but the innocent civilians in that small settlement had no choice in whether the war came their way. I refuse to be party to the loss of innocent lives as long as I have acceptable options otherwise, which in this case I did."
+++
That's my Mac. The Admiral will be inordinately pleased with her for that, and she deserves another Bravo-Zulu in her personnel jacket.
+++
Dunstan signs off but lets Mac have the last word, which she says with a look that I think every man in America is now wishing were for him. "We're surviving, and we'll be okay when we get back."
+++
Her words confirm that her smoldering gaze was for me; I am once again grinning like an idiot as I take my cereal dish to the kitchen and dump the banana peel into the disposal. I'll just have time to check my e-mail now before I need to leave.
Harm, she wrote in a single short note about two hours ago, surviving with flying colors after some excitement this morning. Will be on ZNN 7ish your time. Storms abating and replacement due noontime tomorrow, just in time for next round. Nice e-mail from Trish--she's officially adopted me, it seems--wants me to call her "Mom" from now on. Got to meet her in person soon to give her long overdue hug. One to you, too. Mac and the Ovules.
It's lunchtime before I have the opportunity to reflect on Mac's note. "Ovules" throws me for a while until I realize with a verbalized "duh!" that she's talking about her portion of the raw material for our children. That's cleverness of Marine proportions at work. My mother would be thrilled at that--and I think I've seen round one of her doing for me what Grandma Sarah did for dad. Adoption; if you can't get a daughter-in-law, adopt the only likely candidate into the family anyway. Next she'll be inviting Mac to La Jolla for a weekend of surrogate mother-daughter bonding (and probably Harm-bashing, as well, or at least Harm-analyzing, which might actually be worse.)
Harriet knocks on my door as I'm finishing my sandwich and announces that another segment of "Day in the Life" is coming up. I walk into the bullpen and am not at all surprised to see that activity is coming to a halt as the ZNN theme reverberates through the room.
+++
"Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie is one tough Marine," Dunstan begins, and my heart begins to thunder in my ears. "Earlier today, she led a reconnaissance squad right up to an area that coalition forces have been bombing for the last 24 hours, searching for signs that the targets within the area have been destroyed. Here's what happened."
+++
I relax a bit; I know how this turns out, although obviously not everyone here at JAG HQ has seen the footage. It's been edited severely for this run, as Dunstan comes back live before Mac's wonderful defense of her actions.
+++
"About an hour ago, around 8 p.m. local time, this observation post at the edge of a coalition airstrike zone came under sustained small arms fire. Within moments, these Marines were returning fire, although several rocket-launched grenades did land within the small compound..."
+++
Visions of Mac throwing herself on top of one to save her men come unbidden into my head and I stagger for a chair. I'm surprised when Jen Coates rolls one under me, more so at the brief, supportive pat she gives my shoulder when I fall back into it.
+++
The video speaks for itself. Mac doesn't throw herself on a grenade, but she does manage to body slam three of her men away from one as it lands where they had been standing a moment before. All four get up slowly; Mac has a small cut on her cheek but other than that none of them seem the worse for wear as they pick up their various weapons and begin to return fire again.
Another grenade obviously landed behind the cameraman because the tape jumps and blurs for several seconds as the sound of an explosion obliterates the faint voices and louder gunfire. When it steadies, the cameraman is following as Mac leads a charge out into the open field around the post in pursuit of about six men fleeing on foot; there's evidence of at least one burning civilian vehicle just outside the collection of larger USMC vehicles, possibly two.
Dunstan sums up the firefight. "These attackers, like the group earlier, arrived in civilian pickup trucks. At least two shoulder-mounted RPG launchers came into play, but effective targeting by the night-vision gear equipped Marines made quick work of the enemy. Two men suffered some bruising where bullets impacted their Kevlar vests and Lt. Col. Mackenzie has, as you could see in the video, a cut on her face and a slightly sprained wrist from her diving save of the three young corporals. All in all, this Marine unit was very lucky today. We're all hoping for a quiet night before we return to Qatar with the brave woman who has stepped into the combat zone with poise, strength, and grace under fire. She continues to say that she's surviving and will be okay when she returns home to Washington, and if I had to hazard a guess, to a very special man. Reporting from somewhere in Iraq, this is Stuart Dunstan, ZNN."
+++
Every eye in the building is on me, including Admiral Chegwidden's. Thankfully, his normally taciturn look has a bit of a grin to it as he clears his throat and begins to speak. "Let's hope Mr. Dunstan is right. Back to work, people." He goes back toward his office, but not before at least two people ask the question I know everyone else is dying to ask.
"About which part, sir?"
Our admiral turns and looks right at me. His voice is more commanding now. "Both of them," he declares, and I am sure that my face is as red as the scarlet cummerbund of Mac's mess dress uniform.
I manage, somehow, to push myself up from the chair and make it back to my office before too many of my colleagues can start laughing at me; Harriet follows me and closes the door behind her.
The beautiful young blonde is in full mother mode and asks the question on her mind before I can get comfortable behind my desk. "I'm sorry, sir, but are you okay? You look upset."
I look up at her. I don't honestly know how this office would function without her to be concerned for each of us, even when she's worried that she's overstepping boundaries to show it. "Have a seat, Harriet," I offer, careful not to make it an order. "I could use the company." I could also use a bit of the heart-to-heart that Harriet is so good at, but that will have to wait until after hours.
She smiles and sits down on the edge of my guest chair. "Thank you, sir. You're really bothered that Colonel Mackenzie is in the war zone, aren't you, sir?"
"It's that obvious?" I know I can't hide it from her, anyway; I have some hope that others aren't as observant.
"Ordinarily when the colonel is out of the office, you're a bit grouchy but you interact with people. Ever since you got back from Andrews Monday morning, you've pretty much shut yourself into your office, you've given grunts instead of full acknowledgments to junior officers and staff, and Bud beat you at 21." Her blue eyes show how upset she is at this turn of events.
"It's that obvious." I lean back in my chair and put my hands over my eyes. "Harriet, how did you do it?"
She knows exactly what I mean. "Well, sir, with all due respect, Bud and I are married, and I think that helped a lot because we know exactly what we mean to each other."
She's got me there. "Message received, Harriet."
"That's good, sir," she replies, standing. "But receiving the message isn't enough. You need to act on it." And without waiting for me to dismiss her, she exits my office with a firm push of the door behind her such that it rattles closed.
Easy for her to say.
27 March 2003
I've been glued to the television since I walked in the door at 1630 yesterday, an hour earlier than usual because the Admiral decided I wouldn't be any good to him after we heard that bombs were falling on Baghdad again.
They've just announced that the big "bunker buster" bombs were delivered by B-2s overnight; it's nearly 10 in the morning there and Mac isn't due to leave until noon--if that even happens today.
Stuart Dunstan didn't have any new footage overnight and Mac didn't e-mail or call; I have to pray that it's just because they were hunkered down and not in the middle of more firefights. My nightmares will be vivid tonight. If I sleep.
I slept a little between fevered nightmares of Mac throwing herself on grenades, getting shot off the top of an APC, and being taken captive. The worst was the one of me standing with a casualty assistance officer at the base of the ramp of a C-5 Galaxy as an honor guard carries my Sarah's casket off the plane. I gave up on sleep after that and came into the office, arriving at 0645 to the incredulous surprise of the Marine guards at the gate.
Since then, Thursday has passed with agonizing slowness. No word from Mac, no hot cases; the same stories repeating on ZNN about bombs falling on Baghdad, paratroopers opening the northern front after Turkey's exercise of democracy kept our troops out, and British troops near Basra fighting stiff opposition. I should not worry about the absence of word from Mac; I know that there are families who haven't heard from their soldiers, sailors, and Marines since the war began or even before. But somehow it's...
Damn it!
If she knew how I feel. If I knew how she feels. If we were married like we ought to have been at least four years ago.
If, if, if.
I have about 12 days, hopefully far fewer, to get my head around those words I need to say. I'm not doing this anymore. The next time one of us leaves the other on assignment, it's going to be with full knowledge of what the other feels.
Maybe.
28 March 2003
I haven't had an e-mail from Mac or a phone call since Wednesday. The lack of contact and sleep have made me cranky; I have tried to interact with people as infrequently as possible to avoid causing hurt feelings. Even so, Admiral Chegwidden just gave me that half-inch warning--at 1630 on a Friday afternoon, which means I have until Monday to get it together before I lose that half-inch.
Stuart Dunstan was in the middle of his first live report since Wednesday night Iraq time, interviewing Mac at the observation post, when the bombs began falling and the satellite feed vanished mid-sentence. I slammed the drawer of a filing cabinet closed and it fell over, very nearly knocking poor Harriet off her feet in the process.
My Sarah is still in the hot zone, 36 hours after she was supposed to be relieved. What we got out of the interview before it was interrupted was that Mac's replacement officer got diverted to a new observer post outside of Mosul; Mac was in the middle of explaining the schedule for her new relief when the unmistakable sounds of fighter/bomber aircraft roared across the sky just a few minutes ago.
I turn down Sturgis' offer of dinner and March Madness on TV with a shrug and a half-hearted smile. He means well, but I really don't want to be with anyone right now.
Except the one person who isn't here for me to be with, of course. In her honor, I'm not replacing the beer I've had this week and I'm not going to drown my sorrows at some god-awful dive.
This is going to be a very long weekend.
Chloe has sent me several e-mails since Mac left, mostly commenting on the notes she's received from her Big Sister and teasing me about the "we're surviving and we'll be okay" bit. Somehow, I don't think Mac actually told her that I said the line originally, but Chloe being the eternal romantic and matchmaker has read correctly its meaning. Tonight's e-mail has a much more worried tone and contained far more spelling errors, grammatical mistakes, and typos than her usual compositions, which often read like well-thought through and edited essay.
Harm, what does it mean thta the repot got cut off ight in the middle? Did a bomb fall where Mac was? What if she's the only one left alive but she's hurt and can't get to help? I know your worried to but I cna't get the idea out of my head and I need to know. I know you love her even more than I do and you'll here from her before I do. Please, as soon as you hear, call me or e-mail me, even if its the middle of the nite. I love you, too. Chloe
I wonder if Chloe would like to come visit during her April vacation? Mac will be back by then and both of us have some leave time coming. And my mother had said something about coming here for Easter this year, which I'm pretty sure is her way of making sure that she gets to meet Mac sooner rather than later, as she knows that Easter is a JAG family holiday for which there are no excuses. Chaplain Turner presided last year; this year, Sturgis has invited Bobbi Latham and his father. Hmmm... this could be a good distraction Monday from Mac's absence.
I write back to Chloe. Hey, sweetheart--I wish I could say this had news in it, but it doesn't. You're right, I am very worried now, but I'm going to keep praying and so should you. You know our Marine: she'll kick our sixes into next year if she thinks we've given up on her. I promise you'll be my first call, even before the admiral, I smile a little at that as I reread my note thus far, (which will get me into big trouble if he finds out, I'd like you to know!). Love 'ya, lil' sis. I hit send and go back to my sick reverie.
I just want to know that Sarah is okay. Chloe's worries have nothing on the visions that swim behind my eyelids whenever I close my eyes and they have nothing to do with what's playing on ZNN right now. I know that I have some extra cable modem cord around here somewhere, so I think I'm going to extend the reach of my cable so I can stay connected to my e-mail while I sit here on the couch. I'll even turn the sound on so I'll hear the announcement that I have mail when my Sarah writes to say she's fine.
29 March 2003
I should be out flying. If I could tear myself away from the damned TV for more than the few minutes it took me to buy the replacement beer I'd previously decided to forgo, I would at least go do an initial maintenance check on the Sarah who isn't in the war zone so that when the Sarah who is in the war zone gets back, we can have our flying date.
But it's now been 18 hours and I haven't heard anything from Mac, nor has Stuart Dunstan been on ZNN except in file reports. I keep wondering if I'm going to be the recipient of a knock on the door from a casualty assistance officer; Mac listed me and her Uncle Matt as next-of-kin a long time ago, just as I listed my mother and her. Even while we were in the Video Bugme Era, that never changed. That probably ought to have been a great big red flag...
I need to know that she's okay. My world has a chance of being survivable as long as I know she's in it somewhere, alive. At this point, I'd even settle for knowing that she's hurt as long as she's not fatally so. We can make it through anything--Bud and Harriet have shown us how, and even though we have some catching up to do, I'll be damned if I'm going to let Sarah out of the country again without closing that gap at least some.
But I still have to figure out how to say what I need to say in words that will come out correctly and mean only what I need them to mean. There can be no room for misinterpretation with this.
And I now know beyond a shadow of any doubt that I can't risk waiting a year, a month, and about 15 days to tell my Sarah that I'm ready to get out of my prison.
AJ and Meredith came by just at the 24-hour mark to distract themselves--and to try to distract me--for a little while. It really didn't work for any of us, but somehow it was a little better to have company for a short time. Not that I could have said "no" to the admiral anyway. Now they've gone and it's been nearly 26 hours without word from Mac.
On the one hand, there's a sense of impending doom about that. On the other hand, I seriously doubt that the Iraqi government would be silent about the capture of a female Marine officer, nor do I think that the Pentagon would be taking this long to notify me (and her Uncle Matt) if they knew anything at all. I'm thus operating on the "no news is good news" theory.
Yeah, Rabb. You just keep telling yourself that and someday in the distant future you just might believe it in the same way you believe in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and the superior ideals of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels.
I need a beer.
30 March 2003
The headache I had Tuesday morning was nothing compared to the multiple ice picks currently slamming away inside my skull. I'm facing the TV as I come awake, which is a good thing because I'm pretty sure that those ice picks would prevent me from moving to check to see what time it is. The ZNN stamp conveniently tells me that it's 6:12 p.m. in Baghdad and 10:12 a.m. here in DC--and it's further a good thing that both times are listed because there is no way that I can do math at this point in the day.
I remember looking at the TV just after midnight. I don't quite understand why I feel the way I do after 10 hours of... oh. Those 12 empty beer bottles would explain a lot. Even I can't metabolize 2 beers an hour for 6 straight hours on an empty stomach.
Bad move, Rabb, thinking about your stomach. Move? Not a chance--on second thought, every chance and very quickly, at that.
+++
Twenty minutes, a glass of water, and three extra-strength acetaminophen later, I'm back on the couch in front of the Sunday morning ZNN talking heads. One of them is yammering on about the protests in Europe, about which I care nothing. However, I'm afraid to change the channel for fear that someone will say something about Stuart Dunstan, thus giving me even the tiniest parcel of information about Mac.
Just in case I was so out of it that I missed a phone call, I check my caller ID log. I have to assume that nothing came in overnight since there are no calls, which puts us at the 42-hour mark and counting. I should check my e-mail, but my eyes aren't ready to focus that closely so I am putting that off until later, beyond a quick check to make sure that nothing has come through from Mac.
ZNN shows a list of its embedded reporters and their approximate whereabouts. Dunstan is shown as "location unverifiable; last report 3/29 12:18 a.m." Only the fact that two other of the ZNN reporters are shown with the same status and with less recent report times stops me from picking up the phone and calling Admiral Chegwidden to ask him to pull as many strings as he has.
Well, that and the Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads in the form of Ted Lindsey's report.
I have no idea how much time passes before I am awakened by the phone ringing. At least my head isn't being shaved to shreds inside my skull anymore as I reach up to grab the receiver. It's Bud.
"Harm," he says with the new-found confidence that he's developed since he passed the fitness boards after we've exchanged the "how are you holding up" pleasantries, "Little AJ is asking for you and Auntie Mac."
Ouch. It's so rare now that Mac and I aren't together when we see AJ that I can't remember the last time, unless you count my late arrival at Christmas--but then everyone was able to assure the three-year old that I was coming with reasonable expectation that they were telling the truth. I know that Mac won't be walking through the Roberts' door anytime soon, anymore than she'll use her key to let herself in and be waiting for me on my bed in that gorgeous nightgown she wore in Moscow when I get back. I'm going to have to go to see our godson alone. "What have you told him?"
Bud sighs. "That Auntie Mac is away on a business trip and we don't know when she'll be back. Then he asked if she was in the war."
"Damn, Bud, he's too young to be asking questions like that." I grunt; AJ has learned about war the hard way and has every right to ask the question that has to be uppermost on his mind. He probably doesn't even mean the new war. "Sorry. But you know what I mean."
"Yeah, Harm, I do. Are you willing to come over for a while? Harriet wants to see you, too, and we thought we'd grill tonight, since it's clearing up a bit."
I hadn't even noticed it was raining. "Sure. Give me an hour. Can I bring anything?"
There's a short pause followed by a gentle laugh. "Good news would be nice."
Wouldn't it, though.
I've decided that Little AJ's new nickname is "The Barnacle." He attached himself to my leg the minute I walked through the door and hasn't gone more than three feet away from me since. His proximity makes it a little difficult for me to eat my veggie burger comfortably, but our godson seems to need to exorcise his anxiety about Mac's absence by sticking all the closer to me.
Harriet smiles at me from her seat at the end of the table. "He did the same thing while you were away, Bud," she says, nodding to AJ and me when her husband looks up. "Mikey and Harm were his anchors."
Bud follows Harriet's gaze and makes eye contact with me, a look of serene contentment in his eyes that is new since the damned land mine. "We're extremely blessed, Harriet, to have such good family."
I shouldn't be surprised that he ends the sentence there, but I am. We really are a family, and we will be no matter where our careers take us in the future. Mac and I will have another godchild in the fall, God willing, and the Roberts children will have Mackenzie-Rabb cousins sometime soon after that. We may not have the same blood running in our veins, but we're bound by blood of a much stronger kind.
Lord, I'm getting maudlin as I munch my grilled burger. AJ noticed; he's looking at me with the quizzical look that Mac loves so much.
"What's up, sport?" I ask, reaching out to tweak his nose.
"Jus' thinkin'," he replies. "'Bout you an' Auntie Mac."
I have no idea why, but I'm going to ignore the alarm bells ringing in my head. "What about Aunt Mac and me?"
"You should get married."
I look up at Harriet and she knows what I'm about to ask.
"I swear, Harm, I've never said anything in front of him." The fearful sincerity in her eyes makes me relax; Harriet is a romantic at heart but she would never use her own son as a matchmaking tool.
Oh, wait, that's exactly what she did, and bless her for doing so. With a shrug and a roll of my eyes, I turn my attention back to AJ. "Why should Auntie Mac and I get married?"
Ever seen a three-year old look as though he's explaining a simple concept to an idiot? I hadn't until just now. It's rather cute, actually, although disconcerting when you're the one on the receiving end. "'Cause you love her like Daddy loves Mommy."
I won't even bother to ask how he's come to that conclusion; I know that I watch Mac the way Bud watches Harriet even now and that AJ has caught us doing those little flirtatious touches more than once. I seem to recall he caught us under the mistletoe this year on Christmas Day, too - and that was no "awkward moment" kiss he witnessed but as close to a real kiss as we've ever shared. "Well, I'll take it under advisement," I say, and I hear both Bud and Harriet inhale sharply in pleasant surprise. At least we know who the ring bearer will be.
Assuming she comes back to me.
I'm turning the corner into my parking lot when the sight of a dark blue government sedan makes my gut twist in wrenching pain. I know that car, or at least that kind of car; it's the casualty assistance officers coming to tell me that my Sarah is dead...
I'm already tearing up when I shut off the Corvette and open the door; it takes me a moment to get myself under control before I lever myself up and out of the low-slung car and slam the door behind me with force that would ordinarily have me screaming at the perpetrator of such an assault on my pride and joy. I just don't give a damn at the moment.
There are two people in the sedan, I notice, but only one is in uniform, and Marine at that. I hear them getting out as I unlock my back door through stinging tears that refuse to fall. I will do that in private.
"Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.?" The feminine voice that calls out to me thankfully bears no resemblance to Sarah's soothing timbre.
"Yes," I say without turning, and push the door open to go through. I should let them in first, but I don't give a damn about good manners right now. They can figure it out.
Not until I hear the door close behind my two unwelcome guests do I bother to turn to face them so I can hear the news which will end my life.
Except that the other of my guests is Clayton Webb and he's grinning from ear to ear. And he obviously recognizes the look on my face because he starts talking before I can even put a foot out toward him to wring his secret agent neck.
"Harm, I'm just the messenger--I really had nothing to do with this at all. No one consulted me until a little while ago when I was told that one of the al-Qaeda captains we've been looking for got captured by a Marine observation post outside of Baghdad early Saturday morning- and that the initial identification and interrogation went so smoothly because a Farsi-speaking lieutenant colonel happened to be there."
I sag against the kitchen island with relief; Mac was at least alive yesterday. "And?" If he thinks that's all he has to tell me, he's got another thing coming.
Impossibly, the grin gets bigger. "I managed to trump Mac's initial assignment. If you hurry, you can be at Dover to meet her plane. She's on her way back for debriefing now, but we don't need her until 10 o'clock tomorrow morning."
I'd hug him, but something about the Marine captain beside Clay makes me think she wouldn't understand that. I wonder if she's an Intel weenie, too. "Thanks, Clay," I manage.
"He's very persuasive," the captain says sourly, and I realize then that she's probably part of the team which initially demanded Mac's services. "We may still require Colonel Mackenzie's services after the CIA is finished with her."
Clay and I trade looks. The gleam in his eyes tells me that he can fabricate ways for the CIA to need Mac's continued presence in DC for a long time. I'm usually jealous that he's so attracted to her, but in this instance I can live with it because it means she'll be safe. Then it hits me.
"Dover?" Dover Air Force Base in Delaware is where the casualties land.
"Relax--that was the first flight we could get her on. She's fine. And she'll probably add to her collection of medals, too. But she'll be able to wear this one. Dover at 10:20 tonight." He looks at my casual clothes. "You'll have to change, though. Military personnel are only being allowed to meet casualty flights in dress uniform."
I'd forgotten that; we met Bud's flight in our summer whites before the regs changed again. "Thanks," I say to Clay and the unnamed captain with him, and move to usher them through the door.
Sarah's alive!
I spend the entire 2-hour drive to Dover--I hate that it actually takes 2 hours on these busy roads!--working feverishly to put the words that I need to say in some coherent order. I refuse to let myself back away from this, even as I hear a voice in my head saying, "She's safe, you don't need to do this now. You've got more time."
I have time now, but what if it hadn't been Clay and a Marine Intelligence officer in that car but exactly who I expected it to be? What if instead of Clay's exuberant beaming face I had been confronted by a somber Marine Corps colonel expressing the deepest sympathies of a grateful nation? I cannot let another day pass without telling Sarah that I've set myself free, that my heart is no longer a prisoner of my own selfish immaturity, even if it takes me all night to do so.
I realize as I wait for the armed guard at the main gate of the base to examine my military ID that I should have called Chloe, the admiral, Bud and Harriet, and Sturgis. But something is holding me back, and I think that it's just a tiny shred of doubt that Clay is right that she's alive and unharmed. What if his information was wrong and what will come off that plane is my Sarah on a stretcher with horrendously grave injuries--or worse, in a flag draped coffin?
Get a grip, Rabb. The CIA wouldn't be that cruel to one of its own, and their information would have been triple checked on the ground long before it came to DC. I pray.
The signs directing visitors to the arrival area are clear, so I have no trouble finding the hangar. A few men and women have gathered just inside, probably by a portable heater to help fight the early spring chill. None of them are in uniform; all are wearing dark clothes under jackets and coats and I can see the look of pained disbelief in several dry eyes even as others wipe at the tears that have obviously been falling for days. I feel slightly guilty that I'm waiting for someone who will be able to walk off the plane unaided.
I've only been waiting about five minutes when the unmistakable sound of a very large jet aircraft on final approach causes all of us to look up toward the horizon and the black hole in the star-lit sky that is the plane we all await.
I fly fighter jets; these monstrous C-5's that lumber through the sky scare the hell out of me. They are sitting ducks for both ground- and air-launched anti-aircraft weapons, despite the numerous counter-measures the planes have and what has to be a stupendous amount of evasion training for the pilots. On the other hand, there's a certain beauty in the way the craft appears to float to the ground; the pilot must be extraordinarily confident because there isn't even a puff of smoke as the nose wheel kisses the ground; he--or she--allows the flaps to slow the plane initially and applies the brakes and reverse thrusters only after the plane has rolled another 200 feet down the runway. The jet glides to a crawl as it taxis toward the loading ramp outside our hangar. Trash hauler or not, it's a beautiful piece of flying.
I know I'll have to wait a while before Sarah can deplane; I see the honor guard forming up for their march to the rear of the Galaxy and a small mixed-service formation of officers marches smartly toward us. When the six officers and their commander halt in front of us, I see that the ranking officer is an Air Force Chaplain, probably a staff chaplain for the Armed Forces Mortuary here, and that the others are staff officers from the Army and the Marines. These casualty assistance officers escort the waiting families out onto the tarmac and position them so that they can see the coffins off-loaded with full military honors.
The chaplain salutes me then motions for me to follow him; we go and stand at attention beside the back of the first hearse. When the honor guard sets the first coffin into the vehicle, we salute until the door closes firmly and the honor guard, too, renders honors; we drop our arms at the command of the sergeant leading the detail. We repeat this twice more, and only after the third hearse has pulled away does the Air Force officer beside me turn to introduce himself.
"Gene Caldwell, Commander. What can we do you for tonight? There aren't any wounded on this flight..."
"No, Major. I'm actually meeting a passenger."
He frowns; obviously his briefing didn't include this piece of information. "If there are any passengers, they'll be deplaning with the crew shortly. In the mean time, you're welcome to come and wait in the crew office, sir."
"Thank you, Major, but I think I'll wait out here."
"Okay." He looks more closely at my dress blue uniform. "What do you fly, if you don't mind me asking, sir?"
"Tomcats."
"But you're also a JAG officer." Not every blue suiter can read the insignia on our sleeves. I'm impressed.
"Yes."
"Nice to know there are other fighter jocks with dual designators," he grins, and only then do I see the silver wings that denote an Air Force pilot.
"Eagles or Falcons?" We may wear different color uniforms, but fighter pilots are still fighter pilots.
"I'm rated for both, sir, but I prefer the -15s. I've been flying BARCAP out of Andrews since 9/11 in my spare time." His young face splits into a grin at the thought of all his hours in the air.
"PAX River," I nod, and I feel a smile on my face, as well. "How'd you get to be a chaplain?"
"My wingman died in a training accident and I was pretty shaken up by it. The squadron chaplain was an ex-pilot himself and he really helped me get through the ordeal, so I looked into getting some training in Critical Incident Stress Management and found myself drawn to seminary in the process. It took me five years of night and intensive classes, but I had some encouragement and support from both the Air Force and the United Church of Christ, so here I am. How'd you get to be a JAG?"
It's a fair question, and although I am getting antsy for the crew to deplane, I know I'm better off talking through my mounting nervousness than being alone. So I give Major Caldwell the broad strokes of my odd Naval career, only to be interrupted as I'm getting to our post 9/11 adventures by the man's shout of laughter.
"You're the one who let that dirty nuke lock onto your exhaust pipes last year, aren't you?"
"Uh, yeah," I admit. I never know if I'll be congratulated for my bravery or castigated for my stupidity. Sarah's the only one who regularly does both.
"You, sir, are one cool dude. Here's the crew, so I'll leave you to meet your friend. Have a nice night, Commander."
"I plan to," I say before I think about it, and the other man's mind goes exactly where I inadvertently led him.
Caldwell salutes but drops a wink at me before he turns sharply away toward the hangar and an undeniably warmer environment.
I look up toward the enormous aircraft to see that about ten people have gathered at the top of the forward ramp--it's more than a little disconcerting, by the way, to see the nose of an airplane raised over the cockpit windows--while someone whom I can only assume is the load master confers with the ground chief at the bottom of the ramp. And then I see my Sarah, looking out of place amongst the Nomex-clad aircrew in her olive dress uniform; she has her sea bag on her shoulder as though it's feather-light, but I know it isn't because I know what has to be in there by regulation, never mind the allotted weight for personal items that in Sarah's case is always books.
I hope there's nothing breakable in that sea bag because it's going to hit the ground about ten seconds after she steps off the end of that ramp.
It's actually 6 seconds because she spots me as she comes down the ramp and runs to meet me half way, dropping the bag and throwing herself into my embrace. Obviously neither of us care that we're engaging in a brazen act of Conduct Unbecoming in hugging this way; her slender form melts against me and I wish once again that we could melt into each other so this could never happen again.
Before I can gather my courage to say what I need to say, she tips her head back a fraction and looks up at me with a bright tear hanging on each lash. She doesn't give me time to get lost in her eyes, though; she's got something to say through those beautiful rose lips that smile at me.
"How'd you know? Marine Intel said I'd be met and sequestered until I've been debriefed."
I discover that my voice is thick as I try to talk, and it takes me a couple of tries to get going. "Clayton. He scared me to death first, of course." I'll tell her about my terror later. I have something much more important to say to my Sarah. "But I'm okay now."
"So am I," she admits, and we stand in silence for a few moments before she speaks again. "Harm?"
Damn, it's her "you're crying" tone again, and sure enough, the tears are flowing unnoticed down my cheeks. The words I so carefully crafted on my way here have flown out of my head; all I can do is pray that what comes out of my mouth next makes sense. "Sarah," I whisper, forcing myself to talk first and kiss later.
"Sarah, I have to let go. You took my heart with you to Iraq and I've been dying since you left. I can't let another minute pass without you knowing how much I love you." Well, I hadn't been able to string those three words together earlier; this must be better. I keep going. "I've been holding myself prisoner for so long and now if I don't let myself out I'll wither and die. Marry me, have my children, grow old with me, just say you'll always be with me, please."
Her dark brown eyes have gone wide and tears now fall from them, as well. Her lower lip is trembling as though she's trying to hold in a sob and the sight sends me over the edge. I have to make her understand how serious I am. Reluctantly, I move one arm from her waist to bring my palm to her cheek. I trace that trembling lip with my thumb; her eyes close and she pulls closer to me. "I love you, Sarah Mackenzie. I will give up anything you want me to just to have the chance to make you happy for the rest of your life."
Her fingers are twining through the hair at the nape of my neck again as I feel the gentle pull she's exerting. I move my hand to the back of her head and meet her lips with my own in a bruising, soul-baring kiss that leaves us both breathless after several long moments.
"Harmon Rabb, I love you," she whispers against my ear, and I know that I am truly a prisoner set free.
