The Keymaster
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 "A Prisoner Set Free" and "She Who Holds the Key". 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 recent events, and set in AJ's voice.
24 March 2003
It's 0629 on a cold, rainy Monday morning in March and I am just turning Dammit loose from her leash after our abbreviated morning run when my phone rings.
When my home phone rings after 2330 or before 0800, it is never good news. Exemplorum gratia: Mac was arrested for the murder of her husband. That call came at 0016 from the DC Police one god-awful night. Harm and Mac were shot down over Russia. I got that unwelcome call from Clayton Webb at 0358. Rabb and Brumby broke Bud's jaw in four places in Australia. Mac called to tell me at 0134; she, at least, had the grace to tell me that she realized the time difference but felt that Bud's injury was important enough to disturb me. There have been others; those three happen to stick out in my mind as particularly vile examples of the worst kinds of news.
"Chegwidden," I growl into the receiver almost before it's close enough to my mouth to make a difference.
It doesn't seem to matter to the voice on the other end of the phone; the Commandant of the Marine Corps himself is barking at me, which means one of two things: he needs JAG to run an investigation ASAP before something big hits the fan or one of my staff has just insulted the United States Marine Corps in some fatal way.
"I'm sorry, AJ," he says after a moment of gruffness. "I shouldn't take my frustrations with my staff out on you."
"It's quite alright, sir." It isn't, but the four stars on the other man's collar trump the two on mine.
"You're very kind. I need a favor."
Oh, crap. I forgot that possibility, didn't I? Well, I haven't had my shower--or my coffee--yet. "Name it, sir."
He hesitates; when he continues, I can tell that he knows he's on contentious ground. "You won't like it."
"I'm sure I won't. It involves Lt. Col. Mackenzie, doesn't it?"
"Yes." There's at least the comfort of a sigh in his tone before he goes on. "I need to send her to Qatar, AJ. From there, she's needed to do a quick in-and-out hop to pick up a suspected al-Qaeda operative that one of my forward observer posts cottoned onto this morning."
"Why can't they bring him out themselves?" Even as I'm asking it, I know it's a dumb question; FOPs are not something one tampers with in the midst of air operations against an enemy.
His answer, however, is broader than I thought it would be. "I need a Marine who is a Farsi and Russian speaker, a member of the D.C. bar with in-depth knowledge of al-Qaeda operations and structure and who also has experience with the military tribunal system."
I can't suppress the chuckle that bubbles forth; if anyone alive knew of someone other than Mac who fit that bill, it would be yours truly. I don't. "Sounds like someone looked at Mac's personnel jacket to assemble this mission profile, sir."
"I wouldn't put it past the folks in charge out there, Admiral. Mackenzie's got a flight out of Andrews at 0945. It could be two weeks."
"No more than that, I hope, sir. Colonel Mackenzie is currently TAD to the judiciary, where she is badly needed." Ye gods, this is going to be a nightmare of scheduling! And my Chief of Staff won't be around to help fix it.
"Duly noted, AJ. Have an ooo-rah day, Admiral."
"Thank you, sir. You, too." An ooh-rah day? I'm a SEAL. I have hoo-yah days, not ooh-rah days.
Today, however, is neither. Before I call Mac, I need to call in a favor or three or four. I call the Chief of Naval Operations--who is always in his office by 0630 because he picks up his granddaughter from day care at 1500--and, after I explain the circumstances, make one other statement.
"Permission to accompany the colonel into the field, sir!" It is not phrased as a question.
"AJ, why?"
We've known each other since the CNO was my company commander back at the Academy, been stationed together twice, and shared more alcohol than is good for either of us. I can play on a little bit of sympathy and familiarity. "Gut instinct, John. There's just something I don't like about this whole set up, right down to the requirements that Colonel Mackenzie so cleanly fits."
The other end of the line is quiet for perhaps 30 seconds. "Hold on, let me call the secretary."
John indeed puts me on hold; I know the answer he's going to get, though. The Secretary of the Navy just let Ted Lindsey run rampant through my office on a witch hunt, so he's certainly not going to let me go off into a combat zone on some gut instinct that one of my officers will be in danger.
Sure enough, the CNO's voice holds a tone of regret when he comes back to me in about 2 minutes. "Not only no, but ‘hell, no!', AJ. And something about leaving an F-14 without permission entered into his irate ramble, too, but I haven't a clue what that means." I do. "I'm sorry--I know how that gut feeling works."
He does, too; he and I once nearly got ourselves court martialed for mounting a ground assault based on his gut instincts. The only reason we didn't was that we saved the lives of seven of his aviators and didn't lose any of my SEALS in the process of destroying the SAM battery that was where intelligence swore it wasn't and couldn't be. "It's okay, John. Thank you for trying."
"You're welcome. I'll be praying for the colonel. She's far too valuable to the service and far too good a friend of yours to lose to this insanity. And I never said that."
"Understood, sir." How John, outspoken as he is, ever made it all the way to CNO is still one of the great mysteries of the universe.
I look at the phone for a moment after John and I exchange final pleasantries before I hit #2 on my speed dial for Mac's apartment. She's my chief of staff, after all--she should be near the top of my speed dial list. I was smart enough when I programmed the phone to leave #1 available for a significant other, a detail for which Meredith has been appropriately grateful since we first met.
Mac answers on the first ring; it's disconcerting how she does that, as is the fact that she has Caller ID on all her phones instead of on only the bedroom phone as I do. Otherwise I might have ignored the Commandant's call.
"Good morning, Admiral. Where am I going now?"
See? It's true. Calls before 0800 equal trouble.
That and Mac is as close to psychic as anyone I've ever met. "Qatar, for about two weeks." Dammit begins to bark and ignores all my efforts to silence her as I try to concentrate on the conversation ahead of me.
"Webb?"
I have to stop and think this one through. The general didn't say so, but then again Clayton Webb, exiled to Tierra del Fuego or not, might have had a hand in this somehow. "Apparently not, but I won't bet the farm on it, Mac."
She's all business, my favorite Marine is. "What's the assignment?"
I give her as much detail as I got, which isn't much. Dammit is still barking; something tells me Dammit and a certain Naval aviator are a lot alike.
Mac laughs, a sound that I wish we could hear more of in the office. But I guess she--much more than her partner--has found in me a role model and thus maintains two separate personae for the two halves of her life. "Sounds exciting."
Of course, only Marines and Naval aviators who have earned their JDs--and quite probably Shakespeare scholars with an adrenaline addiction--think this kind of thing is exciting; hell, even I don't think it's all that exhilarating. "You really need to get a life, Mac."
"I'm working on that, sir," she replies, much to my surprise, and my instant reaction is at last. Of course, if it isn't Rabb this time, I could make that master chief Singer and Roberts took down for cursing at children as innocent as that insipid purple dinosaur on PBS.
"Mac," I say, making the tangential leap, "do you have any magic words that will keep Harm from going off the deep end while you're away?"
Her answer comes as though she was getting ready to say something in the same vein. "Short of letting him come with me, sir, the only thing I can think of is chaining him to his desk so he can't go UA to come after me."
Now there's an image. I have to fight back the laughter, but my words still carry an unmistakably humorous tone. "What size link should I look for?"
She laughs that delighted waterfall of hers again. "The anchor chain from the Seahawk might to do the trick, Admiral. I need to go if I'm going to catch Harm early enough for him to pick me up for work."
Dammit only quiets when I set the phone back in its cradle. I have to wonder if she was reacting to my tone or something--maybe she sensed how unnerved I really am by this whole thing.
I look at my dog and begin to speak to her, hoping that she'll have an answer to the ultimate question of the next two weeks: what to do with Harmon Rabb, Jr. "Rabb is a first class idiot for not claiming her years ago, Dammit," I say--and am immediately brought to a short bark of laughter by the appropriateness of my pet's name in that context. "They do everything together and watching the two of them communicate--at least according to Bud--is like being the only human in the room with two Betazoids. Or maybe it was Klingons..."
Dammit just looks at me, no hint of assistance in her limpid brown eyes. Damn it.
My staff is gathering for an abbreviated call prior to the colonel's departure. I really am a very lucky man, I realize yet again as I watch them trickle in.
Bud Roberts, so young once but matured now beyond his years thanks to a happy marriage and fatherhood--and, unhappily, the loss of his daughter Sarah during birth and the loss of his leg to a landmine as he did what he does best, watch out for the well-being of others - comes in just ahead of his wife Harriet.
Harriet, the eternally strong one who lets her heart show more than anyone else in the office, has taken to staying two short steps behind Bud whenever they walk together because she's afraid he'll lose his balance on his prosthesis. She would never say that out loud, but I've observed her enough to know. Never mind that she would probably lose their third child if she tried to catch him; the lieutenant is determined to be there for her husband when he needs her. Every couple should be as fortunate as the Roberts.
Sturgis Turner, who saunters in with the walk I always associate with submariners, is somewhat of an enigma. By all rights, he should have earned a command, but he came through just as the sub fleet was being downsized; he didn't have quite enough time in rank to make the first cut over his older peers. At his CO's recommendation, he worked his way through the Legal Education Program and, probably on a lark, applied to JAG for a change of designator. I'm no fool; I needed a JAG, however green, out at Pearl and that's where he was at the time. That saved me big money in the budget (money that subsequently went to repair the ceiling in a courtroom…) and earned me a top-notch litigator and legal scholar. But other than that he and Harm like to work on cars together and that he and Congresswoman Latham are more of an item than not, I don't know much about him. Even his father, Chaplain Turner, won't divulge family stories.
The conference room door bounces open almost on Turner's heels, revealing two figures deep in conversation. At first, I confess that my assumption is Rabb and Mackenzie, but both are in Navy winter uniforms. That makes them Petty Officer First Class Jason Tiner and Petty Officer Second Class Jennifer Coates.
Tiner is about to finish law school. I have his OCS recommendation on my desk, but trying to do it behind his back has been very difficult. He needs more seasoning before he'll be ready to take on his full promise, but he's been a real asset to this office and I'm only sanguine about his eventual promotion because of the woman beside him. No one knew at Christmas time last year that the young woman who wanted out of the Navy so badly would turn her life around to become a member of our JAG family--even before she saved Bud's life in Afghanistan, although I think she went from "cousin" to "sister" that day. She's going to be my next yeoman.
The usual chitchat among colleagues backdrops my irritation as I look at my watch. I'm as surprised as everyone else is when I realize that the doors are swinging open at 0814, a full minute before our scheduled start time. My irritation, it seems, is misplaced.
Or perhaps not. Colonel Mackenzie entered alone and has already pulled out her usual chair at my right hand by the time I process the absence of her partner. She's here, so I'm guessing that he's in the building somewhere. She did say she was going to have him pick her up, presumably so she could break the news to him in person.
Sure enough, when he comes in at five seconds past 0815, it's apparent to everyone by the scowl on Commander Rabb's face that today is not going to be a good day for the service's star attorney. Anger roils the air as he stalks to his chair on my left, but it isn't just anger; one glance into his usually guarded eyes shows me that the man is downright terrified. Whether for his partner, for what would happen to him if something happened to her, or both, I can't tell. I've seen the look on Mac before, but never this starkly on Harm.
It's going to be a long two weeks.
"Okay, folks, let's get down to business quickly. Colonel Mackenzie will be leaving the office at 0900 for Andrews on a TAD assignment to the combat theater. We're down a judge for the next two weeks, but I can't spare an attorney to cover." Which is a shame; as much as Harm declaimed that he was a "natural born killer" rather than a "rational decision maker", another assignment to the bench might have been a good distraction for him. Then again, it might have resulted in utter chaos. With Rabb, it's safer to bet on chaos than order.
"What does that do to the dockets, sir?" Trust Turner to turn attention to the real work after everyone briefly glances at our chief of staff.
"It crowds them, Commander. Get negotiated settlements as often as you can - new trial dates are pushing back into early May now if everything in process goes to court-martial."
Coates holds up her hand a bit and waits for me to acknowledge her. "Would you like me to check the availability of judges from other offices for TAD here, sir?"
Yes, I was definitely not fully awake when I started processing the implications of Mac's departure and possible solutions thereto. "That's a very good idea, Petty Officer. Please do."
Jen beams as she replies, "Aye, sir!"; I realize as I watch Jason meet her eyes that his commission might put a significant crimp in his social life. Note to self: discourage Jen gently because I know damn well that Tiner won't listen. Tiner, after all, is a man. My gender tends to ignore sage advice about falling in love and also tends to ignore their own feelings until it's too late to stop them from crossing the Rubicon of romance and passion. I speak from very recent experience on this subject, of course.
The rest of the abbreviated meeting goes quickly, although I don't think the most oblivious man could have ignored the tension emanating from Harmon Rabb as time ticks by toward 0900. Except Rabb himself, of course. He tries to be his usual charming self, but every person around the table, Mac included, knows he is losing the battle.
When I dismiss them, I hold the colonel back a moment. She merely shrugs as if she knows exactly what I'm going to ask her and says with a smile that must rock Rabb back on his heels whenever he sees it (because it comes close to knocking me back on my heels and I'm getting ready to ask Meredith to marry me), "Anchor chains from the Seahawk, sir."
I give her a rueful smile. "So you said earlier, Colonel. Just how dumb does he think we are, Mac?"
Her own expression clouds as she sighs. "He doesn't think we're dumb, sir. He doesn't even know it shows so clearly."
I get the sense that she's just said far too much for her own comfort; she flushes and her hand goes to her mouth, covering it as though to keep herself from saying anything more. I could let her off the hook, but this is the first time I've ever had either of my star officers in a position to ask about their actual relationship.
"Mac, off the record, friend to friend, forget the stars and the oak leaf for a minute. What's between you and Harm?"
She cocks her head to the side and gazes off behind my shoulder for long enough that I wonder if she's even heard me. Just as I'm getting ready to ask again, her smile returns and her eyes sparkle with something I know I'm going to spend a lot of time deciphering with Meredith. Just like I'm going to spend a lot of time deciphering her answer.
"A promise, AJ."
A promise, AJ. What promise could Harmon Rabb, Jr., and Sarah Mackenzie have made to each other that keeps them so tied together despite everything that has happened to tear them apart? I ponder this intermittently throughout the day as I see Harm trying valiantly to keep his emotions in check. And when was this promise made? The answer to that would, perhaps, be even more interesting.
Harriet and Bud are obviously as concerned as I am about Harm; Harriet invites him to lunch, which he refuses. A few minutes later, I watch her just walk into his office and plunk a couple of salads onto his desk. I have great hope for Harriet's career--the tone in her voice would make Gunny Galindez proud.
"Lt. Simms, I--"
"Commander Rabb, due respect, sir, but you're going to eat your lunch and you're going to do it in the company of another human being who cares about you."
Wait, that's not a command voice. That's a MOMMY voice. And the effect on Harm is visceral. He narrows his eyes at the woman across his desk, slams his fist down, starts to say something, then whimpers in pain and shakes his hand out as though he's just deadened it on impact.
"It would be a lot less painful if you'd just give in now, sir, rather than posturing through all your defense mechanisms."
I wish I could see Harriet's face; I can see Harm's, however, and something she said cracked his dour expression just a little. It's not quite a smile, and certainly not the "flyboy" smile that Meredith tells me all the women swoon over, but it's an improvement nonetheless. One more Bravo Zulu for Lt. Simms on her next fitrep.
After lunch at one point, I hear Bud and Sturgis talking about a "man's night out" at the gym when I walk past the lieutenant's office.
"I'll invite Harm," Sturgis says, nodding toward his Academy company mate's closed office door. "I doubt he'll come, but I'll invite him."
Bud laughs from behind his desk and I have to stop to peruse the library shelf in the passageway in order to hear the rest of the conversation. I'm the admiral; I can eavesdrop when I think it's in the best interest of my people. "I don't know, Commander. Commander Rabb might take the bait if you tell him we're playing 21."
I hide a snort of laughter behind a fake sneeze as Petty Officer Coates bustles past; Bud certainly knows his mentor and friend well.
"You're right, Lieutenant. Can I interest you in steaks and beers afterward?"
Say no, I will the younger man. His wife is pregnant and they have a three and three-quarter year old (he's very particular about that three-quarter thing, as Meredith found out a couple of weeks ago when she met Little AJ in the parking lot) to go home to.
"Oh, thank you, sir, but Harriet and I have plans this evening after my usual gym time. Rain check when Colonel Mackenzie is back and they have a girls' night out?"
Smart man, Bud.
And it occurs to me as I slither away from Bud's door before Sturgis catches me standing there: Maybe Harriet knows the nature of the promise between Harm and Mac and would be willing to share that information.
"AJ, honey, I've never seen you this upset about one of your officers being away. Is it because it's Mac?" Meredith is sitting across from me at my dining room table, holding my left hand in her right and pushing the remnants of what was actually a pretty good chicken and rice casserole around on her plate with the fork in her left.
I sigh; perhaps because she was Mac's friend first and met me under adverse conditions that forced me to apologize both to her and to Mac, Meredith saw from the very beginning that Mac holds a special place in my heart. I long ago gave Mic Brumby the point that I, at least, was a little bit in love with her, but that mostly settled into a love that is similar to that I have for Francesca. My best guess is that it's like the love parents have for two children--similar in intensity but different in nature based on the differences in personality. "Yes," I admit.
"There's more, isn't there?"
I love this woman; she knows me so well. "Yes."
"Harm?"
"Yes."
From the expression on her face, it's clear that my monosyllabic answers aren't cutting it. When Dammit stands up under the table and puts her head on my knee, I know my women are ganging up on me and the only escape is to tell Meredith the whole thing.
"Why don't we go sit on the couch and be a bit more comfortable?" I suggest. "It's going to be a long story."
She laughs and squeezes my hand before she lets go and pushes herself away from the table. "That's what I love best--long stories with lots of drama and some occasional humor."
A few minutes later, glass of wine in hand and other arm around the slender shoulders that belong to the first woman I can truly say I love with my whole heart, I start at the very beginning of the saga that is Harmon Rabb and Sarah Mackenzie. With one caveat. "If you've heard parts of this before from Mac, feel free to tell me to skip it."
"Oh, no," she winks back with a twinkling smile. "I want to hear your side of the story."
I lay out the whole six-year saga as I know it, from the very first day when I told Rabb not to get too close to today when the man might as well have gone home after he took Mac to Andrews. I tell her what little I heard about the events on the Watertown, my surmise about what might have happened in Sydney, and about the whole Mic Brumby/Renee Peterson saga. I am surprised to learn that Mac never told Meredith what happened to stop the wedding.
"I met Mic once," Meredith says, nodding thoughtfully. "I remember thinking that he really didn't like hearing her talk about her partner--and this was before she moved that ring. I can't say I'm surprised that Mic realized before Mac did that he would never have her heart the way she had his."
"I think, between thee, me, and Dammit, that Mac was settling because Rabb is stupid." It's the first time I've voiced that thought; somehow, it sounds harsher out loud than it does in my head.
Meredith nods again. "That's a pretty fair assessment. Rabb was settling on this Renee person, too--and probably because he felt guilty for allowing Mac to get away. So, in the past almost two years..."
"To my knowledge, neither of them has dated anyone since Rabb broke up with Renee shortly after he got back on his feet. But it took them a long time to get back to being them. I knew they were okay when Harm told me in one of his update calls about the way Mac saved him from a land mine last year while they were in Afghanistan."
"What?" Meredith sits up and looks at me with her wide brown eyes.
I pull her back against me. "It was a little less than a week before Bud's accident. Harm didn't say that Mac was driving and in an attempt to avoid running over a goat drove them into the minefield--Mac told me that part later. What Harm did tell me was that Mac risked her own life to buy him enough time to get off the mine that miraculously hadn't gone off. He said it was Marine Corps meets Raiders of the Lost Ark, which I didn't understand until I watched the movie with Bud one afternoon."
"She substituted his weight with something like Indy did to get the artifact at the beginning of the movie? That's a pretty logical thing to do." Meredith sounds inordinately proud of her friend.
And she's right; I'd never considered that between Mac's training and her incredible memory for detail, she'd keep an idea like that tucked away. "So, when did you figure out that they're in love?"
I snort--I can't help it. "Pretty much from the beginning. But I knew for sure when Mac found him in the middle of the Atlantic. As to when she admitted it to herself, well, you saw the look she gave him when he walked in the door at Christmas."
"I still can't believe he didn't act on the strength of her expression alone."
"Rabb is dense that way. I don't know if he's admitted his feelings to himself or not. But I really would like to know about this promise business."
From the look on my beloved's face, I realize that I haven't covered that part yet, so I explain, after which there is a companionable silence broken only by Dammit's whimpers as she sleeps at my feet. I'm about to suggest that we change location and activity when Meredith speaks in a contemplative tone.
"I'd bet there's a baby involved."
"What?" I whip my head down and around to make eye contact with her.
"I think that somewhere along the line, Harm and Mac made an agreement to have a baby together. I don't know when along this crazy story timeline that might have happened, but that's about the only thing I can think of that would keep either of them from dating."
She's got a point; the problem is that I can't really invite Harm to lunch tomorrow and ask, "So, Harm, tell me about this promise you and Mac made to have a baby together."
And yet again, she proves she knows me too well; "But you can invite him to lunch tomorrow," she says with a sly smile. "And that's enough about Mac and Harm."
25 March 2003
I am not in the slightest bit surprised that Harm is late this morning. I would bet good money that he didn't sleep well at all last night. When he reports to my office on his arrival, the dark circles under his eyes give him away. I think he's expecting to get his ass handed to him on a plate because he gets that deer in the headlight look when I ask him to come to lunch with me, but he's well-enough trained to say "yes" anyway.
It's a little better in the office this morning after Rabb's confirmation that Mackenzie arrived safely in Qatar. Rabb and Turner manage to come to an acceptable plea bargain for what was promising to be a three-week long trial and Coates has found a judge from the New Orleans Naval District who will be available to cover Mac's docket starting tomorrow.
I'm thus in a better mood than I think the commander anticipates when we sit down to lunch. "Harm," I say gently as the waiter delivers our salads, "how bad were your nightmares last night?"
"Sir?" He looks at me and I am struck by the turmoil reflected in his blue-green eyes.
I've clearly caught him off guard. "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." To give him time to collect himself, I start on my salad, watching the younger man from under my eyebrows.
"No, sir, I didn't," he admits. "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. 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."
"I know, Admiral," he allows. "But you at least had the illusion of a choice. I didn't. She just left."
"Not by her choice." That should hit home; when he left to fly, I had to pick up the pieces of a shattered Marine who wouldn't admit she was even a little crackled.
Harm's eyes flare just a little before he sighs softly. "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."
I am just finished with my salad. The only appropriate posture I can think of for what I have to say next is to prop my elbows on the table around the bowl and then to drop my head into my 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." Now I can look up at him, hopefully with some confidence. "I almost convinced them to let me go with her, though."
He chokes on the last bite of his salad at that. The surprise washes across his face, but I won't let him interrupt me. "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." I won't mention the pending results of Commander Lindsey's recent witch-hunt, which I personally think is the real reason for the denial of my request.
"On that score, sir, the new SecNav and I agree wholeheartedly," he says with a smile, knowing that this is one of the few things he can actually hold over my head for the rest of our lives with reasonable impunity. I never thought I'd be in the same boat as Tom Boone in the "Rabb has something on me" regard. "Thank you for trying, at least."
Our entrees arrive; we spend a few quiet minutes eating (and at least for my part, enjoying my veal Marsala immensely) before I return 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."
I can see in his eyes that he knows it's a very generous offer. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best not to use any of that rope."
I have to smile; he looks like a kid who's just been told he won't have to sit through detention. "I'll do my best to give you a half-inch warning before you need it."
I resist the urge to call Harm at the conclusion of Stuart Dunstan's profile of Mac. Meredith calls me a chicken before we spend half an hour saying good night.
Seeing Mac on television is not, however, enough to allow me an easy time falling asleep; I am well familiar with the demons of "what if" that I know will haunt me until she's back safe--more intimately so than I ever thought I would be at this stage in my career. When one is the commanding officer of a SEAL team, there is always the possibility that someone will be coming home in less than optimal condition--or in a body bag. Once I became a JAG officer, the dangers inherent in a military career faded from my consciousness somewhat, only to come roaring back on more than one occasion with Rabb and Mackenzie on my staff.
But the worst are the "what ifs" that still haunt me from time to time about Bud: what if Jen hadn't been there to force the issue with the medics? What if the damned pilots hadn't bombed the school in the first place? What if I'd persuaded Bud to go to Rota or Naples instead of taking sea duty?
I pray as I finally feel my mind letting go that those are the worst "what ifs" I will ever have to face.
26 March 2003
I wake up at 0430 feeling like a ten-ton truck is rolling over on itself inside my head; I must not have had a lot of deep sleep overnight. Dammit senses this; she's on the end of the bed studying me with her most timid, hangdog look and making no move for the leash that sits rolled in the chair beside my dresser.
"Another hour?" I ask her, and as though she understands, she closes her eyes and settles a bit on the comforter. I should have gotten a dog years ago.
Unfortunately, my body decides that it won't let me have another hour's worth of sleep; I'm up to take some aspirin ten minutes later and figure that I might as well go for a run and go to work early. Dammit obliges; we run the full five miles despite the cold because it isn't either raining or snowing for the first time in a week. My morning routine is blessedly uninterrupted and I am able to leave the house at 0640.
Traffic is light; I am the first to arrive in the office and can dismiss the overnight duty officer with a smile because I will get to make the first pot of coffee this morning.
SEAL coffee and Marine Corps coffee are one and the same; Jen Coates is learning but only Mac makes coffee as well as I do. Of course, we both drink it black--even Sturgis puts some cream and sugar in it. I've seen Harm dump half a bowl of sugar into Mac's coffee and even then make a horrid face. Wimps.
The coffee isn't done brewing when I turn the television on in my office. Stuart Dunstan's next piece on Mac is just starting as I sit down in one of the wingback chairs by the fireplace.
+++
"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."
+++
Well, it isn't what I agreed to, but the exigencies of battle will change even the best-laid plans.
+++
"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."
+++
There's a dig. "Relative safety" will make Dunstan friends in the Marine Corps, but the SecNav owns them too, and it won't earn the reporter any friends on the blue-suit side.
+++
"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."
+++
The next minute or two is unnarrated. Mac alternates between reading a map and directing the sergeant who is driving the APC. When small arms fire starts outside the cabin of the vehicle, the camera jerks a bit as the driver speeds up. Grenades land just feet in front of the APC before they explode.
I'm not at all surprised that Mac is so calm under fire; she earned a Bronze Star in Indonesia, after all. The driver, too, is calm, but behind the camera there's commotion I recognize as lot of very young new recruits under such close attack for the first time. These are the post 9/11 enlistees, no doubt.
"When we stop, I want as many of those shooters taken out as possible before we ever step foot outside this vehicle," Mac's no-nonsense command voice crackles through the uneven audio quality. "Gunner, your weapon is free."
The narration resumes in Dunstan's most controlled professional tone. "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; true Marine that she is, the dirt and grime have only made her more alive.
"Colonel Mackenzie," Dunstan says as the "LIVE" logo appears 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 Chief of Staff.
+++
"The words of a brave, capable Marine officer, Lt. Col. Sarah ‘Mac' Mackenzie. This is Stuart Dunstan with the Second Marine Intelligence Battalion somewhere in Iraq. Any final thoughts, Colonel?" Dunstan is playing this up--he's hoping for THE look that will leave almost every man in America needing a cold shower. Or, knowing that Dunstan is a shrewd judge of character, he might be hoping for just the one sitting up near Union Station here in DC.
Not that I can ask, but I'd bet money he gets it with Mac's closing words and expression. "We're surviving, and we'll be okay when we get back."
We? Hmmm...
Imagine my surprise when I finally log in to our intranet mid-morning to check my e-mail to find a note from Trish Burnett entitled "Next of Kin". I've met Harm's mother and stepfather a few times over the years and like them both very much, but other than the occasional emergency phone calls I've had to make when Harm's been missing or hurt, we haven't communicated outside of their visits.
Dear AJ, Trish wrote, My son, Harmon Rabb the Slower than Frozen Molasses, seems content to take his own sweet time coming to his senses. Therefore, Frank and I have adopted Sarah Mackenzie as our daughter. Obviously, we can't do this officially, but waiting for Harm to propose is getting old and we're ready to expand the family now. I'm guessing from the way that Mac talks about you when we talk--which is about once a week, believe it or not--that this adoption makes us family, as she thinks of you as at least another uncle, if not a father-figure. So, welcome to our extended family, Admiral.
She continued, On another note, Frank says to tell you that if you need to get an aircraft carrier anchor chain in a hurry, he knows some folks who can do a 48-hour turnaround. I'm not quite sure what he means by that, but somehow he thinks you will. Must be a male thing. Anyway, we're praying here for all of you, and you have my permission to restrain my son in any way you see fit to keep him from going after Mac against orders. See you soon!
I am laughing pretty hard by the time I finish reading the note a second time. I am not in the slightest bit surprised that Frank Burnett mentioned the anchor chain; after watching him interact with Harm for an hour the last time the couple visited, I realized that Frank and Mac are very much alike in both their ability to read Harm and in their sense of humor.
Nor, ultimately, am I surprised that the Burnetts decided to preempt Harm by "adopting" Mac. To my knowledge, they've never met her in person, but I know that Mac and Trish got close over the phone in the aftermath of my two officers' trip into Russia when both were worried about how Harm would deal with the truth of his father's life and death after his disappearance. I also heard the scuttlebutt that no one thinks I listen to about the dressing-down Harm got when his mother found out Mac was engaged to another man.
That didn't stop the Burnetts from sending Mic and Mac a very nice wedding present; it was the only one I heard Mac express any regret whatsoever about returning. Then again, I think I'd be loath to return a check for $10,000, too. To my knowledge, Harm never found out about that.
Meanwhile, I sense that things are coming to a head between my Chief of Staff and my lead attorney. I can reassign Mac to the judiciary and then second her back the way Harriet is seconded from the Inspector General's office. Of course, technically the entire judiciary is seconded to JAG because it's commanded directly from the CNO's office and governed by the federal courts system--conflict of interest and all that. Be that as it may, it's convenient and it solves my biggest potential problem.
I'll take the problem if it will make Mac and Harm both happy at the same time.
I can tell by the absence of activity when I come back into the bullpen from lunch that something is either happening or about to happen. I don't have to wait long before Harriet sees me and waves me over to her desk.
"Another segment on Colonel Mackenzie is coming up after the commercial, sir," she says to me.
I nod and decide to stay with my people rather than return to my office.
+++
"Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie is one tough Marine," Dunstan begins, and I see several people inhale sharply at his assertion. "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."
+++
Rabb's posture eases a little; he and I both know that she comes out okay at the end of this one.
+++
"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..."
+++
I thump down on the corner of Harriet's desk at the same time as Harm staggers for a chair that miraculously appears beneath him, thanks to Jen's quick thinking. I have the feeling that I'll be far more tender than he in a couple of hours.
+++
I watch, caught between pride and horror, as on the video Mac body slams three of her men away from a grenade as it lands where they had been standing a moment before. All four are slow to get up; Mac is bleeding from a cut on her cheek but all they pick up their various weapons and begin to return fire again.
The tape jumps and blurs for several seconds as the sound of an explosion obfuscates voices and gunfire. When the tape settles again, the cameraman follows Mac as she leads a charge in pursuit of about six men fleeing on foot through an open field; the cameraman focuses as best he can on the smoking wreckage of two civilian vehicles.
"These attackers, like the group earlier, arrived in civilian pickup trucks," Dunstan resumes. "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."
+++
I can't help the grin that is plastered on my face as I turn to look at Commander Rabb and begin to speak. "Let's hope Mr. Dunstan is right. Back to work, people."
I hear at least two different voices speaking to me, asking exactly the question I was hoping for. "About which part, sir?"
I look right at Harm and say in my most commanding voice, "Both of them."
We are all rewarded with a blush on the commander's face that is as scarlet as the uniforms worn by The President's Own Marine Corps Band.
All things considered, today has been a good day.
Well, it was until 20 minutes ago when ZNN showed bombs falling on Baghdad and I had to give Rabb a three-quarter inch advisory after he nearly took Harriet's head off for dropping a file and spilling its contents. Had Harriet not sucked it up and smiled her most forgiving smile at him, he'd have lost an inch of that rope then and there. He's already left the building.
If I can't work through the knot of worry in my gut, it sure as hell isn't worth asking anyone else who is close to Mac to work through whatever physical manifestation of worry plagues him or her; at this point, I think I'm closing the office at 1630 and dismissing the whole staff early.
Which means that I'll be able to fix dinner for Meredith and me tonight.
Which means that, all things considered, today has been a good day.
27 March 2003
"Rabb didn't kill anyone today, although I watched him pace the length of the building like a caged tiger more than I watched him doing any real work," I say to Meredith as we watch ZNN's evening coverage, hoping for an update from Dunstan. She's snuggled against my chest as we sit on the couch; Dammit is curled up on my other side, snoring softly. I'd be content to stay like this forever if only we weren't waiting for good news.
"Do you think he got any sleep last night?" my beloved asks with a stifled yawn, and I remember yet again that Mac is her friend just as much as she's mine.
"Not as much as he needed, certainly. The man looks positively haggard."
She smiles and reaches up to smooth an imaginary strand of hair back behind my ear. "As bad as you did when they brought you in on that stretcher last month?"
I smile at her and grasp her palm to kiss it. "Maybe worse. He's the one left behind. I think it's easier being the one lost."
That wasn't supposed to come out of my mouth. I don't know what I expect her reaction to be once I realize what I said, but I'm still surprised to see a wry smile on her lips. "You're right."
"I love you."
I don't know if ZNN ever showed a report from Dunstan.
28 March 2003
It's clear to me from the moment I walk into the office that we haven't heard from Colonel Mackenzie now since noontime on Wednesday. Even Sturgis Turner, who is the most unflappable man I know, is edgy--which says something about the mood Harmon Rabb is in when he storms into the office at an astoundingly early hour.
Anytime before 0800 is astoundingly early for Harmon Rabb, even 0758.
I don't have the heart to chastise him for slamming his office door in Petty Officer Coates' face. Jen's expression when she turns back to the bullpen is one of compassion and understanding rather than the indignation to which she is surely entitled.
Eggshells have nothing on the atmosphere here throughout the day. No one interacts more than absolutely necessary for fear of offending another; Tiner hasn't bothered me once today for anything other than incoming phone calls, which is nothing short of stunning.
The day is winding down when, as I am returning to my office from our library, Harriet flags me down and points to the screen. "They just said they're going to have a live feed from Stuart Dunstan, sir."
The whole office stops dead. Apparently, even Bud, Sturgis, and Harm heard Harriet's announcement from behind their closed doors as each head appears one by one around the portals, looking like something out of a Three Stooges movie.
My urge to laugh flees when the ZNN theme music comes up on the TV over our heads. Harm comes to stand beside me, leaning on the open drawer of the file cabinet next to Harriet's desk for support.
+++
"I'm Stuart Dunstan, embedded with the Second Marine Intelligence Battalion, reporting live from somewhere in Iraq. Night has fallen with frightening quiet here in the desert and the Marines at this post, commanded by Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie, sit on pins and needles waiting for the bombs to fall in the distance."
The camera pans off behind Dunstan to show Mac and several men dug down into their makeshift shelters. Mac is in profile, an elegant white shadow against the dark corrugated tin walls, and she is speaking with great animation to the men beside her; they laugh and give low "high fives" to her as the camera comes back to follow the reporter to her.
"Mac, what can you tell us about the events of the day?"
Mac smiles and her eyes twinkle through the camera with something meant for only one man in the world.
+++
Harm grins the goofiest smile I've ever seen on his face. If it gets any bigger, he'll disappear into it.
+++
"Well, Stuart, today was a blessedly quiet day. A lot of the men did laun--"
+++
Harm pales as the video feed disappears completely and the audio feed is overwritten with the sounds of explosions very close by.
+++
Under the echoing blasts, Mac's voice comes through in bursts. "...cover! Valencia, get...dio...too close! Hend...rect range ASAP!"
And then one final blast knocks the whole system out.
+++
Before any of us can react, Rabb throws his entire body against the filing cabinet, slamming the drawer closed with such force that the whole thing teeters up on its back end before it falls to the side, nearly knocking Harriet out of her chair when it crashes to the floor between her desk and the half-wall behind her chair.
I know what's going on, and I know that Harm is standing gape-mouthed in stupefied shock at what he's just done, but I can't let this pass. "Commander Rabb, you are dismissed. You have two and a half inches of that rope left. Do not let me find that you need any of it over the weekend."
"Aye, sir," he manages, and I see the tears lurking in his eyes, probably a bewildering combination of terror, anger, and sadness from which he will spend the rest of the night reeling. He nods and, for the first time I can remember, doesn't come to attention in acknowledgement before he retreats to his office to leave for the day.
We maintain a heavy, necessary silence until Rabb shuffles out of his office to the elevator, where Turner meets him. They talk briefly, but whatever Sturgis offers, Harm declines with a shrug and a smile that is far too solemn and dour.
Mac had better be okay. If she's not, I'm watching the shell of a man who will commit suicide, probably slowly in a bottle of alcohol.
29 March 2003
I think Meredith suggests that we go to pay a visit to Harm because she can't stand to see me worrying about him because he is--and we are--worried about Mac. It is just now 1630, about 24 hours since the ZNN broadcast went off the air.
He looks awful when he opens his door, but I don't smell any alcohol, nor do I see any evidence of excessive drinking. This is a good sign, if one can call sleep interrupted by night terrors rather than an alcohol-induced haze "good."
Meredith would have made an excellent mother. Before either Harm or I can say a word, she has stepped through the door and enveloped his tall frame in her arms. Much to my surprise, I see tears in Harm's blue eyes, although only one falls before he gains a modicum of control.
"Thanks for coming," he says, releasing my soon-to-be fiancée and reaching for my hand.
"I wish we hadn't had to," I say honestly, gripping the proffered hand. "Still nothing?"
I was so hoping that in the hour since we called he might have seen or heard something--even bad news--that would assure us that Mac is alive. But the dark turmoil in his eyes as he shakes his head tells me that he is still in the horrible world of his fear-driven nightmares and I find myself having to look away to blink back tears of my own.
I have been here before. The first time, both of them had been reported killed in a plane crash in Russia; even though I never really believed in the deepest part of my soul that they were dead, I felt the emptiness of not knowing for sure. I took leave and went after them myself because I couldn't do anything else. The second time, just two short years ago, I did think Harm was dead, but even as I gave up hope, I saw Mac's faith in action. The eight hours of not knowing before the SAR crew finally pulled Harm out of the Atlantic and reported him alive--barely, but alive--nearly killed me. I'm still not sure how I kept her from commandeering a helo and flying out to the carrier to see him for herself, Mic Brumby and the postponed wedding notwithstanding, since I was microseconds from doing so myself.
The third time, not even a year ago, I nearly crawled up the tenuous link of a satellite phone to be there with Mac and Harm as they kept vigil for Bud. If something has happened to Mac, I will not sit here in Washington while doctors fight to save her life in some battlefield medical tent. Nor will I make Harm stay here if she's in trouble. At this point, I really don't give a damn about the SECNAV or any rules or regulations. I'll fake a reason for us to go if I have to.
We've settled on Harm's couch and he and Meredith are making small talk about flying when I rejoin the conversation. She's managed to distract him from his misery by asking about his exploits in the air; we could be here for hours, which might not be a bad thing.
The way he tells her about his... unique... rescue of his wingman over Bosnia has her doubled over laughing. I think it's his gestures as he's trying to describe how he used the fuel boom of his F-14 to push another plane out of the danger zone that gets me going, and some of those motions take my mind in ways it really shouldn't go unless Meredith and I are alone at one of our homes.
I hadn't really noticed that Harm is actually an excellent raconteur. As he goes on to tell other stories, he holds us both spellbound, even though I've heard at least the skeletons of many of these tales before. Nearly two hours pass before he gets to the two most recent scary moments--flying with the pilot who had killed his best friend to hide his vertigo and, last but not least of his achievements, letting a dirty nuke chase him across the Arabian Sea until it ran out of fuel.
His telling of that escapade, which ended on a high note that immediately afterward turned sour with news of Bud's injury, brings us back to more somber ground.
My beloved reaches out to squeeze the commander's arm. "Thank you, Harm."
"For what?" His confusion is muted, probably because he's already thinking about Mac again.
"For keeping me entertained and my mind occupied for a couple of hours."
He looks at his watch and tries to smile. "I didn't realize..."
"It was good for us all, Harm," I assure him. "You look like you need to try to sleep, Commander." Although maybe dinner first would help; maybe I should confer with my companion for a moment.
This time he does smile, but it's wry and doesn't touch his eyes. "I'll take it under advisement, sir."
Meredith looks up at me with a question in her eyes; I nod--it's the question I was just prepared to ask her. "Harm, can we take you to dinner?"
He ponders this for a moment, then stands and stretches. "I appreciate the offer, but I think it's all downhill from here. And I really don't want..."
Of course. He doesn't want to be away from the phone or his e-mail, or maybe even the doorbell--just in case.
"Okay," she nods, understanding. "Call me if you need anything."
I push myself up and reach down to help Meredith to her feet. "Call me, Harm. That's where she'll be."
Two sets of eyes open wide at that statement; his are inscrutable but I'd bet under other circumstances he'd be laughing at me. Hers, on the other hand, are bright and openly amorous at the underlying meaning of my statement.
"Thank you, AJ." It's the first time today he's dropped the formality despite my attempts earlier. Even as I'm musing about the relative ease with which Mac drops the rank compared to Harm, I realize that Harm and Mac have the same problem with Bud but not so much with Harriet. It must be a woman's ability to shift gears and roles so easily that allows Mac and Harriet to use given names so easily when the situation calls for it.
"You're welcome, Harm."
On the way to dinner a little while later, Meredith starts to laugh and reprises some of the more interesting motions of the fuel boom story.
We never make it to the restaurant, but the leftover Italian at 2030 is quite delightful.
30 March 2003
We haven't done much today. It rained until after 1800, which shot our plans to stroll the Potomac Basin in the city to check the cherry blossoms. Likewise, any desperately needed yard work here went by the wayside, her laundry didn't get hung out on the line off her back balcony, and I'm beginning to wonder if the sun is ever going to shine on the weekend again.
ZNN provided the soundtrack to the little things we did--dusting at her place, rearranging the living room at mine, fixing a surprisingly nice brunch at her place, chopping vegetables for dinner's chef salad at my place. Unfortunately, it's not an informative soundtrack and I'm beginning to wonder if no news really is good news.
Meredith confesses at the end of Becker that, as much as she would like to stay with me, she needs to go home to prepare for her classes this week. "But if you hear anything..."
Just then the phone rings; we look at each other with hope scrawled in broad strokes on our faces as I pick up the receiver.
"Chegwidden," I growl.
"Admiral, it's Clayton Webb."
"This had better be good news, Mr. Webb, or you'll--"
"Rabb is on his way to pick up Colonel Mackenzie as we speak, Admiral. She's fine."
Meredith can tell by the way I crumple to the couch that the news is good; she sits beside me and wraps her arm across my shoulder as I try to say something intelligible.
"I can't talk long, AJ--I've got a plane to catch myself. But we're going to need her at CIA headquarters tomorrow morning at 10 and--"
"No, Mr. Webb, I don't think you're going to need her at CIA headquarters tomorrow morning, or any other morning, for that matter."
"Yes, we will. I've already been talked out of sending her to GITMO on Tuesday, so she will have to be debriefed."
I may have broken his nose previously, but if the man were standing here in front of me now, I think I'd be tempted to try a one-man variation of the Rabb-Brumby Mandible Crushing Maneuver. "Webb, let me make this as clear as I possibly can. The CIA will not now or at anytime in the next week require Sarah Mackenzie's presence at its headquarters for debriefing on this matter. If I must, I will go as high as the SECDEF and the White House to confirm that point. Nor will anyone other than Commander Rabb be present to meet her plane. Do you understand?"
He sighs and tries to hem and haw, but this merely irritates me further. "Do you understand, Mr. Webb? Because if you don't, I can find someone who can explain this to you in words of one syllable."
"I get it, AJ," he finally admits, using my name to antagonize me in his defeat. "Her plane gets in at Dover at 10:20. No one from CIA will be there and no one will call her for debriefing until at least next Monday."
Well, actually, she won't be debriefed at all, but he doesn't need to know that. He'll be back in Tierra del Fuego or wherever it is he's been assigned since the Angelshark revelations and it won't make any difference to him when I call the director of the CIA and have a rather pointed conversation with the man. "Thank you, Clay. Good night."
I hang up before he can say anything else. Meredith is laughing silently at me. "What?"
"You're glowing," she says, her giggles finally overflowing. "You're so damned happy Mac is alive that you've forgotten to be upset with Harm for not calling you."
She's right. And it's okay. "I have the feeling that Harm is far too busy speeding to Dover Air Force Base to care right about now."
"Probably. You know, AJ, Dover isn't too far from that B&B we went to a few weekends ago--the Harbor Head Inn in Kitts Hummock..."
I love the way this woman thinks. "...and gee, wouldn't you know that Rabb doesn't have court until Tuesday afternoon and Mac's docket is covered until she reports back for duty..."
"...so wouldn't it be a nice gesture if they had a room reserved for them and paid in advance..."
We whip into action. Meredith searches through our activities file for the brochure while I log on to the Internet to get a phone number for the Air Force JAG duty office at Dover, which I know is manned 24 hours a day.
"Should I just pay for tonight but book two nights so they can decide for themselves?" she asks as she pulls her cell phone out of her purse.
"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan," I answer with a wink as I pick up my landline to call Dover.
She's making the reservations as a young-sounding voice answers my call.
"Good evening, Lt. Bedford," I say, trying to stay businesslike. "This is Rear Admiral AJ Chegwidden, the Naval Judge Advocate General. I need to get a message to one of my officers who is meeting an incoming flight this evening."
If speaking to a two-star general officer causes the young woman any discomfort, she certainly doesn't let it show in her voice. "Yes, sir, I can help you with that. What is the message?"
"I'd actually like to send it to you via confidential fax and have it delivered to the flight line duty officer, if I could."
"Absolutely, sir." She rattles off a fax number so quickly that I have to ask her to repeat it so I can type it accurately into the coversheet template. "I'll be waiting for it, sir, and you might want to put the cover sheet last because then it will come out at the end and actually cover your document."
I smile; Tiner says the same thing on a regular basis. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You can expect the fax within the hour."
"Yes, sir. Would you like a confirmation call?"
"That would be lovely, thank you."
"All part of the service, sir. Have a good evening."
Young Lt. Bedford would make an excellent addition to my staff, I think.
Meredith leaves me the information for the inn, then reluctantly kisses me good-bye with my promise to read her my note to Harm over the phone before I actually send it. "I just want to make sure you don't give him any bad advice," she winks at me.
I'll admit to getting a bit defensive. "What bad advice could I possibly give him? I'm going to tell him to listen to his heart, for once in his life."
"Just making sure," and with that she's gone, leaving me with a blank document on my computer screen.
I try several times to start, then give up and go to plain paper and pen. There's something comforting about handwriting a document like this; it feels far more honest than the impersonal act of typing on a computer keyboard.
It takes me 45 minutes to be satisfied with the draft; as I reread it, I decide that copying it over by hand will be better than trying to type it, after all.
I write: Harm, Webb just called to tell me that he sent you to pick Mac up at Dover. He also muttered something about getting coerced out of sending Mac to GITMO on Tuesday, for which I will thank Mac in person. Mac thinks she has to be at Langley at 10 Monday morning; I convinced Clayton that it was unnecessary. Both of you take the day off--and you have a room reserved for you at the Harbor Head Inn on Main Street in Kitts Hummock. Tonight's on us but you have the option of tomorrow night, as well; I expect you at noon on Tuesday.
Hopefully, that's clear enough to him; if he's confused, I'm sure Mac will set him straight. Now for the part he may not want her to see. Get your priorities straight, Harm. She's the only woman you've ever loved and it has been obvious since the day you met her. I will work out the details on the career end--trust me, I do not intend to lose either of you because of some regulation that ought to have a common sense component to it. Tell Mac I'm happy she's home and where she belongs. AJ.
When I call Meredith to read it to her, she is overcome by the letter.
"AJ, honey," she says between sniffles, "I think I'm going to call you the Keymaster from now on."
"Why?" I ask, truly wondering.
"Because if that letter doesn't unlock the matching halves of one whole heart, nothing will."
The Keymaster. I like it.
Almost as much as I like the thought of being the "father" of the bride.
