Title: Against the Wind -- Part Two
Author: Sooz
Email: sooz9009@aol.com
Rating: NC-17.
Classification: Romance, angst, H/M
Disclaimers: Not mine, non-profit.
Summary:  For lovers in a time of war, courage wears many faces.
Author's note: Begins soon after "Answered Prayers" and follows a 
slightly alternate path through the end of season seven.  Inspired 
by the heroism of the crew of the USS Cole.


Against the Wind II

1740 Zulu (1:40 p.m. EDT)
JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, Virginia
Four weeks later


"Excellent work, commander."

"Thank you, sir."  Praise from the Admiral is as 
rare as it is sincere, and I tell myself to 
appreciate it while it lasts.  As he continues to 
skim my report, I let my eyes drift to the 
sunshine outside.  It's a beautiful spring day.  I 
wish I gave a damn.

Chegwidden snaps shut the blue cover on the 
thick official document, a monument to the 
project I've been working on for the past two 
months.  "The Army sign off on this yet?"

"We're ironing out the final wrinkles, sir."

"The usual pissing contest?"

"They want to write their names bigger, sir."

AJ snorts and looks at me over the top of his 
reading glasses.  "The Secretary and the 
President are pleased with the way this is 
shaping up.  You'll be overseeing major 
investigations and prosecutions once we start 
convening the tribunals.  It'll probably raise hell 
with your caseload here, but that can't be 
helped."  

"Understood, sir."

The Admiral leans back and gives a sigh that 
manages to convey a remarkable level of 
disgust.  It's not directed at me -- we're short-
handed here and none of the litigators we've 
brought in have come close to taking up the 
slack created by my special duty assignment and 
Mac's absence.  I don't think Sturgis has taken a 
day off in weeks, and we're still behind.

Briefly I consider asking Chegwidden if he's 
heard any scuttlebutt about Mac or her situation.  
But I jettison the idea as quickly as it occurs to 
me.  If he knew anything, he'd let me know.  
Instead, I wait impassively while he scribbles 
his initials on the cover sheet and hands the 
report back to me.

Instead of the dismissal I was expecting, he 
fixes me with a keen stare.  "Commander, you 
look like hell."

"I'm fine, sir.  Been putting in some long hours 
lately."

"Uh huh."  He continues to impale me with 
those sharp black eyes, and I must be imagining 
the hint of concern I see there.  "Heard anything 
from the colonel?" he asks abruptly.

"No, sir.  I was wondering if you had any news, 
sir."

He grimaces and tosses his reading glasses onto 
the desk.  "Hell, no.  I put out a few feelers, but 
they're not talking.  Goddamn special ops, 
pulling my people out with no word . . ."  He 
scrubs a hand over his bald pate in irritation.  
"No news is good news in this instance, Harm."

The familiarity is a little surprising.  I thought I 
had been doing a pretty good job of keeping my 
cool since Mac left.  "Yes sir," I respond.  There 
really isn't anything else to say.

Chegwidden stares at me a little longer than 
necessary, and I meet his eyes impassively.  
"Take the rest of the afternoon off, 
commander."  He holds up his hand as I start to 
protest.  "That's an order.  Dismissed."

"Aye sir."

* * *

It seems strange to be home in the middle of the 
afternoon, and for some reason I am reminded 
of the time I was sent home from second grade 
for beating up some kid in a playground fight.  
Tiny golden motes dance in the sunlight 
streaming through the tall windows of the loft.  
The silence has weight.  

I can't stand the quiet in here since she left.  
Usually I crank up the radio or the CD player as 
soon as I come in the door, and I have even 
considered getting a TV.  At least it would be 
something to do in the middle of the night when 
I'm lying there wondering where she is, what 
she's thinking, whether she's safe.  This is so 
much worse than last summer, when she was 
hiding out on that damn carrier in the middle of 
the Indian Ocean.  At least that time, I knew 
where she was.  Missing her feels like a solid 
weight pressing on my chest.   It never goes 
away, and in the small hours of the morning it 
gets so heavy I almost can't breathe.

So I don't waste any time -- I grab a pair of 
shorts and a tee shirt, lace up my running shoes, 
and head out.

Running has become my solace and my 
salvation.  When I'm not working, I'm running 
or at the gym -- sometimes before work, 
sometimes after.  Or both.  Sometimes I find 
myself running past Union Station in the middle 
of the night, my footfalls echoing on the 
pavement as traffic lights blink meaningless red 
and yellow signals across the empty streets.

But now it's mid-afternoon, and on impulse I get 
out the 'vette and head for the Tidal Basin.  The 
cherry blossoms are out.  It would be a shame to 
miss them.  

Thirty-five minutes later, I'm pounding along 
the running path through the park when I hear 
someone gaining on me from behind.  What the 
hell?  Not too many runners could keep up with 
me, let alone try to pass.  I bear down, obscurely 
glad to have something to distract me, but the 
light footfalls keep coming.  Now I'm beginning 
to get pissed.  I hope it's a really dedicated 
mugger.  It would feel good to deck somebody.

"Hey buddy," a familiar voice pants out, just 
behind my shoulder. 

"Fuck, Sturgis, I thought you were a mugger," I 
gasp.

"One who was running from the cops?" he asks.  
"Jesus man, you're hauling ass.  When did you 
get so fast?"

"What are you doing out here, anyway?"  I give 
a final burst of speed and ease off, letting him 
pull even.  By unspoken consent we both slow 
down to an easier pace.

"I might ask you the same question."

"Admiral told me to take the afternoon off."

"Yeah?  Me too.  Guess he was in a good 
mood."

"Not so I noticed.  Anyway, enjoy it, it happens 
about once a year."

We keep going in tandem, not speaking, our 
breathing keeping time with our footfalls.  The 
trail is dirt and wood chips, cool beneath the 
dappled shade of the trees.  

"Haven't seen you much lately.  You still over at 
the Pentagon?"  Sturgis asks.

"Just winding it up.  Should be ready to help out 
with the caseload starting Monday," I tell him.  
"How's your trial going?"  Sturgis has been 
busting his butt over a court martial for the past 
week, embezzlement and fraud.

"Ready for summations tomorrow."

"You got 'em?"

"I got 'em."  From anyone else that might be 
bravado, but not Sturgis.  If he's that sure, it's a 
lock.

We emerge from the trees to the breathtaking 
sight of rows of blooming cherry trees reflected 
in the water.  Behind my sunglasses I squint in 
the sudden glare.

"You hear anything from Mac?"  Sturgis asks.  

"Nope."

"What a hell of a deal.  She's got to be in 
Afghanistan.  How do they justify sending a 
woman into a combat situation?"

"How the hell do I know, Sturgis?  They're 
Marines, they think everybody chews nails for 
breakfast."  Rage ignites inside me, and I see the 
surprise in Sturgis's face.  

"Hey, man.  I know you're worried about her.  
We all are."

"Yeah.  Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean" --

"It's okay.  But you're wearing yourself out over 
this thing, Harm."

"Over what thing?"  Suspicion fills me.  "Did 
somebody put you up to this?"

Sturgis has a great poker face.  Those calm 
black eyes don't even flicker.  "You've been a 
little testy with people lately," he observes.

I give a short laugh.  Great.  Now my personal 
life is grist for the JAG rumor mill, just what I 
hoped for.  "In case nobody noticed, I've been 
working the biggest assignment of my career," I 
tell him.  "I'm fine."

"Okay, have it your way.  But you've lost 
weight, and you look like you haven't slept in 
weeks."

"What is this, 'National Harm Needs a Mommy 
Day'?'  Look, pal, I appreciate it.  But I'm okay."

He heaves a deep breath.  "Okay.  But if you 
want to talk about it, I'm around."

"Talk about what?"  I snarl, stopping and 
forcing him to stop too.  We're both wet with 
sweat and panting, so it's difficult to speak.

"About Mac, you ass."

"What about her?"

"About the fact that she's gone, and you're 
eating yourself up over it."

"Yeah?  Is that why you appointed yourself Mr. 
Boy Scout?  Look, I don't need a counselor or a 
chaplain or whatever you think you are, Sturgis, 
so back off."  I want to swing at him, I really do.  
But Sturgis just stands his ground, not upset or 
intimidated at all.  He just keeps meeting my 
eyes with his calm gaze, and abruptly all the 
anger goes out of me.  

My breath is finally leveling out, and I reach out 
and grasp his shoulder.  "I'm sorry, man."

"Forget it.  Harm, she's going to be okay.  You 
have to believe that."

We just stand there together, panting.  A light 
breeze blows across my wet shirt, making me 
chilly.

"I don't know what to believe, Sturgis.  We 
finally get together, and now this."

"You told her how you feel?"

"Yeah, I did."  His look of surprise is almost 
comical, and I give a short laugh.

"That's great, Harm.  I'm glad for you."

"You knew."  I say with sudden conviction.

"Not about that.  But I knew she was in love 
with you, although I find that difficult to 
imagine.  So I'm glad you finally worked it out."

"She told you?"

He gives me a look.  "It was a confidence 
between friends."

I roll my eyes in disgust, whether at him or 
myself, I don't know.  So much wasted time.  
Will I ever get a chance to make it up to her?

"So, you up for something to eat at McMurphy's 
later?  Wanna shoot some pool?" he asks, 
starting to jog slowly along the path.  I pick up 
my feet and follow.

"Did Harriet tell you to feed me?" I ask.

"No, the Admiral did," he smirks.  

* * *

1000 Zulu (3 p.m.)
Marine Expeditionary Unit Base
Mazar e Sharif, Afghanistan
Two weeks later

The rotor blades of the Huey kick up a dust 
storm on the landing pad as we set down, and I 
have to shield my eyes from the blowing grit as 
I return the salute of the welcoming committee -
- a lance corporal who looks about 18.  
"Commander Rabb, Mr. Webb, right this way, 
sir."

Clayton Webb has never struck me as the kind 
of guy who is comfortable letting his hair get 
blown around.  He traveled all the way to 
Chechnya and back last Christmas wearing a 
three piece suit, for God's sake.  For this trip, 
though, he's made some concessions.  He's 
wearing khakis, desert boots, and something that 
resembles a fly fishing vest.  Hell, Webb 
probably gets invited for weekends at 
somebody's castle in Scotland for all I know.  
He looks like he just stepped out of an Orvis 
catalogue.

Webb and I follow the corporal across to a line 
of canvas tents that surrounds the air strip.  The 
hot, dry wind whips sand and dust around our 
ankles and blows away the cloud kicked up by 
the helo.  

It's even hotter inside the tent, but at least there's 
shelter from the wind.  Tables and folding chairs 
are set up in rows, and Marines are working in a 
controlled chaos of papers, maps, and laptops.  
Lights are strung overhead and there's the hum 
of a generator somewhere.  Everybody's 
wearing BDUs, and I stand out in my khakis.   

A barrel chested bird colonel turns away from 
the table where he's working and sketches a 
perfunctory return of my salute.  His name tag 
reads Hayes, C.M.

"Commander Rabb and Clayton Webb 
reporting, sir."

"You didn't waste any time getting up here," 
Hayes says, sticking out a hand the size of a 
baked ham as he gestures for us to sit down.  
Without asking, he flips each of us a bottle of 
water from a cooler behind him and sits down 
opposite me. I set my cover on the table and 
gratefully take a long drink.  The water tastes of 
plastic, but at least it's cool.

"Colonel, we're getting ready to put Mustapha 
Atef, a major al-Qaeda leader, on trial aboard 
the Seahawk," I launch into my spiel, "and we 
need some corroborating evidence.  I need to 
talk to the prisoners at your detainment camps.  
We can use affidavits if they're sworn by one of 
our interpreters." 

"Sure thing, we're doing that anyway.  I've got 
just the officer for the job, too.  Fitz!" he calls 
over his shoulder, and a major springs to 
attention.  "Get Ellis on the horn."  Hayes turns 
back to me.  "We've had a lot of success sending 
interpreters out with the recon teams," he tells 
me.  "Works a lot better than hauling people in 
here for interrogation.  The officer I have in 
mind has done miracles getting the locals to talk 
to her.  Maybe she can pry something out of the 
hard cases."

"Her?"  From the corner of my eye I see Webb's 
head turn.

"Yeah, Mackenzie.  Lieutenant Colonel.  My 
secret weapon."  Hayes grins without humor at 
some private joke.  "She's a JAG.  Know her?"

The condensation on my water bottle has 
softened the label to mush beneath my fingers.  I 
realize I'm shredding the foil compulsively with 
my thumbnail, and force myself to relax my 
grip.  I clear my throat.  "We were stationed at 
headquarters together.  Where's Colonel 
Mackenzie now?"

Hayes grabs the handset.  "Up near the border 
with one of the recon teams," he tells me, and 
then starts barking orders into the radio, talking 
to somebody named Ellis.  "We'll have a helo up 
there to collect you guys in an hour.  Be at Point 
Charlie.  Right.  Out."  He clicks the radio off 
and looks up.  "Okay, commander.  They're on 
their way.  Major Fitzwater here will help you 
get set up with the places you need to visit.  You 
can start first thing in the morning.  I'd say get 
started now, but those guys have been out for 
five days.  They'll need a shower and some 
chow first."

I come to attention.  "Thank you, sir."

He nods his dismissal and we follow his aide 
over to one of the map tables.  I manage to 
maintain focus while he makes some 
suggestions about the interrogations, and then 
he leaves us to go over the material.  Webb cuts 
a glance at me.  "Did you know Mac was here?" 
he asks.

"No," I answer.  He's watching me alertly.  I 
don't intend to say anything else, and he takes 
the hint.  I leave him fussing around with his 
cell phone and place a call to the Seahawk. Then 
I just sit there and sweat and check my watch 
every few minutes.

Of course I knew it was possible I'd run into 
Mac when I came up here.  Hell, I was hoping.  
Guess I just never expected it to happen so fast.  
Or to discover that she's been hanging out with a 
bunch of commandos on the front lines.

Somehow I have to get through another forty-
five minutes before they arrive.  There is no way 
I can sit in this canvas chair and look at reports.  
Abruptly I stand up and tell Webb I'm going to 
stretch my legs and head back outside, putting 
on my sunglasses against the glare.  A little 
reconnaissance walk around the camp is a great 
way to pace without attracting attention. 

* * *

On the Huey, inbound

I stretch out my legs and regard my scuffed 
boots.  Like the rest of me, they are coated with 
dust.  I can taste it on my lips, feel it in my nose 
and eyes and hair.  God, it will feel good to get 
clean.

We're packed in pretty tight, but I got the spot 
by the door and I can watch the mountains 
flowing beneath us, brown and grey and beige.  
The six guys of Recon Team Bravo are 
sprawled out on the floor of the cargo bay 
among our weapons and packs of equipment, 
leaning against the bulkheads.  They are great 
guys, all of them, and once they got over having 
a woman along they have been terrific.  Of 
course, Gunny is the only reason they even gave 
me a chance.  I never expected to find myself 
going out on patrol, especially with Victor's 
team.  I was only supposed to operate out of 
headquarters, but when the idea came up he 
spoke up for me and to everyone's surprise, it 
has worked out.  

I hear the click of a lighter and smell the sharp 
tang of a cigarette as Gunny lights up.  He looks 
scruffy and unshaven, so different from the spit 
and polish Marine I knew at JAG.  But then 
again, I'm no fashion plate myself.  He catches 
my eye and gives me one of those little smiles 
of his.  

"We owe you one, ma'am," he says over the roar 
of the engine.  "Getting in three days early."

"Yeah, somebody must be in a hurry for 
something," I call back.  "Hey, can I have one of 
those?"  I gesture to his cigarette, and his 
eyebrows go up in surprise as he holds out the 
pack.

"Didn't know you smoke, ma'am."

"Used to, when I was a kid.  But sometimes 
nothing else will do, you know?"  I lean over to 
accept a light, and our hands touch for a 
moment as we cup them around the tiny flame.  
I can see the contact jolt in his eyes.  It's okay.  
It's nice to be noticed, and nice to know we don't 
have to do anything about it.  Victor and I 
became friends last summer, and we know 
where we stand.  I trust him more than anyone 
except Harm.

We ride in companionable silence for awhile, 
and I know he won't feel the need to get chatty 
unless I do.  Just one of the many things I like 
about Victor Galindez.  Now he tilts his head 
and points.  "Looks like we're coming in."  The 
helo dips and descends to the landing pad, and I 
hold my breath against the flying grit as I jump 
down and grab my pack.

The guys follow me out, and I can hear their 
boots thumping to the ground around me.  We 
haul our gear out from under the rotor blast and 
I brush the sand off my face as I look up, 
squinting into the setting sun.  

A tall figure in khakis is silhouetted against the 
glare.  The clouds of dust swirl around so I can 
barely see.  For a moment I am sure I'm 
hallucinating, that my tired brain has conjured 
him up out of nowhere, out of my longing 
dreams.  But then he moves toward me, and I 
know.  

"Looks like Commander Rabb, ma'am," Victor 
says in my ear.

"It is," I tell him.

* * *

At first I can't see a damn thing.  Half a dozen 
Marines are milling around and they're all the 
size of linebackers.  Then the dust cloud settles 
a little and I see her, standing in their midst.  

Mac is tall for a woman, but she looks tiny in 
that crowd.  She's gotten so thin she looks 
almost fragile.  She's wearing baggy BDUs and 
she's covered with dust and sweat.  She is 
without a doubt the most beautiful thing I've 
ever seen.

When she sees me, it's as if there is no one else 
there at all.  We walk toward each other and 
stop about three feet away.  Suddenly I am 
acutely aware of all the other people around -- 
this is a military base, we're in uniform, and I 
can't touch her.

"Commander Rabb," a familiar voice calls out, 
sounding pleased to see me.  

"Damn, Gunny, good to see you," I say, 
returning his salute.  "I didn't know you were in 
this outfit."

"Yes sir.  Been here nine weeks."  He hesitates 
for just a second, his eyes darting to Mac and 
back to me.  "Sir, ma'am."  He quickly sketches 
another salute and follows the others.  Mac is 
just standing there, watching me.  I reach out 
and take her pack.

"Does this mean you'd follow me anywhere?" 
she asks with a trace of amusement.

"I would, but I didn't know you were here until 
an hour ago."  We start walking toward the 
tents.  God, she looks tired.  We don't say 
another word until we arrive at her door. 

"Female quarters.  For all three of us," she tells 
me.  She opens the screen and calls, "Anybody 
home?"  There's no answer, so I follow her 
inside, carrying her stuff.  It barely hits the floor 
before she's in my arms.

For a long, long time we just hold each other, 
not moving, not even breathing.  I wrap one arm 
around her slender waist, one around her back, 
and lift her against me.  She's holding on for 
dear life, and I can feel it when she starts to 
tremble.

"Sarah," I whisper.  "Sarah.  It's okay baby, it's 
okay."

"I didn't know I could miss anybody this much."

"I missed you more."

"They won't let us call or write or anything," she 
sniffles.

"I know, sweetheart.  Shhh, it's all okay now."

I keep holding her and stroking her back in little 
circles, my face buried in her hair.  My shirt 
collar is damp, but she knows I don't want her to 
cry and she gets hold of it.  At last she leans 
back and gives me a watery smile, and I brush 
the tears from her cheeks.  They leave smears in 
the dust on her face, and we both laugh a little.

"If they catch you in here, we're dead," she 
whispers.  

"I'll risk it," I tell her, pulling her closer.  And 
finally, finally, I'm kissing her, and it's even 
better than I remembered.  

"I love you," she murmurs against my mouth.  
After that, we really don't need to say anything 
else for awhile.  

Eventually we need to breathe and we lean 
against each other, panting.   My leg is pressed 
between her thighs, and if we don't stop now I'm 
not getting out of here without major 
embarrassment.

She leans her forehead against my chest and 
mumbles something.  "What?" I ask.  "I need a 
shower," she repeats, looking up with a glimmer 
of laughter.  "And you need a cold one."  She 
looks down, pointedly, and grinds against me a 
little.

"Tease."

"Rain check?"

"Does it ever rain here?"

"It's in the forecast."

* * *

"Colonel Mackenzie reporting as ordered, sir," I 
come to attention in front of Hayes.  God, it 
feels good to be clean.  After Harm left me I 
grabbed a quick shower, and the fresh cotton of 
my BDUs rubs pleasantly against my skin.  My 
hair is still wet, but it won't stay that way long 
in this heat.

"As you were, Colonel," Hayes says.  "I think 
you know everyone."

"Clayton Webb, what brings you here?" I ask as 
I join the group gathered around the map table.  
Webb gives me a quick once-over and nods at 
Harm, with whom I have studiously avoided eye 
contact.

"Commander Rabb and I need to corroborate 
Mustapha Atef's identity and activities," Webb 
tells me.  "We think we can get what we need 
from prisoners in the detainment camps."

"Who is Mustapha Atef?" I ask.

Webb looks nonplussed.  "I forget you've been 
in the field for awhile," he says irritably.  
"Rabb?"

Harm meets my eyes and his intensity is purely 
professional.  "He's a kingpin in al-Qaeda, 
Mac," he tells me.  "We caught him two weeks 
ago, and he's going on trial by military tribunal 
aboard the Seahawk four days from now.  They 
call him 'Mohandess.'"

My pulse accelerates.  "You're prosecuting?"  
He nods.  "Who's defending?"

"Admiral Chegwidden."

God, what I wouldn't give to be on board for 
this one.  Harm sees it in my eyes and gives me 
a look I can't quite decipher -- humor, approval, 
encouragement, I can't tell. 

"We're sending two teams out in the morning," 
Hayes tells me.  "Colonel, you'll be with one, 
Rabb with the other so we'll have JAG oversight 
on both.  I'm sending Corporal Denbedian with 
Rabb's team as interpreter."

"Sounds good, sir.  What are we looking for, 
exactly?"

Harm says, "Anyone who can confirm his 
identity, primarily.  He's trying to say his 
confession was coerced and he's not al-Qaeda.  
We also hope to get some sort of confirmation 
about his involvement in 9/11."

"His name ought to be enough," I say.

"How's that, Colonel?" Webb snaps.

" 'Mohandess' means 'the Architect'," I tell them.

* * *

Webb disappears somewhere as soon as the 
meeting breaks up, and Harm and I stroll 
outside together.  I take a deep breath of the 
crisp air and look up at the evening sky.  There's 
still a faint glow from the sunset, and a few stars 
shimmer like chips of ice high above the 
mountains.  It gets chilly fast in the desert at 
night.  I hug myself with a quick shiver, feeling 
happy, feeling his warm solid bulk beside me.

"I still can't believe you're really here," I smile.  
"It's as if you dropped out of the sky, like that 
house in The Wizard of Oz."

"Well, this sure as hell isn't Kansas."  Harm 
smiles back at me, but his eyes are somber.  He 
hesitates, then adds, "One minute we're together 
in Washington, the next minute you're halfway 
around the world, dodging sniper fire and 
landmines."

"Not my choice."  I keep my voice steady.  
Okay, here it comes.

"Sarah.  I know you can handle yourself.  And I 
hope to God you know I'd never stand in your 
way.  But I don't have to like it."

"Desert crawling with a recon patrol isn't 
exactly my idea of a great time, Harm.  But it's 
my job."

He turns away impatiently.  "Damnit, Mac, I 
know you're the meanest, toughest Marine in the 
Corps.  It doesn't help when I wake up dreaming 
about what could happen to you."

"Now you know how I feel every time you go 
up in a Tomcat," I blurt out, and freeze at the 
flash of pain in his eyes, quickly concealed.  
"Harm" -- my hand reaches out, but he turns 
away and I'm left waving in empty air.  "I'm 
sorry.  That was a cheap shot."

"But accurate, nevertheless," he replies.

"No it isn't.  I'm here because it's my duty.  You 
fly because you love it, and you're great at it."  
Something twists inside me.  He looks like he 
hasn't slept in weeks.  Until now, I didn't really 
believe this could be as hard on him as it was on 
me -- or that he would ever be able to admit it.  

I take a deep breath and put my hand on him, 
and this time he lets it stay.  "Harm -- it goes 
with the territory.  Loving you means accepting 
all of it, including all the things that could 
happen.  Including lying awake at night, missing 
you."

"Touche," he says lightly.  "It's just that" -- he 
lets his breath out slowly, and some of the anger 
he was hiding behind seems to go with it.  
"Sarah, I told you once I never want to lose you.  
I don't know if I could take it."

We're standing toe to toe, barely six inches 
between us as I look up at him.  Between one 
breath and the next I realize what a great and 
terrible responsibility it is when someone hands 
you his heart.  He is the bravest man I have ever 
known, and loving me may be the bravest thing 
he has ever done.  

So I take his hand, and say very softly, "Then 
we'll just have to concentrate on living, and 
loving each other.  Nothing --  -- will 
ever change that." 

He holds my hand, looking away at the horizon.  
Finally he gives my fingers a quick squeeze.  
"Okay." I don't think he trusts his voice.  After a 
moment he tosses his head and looks at me with 
a quick smile.  All I want is to put my arms 
around him.

Instead, we start walking again.  I say, "God, do 
you have any idea how much I'd give to be in 
that courtroom on Friday?  Why is the Admiral 
defending?"

"You know A.J.  He wouldn't order any of us to 
do it."

"Can you get a conviction?"

He gives one of those maddening shrugs, all 
male.  But I can feel the fire behind it.  "I damn 
sure intend to, Mac.  Finding some evidence 
tomorrow would help."

"Well, I think dinner and a good night's sleep 
would help.  I'm starving, and you look like you 
could use some chow.  Have you eaten 
 lately, Stickboy?"  I poke him in the 
ribs and he grabs my hand again. 

"I've been running a lot," he tells me, looking 
away.  "Besides, you look like you're about to 
blow away yourself.  Don't they feed you?"

"How does canned chicken chow mein and 
chocolate pudding sound?"  At the face he 
makes, I burst out laughing.

"Mac, I have leftover MREs from the Gulf War 
that would taste better than that."  He reaches 
out and puts his hand on my cheek.  After a 
minute he says, very quietly, "And if I don't 
touch you soon, I'm probably going to self-
destruct." 

"There's a truck behind the supply hut."

"Good thinking, Marine."  He all but drags me 
across the compound.  Thank God it's dark 
already.  

Two Humvees and a heavy truck with canvas 
flaps are parked in the deep shadows.  We 
stumble over the guy wires around the tents, 
shushing each other and snorting with 
suppressed laughter.  After glancing around 
with elaborate casualness, I flip open the back 
of the truck and climb in.  "Come on," I 
whisper, tugging on his sleeve.

With one quick heave he's inside and turning to 
drop the canvas.  It's still warm in here, and it's 
empty except for a couple of crates and a coil of 
rope.  It smells of oil and dust.   We reach for 
each other at the same moment in the dark and 
stumble to our knees on the dirty floor, kissing 
frantically and fumbling with each other's 
clothes.

"I feel like I'm fifteen again," I whisper, groping 
for his zipper as he slips my shirt off my 
shoulders.  

"Don't laugh, I got caught like this when I was 
fifteen."  I can hear the grin in Harm's voice.  
It's so dark in here, I can't see a thing.  There's a 
lot of rustling and bumping as we struggle out 
of our clothes and I hear him swear under his 
breath.

"What?"

"My sleeve is caught on my watch."  He jerks 
something and I hear a button pop and roll 
across the floor.  "Shit."

I start to giggle as he fumbles with the catch on 
my bra, and then he flings his tee shirt onto the 
floor and lowers me onto it.  My bra is gone 
somewhere in the dark, I'll probably never find 
it, and then his hands are on my breasts and his 
mouth is moving over me and I gasp with 
pleasure.  God help us if anybody walks by right 
now.  

My hands are running over his back, feeling the 
hard muscles flex as he lifts my ass and slides 
my pants down -- 

"Fuck," I gasp.  

"I'm trying," he hisses.  

"No, it's just -- I'll have to take my damn boots 
off."

Harm goes stock still, then rests his forehead 
against me.  I feel him shaking with laughter 
and I am convulsed with giggles beneath him.  
His breath is warm on my neck and I can feel 
his erection pressing urgently against my thigh.  
Slowly the laughter changes to little panting 
breaths as I relax with his weight on me, and I 
slide my hand between us and wrap my fingers 
around his hard, velvety length, stroking gently.

"Roll over," I whisper, pushing on his chest, and 
he complies, leaning on his elbows.  Our eyes 
have adjusted to the darkness now, and a little 
light filters through a gap in the canvas, enough 
to see his eyes sparkling as he watches me. 

I kneel over him and slide his pants down on his 
thighs.  His cock is big and heavy and already 
stiff against the fine line of dark hair that runs 
down from his chest.  I bend over him, not 
touching it yet, letting my breath blow lightly 
across him, feeling a little thrill of power as he 
tenses and his breathing speeds up.  

I run my fingertips down that gorgeous hard 
abdomen, teasing lightly around the base as I 
press his thighs apart.  Then I lean over and run 
the tip of my tongue slowly from the base of his 
cock upward, feeling it quiver and strain as I 
swirl my tongue around the tip.

"Jesus, Sarah" -- Harm gasps, his hips rising off 
the floor.  I smile a little to myself.  This is one 
of my absolute favorite things in the whole 
world and an incredible turn-on, and I refuse to 
be hurried.  So I grasp him firmly as I take him 
all the way into my mouth and let my mind 
drift, reveling in the rich musky scent of him. 
Gently I slide a fingertip back between his legs 
until I find the spot to press, and he gasps.

"Sarah, please" -- And with that, I quicken my 
rhythmic stroking, squeezing his balls gently 
again and again.  One of Harm's hands cups the 
back of my head and moves with my rhythm.  I 
relish his hardness and then he tenses up and my 
throat floods with his heat and I swallow once, 
quickly, loving the warm taste like new mown 
grass.

Harm falls back, panting, and I rest my head on 
his belly and cup my hand over his flaccid 
penis, keeping it warm, feeling it soft and a little 
sticky against my palm.  After a few minutes I 
feel Harm's strong hands pulling me to cuddle 
against him, and I crawl up and lay my head in 
the hollow of his shoulder.

"Where the hell did you learn that?" he asks in a 
sleepy whisper.

"Charm school," I answer primly and grin as I 
feel him chuckle.

We snuggle for awhile, our bodies warm where 
we're touching, and I'm about to fall asleep 
when I feel him stir.  "Your turn, Marine," he 
murmurs against my hair.  I want to protest that 
I'm satisfied and sleepy and he doesn't need to, 
and then his hand is between my legs and his 
fingers are caressing me.  

He leans on one elbow, watching my face as his 
wonderful fingers tease and probe, and it's an 
amazing aphrodisiac to know he's getting turned 
on just from watching me.  I'm so hot I know it 
isn't going to take much.  Moving at a leisurely 
pace, he kisses his way down my body, tracing a 
line from my throat, between my breasts, and 
lower, as my breath rasps in my throat.  Then 
he's there, sucking gently while his fingers slide 
deep inside me and press upward, and my 
orgasm is so powerful it's all I can do not to 
scream.

After awhile consciousness returns and I'm 
lying across his chest, listening to the quiet 
rhythm of his heart as his hand strokes my back.  
"Wow," I croak, "gives a whole new meaning to 
'she died with her boots on.'"

For some reason this strikes us both as 
hysterically funny.  We hug each other, rolling 
with silent laughter until my stomach aches and 
I start to hiccup.  Finally we get hold of 
ourselves.  Harm wipes his streaming eyes and 
sits up.  "Okay, time out," he gasps.  

"Do you have any idea where my bra is?" I ask, 
feeling around in the dark and cringing as my 
fingers brush the dirty floor. 

"Maybe somebody ran it up the flagpole," he 
answers drily.  "We made enough noise, I'm 
sure the entire camp is out there waiting to 
applaud."

I shoot him a dirty look which, unfortunately, is 
lost in the dark.  We pull and tug and somehow 
manage to get ourselves dressed, more or less, 
and Harm peeks out of the canvas flap.

"The coast is clear," he announces in a stage 
whisper, and holds out a hand to help me.  His 
arms go around me in a warm, solid hug, and for 
a while we just stand there in the shadows.  

"I don't want to let go," I whisper, already 
dreading the chill when I have to leave him.  
How can this man take me from angry to 
ecstatically happy to sad in the space of an 
hour?

"I'll never let go, Sarah."  He whispers into my 
hair and holds me awhile before he kisses me 
tenderly.  Reluctantly we head off to our 
separate tents.

* * *

0800 Zulu (1 p.m.)
Two days later

The Humvee's brakes screech to a halt in a 
cloud of dust beside the command post.  I jerk 
the parking brake and jump out, not waiting for 
the Marine to follow.  We've been driving for 
two days, and my BDUs are soaked with sweat 
where I was sitting in the driver's seat.  All I 
want is to see Mac and get a drink of cold water, 
in that order.

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust from the 
brightness outside.  Then I spot Mac and Webb 
at one of the tables with Colonel Hayes and a 
couple of other Marines, and I head that way, 
shaking the dust out of my clothes before 
coming to attention.

"Rabb," Hayes gives me a laconic salute and I 
grab a bottle of water from the ever-present 
cooler before I sit down.

"You get anything?" Webb asks.

"Absolute zero," I answer with disgust, looking 
at Mac.  How does she manage to look so pretty 
in spite of the dust and that ugly uniform?  She 
flashes me a quick, reassuring glance, and right 
away I know they had better luck than I did, 
thank God.  "What about you?" I ask Webb.

"Oh, Mustapha Atef is Mohandess all right."  
Webb looks smug, but then Webb always looks 
smug.  "But there's more."

I take my hat off and give him a look.

"We intercepted a lot of radio traffic between 
Atef and his brother Kabir, in Pakistan.  
Something big is going down, something big 
enough to keep Mohandess in Afghanistan, 
waiting for Kabir, even when we were on his 
trail.   We also are sure that Kabir was behind a 
wire transfer from Pakistan to Russia -- a 
quarter of a million dollars, to be exact.  And 
Kabir was seen near Jalalabad two days ago."

"Regardless of the outcome of the tribunal, we 
can't execute Mohandess," Mac leans forward 
urgently.  "He's our only leverage with Kabir."

"How the hell did you find all that out?"  I say 
to no one in particular.

"Mac got it from an al-Qaeda prisoner at the 
camp," Webb says briefly.

"How?"  I look at Mac.

"He was wounded.  They weren't doing 
anything for him, so I gave him some water."  
She shrugs, not looking at me.  There's 
something more going on here.  I'm hot and 
tired, but something puts my radar up.

"Maybe he felt bad about trying to kill you," 
Webb makes a wiseass aside to Mac.  At the 
look on her face, he goes very still and changes 
the subject.  "So, Rabb, the helo from the 
Seahawk is picking us up in 90 minutes.  You 
ready?"

I ignore him.  "He tried to kill you?" As far as 
I'm concerned, there's no one else here but Mac.  
The glance she shoots at Webb has daggers in it.

"It was nothing," she says calmly, and turns to 
Hayes.  "Sir, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get 
cleaned up and write my report."  She comes 
briefly to attention and slips out of the tent.  

"Oh for God's sake, Rabb," Webb snaps 
irritably.  "One prisoner had a concealed knife. 
He grabbed her, and Mac got the drop on him.  
We shot the others.  It was over before it 
began."  He shrugs and takes a drink of water.

"What others?"  I keep my voice very quiet.

Hayes leans forward and tosses an envelope at 
me.  Maybe he's worried I'll slug Webb.  "This 
just came through, flash from Washington," he 
tells me with faint disgust in his tone.  "Orders 
for Col. Mackenzie to report to the Seahawk to 
assist in the prosecution of Mustapha Atef.  
Why am I not surprised?  You have anything to 
do with that, Rabb?"  My control snaps into 
place and I shake my head. 

"No, sir.  I did inform Admiral Chegwidden of 
the Colonel's whereabouts," I say.

"Uh huh.  And something tells me I won't be 
getting her back anytime soon," he says.  Looks 
like I'm not real popular around here all of a 
sudden.  "Give the colonel her orders, 
commander.  And good luck with the trial.  Nail 
the son of a bitch."

"Thank you, sir."  I come to attention, then get 
out of there before I say something I'll regret.  I 
head across the compound toward Mac's tent, 
where I pull open the door and barge in.

"Well, knock knock," an unfamiliar voice says 
calmly.  A petite blonde is standing beside one 
of the cots dressed only from the waist down, 
and I back up a step before turning away.

"Excuse me.  I'm looking for Colonel 
Mackenzie," I tell her over my shoulder.

"I guess so," she drawls, and I can hear the 
amusement in her voice.  Women on the front 
lines either learn to handle male behavior with 
aplomb or they get out.  "Sarah, there's someone 
here for you."

Mac steps around a curtain and looks at me.  
"Harm.  Can we do this later?"

The blonde pipes up, "Oh, don't mind me.  I'm 
on my way to chow anyway.  Don't wait up, 
kids."  She finishes buttoning her shirt and 
leaves.

Mac is looking at me steadily, but she doesn't 
say anything.  

"Were you going to tell me about it?" I ask.

"Probably not."

"Why?"  My voice sounds a little rusty.  "Do 
you see me using Webb for a tent stake?"

A tiny smile is lurking on that gorgeous mouth.  
"No.  But I was afraid you might."

"Well, I won't say it isn't an attractive idea.  But 
Sarah, I thought we dealt with this.  That guy 
who grabbed you -- I almost feel sorry for the 
poor bastard."

"That's probably the most charming thing you've 
ever said to me."

"Hey, give me some credit.  I know how to 
sweet talk a Marine."

She comes up to me and puts her hands on my 
chest.  "Yes, you do."

"Then you'll listen to something else I have to 
say?"

"Okay."  Now her tone is wary.

"Admiral Chegwidden has requested you as 
backup counsel for the prosecution.  You're to 
report with me to the Seahawk."

Mac's eyes narrow.  "You did this just to get me 
out of here," she says accusingly.

"The hell I did.  Sure, I called him as soon as I 
knew you were here.  Want to know why?"  I 
don't wait for her to answer.  "You're a hell of a 
lot more valuable in that courtroom than being 
an interpreter for recon.  And maybe you don't 
appreciate how pissed the admiral was when 
they pulled his chief of staff out from under his 
nose and wouldn't even tell him what your 
assignment was.  He pulled every string in the 
book to get you back."

"He did?  You do?"

"Mac -- look, we need you on this one.  So 
much is riding on it.  It's incredibly complex, 
and I only have tomorrow to finish preparing.  I 
need help -- I need  help.  You're the 
best.  There's nobody else I trust."

Tears are standing in her eyes as she regards me 
calmly.  "When do we leave?" she asks.

* * *

2300 Zulu (4:00 a.m.)
U.S.S. Seahawk, Arabian Sea.
Four days later

"Why the hell can't the military ever run a 
transport at normal hours?"  Harm starts 
complaining as soon as I open the hatch to my 
cabin.  He is freshly shaved and pressed, but he 
looks tired.

"You're pretty grouchy for a guy who just won a 
major conviction," I kid him.  My own 
reflection is not inspiring this morning, and with 
a final glance in the mirror, I give up.  The only 
thing to do with a bad hair day is surrender to it.

"Not when we were up 'til 0130 writing reports 
on a terrorist's suicide," he grumbles.  "Not to 
mention we'll probably have to turn right around 
and come back for the board of inquiry."

"He wanted to be a martyr, and he succeeded.  
Webb will have to do some fancy tap dancing 
on this one," I say as I toss my toothbrush into 
my sea bag and zip it closed.  

"Webb doesn't have to fill out reports, he has 
minions to do it for him.  He decamped last 
night," Harm complains as he reaches for my 
bag.  He's already carrying his own.  "He thinks 
he can get a line on the money transfer to Russia 
through the Iranian embassy in Pakistan."

I shut the hatch to my cabin behind me and 
follow him toward the wardroom, carrying his 
briefcase and laptop.  "More power to him.  
You're just irritable because you don't like to 
admit that this one got away from us."  I step 
carefully over a knee knocker and dodge my 
way through the throng of sailors on Broadway.  
One thing about life on a carrier, you're never 
alone.

Harm mutters into my ear, "No, I'm irritable 
because I wanted to sleep with you last night 
and you shut the door in my face."

"Appearance of impropriety, counselor.  
Besides, you didn't want to sleep."

I catch a glint of amusement.  "We'll have 
plenty of time for sleeping on the flight home."  
I wonder what else he has planned for all those 
hours.

"Look, at least you won the case," I remind him.  

"That guy couldn't wait to confess on the stand.  
Like he wanted to rub our noses in it."

"Only because we closed off all his options and 
you led him right where you wanted him to go."

Harm shrugs.  "I can't get over the feeling that 
Mustapha had some other reason for checking 
out like he did.  He wasn't the kind of guy to be 
afraid of interrogation."

"He was afraid of giving something away," I 
speculate.  "He did it once before."

"Yeah, maybe.  But you'd think they'd change 
their plans once he was captured, wouldn't you?  
Good operating procedure?"

"Unless something is going to happen soon.  
Maybe they couldn't," I say.

Harm looks at me intently.  I can practically 
hear the wheels turning in his head.  He gives a 
quick nod and opens the door to the wardroom 
for me.  "I think you're right, Mac.  We'd better 
let the skipper know asap.  They may want to 
alert military targets in the theater."

We ditch our bags at a table and head for the 
serving hatch.  Even at this hour, a carrier in a 
forward area is a busy place.  Aviators coming 
off night patrols are eating, and officers on the 
second dog watch are downing the last of their 
coffee before heading to the bridge.  It's a quiet, 
controlled bustle, like Grand Central Station just 
before the morning rush hour.

Scrambled eggs and crisp bacon for me.  
Oatmeal for Harm.  It will be a long trip home, 
and we won't get another hot meal for awhile.  
He holds a chair out for me at an empty table, 
and I pick up my napkin.

"I'm so tired I can't decide if I'm waking up or 
falling asleep," I say as the wardroom steward 
pours coffee.  "I feels like I just finished third 
year finals."  I regard him over the rim of my 
cup as I sip delicately.  "This was a blast, 
partner.  You done good."

He flushes in pleased surprise and glances away 
quickly.  "I couldn't have done it if you hadn't 
handled the preliminary testimony.  I was 
swamped."

Coming in late on this case as I did, I jumped in 
and organized the mountain of technical 
background, analyzing weak spots and 
preparing rebuttals.  "I'm good at the details, 
Harm, but you came up with the slam dunk," I 
answer.  "Mustapha never would have confessed 
if you hadn't gotten under his skin on the cross.  
And the Admiral did a terrific job defending.  
I'm glad we did it right."

"I'm just glad we'll be home in twenty hours," 
Harm leans back in his chair with a long sigh 
and rubs his forehead.  "Mac, all I want to think 
about right now is you, me, a sailboat, and the 
Bahamas.  For about a month."

Beneath the starched white tablecloth his knee is 
pressing against mine, and I'm about to lick the 
strawberry jam off my lower lip when a nervous 
young ensign comes to attention beside our 
table.  We really have to stop having food sex 
instead of the real thing.

"Commander Rabb, Colonel Mackenzie?  The 
Captain requests your presence on the bridge?"

I'm about to ask the kid if he's sure, but Harm 
catches my eye and we stand.  "Lead the way, 
ensign," he says.  "Speak of the devil," he 
whispers to me.

Outside the broad windows of the bridge, the 
sky and sea are a dirty grey.  The sun has barely 
hauled itself over the eastern horizon, an 
ominous red ball cloaked in lines of overcast 
clouds.

I doubt Captain Johnson ever sleeps.  He's 
staring out the forward windows as we come to 
attention, and he doesn't keep us waiting.

"Commander Rabb.  Colonel Mackenzie."  His 
frosty eyes survey us without emotion.  "One of 
the prisoners, a Mohammad Aliyah, has asked 
to speak to you.  Says he has information that 
he's willing to trade for a more lenient 
prosecution."

"Sir, we have to be back in Washington at 0800 
Monday" --

"We'll hold the helo, Commander.  And I've 
radioed Riyadh to hold the C-130."

"Aye aye, sir."  From the corner of my eye I can 
tell Harm is keeping his eyes resolutely front 
and center.

"You think this is a wild goose chase, 
Commander?"

"Hard to say, sir.  Coming right after Mustapha's 
conviction and suicide, it could be the break 
we're looking for.  Sir, we think there is reason 
to be concerned that al-Qaeda's next attack may 
be imminent.  Atef may have killed himself to 
avoid revealing plans that could not be changed 
at short notice."

Johnson looks at us sharply.  "Agreed.  I'll get 
on the horn to command.  Meanwhile, you have 
two hours to report.  If you think it will take 
longer, send word."

"Aye, sir."

We salute and leave the bridge, only risking a 
glance at each other when we're out of earshot.  

"What do you think?"

He shrugs.  "We'll see, Mac.  At least we get a 
guided tour of the brig."

* * *

The brig is located on Level 3, amidships near 
the starboard machine shops.  Mac and I have 
never been here before, since Mustapha was 
being held in isolation during his trial and that's 
where he was found dead last night.  Now we 
follow a petty officer below, descending six 
decks and eight companionways before 
traversing a narrow passage that runs between 
the lower holds.

"How do you transport the prisoners, Petty 
Officer?" I ask.

"Elevator, sir.  Security clearance top and 
bottom, one at a time, direct to the flight deck.  
They're escorted from there to transports or the 
courtroom, sir.  Don't go nowhere else on the 
ship."

"Was the brig always located here?"  I'm 
curious.  There are a couple dozen al-Qaeda 
prisoners on board, give or take, and I can't 
believe the Seahawk normally needs a jail this 
size.

"No, sir.  Had to put in special security, 
plumbing, even.  Not that any of them guys ever 
seen any."  There's a note of barely concealed 
contempt in the kid's voice as he stops outside a 
steel hatch like all the others in the hold.  "Here 
you go, sir, ma'am."

The door buzzes open, and I look up.  A security 
camera is aimed at us.  Just beyond, I can see a 
freight elevator shaft.  It must open into the 
lower hold where the cells are.

We enter and discover it's an airlock, with a 
keypad on the inner door.  "Nobody's getting in 
or out of here on a whim," Mac comments, 
looking around.  The petty officer reaches past 
her to punch the code, and a moment later the 
inner hatch swings open and we step through.

A Marine guard steps forward.  "Sir, ma'am, the 
interrogation room is just behind you."  He 
gestures and I push the steel hatch wider, 
holding it for Mac.  There's a guard shack 
opposite with big windows overlooking the cells 
below and the hold next door.  This was 
probably some sort of control center for 
operations before it was converted.

The Marine comes to attention.  "We'll escort 
the prisoner up.  A guard will stay with him at 
all times, and you'll be on the monitor."  He 
points to another camera high in the corner.  "I'll 
have to ask for your briefcases and sidearms."

"Is that really necessary, staff sergeant?" Mac 
asks.  "We're not armed."

"Ma'am, two days ago one of these guys stabbed 
a CIA guy through the hand with a pencil.  And 
after last night, we can't take any chances.  All 
firearms are locked in the guard shack, we'll 
return them when you leave."  

Reluctantly Mac hands over the briefcase and 
laptop.  "May I keep my tape recorder?" she 
asks.  "I need to keep a record of what is said."

"Of course, ma'am.  Just hit the buzzer when 
you're ready to have the prisoner escorted back 
to his cell."  That's when I realize we'll be 
locked in here with the prisoner and the guard.  
Great.  Now I remember why I prefer 
prosecuting these guys -- at least I don't have to 
spend time with them before the trial.

Mac seats herself at the single table in the center 
of the anonymous little room, and I notice that 
everything is bolted to the floor.  She fusses a 
bit with her pocket recorder, then sets it in the 
middle of the table's shiny formica surface.  I 
pace behind her, feeling oddly keyed up.  
Something's coming, I can feel it.  Mac thinks 
so too, I can tell by the way she's sitting very 
still, watching the door.

It swings open to admit a short, skinny guy in an 
orange jumpsuit.  His wrists are chained to his 
belt, and chains clink between his feet as he 
shuffles forward.  It's hard to see much of his 
face behind his wild-grown beard and long hair.

The Marine guard shoves him into the chair 
opposite Mac and she leans forward.  
"Mohammad Aliyah?" she asks.  He looks at her 
with surprise and contempt.

"I do not speak to women," he says to me.

"Then you're out of luck," I tell him.  
"Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie is co-counsel 
for the prosecution.  You speak to her, or we 
don't speak at all."

Aliyah stares at me in confusion, then leans over 
and spits on the floor.  

"Okay," I say to the Marine.  "Interview's over.  
Take him back."

As the Marine's hand drops to Aliyah's shoulder, 
Mac leans forward and says something in Farsi, 
low and quick.  Aliyah hesitates, then answers 
her.

"Translation?" I inquire.

"He'll deal," she says.  

It doesn't take long.  Speaking through Mac, 
Aliyah keeps babbling something about godless 
traitors and a great blow for freedom.  
Apparently he lost faith when Mohandess killed 
himself rather than die with his martyred 
comrades.  Suddenly Mac leans back and asks 
another question, low and sharp.  He stares at 
her, the whites of his eyes showing.  Then he 
starts talking even faster.

"What?" I demand as soon as he stops for 
breath.  Mac is still for a moment, and when she 
looks up at me, her face is tense and pale.

"He says they have a submarine," she says 
slowly.  "They bought it from the Russians.  It's 
going to strike at a major American military 
target sometime today."

"Think he can give us more?"

"No."

I buzz immediately.  "That's all, take him back.  
Come on, Mac.  We have to call the bridge."  
She looks up at me quickly, then slips the 
recorder into her pocket as she stands.  The 
Marine guard is already hustling Aliyah through 
the door, and Mac and I hang back until they're 
clear.

"You think he was telling the truth?" I ask her.

She nods slowly.  "Yes.  He didn't know all the 
details, that's what convinced me.  If he were 
making it up, he'd have filled in the blanks."

"I agree.  The guy was scared."

"So am I."  She touches my sleeve for a second, 
then steps toward the hatch.  

And the whole world explodes.

* * *

Dust.  Smoke.  Thick, acrid smoke making it 
hard to breathe, leaving a gritty layer on the 
steel deck beneath my cheek.  Why am I lying 
on the floor?

"Mac," I manage to croak.  It's so dark I can 
barely see, and for a weird moment I have no 
idea where I am.  My foot moves a little, 
scraping the deck, and my hand bangs into a 
table leg that seems to be stuck to the floor.  
Table.  The brig.  Oh, right.  

There's so much noise -- banging, sirens, a sort 
of roaring sound, groaning metal -- Jesus, is the 
ship coming apart?   I get my head up and try to 
look around, relieved that the blue emergency 
lights have clicked on.  Something glitters like 
diamonds scattered across the floor, fanning out 
from the open hatch, and I realize there's broken 
glass all over the place.  Slowly I manage to sit 
up and I brush myself off.  Except for the 
ringing in my ears, I seem to be okay.  Looks 
like the steel hatch protected us from the main 
force of the blast as I held it open for Mac.

Mac.  Oh, my God. 

I'm fumbling around on my hands and knees, 
feeling my way in the dark, when I touch 
something soft.  Her hip.  I scramble closer and 
peer at her in the dim light.

She's lying in the corner behind the overturned 
table, curled up in a protective ball.  The 
explosion must have ripped the bolts right out of 
the deck plates.  "Sarah," I rasp out.  
"Sweetheart, are you okay?"  Please, God.

"Harm?"  Her voice is so faint, I can barely hear 
it over the din all around us.  Her hand gropes 
toward me, and I grab it as I crawl closer.  Her 
arm stiffens, holding me away, and her voice is 
deceptively calm.  "Careful.  My leg's broken."  

I look, and see that Mac's left foot is bent at a 
ridiculous angle.  Her ankle is clearly broken, 
probably in more than one place.  I ease over to 
kneel beside her as she carefully pushes herself 
into a sitting position, panting, and grabs hold of 
my hand.  The whole side of her face is scraped, 
and her right eye is swollen nearly shut.  A thin 
line of blood seeps from her nose.

"What happened?" she whispers.  "Bomb?"

"Torpedoes, I think. Fore and aft of us."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine.  Now just lie still, let me take a look," 
I tell her.  "I won't move it, I promise."

She nods her head, her lips tight.  Her breath is 
coming in quick little gasps.  I lean closer and 
run my fingers lightly over the ankle, which is 
already swollen to the size of a football.  But at 
least there aren't any bones poking through the 
skin.  Her shoe is gone, fortunately, and I take 
out my pocket knife.

"Mac, I'm going to remove your sock.  It'll cut 
off circulation if we leave it on," I tell her.  

"Okay," she says faintly, and I see her clench 
her fists.  Carefully I slit the leg of her trousers 
and lift the top of her sock enough to slip the 
knife blade beneath.  There's no way to pull it 
off, and the only way to cut it is to saw at the 
fabric.  I do it as gently as I can, but she gives a 
strangled little cry that tears at me.

"Okay, that's got it," I tell her.  Quickly I pull 
off my khaki blouse and fold it into a pad to put 
beneath her foot, bracing it a little.  Jesus, that 
thing has to hurt.

I look up to find her watching me with a 
crooked little smile.  Slowly she reaches out and 
puts her hand against my cheek.  "You're pretty 
good at that," she says.  "Feels better already.  
Thanks."

My mouth is dry, and I realize that what I'm 
feeling is rage, blinding, total fury.  It's so bad 
my hands start to shake.  
Then Sarah's hand is gently stroking my cheek, 
and I manage to focus on her.  I take a deep, 
shaky breath and smooth her hair off her 
forehead, carefully avoiding the bruises.  She's 
watching me quietly, her good eye calm, and I 
feel control slide into place, cool and sure.

"Mac, I need to go see what's going on."

"Yes, you do.  Go.  I'll be fine."

I give her a quick kiss on the forehead.  "I'll be 
right back, sweetheart.  Just hang on."

"Not going anywhere," she gives me a tight 
smile.

Poking my head into the passage between our 
room and the guard shack, I see what happened.  
The force of the blast blew out the windows 
overlooking the hold and the cells below.  
What's left of the Marine guard and the prisoner 
is splattered all over the companionway.  The 
hatch of the guard shack is hanging on its 
hinges, and when I put my shoulder to it, it 
pushes against something.  A body.  Oh Christ, 
it's the other Marine.  This poor kid couldn't 
have been more than 25.  I close his staring eyes 
and move him carefully to one side before I do a 
quick search.  The phone is dead, of course, and 
my cell phone will never work down here.  The 
firearms locker was blown open in the 
explosion, and I quickly stuff a couple of 
automatics into my belt and all the spare clips I 
can see.  Under the shattered remains of the 
counter I discover a big Maglight, still intact, 
and a first aid box and a blanket.

In the cells below, the prisoners are screaming 
and banging on the bars.  Guess the blast didn't 
take them out, too bad.  It's hard to see in the 
dim light, but the locked gate that gives access 
down to the detention area feels solid when I 
pull on it.  I peer over the catwalk into the 
gloom, but it's impossible to see whether any of 
the cells were damaged in the blast.  I can hear 
water sloshing down there somewhere.

The deck is definitely beginning to list a little to 
starboard.  We're taking on water -- no big 
surprise.  I'd rather not drag Mac through the 
broken windows, but she can't stay where she is.  
So I check the airlock.  Pushing on the inner 
hatch succeeds in opening it about halfway, but 
the outer door, though buckled and dark with 
soot, won't budge.  I grab a fire ax from the wall 
in the ruined guard post and start to work, 
striking sparks on the steel, and finally 
something gives and I'm able to shove the whole 
thing aside.  

A single blue emergency light is shining outside 
the hatch, but the corridor itself is demolished.  
Clearly the steel bulkheads of the brig deflected 
the blast, but on either side the passage is 
completely closed off.  

Mac is sitting where I left her, arms curled 
around herself as if she's cold.  "Mac," I say 
quietly as I kneel beside her.  "Do you think you 
can stand up?"  

"What time frame did you have in mind?"

"We're taking on water.  I don't know how fast 
this place will flood."

"Good reason," she says, and bends her good 
leg.  She holds up her arms and I lift her, trying 
to hold her steady and take all her weight as she 
stands up on one foot, holding her left leg out at 
an awkward angle.  

"Put your arms around my neck," I order, and 
for once she does it without arguing.  As slowly 
and cautiously as possible, I lift her, but she 
bites off a cry and I know the jostling has to be 
excruciating.  "I'm so sorry, baby," I whisper in 
her ear.  "I don't want to hurt you."

"You could never hurt me," she says bravely, 
but her lips are white and she keeps her face 
pressed into my neck as I carry her through the 
hatch and into the corridor.  Very carefully I 
ease her down onto the deck, letting her lean 
against the bulkhead beside the hatch.  Gently I 
slip my blouse under her ankle again.  It 
probably doesn't help any, but it makes me feel 
a little better.

"Let me have your wings," she says, groping for 
the blouse.  "They might get lost."  Something 
tightens in my throat.  With everything that's 
going on, that's what matters to her.  

Working quickly, I break open the first aid box 
and pour antiseptic onto a gauze pad.  "Okay, 
Marine, hold still now."  She squeezes her good 
eye shut and doesn't even flinch as I dab at the 
cuts and scrapes.  The kit doesn't have anything 
like splints for her leg, and I'd probably just 
make it worse if I tried to straighten it anyway.  
I fold the blanket into a rough square and slide it 
behind her and say, "Just lie back and rest, Mac.  
I'm going to see if I can find any other 
survivors."

"Is there a way out?" she asks.  

"The elevator shaft," I say, pointing.  It's ripped 
open from deck to overhead, and I can feel fresh 
air coming from the hole.  "It should be possible 
to climb up through there."

"You go.  I'll be okay."

Kneeling beside her, I brush a smudge from her 
cheekbone with my thumb.  "Like hell.  Look, 
Mac, take this.  Just in case."  I hand her one of 
the automatics and an extra clip.

"What am I supposed to do, yell 'friend or foe'?" 
she asks with a faint grin.  That's my girl -- a 
sense of humor, and no complaints.

"Shoot anybody who doesn't know the name of 
the Red Sox's third baseman," I kid her.  

"Harm,  don't know that."

"Me either.  Look Mac, nobody's going to come 
walking through here anytime soon."  She's 
looking up at me with those big dark eyes and 
all I want to do is hold her.  "Sarah, I don't want 
to leave you.  But I have to."

"I know.  There's nothing you can do here.  Be 
careful, and hurry back."

"Always."

She gives me a wan smile and I kiss her before I 
go.  

* * *

Is it my imagination, or is it cold in here?

Maybe it's shock, I can't tell.  I try to remember 
my first aid training.  Something tells me I 
wouldn't be alert enough to wonder about shock 
if it were setting in.  

I broke my wrist when I was eleven, ice skating 
with Lallie Boyd.  I don't remember it hurting 
all that much, but my dad was furious.  Wore a 
cast for a few weeks, nothing to it.  Wonder how 
hard it is to get around with crutches.  This 
whole thing seems so unreal.  One minute I'm 
standing there, the next I'm flying through the 
air as if propelled by a giant hand, hitting the 
deck, feeling my ankle collapse with a horrible 
sort of crumpling sensation and knowing it was 
bad.  It didn't really hurt at first, but now it feels 
like a bag full of broken glass is tied onto the 
end of my leg.  Only thing to do is wall it off, 
think about something else.

All around me, the carrier is groaning like a 
living, wounded creature.  Added to the usual 
slow rolling motion of the deck is a more 
ominous, shuddering vibration and a definite list 
to starboard.  How many decks were hit?  How 
many areas are taking on water?  Were a lot of 
people hurt or killed?  Not knowing is the worst.  
No, worrying about Harm is the worst.

There's a sudden, bellowing roar from 
somewhere below and aft, and I jerk upright, 
jostling my leg.  Oh God, Harm.  For a long 
tense moment I'm rigid, listening, but there's 
nothing else.  The ship settles a little more, and I 
find I can actually lean back on the bulkhead 
behind me.  It's no longer vertical.  I try not to 
let that scare me, either.

Gradually other noises begin to penetrate, over 
and above the surrounding din.  Voices.  Men's 
voices, shouting and cursing in Farsi.  Coming 
through the hatch beside me.  The prisoners, of 
course.  They're trapped in their cells on the 
deck below, and we're taking on water.  Unless 
help comes soon, they'll drown like rats in a 
trap.  

Now that I'm aware, I can't hear anything but 
their screams.  How high is the water?  How 
long do they have?  Dear God, don't let this 
happen.  Not to them, not to any sailors who 
might be on the decks somewhere below.  

Maybe it's because I'm listening so closely, but I 
notice when the sounds change.  One or two 
voices are shouting over the rest, I can't make it 
out, and then it gets way too quiet.  The water 
can't be that high yet, can it?  

And then I hear a sound I have subconsciously 
been listening for and dreading.  A metallic 
scraping and a snap, followed by the slow creak 
of metal on metal.  The gate to the detention 
area.  Swinging open.  

Oh shit, I have to be imagining this.  Harm, 
didn't you check it?  I know you did, you 
wouldn't have left me alone if you thought they 
could get out.

There's some quiet rustling and a low muttered 
oath.  It's on this level now, and closer.  They 
must be nearly to the guard shack.  Please God, 
don't let there be any more weapons in there.  I 
realize I'm clutching the automatic Harm gave 
me, and control slides over me like a cool 
breeze.

I roll carefully to my left, trying not to make a 
sound as I get prone.  Maneuvering my ankle is 
a problem.  There is no way I can turn all the 
way onto my stomach without shrieking in pain, 
so I lie sort of sideways on my left hip and brace 
my forearms on the knee knocker.  Cautiously I 
twist my shoulders a little more and raise my 
head just enough to peer over.  

It's a good line of sight.  They're coming all 
right, two of them, their orange jumpsuits 
looking grey in the faint lights.  Groping their 
way toward me, clutching something, I can't 
see.  Pieces of broken pipe, maybe?  Taking a 
deep, steadying breath, I fire a warning shot 
above their heads.

"Stop!  Do not move!" I shout in Farsi.  "Stay 
where you are."

For a long, long minute they crouch there, 
whispering.  Then one says, "It's only a 
woman," and they come in a rush.

I fire, and the man in front is flung backward, a 
gaping hole in his chest.  Instantly I bring my 
weapon to bear on the other target, but he is 
trying to duck and for a second I lose him in the 
dark.  He's screaming in Farsi, and I know 
what's coming and I wait.  

When he charges the door, I get one glimpse of 
a terrified pale face pierced with two black holes 
for eyes.  My shot hits neatly between them.

The force of his rush propels his body against 
the inner door with a terrific thud, and then he's 
sprawled across the inside knee knocker, less 
than four feet away.  I can't see his face 
anymore, his hair is hanging down and covering 
it.

Slowly, very slowly, I manage to relax my grip 
on the automatic and wait, watching and 
listening, peering into the darkened passage.  
I'm not worried about the two I can see, they 
were dead before they hit the deck.  But I can't 
tell if any of those shadows are more men who 
will try to get past me to escape into the ship.

Suddenly a voice starts screaming again from 
below, wailing and keening.  Others take up the 
chant and start clanging things on the bars.  
Okay.  It was just the two of them.  Their cells 
must have been damaged enough to allow them 
to get out, and somehow they pried open the 
gate.  After a long while listening, I'm satisfied 
that the other prisoners aren't loose down there.  
Nice guys -- they didn't even take time to let 
their friends out.

Carefully I roll onto my back, resting my head 
on the blanket, and stare up into the dark 
illuminated by the single blue bulb.  My ankle is 
singing Ave Maria, but it's more of a distraction 
than a problem.  I'm shaking, and my mind feels 
oddly calm and detached.  

Oh Harm.  Are you all right?  Where are you?

* * *

Sharp fragments of glass line the frame where 
the windows used to be.  I knock them away 
with the handle of the Maglite, and they shower 
to the floor with a silvery, tinkling sound.  Then 
I hoist myself over the sill into the storage hold 
beyond.

Even the emergency lights were destroyed in the 
explosion.  Jesus, it's dark in here.  The harsh 
narrow beam of the flashlight sweeps from side 
to side, picking out swaths of wire and hulks of 
scorched, twisted steel and debris.  The 
torpedoes must have hit the decks just below, 
forcing the blast up through the loading hatches.  
We had a couple of extra steel bulkheads 
protecting us, but the guys working here weren't 
so lucky.  Bodies like blackened scarecrows lie 
awkwardly where the explosion flung them, the 
rage flows through me like ice water, helping 
me focus.

The footing is tricky as I work my way aft.  
Besides the mountains of wreckage, the deck is 
buckled and ripped open in places.  There's a 
strong smell of hot metal and burning, but no 
smoke yet.  After scrambling toward the stern 
for a few dozen yards, I can finally see some 
emergency lights and a couple of flashlights 
moving around.

With a shout, I try to make myself heard above 
all the noise and keep going.  Finally somebody 
yells back, and I clamber over a mound of 
debris to find about a dozen sailors huddled 
around an open loading hatch.  Several are 
sitting or kneeling, possibly injured.  I scan their 
tense faces quickly, seeing confusion and a little 
hostility.  

I realize I left my blouse and all my rank 
insignia with Mac.  "Master Chief!" I pick out 
the senior non-com.  "I'm Commander Rabb.  
Report, Chief."

"This is all the survivors we can find right here, 
sir," he says.  "I've got two seamen scouting 
around for a way out, but so far no luck.  There's 
four or five guys trapped in the storage hold 
below, and we've got about two feet of water 
down there now.  We've been trying to pull the 
wreckage out of the way, but it's too heavy."

"Injuries?"

"Nothing serious, sir.  We're not sure about the 
guys who are trapped yet."

"Okay.  Now listen up."  I raise my voice so 
everyone can hear.  "There's a way out of here.  
We're going to climb up the freight elevator by 
the brig, it's open all the way to the top."  An 
inaudible sigh moves through the group, and I 
can feel everyone relax and begin to pay 
attention.  "But first we're going to get those 
guys out of there," I tell them as I run my light 
around the part of the hold I can see.  "You got a 
chainfall anywhere around here, Chief?"

"Yes sir, if it ain't broke. But it's mounted right 
forward."

"Well, we're going to unmount it and rig it on 
that steel girder overhead.  That ought to take 
the strain."  

"Sir, it'll take six men to lift that thing."

Impatience won't help.  He's willing enough, 
just too stressed to think straight.  I keep my 
voice slow and steady.  "Then take six men, 
chief.  Where's the tool locker?  Anything left in 
it?"

"Sir, right here sir!"  At least this kid is on the 
ball.  A young machinists' mate has already 
checked the locker and he's bumping and 
banging his way back to us, lugging two heavy 
tool carriers loaded with wrenches and pry bars.

"Good work -- Brady.  Take a team of six and 
get forward to that chainfall.  Chief, you're in 
charge.  Let me know how long it'll take."  

"Aye, sir."  Everybody looks better now that 
there's something they can do.  The remaining 
sailors are watching me expectantly, and I 
address myself to the smartest looking one, a 
big burly kid with a cut over his eyebrow.  

"Pulaski," I read from his nametag, "think you 
can find about thirty feet of heavy chain around 
here?" He nods and waits for the rest.  "Coil it 
up right here and find some kind of ladder.  I 
don't care if you have to pull it off the wall."  I 
get a couple of faint grins with that.  
"Something that will reach up there."  I point 
out the beam we need, and he nods and moves 
off with three more guys to help.

It all seems to take a hell of a long time.  To 
keep from exploding with impatience, I climb 
part way down into the opening and yell to the 
trapped sailors that we're working on it.  I can 
barely hear them behind the heavy steel deck 
plate blocking the hatch, but at least they're 
alive.

After a lot of sweating, swearing, and thumping 
around in the dark, we get the hoist secured 
overhead with a cargo chain hooked securely 
around fittings on the debris.  "Okay, you guys," 
I bellow, "only pussies need a winch!  Grab 
onto that line and walk forward with it, on three!  
One, two, THREE!"

With a shudder and groan the chain tightens, 
and the only sound is the scraping of the men's 
shoes trying to find a purchase on the slippery 
steel deck.  Everybody is straining, gasping for 
air, and then it starts to move.  "That's it, keep 
going," I'm yelling at the top of my lungs.  The 
master chief, now in his element, is bellowing 
too, and all of a sudden the heavy steel rises, 
rises, and topples out of the way with a 
reverberating crash.  A ragged cheer goes up 
from the men, and we all stagger back to help 
the guys scrambling out of the hold.  

There's five of them, and they're all wet and 
black with soot.  They're helping one guy and 
another is limping, but basically they're all okay.  
After a second or two I realize I can see them 
clearly and notice that the hold behind them is 
filled with golden light.  Fire.  Funny, there still 
isn't much smoke.

"Sir!"  One of the men is on his hands and knees 
coughing, but he manages to grab my leg.  "Sir, 
Hobbs is still down there, sir!  He's in the back 
and a locker fell" -- 

"Where exactly, Petty Officer?" I grab his 
shoulder.

"About ten feet back from the hole, sir."

"Okay. Master chief, lead these men forward to 
the brig and get them climbing up.  Go in 
through the windows.  The elevator shaft's 
busted wide open in the passage outside the 
brig.  There's probably an access door before 
you get to the top, bang on it like holy hell.  And 
chief" --

"Yes sir?"

"You'll find Colonel Mackenzie in the passage.  
She has a broken leg, she can't climb.  When 
you find help, tell them her exact position and 
get a litter party down here.  Tell them they'll 
have to cut in through the bulkheads."

"Aye aye, sir."  He pauses, and I see a gleam in 
his eye.  "Any message for the colonel, sir?"

"Yeah.  Tell her to enjoy her break, soon she'll 
be eating my dust."

"Aye sir."  He grins and turns to bellow at the 
men.  "Okay, listen up!  Fall in!"

"Brady, Pulaski, you're with me," I call out.

"Aye aye, sir!"  Two voices shout back.  The big 
group moves out with the chief haranguing them 
all the way, and Brady and Pulaski join me 
beside the hatch.

"Okay.  Give me the hook.  When I yank on it, 
haul away."

"Sir" -- Brady looks worried.

"Get that chain clear, Brady."  I don't have time 
to argue, whatever's burning down there is 
going to get worse soon.  I grab the heavy cargo 
hook and climb down the steel ladder, splashing 
into water at the bottom.  It comes up to my 
knees.  

Now there's smoke.  Thick and acrid, it's lurking 
just beneath the overhead.  I duck and start 
wading aft, peering through the glare of the 
flames.  

Then I see it -- a big steel locker has ripped 
loose from the bulkhead and is lying across the 
doorway to the hold beyond.  It's full of sealed 
tins, great, something else to worry about.  I 
heave on the chain and they give me some slack, 
and somehow I hook it onto the frame of the 
locker.  "Hobbs!"  I yell.

"Yeah!  In here!"  The cry is faint but 
unmistakable.  I grab the steel links, smelling 
grease and metal and smoke, and give two tugs.  
Without hesitation, it tightens as Pulaski and 
Brady haul on it.  Maybe I should have kept 
more guys back.  Damn, it's hot in here.  I 
cough, and heave at the locker.  For a second I 
flash on a vivid memory: the Suribachi, 
Demeara yelling, the Admiral peering down at 
us with breathing equipment.  Then the locker 
shifts, just an inch or two.

"Heave, goddamn it!" I yell, and from 
somewhere behind I feel an answering pressure 
and suddenly the whole thing shifts, tilting 
toward me.  I stumble back, clumsy in the water, 
and grab hold as a soaking wet sailor gropes in 
the narrow gap.  

"Hobbs?  You okay?" I shout over the noise.

"Huh?"  His voice is slurred.  Blood is pouring 
down the side of his face and he's disoriented. 

"Come on!" I yell, dragging him as we struggle 
through the water, now hip high, slipping on the 
greasy footing.  Thank God for the water, it's 
keeping the fires down.  

Hobbs stumbles and goes down with a splash, 
disappearing beneath the dark surface.  I grope 
around and grab his belt, but when I get his head 
up, he's barely conscious.  With a grunt, I heave 
him over my shoulder and keep wading forward.  
It's getting hard to see in here, but the hatch 
can't be far.  I can hear Brady and Pulaski 
yelling and I aim for their voices.   

The hold is filled with bright orange flames, and 
the heat is getting intense.  Finally the ladder 
materializes out of the smoke, and I take a deep 
breath to yell, "Get your ass up there, Hobbs!" 
when there's an enormous crash and a brilliant 
flash of light.  Next thing I know I'm flung 
against the steel ladder and my head crunches 
into the bulkhead.

I don't know how much later I come to and find 
myself lying face down on the deck, gagging up 
stinking black water.  Something hurts inside as 
I cough, and from far away I hear somebody 
calling for Commander Rabb.  I suppose I ought 
to answer.  Vaguely I reach out and encounter a 
body -- no, it's Brady, kneeling beside me and 
thumping me on the back.  This is the second 
time today an explosion has knocked me off my 
feet and it's getting old.

"Sir?  Sir, you're okay.  Just stay down sir, take 
it easy."  

"Like hell," I croak, gasping, and try to sit up.  
A bolt of pain slashes through me, and my head 
hurts.  But my left arm is a lot worse -- a white 
hot sheet of agony from wrist to shoulder.  
Tentatively I try to look and all I can see is 
puffed, sooty blisters.  There seem to be two 
Bradys flickering in the gloom, and I grab for 
his shoulder to steady myself.  "Where's 
Hobbs?" I rasp out.

"Over here, sir.  Pulaski's got him.  He's gonna 
be okay, sir, he just had too much smoke."

"O-Okay."  I manage to get to one knee, and 
Brady gets a hand under my right shoulder to 
help me up.  The deck seems to be revolving 
beneath my feet, but after a minute it settles 
down.  I squint against the glare of the fire at 
Pulaski, who's standing there soaking wet and 
filthy, holding onto Hobbs.  "You guys pull us 
out?" I ask.

"Yes, sir.  Solvent locker must have exploded, 
sir.  Lucky it knocked you both under the water 
for a minute, kept you from turning out Extra 
Crispy."  Brady's teeth flash white in the 
darkness, and I manage a grin in return.

"Thanks.  Now let's get moving.  Can he walk?"  
I nod at Hobbs, who's showing signs of coming 
around.  

"Good enough, sir," Pulaski says, and I start 
forward, dragging Brady with me and trusting 
the others to follow.  The flashlights cut the 
darkness in jerky slashes of light, and the deck 
seems to sway and tilt beneath my feet.  Brady 
keeps a firm hold on me as I stagger along.  

It seems to take forever to get back and I 
concentrate on putting one foot in front of the 
other.  My clothes are soaked and chilled.  
Hobbs is doing better, walking on his own.  At 
last we make it to the guard shack, and I gesture 
at the broken windows.  "Through there."  The 
others hoist themselves up and somehow I 
follow, clambering through clumsily.  In the 
dark I stumble over a couple of bodies that 
weren't there before, and realize they're wearing 
orange jumpsuits.  Shit, how did they get out?  
A glance shows me the heavy gate hanging 
open, the pry marks on the lock.  

Oh God.  Sarah.

In two quick steps I'm at the hatch, looking 
around frantically.  She's right where I left her, 
sitting just beside the door, looking pale and 
wan and scared.  "Are you okay?" she asks, 
frowning as she looks me over.  It might be my 
imagination, but there's a little catch in her 
voice.

"Of course I'm okay.  Are you?"

She just gives me a look, and shifts her attention 
to the three sailors who have crowded in behind 
me.  "Can you make it up there, seaman?" she 
asks Hobbs, who's looking at the ladder.

"Yes, ma'am, I'll be okay," Hobbs says.

"I'll hang onto him, ma'am," Pulaski says.

"Good," I say, "then get going, all of you.  
There's no way the colonel and I can climb, so 
tell them where we are."

As he follows the others into the shaft, Brady 
looks back, worried.  "Sir," he keeps his voice 
low, "in a couple hours this whole level will be 
flooded.  How about the prisoners?"  He jerks 
his chin toward the noise from below.

"Even if the rest of the men were still down 
here, there's more of them than all of you put 
together," I tell him.  "Can you think of any way 
to keep those prisoners under control long 
enough to get them out?  Even if you had guns, 
you really think some of them wouldn't try to 
knock you and the other guys off that ladder?"

He wrestles with it, looking doubtful.  He's a 
smart kid, and he probably saved my life -- I 
owe him a chance to work it out for himself.  I 
can see the moment he understands and accepts 
it, and I feel a moment's sorrow for the horror in 
his eyes.  "No sir.  I don't see how it could work.  
But it's a shame, sir."

"Yeah, it is.  But just remember, their guys fired 
the torpedoes."  I clap him on the shoulder and 
shove him toward the ladder.  "Now get going.  
And Brady, tell them, if the water gets too high, 
the colonel and I will hang onto the ladder in the 
elevator shaft."

"Aye, sir."  And just like that, Mac and I are 
alone down here in the dark, listening to feet 
scraping on the steel ladder as the echoes recede 
upward.  All of a sudden I feel incredibly tired.  
I put out my good arm, bracing myself on the 
bulkhead, and slide down the wall to sit beside 
her on the cold deck.  She leans against my 
shoulder and I pull her close.  

* * *

"We'd better save the flashlight," Harm says, 
and clicks it off.  I reach for it and turn it on 
again.

"First let me see."  There's blood running down 
the side of his face, I saw that before.  It hurts 
like hell to reach across, but I manage to run my 
fingers over his scalp and feel a big lump above 
his right ear before he jerks away.  "Mac, it's 
nothing.  Quit it," he snaps impatiently.  In the 
narrow beam of light I can see the bruises 
around his eye.

"Great, we have a matched pair of shiners," I 
say.  Then I run the light downward, and the 
breath hisses through my teeth.  "My God, 
Harm, what happened?" I blurt out.  He was 
keeping his left side away from me, but now I 
can see the puffed, angry blisters coating his 
arm, his scorched tee shirt.

"Solvents locker exploded."

"What the hell were you doing messing around 
with that?" I demand.  "Are you hurt anywhere 
else?" 

"No," he answers shortly, and immediately I'm 
suspicious.  He's leaning back, resting his head 
against the wall, his eyes closed in weariness.  A 
long, silent sigh escapes me, along with some of 
my frustration.  Even if he told me, there is 
nothing I can do to help and he knows it. 

So I relax as best I can against him.  "I thought 
you were just saying that, about not being able 
to get up the ladder," I tell him.

"I wouldn't leave you anyway, Sarah.  I 
shouldn't have left before."

"Yes, you should.  You can't tell me all those 
men would have made it out of here without 
you."

"And you wouldn't have had to hold off al-
Qaeda single-handed.  What happened, anyway?  
How did they get out?  Damnit, Mac, I checked 
that gate."

"I know you did.  I think the cells must have 
been damaged, and they pried the doors open 
with broken pieces of pipe or something."  I 
pause, and gulp.  "I told them to stop, Harm.  I 
even fired a warning shot."

"That'll teach 'em to mess with a United States 
Marine.  Nice shootin', Tex."

My voice sounds hoarse.  "I didn't want to kill 
them, Harm."

His arm tightens around my shoulders.  "I know, 
baby.  You had to."

"Yeah, I did.  But God, all they know is hate.  
They're ignorant and they have no hope -- it 
makes it so easy for their religion and their 
leaders to manipulate them.  If only we could" --

"We can't change the whole world, Sarah."

"I know.  But I'd like to do   Not 
just keep up this senseless killing, back and 
forth."

His eyes crinkle at the corners with a tired 
smile.  "You will, too.  We just have to get 
through this.  What time is it, anyway?"

"Oh-nine-hundred.  About three hours since the 
explosion."

"Explosion?"  His eyes look cloudy for a 
minute, then they clear.  "Oh right."   Head 
injury, I think, maybe a concussion.  Oh God, 
don't let it be too bad.

I say, "Well, if this had to happen, I'm glad 
we're together."  

"Me too, sweetheart."  His arm tightens briefly, 
but he keeps his eyes closed.

"Are we going to sink?"  I try to keep my voice 
matter-of-fact.

"Nah.  Take more than two small torpedoes to 
sink one of these babies.  We're taking on water 
in some of the compartments, but they'll get this 
part of the hold sealed off and the pumps will 
keep up 'til we make port."

"Depends on how soon they get to us, I guess."

"We'll be fine."  He snaps off the flashlight 
again, and we're plunged back into darkness.  
With the illumination from the safety light I can 
barely make out the flash of his white teeth as 
he grins, "So, you got any new jokes?  
Riddles?"

"What?"

"Hey, we've gotta pass the time somehow.  
Know any good songs?"

"You're obviously forgetting the last time I tried 
to sing."  I try to keep my voice cheerful.  Try 
not to let him see how scared I am.  How much 
my leg is killing me.

Harm sounds exhausted, but he refuses to give 
up. "Okay.  So what's the most embarrassing 
thing that ever happened to you when you were 
a kid?"

"Gee, that covers a lot of territory." Come on, 
Mac, there must be some funny story you've 
never told him.  Something to take your minds 
off this horrible nightmare.  "Well," I begin, 
"one time Sally Masterson and I decided to ride 
the Giant Cyclone at the county fair until one of 
us threw up."

"Who won?"

"Please.  It wasn't a Tomcat.  But I didn't have 
any idea it tilted 90 degrees, either.  I remember 
opening my eyes and seeing the ground about a 
hundred feet straight down, and screaming 
bloody murder.  Then I threw up."

"So you lost."

"Not really.  It all blew onto Sally."

Harm's laughter is genuine and it makes me feel 
a little better.  "How old were you?"

"Eight or nine, I guess."  I decide to leave out 
the part about how I was spanked later for 
making a mess.  "Okay, what's yours?"

He tilts his head back, considering.  "Guess it 
was the time I thought I was going to get lucky 
with Bonnie Tyler on the living room sofa," he 
grins.

"Do I really want to hear this?  How old were 
you, hotshot?"

"Fifteen.  She was seventeen, and she  
hot.  She quit school the next year and made a 
fortune dancing in clubs."

"You mean stripping."

"I mean she was a noted entertainer on the local 
cultural scene.  Anyway, she offered me a ride 
home and I asked her in.  My mom was at the 
gallery and Frank was out of town, and I figured 
we were safe."

"Why did she want to corrupt a kid?"

"Hey, I was the only new face in town.  So I ask 
her in, and one thing leads to another, you 
know?  So we're on the sofa and I've got my 
hand in her blouse and I figure my education is 
soon to be complete, when I look up and there's 
Hilda."

"Who was Hilda?  Your Doberman?"

"Worse, my mom's assistant.  She'd sent her to 
the house to pick up something.  Anyway, Hilda 
was this very nice lady.  She's standing there in 
her twin set and pearls with her eyes the size of 
garbage can covers" -- 

"Nice metaphor."

" -- and she says, "Harmon, aren't you going to 
introduce me to your young lady?"  

"You're kidding, right?"

"I wish.  We're looking over the back of the 
couch, she's standing in the doorway to the 
living room, and all I know is, I can't stand up."

"I can't imagine why," I say drily.

"So Bonnie buttons her blouse, cool as a 
cucumber, stands up, and shakes Hilda's hand.  
Then she winks at me and leaves."

"Wow.  What did Hilda say?  Did she try to 
blackmail you or something?"

"She kept me worrying about it all summer, 
doing chores for her every time she got the 
chance.  Washing her car, that kind of stuff.  
She never did tell mom, and by the time she quit 
working for the gallery, I almost wished she 
 told her."

"So did you ever get lucky with Bonnie Sue?"

"Please, Mac.  You are speaking of a young lady 
who is dear to the heart of an entire generation 
of La Jolla Country Day School graduates."

I laugh.  "I'll bet you were a knockout at 
fifteen," I tell him.

"Not like you," he says vaguely, drifting away 
again.

We sit there quietly for a long time.  There's no 
way I can really relax, my ankle feels like 
someone's pounding on it with a sledgehammer 
in time with my heartbeat.  So I concentrate on 
the warmth of Harm's body and let my mind 
wander, trying not to worry about the rising 
water or the shouts of the men trapped down 
there.  Trying not to count the minutes that tick 
by more and more slowly.

A long time later something rouses me.  My 
eyes snap open and I catch the gleam of Harm's 
eyes in the dark.  "What" -- I begin, and then I 
hear it.  Above the metallic banging and 
groaning of the huge ship, the prisoners are 
shrieking.  They were noisy before, but this is 
different.  These are men about to die.  "Oh 
God, Harm," I gasp.  His arm tightens.

"Don't listen, Mac.  It'll be over soon."  To my 
horror, I can hear water flowing beneath the 
hatch, and the sound is nearly obscured by the 
loud splashing and desperate screams of the 
trapped men.  The bulkhead is reclining even 
more behind us.  Tears are streaming down my 
face and I find myself praying for some miracle 
to help these poor people, regardless of what 
they have done.  Harm holds me tight, pressing 
my face against his chest, and I put my fingers 
in my ears and sob.

And then it's over.  Just like that, there's nothing 
more, no sounds at all.  Except the rising gurgle 
of water in the dark.  Harm exhales a long, 
shaky breath and strokes my hair.  

"God have mercy on them," I say quietly.

"You're more generous than I am, Mac," he 
says.  And a moment later, I hear water trickling 
and splashing as it overflows the knee knocker 
beside us.  He tightens his hold, and I'm grateful 
for the warmth of his body next to mine.  "We're 
going to be okay, Sarah."

"I know.  Besides, even if the water fills this 
entire deck, like you said, we'll just get into the 
shaft and they'll find us.  Won't they?"

"Right."  But I can hear the weakness in his 
voice.  After a minute he goes on.  "Look, Mac.  
If it gets too deep, you won't be able to hold me 
up."

"So we'll hold each other up."

"I may not be able to" -- he seems to lose his 
place for a moment, then pulls himself together.  
"Mac.  Promise me that whatever happens, 
you'll hang on.  You'll let me go if you have to, 
but you'll hang on.  You're strong.  You can do 
it."

"Harm."  I want to keep arguing, reassuring, 
anything.  But water is running over the deck, 
pooling beneath us.

"Promise me."  He shifts and grunts a little in 
pain.  Something tells me it's not simply his arm 
that hurts.

"I can't do that, Harm.  I won't do it.  We'll make 
it together or not at all."

"Don't argue with me.  Damn it, don't make me 
responsible . . ."

"And I am telling you, we're going to be all 
right.   what I'll promise you."

He shakes his head weakly in frustration.  "This 
discussion is not over," he mutters, but he lapses 
into silence and we just sit for awhile, staring 
into the dark, listening to the carrier echo and 
boom as it settles around us.

"The water really isn't that cold," I say.  "It's the 
Arabian Sea, for Pete's sake.  We'll be fine."

"Huh?"  Harm seems to comes back from 
somewhere far away.  "Yeah, you're right.  No 
waves, no rain, no wind.  It's practically a hot 
tub."  It occurs to me that Harm has more 
expertise in this area than one man ought to 
have.  

The water is halfway over my thighs when I 
realize Harm is shaking.  "Honey?"  I whisper.  
"Harm, talk to me.  What is it?"

"Hurts."  His body is rigid with chills, but when 
I touch his face I find it flushed with fever.  
How can he be burning up like this when we 
have cold water up to our hips?

"Okay, hon, it's okay.  Look, can you slide over 
my leg?  Come on, Harm, get into my lap."

"Too heavy," he mumbles, stubborn to the end.

"Damnit, sailor, move your ass now!" I muster 
my best drill sergeant tone, and to my surprise 
he does it.  With a heave and a harsh sound, 
bitten off, Harm manages to sit up and scoot 
forward.  As he moves he accidentally bumps 
my bad leg and I bite back a scream as a jagged 
streak of agony rips through it.  

Pulling himself with his good arm, Harm slides 
up between my legs and leans back against me, 
huddling for warmth.  I wrap my arms around 
him, careful not to touch the burns, and feel him 
shiver.  

His big body is heavy, but the water is 
supporting some of it.  Gradually his head drops 
against my neck and I hold him, feeling his 
weight pressing against my breasts as I close my 
eyes.  "Okay, honey.  It's okay," I croon, and at 
last he seems to sleep.  There's no way I can do 
that, but after awhile I manage to relax a little 
and let my mind drift off.

* * *

A loud bang somewhere nearby startles me 
awake with a jerk, and I find myself staring 
blindly into the darkness.  "What -- Mac?"

Her arms tighten around me and I feel her 
breath warm on my ear.  "It's okay, Harm."

Gradually I realize the water is up to my chest 
and we're nearly afloat.  I twist a little and 
manage to turn enough to see Mac's eyes 
shining in the dim safety lights.  "I'm glad you're 
awake," she says with a calm smile.  "We need 
to move before it gets too deep."

A fierce chill seizes me and I'm shaking, my 
teeth chattering hard.  Her arms tighten around 
me and hold me until the shivering eases.  Jesus, 
I feel like shit.  Everything aches, from my head 
to my ass.  For a selfish moment I nuzzle my 
face into the warm curve of her throat and rest 
against her breasts.  It seems impossible to 
move again, but I clench my jaw and sit up.  
The chill as the water rushes between us makes 
every muscle in my body flinch.  

Mac switches on the flashlight and moves to the 
left, toward the deeper darkness of the elevator 
shaft.  She's half swimming, half dragging 
herself along the wall, and for a second I 
glimpse her face, contorted with pain.  Moving 
at all with that busted ankle must be agony.  I 
suck it up and follow her, pushing myself along 
with my feet.  

The water is halfway over the jagged opening, 
and I grope to find a grip on the edge with my 
good hand and pull.   My head feels light, as if it 
isn't attached to my body, but I manage to pull 
myself through into the shaft.  Noise echoes off 
the confining steel walls and it stinks of steel 
and fuel oil and seawater.  Suddenly there's no 
deck beneath my feet anymore, and my head 
bobs under.  

I grab something with my burned arm and 
surface with a splash.  The pain alone would 
have startled me back to awareness without the 
dunking.  Beside me, something bumps against 
the steel bulkhead and Mac gives a stifled 
scream.

"It's okay.  I just banged my leg."  She's panting, 
but her grip is firm on my good shoulder as she 
hauls herself past me in the dark and fumbles 
around.  "Okay, I've got the ladder.  Here, hook 
your arm around it, Harm."  Her hand guides me 
and I manage to find a support on the steel 
rungs.  The black water is up to my chin.

After a minute she says, "Where are the 
cables?"  Her voice echoes in the narrow shaft.

"Blast must have sheared them off."  I peer 
upward, blinking water out of my eyes, trying to 
get my bearings.  It feels like being trapped in 
the barrel of a gun.

"Can you see a light up there?" she whispers.  
She shines the flashlight up the shaft, but it 
doesn't reach very far.  Batteries are probably 
giving out.

"Yeah.  Must be five decks up, though."  

"Can't they lower a rope or something?"

"No way.  Look, Mac, don't you see how the 
shaft is buckled?  They could climb around it, 
but there's no way to drop a line or pull us up."

"Yeah.  I see."  She makes her voice sound 
cheerful, but her face looks pale and pinched.  
After a minute, Mac takes a breath and ducks 
under my arm, surfacing with a splash behind 
me.

"What the hell are you doing?"  I hiss.

One of her arms slips around my chest.  She has 
her other arm wrapped around a rung of the 
ladder, and she grabs it, making a loop.  "I told 
you I wouldn't let go," she pants.  "I meant it."

"You don't need to hold me up, Mac." But the 
truth is, I'm not sure how long I can hang on.  
Maybe the water isn't that cold, but I'm 
shivering so hard my teeth sound like castanets.  
Finally I manage to take a deep breath and 
whisper, "I am so sorry, Sarah."

"For what?"  She sounds genuinely perplexed.

"For getting you into this.  You wouldn't be here 
if it weren't for me."

"Oh, Harm -- don't you get it, this isn't just 
 job, it's mine, too.  Besides, I'd rather be 
here with you than worrying about you."  Her 
lips are moving softly against my temple, and 
it's so soothing I don't ever want her to stop.  
My body feels like a limp rag and it's hard to 
think, but there's something . . .  something 
important.  She has to understand.  

I try to take a deep breath but it hurts.  Fighter 
pilots don't talk about fear.  We don't even think 
about it.  You can't do the job if you let fear in.  
There is no way I can explain that, but I manage 
to say, "I can take anything but your being 
hurt."

For a long time she just rests her cheek against 
mine and I listen to her quiet breathing.  I'm 
glad I finally said it, and I don't need her to 
answer.   The water heaves and falls slowly 
around us in time with the roll of the sea.  My 
whole body aches and it's good to rest in her 
strong, slender arms, just for a little while.  
After a bit I let my pounding head rest on her 
shoulder.  Beneath my lips I can feel the living 
pulse in her throat.

"Funny," I hear myself murmuring against her 
skin, "I always figured . . .  if I got killed on a 
carrier . . .  it would be on the flight deck." 

"You're not going to die, goddamn it."

"I know.  Gotta take you sailing in the Bahamas 
first." 

Her voice, when it comes, is so quiet I nearly 
miss it.  "Harm.  Didn't anyone ever tell you it's 
okay to be scared?" 

"No."

"Well, it is."  She gives a little sigh.  "It's okay 
as long as you hang in there.  Want to know 
what helps me when I'm scared?"

"What?"

"You.  I think about you."

"Wow.  Then can I think about you?  With that 
little satin thing on?"

That makes her laugh, a little.

* * *

Twice I have had to extricate my arm from the 
steel ladder and snake it up higher as the water 
continues to rise.  I'm so stiff and numb I'm not 
sure I can do it again.  Each time I release my 
grip to move, Harm starts to slip, and I have to 
clutch him as his weight threatens to drag us 
both under.

Every tiny movement causes a fresh jolt of 
agony in my leg, but at least it keeps me awake.  
Bracing my right foot on the rungs below helps, 
but the downward drag is slowly sapping 
whatever strength I have left.  My internal clock 
is completely shot -- I have no idea how long 
we've been down here.  And it's so dark.  The 
flashlight gave up awhile ago, and there's only a 
trace of glimmer on the surface of the water.  
Our breathing echoes harshly back from the 
steel walls pressing around us.

Sea water slaps at my mouth, and I cough.  God, 
I am so tired.  Harm's head lolls against my 
neck, and I hear myself babbling to him, 
nonsense, I don't know what, anything to keep 
awake.  He stopped answering me almost an 
hour ago.  

I must be hallucinating.  Showers of blue stars 
are falling all around us, sparkling on the oily 
black surface of the water.  Now there's a loud 
clang right above us and some dust sifts down, 
and then a bright light stabs my eyes.

"They're here!  We got 'em!"  I hear somebody 
yelling.  There's a splash, and a sailor is 
swimming beside us, reaching for Harm.  

"It's okay, colonel, I got him, ma'am."  They're 
swinging a big basket over our heads, 
maneuvering it so they can float Harm into it.  
Something is scalding my face and vaguely I 
realize that it's tears.  Another sailor reaches for 
me and carefully eases my arm away from the 
ladder.  I hope he won't notice that I'm crying.

* * *

I nearly pass out when they lift me from the 
water.  I hear myself scream, I just can't help it.  
They ease me into some sort of stretcher and 
cover me with heavy blankets, and I try to relax 
but I'm shivering so hard I can't.  Our journey to 
the decks above is a hallucinogenic dream of 
swaying, jolting, bumps and noise.  Lights stab 
my eyes, ceilings and faces revolve above me, 
and finally I close my eyes against the nausea 
and agony that sweep through me every time a 
movement jostles my broken ankle.  It seems to 
take forever.

After a long, long time I feel an extra thump as 
they set me down somewhere.  There's a lot of 
noise.  All I can see are some glaring lights and 
a curtain that keeps swishing back and forth, 
and then they're cutting my clothes away and 
helping me into something dry.  A corpsman 
leans over me and says something about a shot 
for pain, and I think, it's about damn time.  After 
that everything floats away.  I'm vaguely aware 
of hands pulling on my leg and making me sob 
and someone holding my hand and saying, "Soft 
cast to immobilize it for your flight, colonel," 
and then I'm swaying again and we're out on the 
flight deck and there's so much noise and wind 
and nobody can hear me when I ask where 
Harm is.

The sky is overcast, low grey clouds over a 
gunmetal sea, and the light looks like late 
afternoon.  God, were we down there that long?  
As they lift me into the COD, I sense that there 
are other litters, other injured people being 
loaded around me, but when I try to look I can't 
seem to lift my head.  "Please," I try to grab the 
arm of a corpsman nearby.  But I must be 
strapped in because I can't move, and he doesn't 
hear me.  The lurch of the catapult jolts me hard, 
and that's all I know for awhile.

* * *

Quiet.  Warmth.  Swimming up to the surface of 
awareness like a great, lazy goldfish rising in a 
pond, I see light and rise toward it.

"Harm," I hear my voice, faint and scratchy.  
My mouth is dry.

"Colonel Mackenzie?" a cheerful face looms 
over me.  "Wake up, now."

"Where -- huh?"  I'm floating.  There's a trapeze 
bar above me and my left leg is propped in a 
sling.  There's a huge white plaster cast on it, 
feels heavy.  Sunlight is filtering through orange 
and blue curtains.  

"You're in Italy, colonel.  You've had surgery on 
your ankle, you're going to be fine."

"Harm?"

"You're okay, colonel, really.  Lieutenant 
Starrett will be in to talk to you."

I try to ask her about Harm again, but she's 
gone.

* * *

Hours later, I have no idea, my eyes open and I 
feel more alert.  Clock on the wall, four o'clock.  
Day or night?  Sunlight -- afternoon.

An aide comes and helps me with the bed pan 
and a sponge bath.  She doesn't speak English 
and I can't seem to remember my rudimentary 
Italian.  A meal arrives, but I can't stand the 
sight or smell of it.  There's some lemonade that 
I manage to sip without spilling.  Finally there's 
a swish of rubber soled shoes and a movement 
of air.

"Colonel Mackenzie?"  A doctor with a serious, 
old-young face is standing beside me.  "I'm Dr. 
Starrett, I did the surgery on your ankle.  How 
you feeling?"  

"Okay, I guess.  Look, Doctor, I need to know" -
-

"You had rotated fractures of both the tibia and 
fibula right above the ankle," he begins in a 
detached lecturing tone.  "We opened the ankle 
on both sides and inserted metal pins in both 
bones.  They'll be permanent" --

"Doctor, later, please.  Right now, I have to find 
out about Commander Harmon Rabb.  He's my 
partner, we were rescued together, I need to 
know how he is."

Starrett looks taken aback.  "I don't have any 
idea, colonel.  You can ask the nurses" --

"I am asking  Lieutenant.  No one has 
listened to me since they pulled us out of the 
hold of that carrier and you're damn well going 
to."

Suddenly his pale eyes twinkle behind the silver 
wire rims.  "I keep forgetting I'm in the Navy 
now.  Student loans, you know?  Okay, colonel, 
you do outrank me.  If you're feeling well 
enough to issue orders, that bodes well for your 
complete recovery.  I'll find out about 
Commander" --

"Rabb.  R-A-B-B."

"Rabb, for you.  And by the way" -- he turns to 
go -- "you're going to be fine."

* * * *

"Mac?"  Admiral Chegwidden's voice booms 
over the phone.

"Yes sir.  Good to hear your voice, sir."

"Hear you had kind of a rough time.  How's the 
leg?"

"Just fine, thank you, sir.  Admiral" -- I jump in 
before he can ask anything else -- "do you know 
where Commander Rabb is?  Nobody here 
seems to be able to find out anything."

"That's because he's not in Italy.  They 
evacuated a bunch of the injured to bases in 
Germany."

I stare helplessly at the ceiling, waiting for him 
to go on.  "How is he, sir?" I finally say.

"Doing okay, from what they tell me.  I haven't 
been able to speak to him yet.  Had a hell of a 
concussion and they had to remove his spleen, 
but he's going to be fine."

I close my eyes.  The sheer intensity of my 
relief is so great, I don't trust myself to speak.  
Fortunately, the Admiral starts going on about 
the maneuvering he has done to get me released 
from my TDA in Afghanistan, and something 
tells me he's being kind, giving me time to 
collect myself.  Finally I hear him say, "I hear 
they're sending you home tomorrow, Mac."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm sure it'll be a thoroughly lousy trip."  
His gruff honesty, as always, is oddly soothing.

"That's what they tell me, sir."

"We'll see you then.  And Mac" -- he pauses for 
a moment, and I wonder what's coming.  "Good 
job, colonel."

For some reason, his approval nearly undoes 
me.  "Thank you, sir," I gulp.

* * * *

0200 Zulu (10 p.m. EDT)
Approaching the Eastern Seaboard
Ten days later

Naturally, the goddamn plane is late. 

The interior of a C-130 is not particularly cozy 
under the best of circumstances.  It looks even 
worse when it's lined with hospital beds bolted 
to the deck and filled with injured men.  It's 
chilly, dark, and smells of diesel and old sweat.  
But we're the lucky ones -- we survived, and 
we're going home.

As one of the walking wounded, I abandoned 
my cot and appropriated a seat in the forward 
cabin.  I've filled some of the endless hours 
pacing up and down, talking to the guys who are 
awake.  It's infuriating to feel so weak and sore -
- everything either hurts or itches, from my arm, 
which is strapped across my chest in a heavy 
sling, to the stitches in my side.  From time to 
time I have stretched out on my bed to nap, but 
then the restlessness gets to me and I find 
myself pacing again.  I thought I'd go berserk 
when we were grounded in Keflavik for hours 
by an overheating cylinder head.

"Hey Commander," someone calls to me.  

"Hey, chief," I answer, "How's it going?"  I 
scramble for his name -- Mays, that's it.  He was 
one of the guys who made it out of the hold in 
spite of being badly burned.  Now he's swathed 
in bandages, but his smile is cheerful.

"Goin' home, sir, can't complain.  Goin' see my 
babies and their mama."  

"You're a lucky man, Mays."

"You got anybody waitin' for you, sir?"

I doubt it.  Mac is still laid up and can't put any 
weight on her leg for another couple of weeks.  I 
finally got a call through to her cell phone and 
left a message that I'd call again when we got in.  
"Not this trip, chief."

"Aw, sir, a guy like you probably has so many 
women, you gotta keep 'em from trippin' over 
each other to take care of you," Mays grins.

"Not any more," I grin back.

"You got a girl, sir?"

"She's got me, chief."  We share a laugh at that, 
and I wander forward again.  The landing light 
goes on, and I drop into my seat as we begin the 
long glide into Andrews.  I fasten my safety 
harness and lean back with my eyes closed, 
thinking of Mac.  The admiral filled me in on 
how she's doing, but it's not the same as talking 
to her.  

We touch down with barely a bump.  A petty 
officer comes by and makes me get into a 
wheelchair for the trip inside.  This damn 
folding chair was never intended for a guy my 
size, and it catches me in all the wrong places.  
It takes forever to lower the ramps and start 
moving people into the terminal, and the hot, 
humid air that fills the plane reminds me 
instantly that I'm back in D.C. in the 
summertime.

With any luck, the docs at Bethesda will check 
me over and let me go home tomorrow or the 
next day.  But in the meantime, I resign myself 
to being pushed around like a side of beef -- 
with just one good arm, I can't even maneuver 
this damn chair by myself.  A young sailor grabs 
the handles and we bump down the ramp, and 
the heat comes up off the tarmac like a fist.  
Even in the middle of the night, it barely 
dissipates.

Noise.  Doors swishing open.  Linoleum floors 
and bright florescent lights glaring down.  
Suddenly there are a lot of people milling 
around, women and kids crying and swarming 
all over the place, and I realize they let the 
families come out to meet us.  It's bedlam.  I 
slump deeper into my chair and wait for the 
crowd to move.

A guy is wheeled past with his girlfriend or wife 
walking alongside, holding his hand.  Left and 
right the gurneys jostle by, and I see several 
young women furtively wiping away tears.  
Somebody yells, "Hey commander!" and I look 
up to see Mays, grinning and waving.  Three 
little kids are riding with him, and his wife is 
laughing and crying and hanging onto a baby on 
her hip.  I return his salute with a smile, but it 
fades as soon as they go by.  Come on, Rabb.  
Suck it up.

Another rolling bed bangs into my chair, and the 
young seaman pushing it gives me a startled 
"Sorry, sir" before shoving past me.  The crowd 
moves aside for him, and as I watch the big kid 
shoulder his patient through the gap, something 
catches my eye and I look up.  Mac is standing 
there.  

"Harm."  Her voice isn't loud, but all the noise 
of the crowd goes away.  She's teetering on a 
pair of aluminum crutches, a huge white cast 
stuck out in front of her, and she looks frail and 
none too steady.  But she's smiling that radiant 
smile.

Vaguely I notice Sturgis hovering behind her.  
Even as I'm struggling out of my chair and 
pushing my way through the mob, I'm relieved 
that Mac didn't try to get here alone.  Then she's 
right in front of me, and I guess I say "Sarah" as 
I pull her against me with my good arm.  There's 
a distant clang as her crutches fall to the floor, 
and her arms are around me and I remember all 
over again how it feels to know she will never, 
ever let me go.

I pull back just enough to see her laughing with 
tears all over her face before I lean down and 
lose myself in our kiss.  After a long time 
someone taps me on the back.  Sturgis clears his 
throat, and that deep voice mutters in my ear, 
"Jesus, Rabb, give the poor girl a break or get a 
room," and Mac and I reluctantly break it off 
and laugh a little as she leans against me.

"Sturgis," I say, grateful for the sight of his 
warm brown face, and I manage to stick out my 
hand.  He gives me a firm shake and holds up 
Mac's crutches.  "There's a place to sit over 
here," he gestures, and I keep my hand on Mac's 
back as she hops along.  Sturgis retrieves the 
wheelchair, and somehow we all struggle over 
to a bench against the wall.

"You need this thing more than I do," I tell Mac 
as I push the chair into place and help her prop 
her leg up.  Then I drop down beside her and 
tuck her shoulder beneath mine, and she leans 
against me with a little sigh.  "How the hell did 
you know when we were coming in, anyway?" I 
ask.

"Tiner," she smiles.

"Figures.  But God, Mac, you must have been 
waiting for hours."

"It wasn't bad.  I called before we came out," 
she shrugs.  Faded bruises are still visible on her 
cheekbone.

"Don't you believe it, buddy," Sturgis says.  
"We've been here half the night.  But I couldn't 
talk her out of it.  She threatened to take a cab if 
I didn't bring her."

Mac laughs happily.  "Be grateful you didn't 
have to carry me down the stairs," she tells him.  

"Only because that lousy elevator was working 
for once," Sturgis grumbles goodnaturedly.

"Elevator?" I say blankly.  Mac's building 
doesn't have one.

"I'm staying at your place, flyboy.  Hope you 
don't mind."  Her eyes are dancing.  

"Hey, what's mine is yours." I make an 
expansive gesture.

"The walk-in shower is great with crutches," she 
explains.  Our eyes meet, sharing the private 
joke.  It's going to be awhile before we can do 
anything about it, though.

"After all, she did save your life," Sturgis points 
out.  "From what I hear, anyway."

"In more ways than one," I say, my voice low, 
for her alone.

* * *

0730 Zulu (3:30 a.m. EDT) 
North of Union Station
One week later

"Harm?"  My voice sounds groggy, and I rub 
my eyes as I try to get my bearings.  The living 
room is dark except for the faint glow of 
moonlight from the windows.  Headlights of a 
passing car slant through the blinds, sending 
graphic stripes of black and white sliding across 
the ceiling.  It's either very late or very early, 
and the city around us is silent and still.

Between my ankle and Harm's injuries, we keep 
hurting each other when we try to share the bed.  
So I've been sleeping out here on the sofa with 
my cast propped up on a pile of pillows.  Now I 
push my hair out of my eyes to see Harm at the 
desk, staring at the computer.  His face looks 
drawn and haggard in the blue glare from the 
screen.   

"Sorry, Mac.  I didn't mean to wake you," he 
says quietly.

"S'okay," I say, as I struggle to disentangle 
myself from the sheet and blanket and sit up.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah.  Fine."  He clicks the mouse and pushes 
his chair back with a jerk.  Then he stalks to the 
kitchen, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, 
and leans against the island as he stares out the 
window. 

It's a lot easier to stand up now that I have a 
walking cast.  I get to my feet and stump slowly 
across to the bedroom steps, heading for the 
bathroom.  Harm's still standing there with his 
back to me when I return, so I go over and perch 
on one of the stools beside him.  Silently he 
hands me the bottle of water, and I take a sip.

"Anything exciting on Ebay?" I ask.  

"Nah.  Just couldn't sleep.  I've been napping so 
much during the daytime, I'm awake all night."

"Yeah, me too."

He snorts and throws me a look.  

I smile at him.  "It was getting lonely out here, 
anyway."  He puts his hand over mine and 
squeezes, but there's something too intense 
about it.  He's looking away, out the window, 
and the Rabb wall of inscrutability is up.  
Something's bothering him.  

"You gonna to tell me what's going on?"  I ask 
lightly.

"Nothing's going on, Mac.  I just can't sleep."  
He shifts irritably.  "God, I'll be glad when I get 
these stitches out and get back to work.  Maybe 
then" -- he stops.

"Then, what?" I ask lightly.

"Maybe then we can start sleeping together 
again," he says, flashing me a small smile.  I'm 
almost fooled -- almost.  

"Hey, we're convalescents in the same small 
apartment and we're still friends," I kid him a 
little.  "That ought to count for something."

"It counts for everything," he says, his voice 
serious.  Gently I touch his left arm, where  
tender new skin has healed over the burns.  A 
heavy bandage still covers Harm's torso from 
chest to waist, concealing the line of ugly 
sutures.  

"I miss it too," I whisper, stroking his fingers.  
Without a word, Harm lifts my hand, entwined 
with his, and lightly kisses my knuckles as he 
continues to stare out the window.  "Still 
thinking about that sailboat in the Bahamas?" I 
kid him.  

"Among other things," he says.  After a minute 
it's clear this goes way beyond midnight 
brooding, and I disengage my hand and limp 
over to the computer.  "Mac," Harm protests, 
but I restore the screen and take a look.  Uh-oh.

"Naval BUPERS listings?" I raise my eyebrows.  
"What's this, Harm?"  Of course, I already 
know.  My brilliant, obsessive, stubborn partner 
is looking for a job. 

He shrugs.  "There isn't much available right 
now.  Nothing that isn't a step backward or a 
dead end.  I've made a few calls, but you know 
how it is.  Maybe it'll be easier once I get back 
to work."  

"Why the big rush?" I ask, keeping it casual.  
"We're on separate duty these days.  It's not like 
we're opposing counsel on a high profile trial."

"But it could happen any day, Mac.  Come on, 
you know the minute the Admiral tries to assign 
us to the same proceeding, we'll have to excuse 
ourselves.  That alone is grounds for a charge of 
interfering with good order and discipline.  We 
have to tell the admiral we're seeing each other, 
and hope he gives us time to work it out.  But 
there's nothing that says he has to."

"Harm, I don't want to sneak around any more 
than you do.  But we don't have to jump at the 
first option.  What about the DOD?" I ask.  
Harm's work with the task force brought him 
into the orbit of the Secretary of Defense, surely 
that ought to count for something.

"Mac, in two years the administration will be up 
for reelection.  Hell, in six years they'll be out 
regardless.  That's not exactly a long-term career 
path.  And I don't want to be somebody's aide, 
or a political liaison.  The simple fact is, if we 
stay in the military there's no way to be sure we 
won't have to take tours on opposite sides of the 
world, in fact, it's probable.  Even if I leave the 
Navy, it wouldn't solve anything.  A good law 
practice isn't exactly portable.  When you're 
stationed overseas, I wouldn't be able to just 
pick up and go."

"And I don't want one of those commuter 
relationships, where one of us is always on a 
plane so we can spend the weekend together.  
But what about me?  I haven't even started 
looking yet."  Suspicion fills me.  "Harmon 
Rabb.  You're thinking of taking some unilateral 
action, aren't you?"

He cuts a glance at me and shrugs.  "I'm just 
looking, Mac."

"And I'm Martha Stewart.  You have that Naval 
Academy, 'damn the torpedoes, full speed 
ahead' look."

"The WHAT look?"  He turns to look at me, and 
his smile flashes white in the darkness.  Good, 
progress.

"When was it decided that you would be the one 
to make a career change?" I demand.

"And why should it be you?" he fires back.  
"You're one hell of a lawyer, Mac.  One hell of a 
Marine.  You've worked hard for it.  Why 
should you have to give all that up?"

I fix him with a glare.  "Harm.  I love the Corps, 
but it's not my whole life.  You and I both know 
that with the Article 32 and captain's mast on 
my record, I'm never going to make more than 
bird colonel if I'm lucky.  And that's okay with 
me."  I stand up so I can argue at full throttle.  
"You, on the other hand, are set to go all the 
way.  You'll make captain in a few years, you'll 
get your star before you're fifty.  You could be 
CNO before you're done."  He laughs at that, but 
I can see that none of these ideas is unfamiliar to 
him.  "But more than that, Harm, you're not just 
a great lawyer, you're brilliant.  You're a genius 
in the courtroom.  My mouth still goes dry every 
time I have to address a jury.  I love being a 
JAG, but every time I start a big trial I go into 
the restroom and throw up."  That gets him.

"You do?"  He's astonished.  

"Yeah," I say, a little defiant now.  "I can't get 
over it.  I'll never really be comfortable trying 
cases."

"Why haven't you ever said something?"  He's 
watching me closely, concerned and a little 
upset that he didn't know.  Oh, Harm.

"Because I wanted to keep working with you," I 
tell him quietly. 

He opens his mouth, stops, and fidgets.  His grip 
is crushing my hand.  "I -- see," he says finally.  
He's staring at me as if he's never seen me 
before.  Then he holds out his arms and gathers 
me to him.  I'm not sure who's holding whom, 
but it doesn't really matter.

"Harm," I begin, and touch his bandages.  
"Three weeks ago, you nearly died risking your 
life for a man you didn't even know.  It was 
your duty, but in my opinion it would NOT have 
been a good trade."  I look at him defiantly.  
"And I'm damned if I'll let you ruin your life by 
sacrificing your future for me.  You said it 
yourself, that's the worst thing we could do."  
He starts to say something, but I rush on,  "It's 
not just about you and me, damnit.  It's about 
the Navy, hell, the whole damn country.  There 
aren't many like you, Harm.  I told you once, 
you were born to be an naval officer.  You can't 
turn your back on that."

His deepset eyes are watching me with a 
peculiar expression -- part tenderness, part 
amusement, part something I can't put my finger 
on.  "Wow," he says softly, with the beginnings 
of a smile.  "Like I said.  One hell of a lawyer."

"So you'll wait while I look around?" I ask, 
looking at him very straight.  Harmon Rabb is 
not a patient man.

"Yeah."  He strokes my cheek.  "We'll do it 
together this time, Mac.  And I promise you, I'll 
pay attention from now on."

"You have  paid attention, flyboy.  
Look, we both have cabin fever from being 
cooped up here with nothing to do but pop pain 
medication and fight over the computer games.  
It's going to get better."

"It's already pretty damn good, Mac."  His arms 
tighten for a moment.  "Now if only you would 
jump my bones" --

We both laugh a little.  "I don't want to be 
responsible for putting you in the hospital for 
the second time in a month.  But there's nothing 
that says we can't snuggle," I say, pulling on his 
hand.  His arm goes around my shoulders, and 
together we move toward the bedroom, leaning 
on each other.

* * *

1200 Zulu (5 a.m. PDT)
Burnett residence, La Jolla, California
Fourth of July weekend

Mac is still sleeping, her breathing light and 
even.  She was so tired, she fell asleep in my 
arms before Letterman finished his monologue, 
and I never heard her moving around in the 
night.  

I ease myself out of bed and move stealthily to 
the bathroom.  When I come back, she's rolled 
over into my spot and her head is on my pillow.  
Mac is such a light sleeper, I want to let her rest 
as long as she can -- it's our first day of 
vacation, after all.  Besides, this way I can 
indulge in one of my favorite pastimes and just 
watch her.  The sinfully soft Egyptian cotton 
sheets have slipped down to her waist, making a 
wonderful contrast with her tawny skin as she 
lies there with one arm flung out and the other 
across her hips.  Her breasts, high and round and 
soft, are on display.  By now I am fairly familiar 
with the sight, but it never fails to stir me.  The 
lush, womanly curves of Mac's body are a 
wonderful contrast with her taut, trained 
muscles and long slender bones.  In my arms 
she feels so small, almost delicate beneath her 
strength.

I have never understood why intense happiness 
is physically painful.  I have to swallow to ease 
the sudden ache in my throat.  Never in my 
wildest dreams would I have imagined the 
reality of being loved by Sarah Mackenzie.  The 
passion and tenderness she lavishes upon me are 
astonishing.  How could I have known this 
woman so well and so long and never 
discovered the sweetness beneath the strength?  
The gentleness behind her fierce loyalty?

Finally I turn away from the exquisite sight of 
her in my bed and wander out onto the balcony.  
The vast sweep of the Pacific stretches toward 
the horizon, blue in the sunrise, and the soft 
morning wind teases the long white curtains in 
the doorway.  I take a deep breath of the salt 
scented air and lift my face to the first rays of 
sun slipping through the palm trees.

A pair of slim arms encircles my waist, and a 
soft body presses up against my back.  I smile 
and cover her hands with mine.  "You were 
supposed to sleep late," I tell her.  "It's 
vacation."

"Mmmmm, not without you," she mumbles, her 
lips warm against the skin of my back.  Her 
fingertips slide lower, and I feel her mouth 
curve in a smile.  Swiftly I spin and catch her in 
an embrace, and she laughs up at me.

"How do you do that?" I ask.

"Do what?" she murmurs, kissing as high up my 
neck as she can reach.

"Look so damn beautiful first thing in the 
morning?"  Her big dark eyes open wide in 
delighted surprise.  "No one ever told you that?" 
I ask.  It seems impossible, but I hope not.  I 
want to be the only one.

"Never," she says, her eyes sparkling.  

"You don't need any makeup, or your hair fixed, 
or anything else.  You wake up beautiful," I tell 
her.

She looks like I've just given her a wonderful 
present, and something tightens my throat again.  
So I pull her against me and slip my hands 
inside her thin robe, caressing her satiny skin, 
and I feel myself rise hard and insistent against 
her.

"Harm," she murmurs, stroking my back and 
curving her body into mine.  Her inflammatory 
mouth is nibbling at my chest, licking a nipple, 
pulling gently on it, and I groan.  Quickly I slide 
one hand down to the small of her back and 
press her hard against me, bending my knees to 
bring us closer.  She gasps as her robe slips off 
her shoulders.

"Inside," Mac is panting, her eyes hazy with 
desire.  "Your mother" --

"My mother is probably leading a brass band 
down the street," I growl, cupping one heavy 
breast in my hand and pressing my thumb 
against the nipple.  Mac sways and her eyes 
close as her head drops back.  With a little sigh, 
she eases away from me and takes my hand, 
pulling me inside.  I barely make it through the 
curtains before sweeping her up and depositing 
her, none too gently, onto the bed.  Then we're 
rocking against each other, aching with arousal, 
and it's long and slow and sweet until Sarah 
cries out and I lose myself in her once again.

* * *

"So what do you want to do with your first day 
of vacation?" I ask Mac.  Her head is nestled in 
the hollow of my shoulder and her hand is 
stroking my chest.  I hope we stay right here for 
the next four days.  Wonder if mom would 
mind.

Mac smiles.  "I want to walk on the beach and 
swim in the ocean," she says decisively.  I 
laugh.  

"That we can do.  Now that your cast is off," I 
say.

"Will your mother expect us for breakfast or 
anything?" she asks.  

"Nope."  I close my eyes and start to doze.

"You're sure she doesn't mind our sharing a 
room?" Mac says, sounding a little uncertain.

"She not only doesn't mind, she gave us the 
guest suite," I say, glancing around the big room 
with ocean views on three sides.  "She and 
Frank have a master suite like this in the other 
wing.  When I called to ask her if we could 
come out for the long weekend, all she said was, 
'One room or two, dear?'  I never expected she'd 
put us here.  My old room is on the other side of 
the house, with a small bed and no balcony."

"Is that how she always handles your 
girlfriends?"  Mac says it casually, but I hear the 
insecurity beneath the surface.  

I roll onto my side and lean on one elbow as I 
look down at her.  "Sarah.  I haven't had a girl in 
this house since Mom caught me with Mary 
Kelly in my room senior year of high school."  

"I'm not sure any woman really wants her son 
sharing a bed in her home," Mac says, still 
doubtful.

"Mac, Mom is so thrilled you're here she can 
hardly stand it.  Believe me, if she didn't like 
you, you'd know it."  I remember my elegant 
mother extending her hand to Renee like the 
queen greeting a naked aborigine, and keep my 
grin to myself.  We ate dinner last night on the 
terrace with Mom and Frank, surrounded by 
glowing candles, and laughed and talked all 
evening.  It was one of the best times I've ever 
had here. 

Something tells me Mac is not convinced, but 
she gives me a quick smile.  "Okay.  So, can we 
go down to the beach now?"

"Now? I was planning to go back to sleep," I 
whine.  "I'm on vacation."

"You've only been back at work for three weeks, 
and you can sleep on the beach.  C'mon, sailor.  
Get the lead out."  

She shows no mercy.  When I try to roll over 
and pull the pillow over my head, she ruthlessly 
strips off the bedcovers and tries to haul my ass 
off the mattress.  By the time I pin her down 
we're both laughing so hard I start wondering if 
the scar on my side will hold up.

So we brush our teeth and Mac puts on a bikini 
and I pull on a baggy old pair of blue swim 
trunks.  At the last minute, while she's getting 
the sunscreen, I take something out of my 
luggage and slip it into my pocket.  

Downstairs, we let ourselves out the guest 
entrance.  It's still early.  The pool man is 
pushing the vacuum through the turquoise water 
and gives us a casual wave, but no one else is 
around.  

"This way," I tell Mac, and take her hand as we 
cross the lawn toward the weathered wooden 
stairs leading down the cliff to the beach.  She is 
still limping a little, but she's been working hard 
on the physical therapy since the cast came off 
and she only uses the light canvas brace when 
she has to walk a distance, like now.  I grab a 
couple of big towels from the pool house as we 
go by.

She pauses at the top of the cliff and looks out at 
the ocean.  She's smiling a little.  

"What?" I ask, brushing the hair blowing in her 
eyes.  

"It was so hard to get around all those weeks," 
she says.  "It's a treat just to be able to walk out 
and see this."  

"We'll have to arrange some more treats while 
you're here," I tell her, giving her a quick hug, 
keeping it light.

She slips her arms around my neck and gives 
me a smile that rivals the sunrise.  "Okay, 
flyboy.  How about carrying me down those 
steps for starters?"

"A challenge is a challenge."  Without missing a 
beat, I slide one arm behind her shoulders and 
the other behind her knees, and swing her up 
against my chest.

"Harm!"  Now she looks alarmed.  "I was 
kidding!  Are you okay?"

"Mac, please.  I'm the one who runs every day, 
remember? And you weigh about as much as a 
sofa cushion."  Not quite, but it certainly isn't a 
strain to carry her down the long flight of steps 
to the beach.  As soon as she's sure I'm not 
going to drop over with a coronary or 
something, Mac leans her head on my shoulder 
and grins, enjoying the ride.

The soft, deep sand will be hard going for her 
ankle, so I tighten my arms and keep on going 
until we reach the firm footing where the water 
foams and recedes.  Carefully I set her on her 
feet and don't let go.

"Very impressive, sailor," she grins. "I could get 
used to that kind of service."

"Beats pumping iron in the gym," I pant.  Only a 
little.  Mac laughs and leans against me as she 
bends down to untie her leg brace and pull it off.  
The sunlight is marching up the sand, pushing 
the shadows back against the cliff, and where 
we are standing the light is already brilliant.  
Mac's bikini is a sort of bronze color with a soft 
metallic sheen, nearly an exact match for her 
skin -- she looks burnished, almost naked.  I 
reach for her as she straightens, but she steps 
away from me, laughing.

"Last one in is a rotten egg!" she tosses over her 
shoulder, and limps down the sand into the 
onrushing waves.

"Hey!"  I'm so distracted, watching her body in 
that barely-there suit, I have to run to catch up 
before the first wave knocks her off her feet.  
She gives a little shriek and tries to escape, but I 
grab her and hold on as the water crashes 
around us in a burst of spray,  then pick her up 
again and wade out beyond the breakers.

We're both laughing and gasping.  When I get 
out to chest depth, I lift my feet and hold her 
and we ride the lines of waves rolling in toward 
the beach.  Mac giggles with delight like a little 
girl each time we swoop down the back of 
another wave, leaning her head back with her 
eyes closed.

The water sparkles on her eyelashes like 
diamonds.  When she opens them to look at me, 
her arms slide around my shoulders, and our 
mouths come together in a slow, endless kiss.  
Her lips are so soft beneath mine, and they taste 
of salt and sunlight.  In the water her skin is like 
satin, cool on the surface, hinting at the heat 
beneath.  She rests her hand against my 
sandpapery cheek.

At last we pull back, panting, her mouth against 
mine.  Slowly Mac reaches behind her neck and 
pulls on the ties, and her top slides away to trail 
around her waist.  I put my feet down on the 
firm sand and slide my hand to cup the fullness 
of her breast, feeling the peak harden beneath 
my palm.  Her eyes darken as she stares into 
mine, not looking away as those long legs slip 
around my waist and we press against each 
other beneath the warm surface of the sea.

"Think we can get arrested for making out on 
your mother's beach?" Mac murmurs in my ear.

"It's a public beach.  Lots of people can see us."

Mac gives a little sigh, smiling into my eyes.  
"Thank you, Harm."  There is no trace of irony 
in her expression.

"For what, sweetheart?"

"For making me so happy."

I tighten my hold, just a little.  "I could say the 
same, Sarah."

She lifts an eyebrow.  "Which am I?"

"Which what?"

"Mac or Sarah?"  Her eyes are sparkling.  "I'm 
Mac most of the time.  You only call me Sarah 
when you're feeling romantic."

"Do I?  Well, I like it.  It's nice to have a special 
name for that."

"I love you."  Her voice is so soft, it's almost 
lost in the crash and boom of the surf.  But I 
hear.

"I love you too, Sarah.  I love it when you look 
so happy.  You deserve every wonderful thing 
in the world."

"I have you.  What could be better than that?"

"You could marry me."

Mac goes very still, her hands resting lightly on 
my shoulders.  I surprised myself, too.   Then, 
"Yes," she whispers, and nods slowly, as if she's 
agreeing with someone that this might be a good 
idea.  I didn't know I was holding my breath, but 
it comes out in a long sigh.

"Yeah?"  I say, grinning stupidly.  

"Yes," she laughs, and now there are tears in her 
eyes.  So there really isn't anything else to do 
but hold her very tight and kiss her a lot.

After a long time we fumble Mac's top back on 
and wade out of the surf, stumbling and hanging 
onto each other.  I grab a towel and wrap it 
around her and hold her possessively.

"You realize this will force the issue at work," I 
say.  Brilliant, Rabb, you obsess about the future 
even at times like this.

"Well, I was waiting for a chance to talk to you 
about that," Mac smiles, and gracefully lowers 
herself to a warm patch of dry sand.  I drop 
down beside her and she takes my hand in both 
of hers.

"Remember when I went up to the Academy a 
few days ago?" she asks.

"Yeah.  Something about getting that Arabic 
program going in the fall?"

"That's right.  But while I was there, they 
offered me a full-time appointment to the 
faculty, starting with the fall semester.  
Teaching the UCMJ survey course, and some of 
the programs at the Center for Professional 
Military Ethics."  She strokes the back of my 
hand.  "It would be perfect, Harm.  I'd always be 
in Washington when you are, and they'd let me 
take a sabbatical when you're stationed 
overseas."

"You asked them ?"

"In a general way."  Her dark eyes are laughing 
at me, but she looks serious when she says, "I'm 
excited about it, Harm.  I love teaching, working 
with the mids.  It's something I could really get 
into, something worth doing."

My hand tightens around hers, and instinctively 
I look for a counter argument. "But Mac.  Are 
you ?  It's a brick wall, you'll be in the 
same slot until you retire.  And it'll be a big let 
down after JAG headquarters."

"Not if I inspire another Harmon Rabb or two," 
she smiles.  "That alone would be worth it."  
She sifts some sand between her fingers.  "It 
feels right, like it's the direction I've always 
been looking for.  And besides," she smiles a 
little, "the kids really ought to know what time 
 of us will be getting home at night."

The kids.   kids.  At that precise moment, 
staring into her heartbreakingly beautiful eyes, I 
know.  It will really happen.  Mac will be my 
wife, we'll have children, and it will be the best 
thing I ever do.

So of course I have to argue a little. "You're sure 
it's what you really want, Mac?  I don't want to 
wake up some day knowing you did this just to 
make it easy for me."

"I'm sure, Harm.  Are you?"  She is looking at 
me very steadily.  And here it is.  The turning 
point, the precise moment that will determine 
the rest of our lives.  If we lie to ourselves now, 
or lie to each other, we will always regret it.

"Yeah.  I'm sure.  If it's what you really want, 
Mac, then I'm behind you a hundred percent."

"You always are."

I look out at the waves for a minute, trying to 
figure out how to say something. "Mac, I want 
to tell you that everything will be perfect, 
everything will always work out, that I'll always 
make you ecstatically happy.  We both know it 
doesn't work that way.  But Sarah, I promise 
you this."  I take her lovely face in my hands.  "I 
will love you for the rest of my life."

Tears are sparkling in her eyes and her lips are 
trembling.  "Okay," she whispers.

"Okay.  So, when do you want to get married?" 
Teasing seems to be a good idea right now.

"Why not tomorrow?" She shoots back with a 
quick smile.

I stop, narrowing my eyes.  This seems to be my 
day for great ideas.  "Why not?" 

"What about a license?"  Okay, now things are 
back to normal.  My Marine looks skeptical.  
She presses, "I mean, I know this is California, 
but they  have laws."

"Yeah, but we could still do it this weekend. 
Hell, Frank knows a judge, maybe he could pull 
a few strings.  Even if we can't get a license in 
time, we can still have the ceremony.  Then we 
can get Captain Sebring or Admiral Morris or 
one of the other judges to perform the legal part 
in chambers when we get back."

"Captain Sebring hates me.  And Admiral 
Morris hates you."  Good, now she's laughing.

"Then we'll get them to do a tag team, balance 
each other out."  I feel my grin getting bigger 
and bigger as I get seriously into this.  "Think of 
it, Mac.  No hassles, no fancy stuff.  Just you 
and me, with Mom and Frank for witnesses. We 
could have it right up there on the cliff, Saturday 
afternoon.  We can have a party for all our 
friends when we get back."

The smile on Mac's face tells me this may be the 
best idea I've ever had. "Let's do it, Harm.  It's 
perfect," she grins, slowly nodding her head.  
And then her face falls, and if she weren't so 
obviously worried, it would be comical.

"Sarah?  Sweetheart, what's wrong?"  

"Your mother will kill me," she breathes.

"Mac," I say, "my mother will kill  if we 
 do this.  Trust me."

She searches my face for a minute, then relaxes.  
"Always."

"Okay.  Now, let's get up there and tell her.  She 
has a lot of arrangements to make."  I stand up 
and pull Mac to her feet, and she grabs my hip 
to steady herself.

"Hey, what's this?" she asks, her fingers 
brushing my pocket.

"Oh.  I forgot.  That's for you."  I reach in, pull 
it out, and hand it to her.

Mac stares down at the object in her palm.  
After a moment she clears her throat.  "Harm.  
This is the Navy Cross."

"Yep.  They hurried up all the decorations for 
the action on the Seahawk."

She lifts her face to look at me, bewildered.  
"You got the Navy Cross and you didn't tell 
anyone?"

"It just came yesterday, right before we left.  
The Admiral ordered me to be part of a 
ceremony next week.  He pointed out that it was 
my duty to inspire others."  I grimace.

"Well, it is," she nods.

"Mac, you and I both know we just did what the 
situation demanded.  I don't see anybody 
decorating  for holding off those al-Qaeda 
single-handed."

"Uh huh.  Okay, let's see.  You took command 
and rescued eighteen sailors, six from certain 
drowning, and you personally saved one of them 
at risk of your own life.  Gee, sounds like just 
another day at the office to me."

I shake my head and press the blue and bronze 
medallion into her hand.  "This belongs to you, 
Sarah.  I'll wear the ribbon, but I want you to 
have this.  For saving  life."  I grin at her.  
"You can wear it with your wedding dress.  It's 
the 'something blue.' "

And two days later, she does.

Finis