Name/Title: A passage through darkness Author name: Oleshka (oleshka24@yahoo.com) Rating: PG Spoilers: Enemy Below, In country, a few others Disclaimer: I, of course, do not own the characters -- just borrowing them for the storyline. Summary: Hurting over his friend's injury, Harm takes on a mission that plunges him into the bottomless well of pain and darkness. Will his friends be able to find him before it's too late? A passage through darkness Prologue… Somewhere in Afghanistan The morning sun rose slowly above the desert, as if reluctant to waste any of its warmth on the desolate landscape below. Tentatively its rays grazed the rough uninviting surface of the land soaked with blood from the centuries of conflicts. Unwilling to relinquish their control over the land, the darkness and cold of the desert night were retreating slowly and reluctantly in the face of the advancing light, creeping under the cover of the nearby caves, determined to hide there, concealing their dark secrets until it was time for them to once again spring forth onto the unsuspecting earth. In a silent acknowledgement of the immense power that darkness held over this land, the sun merely grazed over the outer surface of the caves, unable or unwilling to penetrate any deeper and intrude upon the murky lair of its nocturnal nemesis. It was only by accident then that a small ray of sunlight slipped through a tiny crevice in the cold rocky surface, freezing in trepidation at the sight that opened before it. Its faint shimmering light slid along the damp wall of the inside of the cave, illuminating for a brief moment a massive iron chain that was imbedded into the rocky interior. The free end of the chain was split in two, like the tongue of a poisonous snake – the two metal rings crowning its ends roughly encircled the wrists of a prisoner. Shivering as in fright, the sunray crept up the blood-soaked sleeve of the man’s tattered flight jacket, pausing as it reached his gaunt and pale face. It rested there, taking in the cracked bleeding lips, the sunken cheeks covered by rough stubble, the multitude of scrapes and bruises partially concealed by layers of dirt and dried blood. Curious yet fearful, it kept its watch on the man, careful not to wake him from his troubled sleep. The sounds of approaching footsteps echoed heavily in the adjacent hallway, and the prisoner awoke with a start, blinking somewhat bewilderedly at his surroundings, as if having forgotten about them in his sleep. But the reality burst into his room mere seconds later in the form of two rifle-wielding Afghani men. The oldest of them, the leader, (‘Ahmed,’ the prisoner recalled) approached him, bending slightly to get a clearer view of the man’s face in the dim light of the cave. “Good morning,” he drawled, his voice thick with an accent. “I see you have not touched your supper,” he pointed to a chipped wooden cup of dirty water and a piece of stale moldy bread. “Perhaps you do not like this food, eh?” Ahmed kicked the cup with his boot, spilling its contents onto the damp earth of the cave. “I can arrange for better food,” he declared, accentuating each syllable, “all you have to do is tell me what I need to know.” He narrowed his eyes on the prisoner’s face, pausing for emphasis. “Are you ready to talk to us now?” The question earned him a hateful glare; the prisoner remained silent. The Afghani shook his head in a mock show of disapproval. “You are a very stubborn man, Commander Rabb,” he said, his voice hard and menacing. “But,” he sighed as if in resignation, “if that is what you wish…. You are only making it worse for yourself, you know.” He paused expectantly, but the prisoner made no move that would signal cooperation. “As you wish,” the older man concluded, nodding to his companion. Within minutes the shackles were taken off, and the Navy Commander was pulled roughly to his feet, unable to suppress a sharp cry as pain racked his battered body. He swayed slightly, nursing his sore bleeding wrists, relishing the moment of reprieve. The moment didn’t last, however, as the second gunman shoved him unceremoniously toward the center of the room where a shorter chain dangled ominously from the low ceiling. Another pair of metal rings closed sharply around his wrists, as his arms were jerked upwards, and Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. closed his eyes against the onslaught of pain that he knew from the countless times before would now grow only stronger. * * * Chapter I Approximately 3 months earlier… Bethesda Naval Hospital Harm sat in the waiting room of the Bethesda Naval Hospital, leaning forward in his chair, his face buried in his hands. Lieutenant Roberts … Bud … that kind good-natured man who was like a younger brother to him now lay on the table in the operating room surrounded by a group of people in scrubs who were desperately trying to save what was left of the Lieutenant’s leg. The news of Bud’s injury reached them on the carrier. He remembered standing outside, leaning on the rail as he watched the planes take off for another mission. He felt a presence behind him and turned surprised to see Lt. Colonel Sarah MacKenzie come out on the deck behind him. “Mac, what are you--?” he stopped abruptly, his heart sinking when he noticed how pale she looked. “What is it, Mac? What’s wrong?” he remembered asking, and then she told him, and then his world froze…. Vaguely, he remembered the ride back to Washington, Mac’s small and slightly trembling hand holding his, the mad rush through the corridors of the naval hospital, the desperate questions, the indefinite answers, and, finally, the wait … the long and arduous wait during which his mind made countless desperate attempts to comprehend, to reason out why this happened and failed miserably every time. A light touch on his shoulder broke the maddening train of thought, and Harm looked up to see Mac standing beside him. “Harriet and the Admiral are on their way,” she said quietly, and he nodded, wincing inwardly at the thought of the kind of hell Harriet must be going to through at this moment. “He’ll be okay,” Mac whispered with forced confidence in a vain attempt to ease his mind, but her dark eyes bore into his begging for reassurance that she herself had tried to give to him. Harm rose swiftly, drawing her into his arms, feeling her cling desperately to him as her last vestiges of self-control slipped away. They remained standing there, drawing comfort from each other’s embrace, as she cried softly against his chest and he held her even tighter, whispering the same words into her hair like a mantra, “He’ll be all right … he’ll be all right … he’ll be all right.” They were still clinging to each other when the haggard-looking Harriet Sims burst through the doors of the waiting room with the no less haggard-looking Admiral on her heels. “Where is he?” she shrieked, but before either of the pair had a chance to respond or even to pull away from each other’s embrace, the door to the operating room opened, and Harriet rushed down the hallway to intercept the exiting surgeon. “Doctor, I’m Lieutenant Roberts’—” “I think I have a pretty good idea who you are, Ma’am,” the man in scrubs said tiredly, running a hand over his eyes. “Your husband lost a lot of blood,” he continued in the same weary voice, as Harriet gasped audibly, her face growing even paler, “but we were able to repair the damage to … what was left of his leg.” The doctor paused, looking squarely into the young woman’s eyes. “He will make a full recovery, Ma’am,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster in his exhausted state. “They are finishing patching him up in there,” he added lightly. “You will be able to see him soon.” The doctor squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance and walked away, leaving her standing in the middle of the hallway, shaking with fear and relief. “Why?” she whispered to no one in particular, as her friends slowly approached from behind. “Why did it have to be him?” “Harriet…” Harm began, gently touching her shoulder in an effort to calm the distraught woman. But she whirled unexpectedly, pushing away his outstretched hand, her blue eyes flaring up in sudden anger. “Don’t ‘Harriet’ me, Sir!” she exploded, as he stepped back involuntarily, surprised by her outburst. “He should have stayed on the ship; he shouldn’t have gone anywhere near the minefield! He’s not like you! He’s just a lawyer … It shouldn’t have been him out there … If anyone … if anyone should’ve been in his place, it should’ve been –” Harriet stopped abruptly, and her hand flew to her mouth at the realization of what she was saying. “Oh, God, Sir … I … I didn’t –” “It’s okay, Lieutenant,” Harm breathed out. In the course of her tirade, his face has grown whiter than the walls of the surrounding hospital hallway, and at her last comment, the tall Navy Commander swayed as if from a blow. “I know you didn’t mean it.” He forced a weak smile on his lips, feeling an overwhelming need to get out of that building. “If you’ll all excuse me,” he muttered, “I’m gonna get some air.” “Ma’am, what have I done?” Harriet wailed, looking at Harm’s retreating figure. Mac made a move to run after him, but stopped, thinking that he needed some time alone. “He knows you’re hurting, Harriet. I’m sure he understands,” she reasoned as much for her own benefit as for the Lieutenant’s. * * * Several hours later, when darkness descended upon the city, and the halls of the Bethesda hospital became deserted deprived of their daytime visitors, Lt. Harriet Sims sat quietly at her husband’s bedside. A myriad of thoughts were running through her mind: baby A.J. whom she left for a whole day in the care of the babysitter, the look of raw unadulterated pain in Commander Rabb’s eyes when she said those awful things to him, the worry on Colonel MacKenzie’s face as she watched her partner walk away, a worry which echoed in the frown of her commanding officer…. But her thoughts kept coming back to the man who lay in bed before her. Sighing, she leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on her husband’s forehead. “You gotta wake up for me, Sweetie. Please, wake up.” A lone figure stood outside the room in the empty hallway. The man whose tall frame usually towered over his surroundings now seemed fragile and small. Quietly holding the door ajar, he looked inside, his eyes lingering for a moment on the tired and grief-stricken face of the wife, the pale and unresponsive features of the husband. Just as quietly he closed the door and exhaled deeply, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He leaned back against the wall, his head coming to a sharp rest against its white surface. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, ignoring a twinge of pain at the back of his head. “I am so sorry….” A short time later, Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. left the dimly lit hospital hallway and stepped onto the street that has already fully surrendered to the night. And the darkness swallowed him whole. * * * Chapter II Several days later JAG HQ “Harm, can I talk to you for a minute?” Mac asked cautiously, as she tapped lightly on his office door. He looked up from his desk, his expression unreadable. Glancing past her at the bullpen that seemed so unnaturally empty now since Bud was in the hospital and Harriet took a leave of absence to be at her husband’s bedside, Harm shook his head. “I don’t think now is a good time, Mac. I’m swamped with cases here.” “As good a time as any. I’m sure your cases can wait a few minutes,” she retorted, unceremoniously stepping into his office and closing the door behind her. She was determined to get him out of the shell that he locked himself in since their visit to Bethesda, and a sigh of sheer exasperation from her partner did nothing to shake her resolve. “You know it’s silly to be blaming yourself for this, Harm,” she pushed on, watching his face closely. “You weren’t even there. There’s nothing you could have done to –” “I could’ve been there instead of him,” he snapped, his voice tight with barely controlled emotions. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and Harm instantly regretted his retort, as he saw the look of sheer horror on his friend’s face. “Mac, I’m … I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to –” “To what, Harm?” she breathed out when she was finally able to speak. “To sound like a jerk? You think you’re the only one who’s hurting because of what happened to Bud? You think that I don’t go through hundreds of ‘what ifs’ in my mind or try to understand why this happened?” Harm stood abruptly, as she raised her voice, and walked over to the window, his unseeing gaze fixed on the parking lot outside, his back toward her. She clenched her fists, her emotions getting the better of her. “I won’t let you ignore me, Squid! I am NOT finished!” She was by his side in an instant, grabbing forcefully him by the arm. “Damn it, Harm, LOOK at me!” she nearly screamed, and when he turned around slowly avoiding her eyes, she remained there, her hands still clutching him as if afraid to let him go. Finally she reached up, taking his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her, her heart breaking at the burning pain she saw in the blue depths of his eyes. “We don’t control what happens to us,” she said quietly now that she had his full attention, “we simply can’t. One person can survive a head-on collision, while another gets killed falling off a bike. You … you were thrown into the middle of a minefield, and you survived. But you could’ve been … I … I could’ve lost you,” her voice broke at the thought, and his arms went around her the same instant, holding her tightly against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes, “I’m sorry I scared you that day, Sarah.” She looked up at his words, her eyes brimming with tears. “That’s all right, Sailor. Just don’t be sorry that you’re uninjured or that you’re alive. Don’t ever be sorry for that … for my sake, if not for your own.” He smiled ruefully, tightening his arms around her in a sudden need to take comfort in her closeness. “I won’t, Sarah,” his voice was barely audible over their breaths. “I promise.” The intercom buzzed annoyingly, breaking up the spell of the moment, and Harm pulled away reluctantly, his left hand still lingering in Mac’s. “Rabb.” “Commander Rabb, the Admiral wants to see you in his office, ASAP.” “Thanks, Tiner. I’ll be right there.” He released the intercom button and smiled apologetically. “Duty calls.” * * * The first thing that Harm noticed when he walked into Admiral Chegwidden’s office was a very grave look on his C.O.’s face. His initial thought was that there had been some complications with Bud, but he dismissed it almost immediately, realizing that had that been the case, Mac would have been told to come as well. It was then that he noticed another man who stood leaning against a far wall, and he stiffened involuntarily recognizing the Admiral’s visitor. “Webb, what are you –” he stopped short, as he noted an even graver expression that clouded the special agent’s features. Clayton Webb, who has been watching Harm intently up to that moment, glanced over at the Admiral, and the latter nodded almost imperceptibly, his frown deepening. The CIA’s deputy director of operations fixed his gaze on the Commander once again as if determined not to miss even a slightest change in the naval officer’s expression. “We have a … situation aboard the USS Seahawk.” “A situation?” Harm echoed, wrinkling his brow in consternation. Webb hesitated a moment before continuing, knowing the information would not be taken lightly. “Our Intel discovered a hiding place of some Taliban troops,” he spoke at last. “An air strike was ordered, but … there was an information leak.” Harm tensed visibly, guessing the rest. “And the air strike…?” “Failed,” Webb nodded. “Two F-14 were lost.” “The crews?” Webb shook his head. “No survivors. I’m sorry.” “Damn,” Harm muttered under his breath. He was just on the Seahawk a few days ago. He’d flown a mission with some of the pilots, perhaps even the ones that were killed. “That’s not all, Commander,” Admiral Chegwidden cut in, breaking his train of thought. “Mr. Webb here believes there is a spy aboard the ship, someone working for the Taliban.” He watched as a look of anger and disbelief registered in his junior officer’s eyes. “A CIA agent who was sent there to investigate the leak was found dead early this morning.” A.J. cast a quick glance at Webb, adding in a tight and slightly edgy voice, “It appears he was getting close.” Harm lowered his gaze to the floor, taking a moment to digest the information. “What now?” he asked finally, looking from one man to the other. Webb pushed himself away from the wall, his eyes never leaving Harm’s face. “Because of what happened aboard the Seahawk, our line of communication with Afghanistan has been temporarily cut off for fear of compromising our man in country,” he stated gravely. “We need to restore that line as soon as possible. We need to find the s.o.b. that is responsible for this mess and neutralize him.” He paused, walking over to Harm, and sat down on a chair next to him. “We have no idea who the traitor might be,” he added gravely, answering the silent question in Commander’s eyes. “That’s why I need someone there whom I can trust … I need you, Harm.” Stunned by such uncharacteristic for Webb form of request, Harm didn’t respond right away. “One man has already lost his life trying to find this traitor, Commander,” A.J. interjected, misinterpreting his silence as hesitation. “You don’t have to do this.” Harm blinked, snapping back to the present, and turned to his C.O., openly meeting his concerned gaze. “When do I leave, Sir?” A tight worry line creased the Admiral’s forehead, and he cursed Webb silently for the millionth time that day. “Soon as can pack your bags,” he responded mechanically, but his voice held reluctant undertones. A.J. was always weary of Webb’s harebrained schemes that involved his officers. And now more than ever his concern was raised to an alarming high. “There’s one more thing, Commander,” he added quietly, as Rabb stood up waiting to be dismissed. “Due to the security breach, you are not to divulge the true objective of your mission to anyone outside this office. Your cover story will be that you are recalled to active duty because of the loss of those two pilots. The only people that will be aware of the true nature of your mission are you, special agent Webb, myself, and Captain Johnson of the Seahawk. No one else. Understood?” Harm cringed inwardly at the thought of having to lie to Mac. ‘But,’ he reasoned to himself, ‘perhaps it is better than having her worry over me. She’ll have enough to worry about with Bud.’ “Understood, Sir.” “Dismissed.” As the door closed behind his junior officer, A.J. Chegwidden let out a small sigh, worry etched on his face. ‘Good luck, son.’ * * * Chapter III Aboard the USS Seahawk (somewhere in the North Arabian Sea) “Damn,” Commander Harmon Rabb sighed, glancing at his watch, and rubbed his dry tired eyes. It was nearly 0400 hours, and he was still only halfway through the mountain of paperwork left by the late agent Connelly. Harm was slowly sifting through it ever since his arrival aboard the Seahawk, but he had to do this mostly at night so as not to arouse suspicion from the yet unexposed spy. This was his second sleepless night in a row – sleepless and fruitless. Sleep deprivation was already reflecting on his daytime responsibilities, his cover, as an aviator. Earlier today he caught himself dozing off during a general briefing for a reconnaissance mission over the Afghani border. If this went on much longer, he was afraid that he might end up falling asleep in the cockpit. Harm stifled a yawn, shaking his head wearily. He needed at least a couple of hours of sleep or he risked being grounded by the CAG and possibly blowing his cover. He rose stiffly, throwing one last look around the murdered agent’s quarters and was about to head out for some much-needed shuteye, when a folded piece of scrap paper half-buried under piles of folders caught his eye. Curious, he picked it up gingerly, wondering in the back of his mind whether he shouldn’t just give in to his overwhelming desire to bury his face in a pillow and leave this newfound piece of information (whatever it was) for later. Any thoughts of sleep evaporated from his mind, however, once he saw the contents of that paper. In it were names of five crewmembers whom the late agent Connelly considered to be the most likely suspects based on their whereabouts in the hours preceding the fatal mission. Three of those names were already crossed out – apparently, agent Connelly had already interviewed them and dismissed their candidatures as Taliban spies. Of the remaining two, one was a communications officer who was on duty the night before the mission. His name had a question mark next to it, and Rabb dismissed it as well, finding it hard to believe that anyone other than the Captain and the CAG would have detailed information about the mission prior to the briefing. The second name, however, caught his attention. It was one of the pilots who, according to the note, was seen leaving the com. room at 09:35 hours the morning of the mission. Troubled by such precise timing details, Harm placed the note in his shirt pocket and headed for Captain’s quarters, an idea forming in his head. * * * “What is it, Commander?” Captain Johnson blinked sleepily, as he finished buttoning up his shirt. Harmon Rabb stood at attention, furtively throwing somewhat sheepish looks at the irate skipper. “I’m sorry to drag you out of bed at this hour, Skipper,” he began in a firm if apologetic voice, “but I have just stumbled upon something that might help solve this case … and …” he stumbled awkwardly, searching for the right words, “well, Sir, you’re the only one aboard the ship who’s cleared for any and all information related to the case.” The Captain raised his hand impatiently, silencing him. “I am well aware of the restrictions you are under, Commander. Believe me, I do not like the situation any more than you do. How do you think it makes me feel to know that there might be a murderous traitor among my crew and that I am powerless to do anything about it?” He paused, his jaws clenched in anger, but his eyes were still fixed on the younger man’s face. “Believe me, Commander, I want you to catch that son of a bitch the sooner the better so I can personally feed him to the sharks. But I am sure you can understand if I am not particularly excited to be discussing this subject … regardless of the time of day.” “Yes, Sir.” The junior officer swallowed sharply, his eyes never leaving some fixed point on the wall above the captain’s head. “At ease,” the Captain nodded finally after a moment’s pause, and Harm gratefully assumed a more relaxed posture. “So, Commander, what is so important at 4 in the morning?” “It’s more of a … hunch, Sir, actually,” Harm offered hesitantly, afraid of irritating the man any further. His fears turned out to be well founded, for but a fraction of a second later Captain Johnson was back in his face, eyes blazing. “A hunch?” “Yes, Sir.” He swallowed again. If he was wrong about this, the skipper might just decide to skin him alive; if he was right, he would be confirming that one of the crew under this man’s command is a traitor and a murderer. “Great. With these options even a ramp strike sounds more appealing.” Harm winced, mentally steeling himself for the captain’s reaction. “Sir, what time was the mission briefing on the day of the incident?” The Captain lowered his gaze momentarily, searching his memory. “0900 hours,” he said finally. “Are you certain?” “Yes, I’m certain,” the Captain’s voice had once again grown irritable, making the younger man regret his unfortunate question. “The briefing began at 0900. It was over at 0925.” Commander Rabb let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. “I was afraid of that.” The words came out in a whisper, and the Captain had to strain his ears to make them out. “Afraid of what, Commander?” Wordlessly, Harm reached into his pocket, pulling out the list made by agent Connelly. “Here, Sir.” A few minutes passed in silence as Captain Johnson perused the contents of the note, and the angry tightening of his jaw muscles was the only thing that betrayed his emotions. “Is this conclusive?” he asked finally, handing the list back to the JAG officer. The latter merely shook his head. “It’s still pretty circumstantial, Sir. However, I’d say the timing is fairly alarming, especially for someone who had just gotten out of a mission briefing.” He frowned, glancing back at the note, which may well have caused the poor CIA agent his life. “Agent Connelly must have thought it alarming too,” he added solemnly, looking straight at the skipper. “And he was murdered before he could substantiate his suspicions.” This was a statement, not a question. “I believe so, Sir, yes,” Harm nodded. The Captain fell silent, his lips pressed together in a tight line, while he considered the JAG’s words. “You have a suggestion on how to deal with this, Commander?” A flicker of doubt flashed in the younger man’s eyes and vanished so fast that the Captain questioned ever seeing it. When the junior officer spoke, his blue eyes held nothing but confidence and cold resolve. “Yes, Sir, I do.” * * * Chapter IV 5 hours later USS Seahawk Captain’s quarters “Lieutenant Turrick reporting as ordered, Sir.” Captain Johnson looked up from his desk, squinting at the young dark-haired pilot who stood at attention before him. “Was Rabb right about this one?” He sighed inwardly, going over the JAG officer’s crazy plan in his head one more time. “Whether or not Rabb was right, I risk losing two more men on this. Some odds….” “At ease, Lieutenant,” he said aloud, straining to keep his voice level. “I have an assignment for you. I need to know how much serious firepower – if any – the Taliban has along this stretch of the border.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “Now, because of the recent incidents, we’ll have a team flying in from Naples later this morning to investigate.” He paused, watching the younger man’s face intently, but the latter showed no sign of concern. “Everyone will need to interviewed. And since, as you’re well aware, we are already short on crew, I’ll barely be able to spare crewmembers for questioning. That means I can send no more than two men out on a mission at the moment, so you’ll be flying without your RIOs. And I need my best pilots in case anything should go wrong.” He kept his gaze fixed on the Lieutenant, who now watched him with a certain amount of apprehension. “I’ll be sending Commander Rabb, one of our reserve pilots, as the lead. I want you to be his wingman.” Even as he said those words, the Captain cringed inwardly at the almost brazen audacity of Commander Rabb’s plan. If the Rabb was right, he’d end up confronting a murderer alone over hostile territory. The skipper hated the idea, but, unfortunately, so far it was the only viable way of exposing a spy without risking any more lives of his crew. And after the events of the past week, it was one risk that the Seahawk’s captain was not willing to take. So it was only for that reason that the skipper grudgingly agreed to the JAG officer’s suicidal plan. “You want me to play second fiddle to a lawyer, Sir?” the Lieutenant’s face was a mixture of confusion and hurt pride. “He’s one of the best damn pilots I know,” the Captain snapped. “And you come pretty close.” “Yes, Sir.” Captain Johnson nodded in satisfaction. “The CAG will fill you in on the mission details. You’ll be leaving in 40 minutes. Get ready. Dismissed.” “Aye-aye, Sir.” * * * Same time USS Seahawk Commander Rabb’s temporary quarters Harm was jolted awake by persistent knocking on his door. Still somewhat disoriented, he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away the sleep and glanced at his watch. A look of annoyed disbelief flashed across his face. “Almost 4 hours? Damn, it didn’t feel like I closed my eyes for more than 5 minutes.” The knocking continued, and he sighed in exasperation, pulling himself up from his bunk. Briefly smoothing out the uniform, which he was too tired to take off before crashing onto his bunk for much needed sleep, he strode across the room and opened the cabin door to reveal a somewhat flustered ensign. “Sorry to wake you, Sir,” he smiled apologetically, “but Captain Johnson asked me to tell you that you are to report to the briefing room by 0930.” “Thank you, ensign. I’ll be there.” “Aye, Sir.” “So, it’s almost time,” he thought idly, as the young man disappeared in the hallway. Tiredly, he ran his hand over his face, barely suppressing a yawn. For some reason at that moment his mind drifted back to his friends at JAG. “It must be evening there already,” he thought absently. Glancing back at his watch to gauge the time he had left, Harm nodded to himself, having come to a decision, and walked out of his quarters, heading for the public phone. * * * “Lieutenant-Colonel Mackenzie.” “I was hoping I’d catch you at work, Marine.” “Harm!” she squealed happily into the phone, her business tone forgotten. “How’ve you been? Are you coming home? Is everything all right?” “Whoa, easy there,” he admonished laughingly, feeling pleasantly moved by her barrage of questions. His mind pictured Sarah Mackenzie standing at her desk, phone pressed to her ear, her large brown eyes glistening with excitement. And then his heart ached with a sudden desire to be there in the room with her, to see a warm smile light up her beautiful face, to close his arms around her and feel her body press against his…. He jerked himself back from his reverie, realizing that Mac was calling his name. “Harm…. Harm! Are you there? Are you all right?” He cursed himself upon hearing a frantic note in her voice and hurried to respond. “I’m sorry, Mac. I’m fine. I … just needed to … hear your voice.” The words were out before he consciously stop them, and the fearless Navy Commander held his breath dreading her reaction. There was silence on the other end for what seemed to him like hours, as Mac tried to recover from such an uncharacteristic candor on his part. “Where did that come from?” she wondered, feeling ecstatic, apprehensive, and confused at the same time. “Wow,” she managed finally, collecting her thoughts. “You took me by surprise there, Sailor.” “Sorry,” he mumbled, getting suddenly very uncomfortable with the conversation and deciding to switch it to a less dangerous ground. “How’s Bud?” “Better,” she sighed, unable to mask disappointment in her voice. Harmon Rabb, Jr. has once again effectively backed away as soon as the subject of the conversation involved feelings. “He’s still pretty weak from the blood loss, but he’s improved significantly.” Sarah lowered herself into the chair, releasing her frustration on a pen that lay on the desk in front of her. Squeezing it tightly between her fingers, she added, “The doctors expect to start him on physical therapy in a couple of weeks.” “That’s great news.” Harm shifted uncomfortably, earning a strange look from a passing crewmember. He felt her disappointment and knew that he was ruined the moment yet again. Angry with himself, he slammed a fist against his forehead, cursing himself for being a fool. “Listen, Mac, I’m sorry,” he ventured in an attempt to mend the situation. “I’m not sure this is a good place to be discussing things. People are already giving me weird looks here. Plus I have to get going soon. We’ll talk when I get back to Washington, I promise.” He could almost see her shaking her head on the other end. “I’ll hold you to that, Flyboy,” she consented, heaving a small sigh of exasperation. “When are you coming back?” she added after a short pause. “Soon,” he promised, ignoring an icy-cold sense of foreboding that gnawed at him ever since he woke up. “Very soon,” he added with deliberate emphasis, trying to push the feeling away. But the feeling remained. “I miss you, Sarah,” he whispered before hanging up the phone, sensing somehow, despite his attempts to drive out the unwelcome thoughts, that he may otherwise not get a chance to say this to her again. On the other end, Sarah Mackenzie smiled softly upon hearing his words, but her smile faded away as she felt a sharp stab of worry, the origin of which she could not ascertain. Something heavy tugged at her heart, and her hand trembled slightly when she placed the phone back in its cradle. “I miss you too, Harm,” she whispered into the emptiness of her office. “Just come back safe….” Chapter V 1000 hours The airspace near the Afghan border “Um … Sir? I believe you’re heading the wrong way,” Lt. Turrick’s voice came over the intercom. “This is the right heading, Lieutenant,” Harm deadpanned, mentally bracing himself for an outburst. “The mission parameters have been changed.” “Changed?” An expression of utter confusion crept into the young lieutenant’s voice. “I don’t under— …. By whose orders?” “The ship’s captain’s.” “And mine,” he added silently. “That’s bullshit …, Sir,” the voice on the other end quickly changed from confused to angry. “I spoke to the Captain myself, and those were the coordinates he gave me.” Wordlessly Harm glanced at his instrument panel. They had about another five minutes before they would reach the border; five minutes for him to “conclude” this investigation. He decided to press on with his bluff. “New Intel was received at the last minute, Lieutenant. It is suspected that the Taliban forces moved their position, that someone warned them of our coming.” The bait was thrown into the water. There was a moment of tense silence on the other end. “4 minutes, 22 seconds,” Harm was keeping a mental countdown. “Someone, Sir?” the lieutenant’s voice was hoarse with unease. “Hook, line, and sinker.” Harm only hoped that the mikes were working properly, and someone on the Seahawk was getting all this. “Yes, the same someone who warned the Taliban about the last mission, causing two of our planes to be shot down,” he replied, keeping his voice level. “What are you implying, Sir?” Turrick hissed nervously into the mike, his anxiety preventing him from realizing his slip. Harm couldn’t suppress a small but triumphant grin: he had him – just one more push, and he’ll have the man’s confession on tape. “I am not implying anything yet, Lieutenant. But I would be curious as to your opinion about something.” “What?” the word came out sharp, like a snap of a dry twig in a forest. “If they were forewarned, the Taliban forces would be expecting 2 Navy Tomcats to sweep over that specific location, but they wouldn’t attempt to shoot them out of the sky – what with a ‘friendly’ on board… Would they?” “Sir, I’m –” “But,” Harm continued, ignoring the other man’s attempt to speak, “they wouldn’t be expecting a ‘friendly’ coming 30 degrees north, north-east of that location. So, do you think they’d fire on us, Lieutenant?” Another moment of silence followed, and over the open com-line Harm thought he heard the younger pilot attempt to put through a radio transmission. A flow of garbled curses followed what was obviously a failed attempt. “I forgot to mention, Lieutenant,” the Commander interjected coolly. “Your radio was malfunctioning this morning, but there was no time to replace it. I’m afraid warning your buddies this time is out of the question. The young lieutenant felt as if he were suffocating. His mind was working feverishly, as he tried to assess the gravity of his situation. “Rabb knows. That means, so does the Captain,” he realized with a sudden fatality. “They all know.” The helplessness of the moment filled his whole being with pure unadulterated rage, making him lose what little self-control that remained. “You set me up, you son of a bitch!” For a brief moment, the Navy Commander was taken aback not by the words themselves but by the intensity of emotion behind them. Despite himself, he turned his head, taking a good look at his wingman. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a deadly glint appearing in their icy-blue depths. “You got it wrong, mister,” his voice grew chillingly calm, filled with barely suppressed contempt for the traitor. “You set yourself up when you betrayed your fellow officers and your country. What were their lives worth to you, Turrick? Another 30 pieces of silver?” Turrick’s reply was cut off by the sudden barrage of artillery fire from below, and both pilots pulled hard on their sticks to avoid the volley of projectiles coming at them from the ground. “Guess I was right about them not expecting a ‘friendly’ traitor this far north, eh Lieutenant,” Harm yelled over the deafening noise, as he directed his attention to the guns below. “Base, this is Navy Tomcat 251. I’m taking on heavy ground fire from suspected Taliban forces. I’m transmitting their position now.” “Roger that, 251,” came the Seahawk’s response. For a brief moment, Lt. Turrick was forgotten, as Harm concentrated on taking a low sweep over the area to get a better radar image for the folks on the Seahawk. Maneuvering amid the deadly flashes of rapid fire, he successfully cleared the area and began a fast climb to a safe altitude. It was then that the Commander remembered about his wingman, wondering briefly as to his whereabouts, when suddenly he felt a violent shudder go through his plane. A half a second later, his ears registered his own agonizing scream, as a flash of white-hot pain seared his left shoulder. “Perhaps my actions can convince them that I am a ‘friendly’ after all, Commander. I may just get lucky that way,” he heard, the words muffled by the red haze that clouded his brain. Gritting his teeth, his lips pressed tightly against the pain, Harm rolled the plane away from his unexpected attacker and pulled it into a vertical climb, circling sharply in the air to execute a loop. The g-force pressed hard on his wound during the maneuver, making him nauseous with the pain. For a brief second he wondered if he’d black out, but he held on, trying to keep his hands steady on the stick. He felt the plane lurch under him, the wounded bird slowly giving up on its own life. “Come on … baby … just … a few … more … seconds …” he cajoled in between sharp labored breaths. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, but, in reality, was only seconds later, the maneuver was complete, and Harm found himself in the back of his wingman’s plane. “Your luck just ran out, Lieutenant,” he squeezed through clenched teeth, releasing the missile. And he watched in weary satisfaction, as the plane in front of him exploded in a giant fireball. Moments later, his own plane lurched violently for the last time and plummeted toward the ground completely out of control. “Mayday! Mayday! This is US Navy Tomcat 251. Location approximately 20 miles south-east of Kabul.” Harm’s hand closed over the ejection handle, and he pulled, his stomach tightening at the painfully familiar rush of cold air and the sharp pull of the parachute straps. The aircraft slammed into the ground beneath him with a deafening sound, the wave of explosion reaching his descending form within milliseconds and throwing him hard to the side. He saw the ground rise sharply toward him, and he yanked at the straps of the parachute with his good hand in a vain attempt to soften the impact. The last thing he felt was the impact with the hard rock surface that sent daggers of pain through his defenseless body. Chapter VI 1000 hours in Virginia (the following morning) JAG headquarters “Good day to you too, Mr. Secretary!” A.J. Chegwidden slammed down the phone, nearly crushing it in the process. It only took one conversation with the SecNav, and the morning was already spoiled. Chegwidden was all but seething in anger. The buzz of the intercom interrupted his silent string of curses. “Yes, Tiner!” he roared, pressing the button so hard that, had (by some freak of nature) the Secretary of the Navy been in place of that intercom button, Admiral Chegwidden would have been charged with voluntary manslaughter. “Admiral, the Seahawk’s skipper is on line 2. He wishes to speak to you. Says it’s urgent.” A sudden inexplicable sense of dread came over him, and A.J. felt his stomach lurch in alarm, as he managed a curt “Patch it through, Tiner.” Five minutes later a much more subdued Rear Admiral placed the phone back in its cradle. Leaning slightly forward on his elbows, his chin pressed against his clasped hands, he stared with unseeing eyes into the empty space before him. Motionless and numb inside, he sat like that at his desk, as the minutes ticked away. Closing his eyes briefly to collect his jumbled thoughts, Admiral Chegwidden reached for the phone yet again. “Tiner, find Colonel Mackenzie. Tell her to come to my office immediately,” he said, relieved to find his voice fairly under control. “Yes, Sir. … Um, Sir?” “What is it?” “Mr. Webb is here to see you, Sir.” Chegwidden felt his jaw tighten involuntarily. “Send him in.” Clayton Webb stepped slowly into the office, glancing cautiously at the Admiral, as if attempting to gauge his mood. Seeing the deep frown on the older man’s face, the special agent sucked in a short breath, steeling himself for what was to come. “You know,” Chegwidden stated matter-of-factly, his eyes darkening a shade, as they narrowed on the agent’s face. “A.J., I’m sorry –” Clay began, but the Admiral cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Stuff it, Webb! Save your apologies for when Mac gets here. And, while you’re at it, maybe you can explain to her why her partner is –” He stopped short, noticing the slight figure of a Marine Colonel in his doorway. “You wanted to see me, Sir?” Sarah Mackenzie asked, her eyes darting nervously from one man to the other. A.J. stood up from his desk, throwing a murderous glare at Webb. “Come in, Mac,” he said softly. “Close the door.” She did as she was told, swallowing sharply, as she tried to squelch the butterflies in her stomach. Something wasn’t right. She felt it. She felt it even earlier today – a horrible sense of foreboding that gnawed at her very soul, making her almost dizzy with raw inexplicable fear. “What about my partner, Admiral?” she asked quietly, her dark brown eyes searching his, begging for answers. A.J. gathered all his resolve, deciding that the simple truth was the best was the best way to go. Taking a deep breath, he spoke slowly and distinctly, careful to keep his voice level. “Commander Rabb was sent on the Seahawk to locate an alleged Taliban sympathizer who was responsible for the loss of 2 aircraft and the death of a CIA agent on board. It appears the Commander was able to find that man, but, in an attempt to capture him, the Commander was shot down.” Sarah felt her heart freeze at these words, as her mind stumbled through the tangled pieces of information, trying desperately to make sense of it all. “I don’t understand, Sir,” she mumbled weakly. “Harm told me he was recalled to active duty because 2 pilots were lost. He –” “The Commander was under orders not to divulge the true nature of his mission to anyone,” A.J. deadpanned, straining to keep his emotions at bay. “Whose orders?” “Mine.” This was the first time Clayton Webb spoke since he entered the room, and Sarah whirled to face him, here eyes burning with poorly concealed fury. “Yours?!” Clayton winced. “We could not be sure who the traitor was, or if he had any connections elsewhere in the military circles. The CIA felt it was a reasonable precaution.” “Reasonable? To send him out there alone to find a killer? With no one around whom he could trust –” she cut herself short, realizing with a start that she was screaming like a hysterical female in front of her commanding officer. “I’m sorry, Sir.” A.J. waved her off. “Never mind that, Colonel. I’m as much to blame as Webb is. I should never have agreed to let him go on that mission.” The Admiral fell silent, his head bowed in penance, as his mind replayed the frightful words of the Seahawk’s Captain: “I regret to inform you, Admiral, that Commander Rabb’s plane was shot down over Afghanistan yesterday. I apologize for not informing you sooner, but I was under orders to report to the director of operations at CIA first.” “How did it happen, Sir?” Sarah Mackenzie’s voice jerked him back to the present. “I don’t know all the details, Colonel,” he replied in a quiet voice. “All I know is that Commander Rabb found evidence leading him to a suspected Taliban spy, who turned out to be one of the pilots. But, I guess the evidence was too circumstantial for him to get a conviction, so the Commander decided to provoke the man into confession. He set up a fake reconnaissance mission, giving the suspect a chance to inform those he was spying for, and then changed the mission parameters in midair.” “Leading the suspect into a trap of his own making?” “Precisely,” Chegwidden nodded. “Unfortunately, the skipper could not spare more than 2 planes, and Rabb did not want to needlessly endanger the lives of 2 more RIOs in case something were to go wrong…” “He was up there alone?” she gasped. “I’m afraid so, Colonel. … And something went wrong.” Sarah closed her eyes for a brief moment, imagining how he must have felt up there, one on one with a suspected traitor. She opened her mouth to speak, but A.J. shook his head, anticipating her question. “I don’t know what exactly happened up there, Mac. I don’t know anything else beyond what I told you. I’m sorry.” She nodded her understanding, dropping her gaze to the floor. The CIA agent who stood off to the side, seemingly lost in thought, looked up at A.J.’s last words. His eyes took in the dejected faces of the two JAG officers, and he reached inside his jacket, freezing his hand midway in a brief moment of hesitation. Looking intently at the young woman before him, Clay frowned in concern, trying to picture the impact that his piece of evidence was going to have on her. He did owe it to Sarah Mackenzie to let her know exactly what happened to her partner, but, at the same time, knowing how much she cared for Harm…. Clay inhaled deeply, stepping up to the desk. “I think this can answer all your questions,” he said in a strained voice, pulling out a small tape-recorder. Feeling their eyes on him, Webb carefully placed the recorder on the desk in front of A.J. “Is this what I think it is, Webb?” The agent nodded. “Harm made sure that both mikes were on and transmitting to the ship during the whole flight.” He turned to Mac. “I’m not sure you want to hear this,” he said quietly, noting her pallor, as she eyed the small machine. She looked up at these words, her expression tense but full of determination. “Get a grip, Marine!” she scolded herself, willing herself to speak. “I want to know.” A.J. nodded and, throwing a quick glance at Webb, pressed play. Clay watched them, as they listened intently, their eyes riveted to the recorder. He saw Mac dig her fingers into the back cushion of the chair before her, when she heard Harm’s scream. He saw A.J. flinch. And for the second time since receiving that tape, the special agent wished he never had. The tape ended with a loud click, stopping suddenly seconds after the Mayday call was made, and all three of them started involuntarily, lost in the stifling silence that set in. Sarah’s next question came out strangled, as she fought to hold back the tears. “Do you know if he’s alive?” Clay shook his head. “I don’t. An air strike was called to the coordinates that Harm transmitted. That happened only some 15-20 minutes after he went down. So, even if he did survive the crash, he may have been killed on the ground.” “Or he may have survived that too,” A.J. interjected forcefully, eyeing the agent. Webb sighed, resigning to tell them everything he knew. “The aerial photos from the crash site showed only the wreckage of the plane. Nothing else – not even a chute.” He flinched, hearing Mac’s sharp intake of breath. But the former SEAL wasn’t finished. “He could have been captured by the ground troops.” “It’s possible,” Clay nodded, “but so far there’s no way to know –” “Find a way!” the JAG bellowed, getting in the agent’s face. Webb flinched, expecting to be slugged. “I’m trying,” he said meekly. “I’m really trying, A.J.” A.J. looked to the side, making sure Clay followed his gaze, until Mac’s pale face came into view. The men looked back at each other, and Webb closed his eyes, nodding in understanding. “Try harder.” * * * Previous day Somewhere in Afghanistan A slight breeze swept over the desert, pulling at the red tongues of flames that engulfed the wreckage of a military aircraft. A group of five Afghani men, armed with knives and rifles, lingered for a moment in front of the fire, perusing the wreckage. No words were exchanged, as the men turned around and headed toward an odd-looking form that lay a few feet away. Upon closer inspection, the form turned out to be a prone figure of a man, who lay face down on the dust-covered road, half-hidden under the white mass of a parachute. One of the men reached down, cutting the parachute straps off the unconscious man’s flight jacket. Gathering up the material, he handed it to another, bending down again to look more closely at the pilot. Nudging him none too gently with a tip of his boot, the Afghani flipped the man over on his back, kicking him again and again, until he saw the man’s eyelids flutter. The darkness receded slowly, giving way to throbbing pain in every part of his body that culminated with a splitting, nausea-inducing headache. Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. gingerly opened his eyes to find himself looking up at five bearded faces, five rifles trained on him. An older man, perhaps a leader, said something to him in a language Harm couldn’t understand. He attempted to relay as much, and the man nodded, making a gesture for him to get up. Not seeing that he had much choice, the naval officer made an earnest attempt to comply, but his feet gave out under him, and he fell back with a groan. The man grabbed a hold of his arm, pulling him roughly to his feet – a move that made Harm give a sharp cry of pain. Ignoring his cry, the man took out a piece of rope and tied together the wrists of his new prisoner. “Walk,” he said, pointing ahead. “You speak English?” “I am more educated that you think!” the Afghani spat out. “That’s not what I –” “Walk!” Harm’s apology was interrupted by a forceful shove in the back, and it was all he could do to stay upright. Their journey went on in silence. Harm dragged himself forward, flanked from all sides by his trigger-happy captors. His breath was shallow and ragged, sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes; his body was objecting to his every move. Fighting the feelings of dizziness and nausea, he kept his gaze on the back of the man in front of him, noting with eerie fascination as that back swam in and out of focus. Finally, his legs refused to obey him any longer, and he sagged heavily onto the ground, shutting his eyes against the spinning landscape. “Up!” he heard, the voice muffled by the loud ringing in his ears. “I … can’t …” he breathed out, praying that they would just leave him out here to die. He felt someone grab his wrists, and he risked opening his eyes to find a piece of rope about a foot long attached to his makeshift handcuffs. Wordlessly, the Afghani took the loose end of the rope in his hand and resumed his walk, motioning for his companions to do the same. Unable to stand on his own any longer, Harm watched helplessly as the rope tightened, pulling him sharply forward. He yelped, as his body fell forward, impacting hard with the rough surface. The man pulling him did not even flinch, and Harm inhaled sharply, biting his lower lip to prevent himself from crying out any more, as his body was dragged along the rough dusty road. Chapter VII Back to the present (3 months later) A cave somewhere in Afghanistan The whip cracked, adding yet another red gash to his lacerated back. “Tell me what I want to know,” Saul, the Afghani leader reiterated slowly, watching a look of pain flicker across the prisoner’s face, as his body jerked forward from the blow. “Tell me, and I will make this stop.” “Harmon … Rabb … Jr., Commander … United … St-tates … Navy … 989 … 54 … 8 … 301…” he managed through clenched teeth. “I am not interested in your name and number,” the Afghani snapped. “I could have read that off your dogtags! What happened to our informer? What other places are your people planning to hit?” The usual silence was his response, and the Afghani barked an order to the man holding the whip. The man nodded, pulling out a little bag that was tucked under his belt. Saul looked deep into the prisoner'’ eyes, smiling slightly as if he were about to say something nice. To Harm his smile resembled a hyena’s grin as it was about to munch on its prey. “You know there is an old American saying, Commander – something about pouring salt on people’s wounds.” He paused, his grin widening at the confused look on the American’s face. “I have always wanted to test the merit of that saying.” He nodded to his man to go ahead, noting gleefully the fleeting look of terror in the pilot’s eyes at the realization of what was about to happen, as his body tensed in anticipation of the pain. The man behind him pulled out a fistful of white substance, and with a flick of a wrist, the salt crystals were poured onto the gaping wounds on his back. It felt as if thousands of red-hot coals were imbedded into his skin. He never imagined that something could hurt so much. His back was on fire. His breath caught in his throat, and he opened his mouth, gulping for air like a fish thrown out of water. “I can make it stop,” he heard faintly. “Just tell me what I want to know….” The words faded away, drowned out by the pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying for the temporary relief of oblivion. The darkness wasn’t forthcoming, however, and his agony endured until his interrogator grew impatient and called out to one of his men. A sudden rush of cold water startled him, but he soon reveled in its soothing coolness, as it washed down the salt. When it was over, Harm risked opening his eyes again. The face of his tormentor came into view, and the Navy Commander shuddered at the absolute bestial look in the older man’s eyes. Something glistened ominously in Saul’s hand, catching the tiny speck of sunlight that made its way into the damp interior of the cave. Harm gazed down at the narrow blade with sharp jagged edges – the new instrument of his torture, as he pondered involuntarily how much longer he could survive. And then, unbidden, a face of a young woman appeared to him out of the maze of his semi-delirious mind. Her large brown eyes smiled at him, drowning out the grim, dreary interior of the cave, the leering faces of his captors. His dry, cracked lips moved almost imperceptibly, forming her name, as he felt the sharp jagged metal enter his body, slowly tearing through his flesh. “I need you, Sarah,” was his last conscious thought. * * * The scream of his name died on her lips, and Sarah Mackenzie bolted upright in her bed, her body drenched in cold sweat. Her dark eyes were wide with horror – the nightmarish images from her dream still vivid before them. The clock at her bedside ticked away the remaining minutes of the night, as she hunched up on her bed, arms clutched tightly around her knees, oblivious to everything but the sound of her own wild heartbeat pounding in her ears. The past three months have been hard on everyone. The Admiral has been grim and irritable; Bud requested an early termination of his medical leave and sat secluded in his office, buried in work; Sturgis has grown even quieter than usual; even Tiner lost some of his childlike carefree spirit. And poor Harriet…. Sarah remembered finding her sitting on the staircase the day they were told about Harm’s disappearance, her face buried in her hands. Flashback “Harriet, what’s wrong?” she asked her then, sitting down next to her. The young Lieutenant lifted up her tear-stained face and sniffled mournfully, as she looked at her friend. “It’s all my fault, Ma’am,” she whimpered, wiping her eyes. “What are you talking about?” “I brought this on him,” she was openly wailing now. “I … I told him that … that he … sh-should … have …” Sarah started, remembering that scene at Bethesda and the expression of utter defeat on her partner’s face. Shaking off the memory, she wrapped her arm around the younger woman. “You didn’t mean it, Harriet,” she said quietly. “Besides, you had no control over the circumstances.” “Neither did he, Ma’am,” Harriet objected, “when Bud was injured, I mean. But I blamed the Commander anyway.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “And, Ma’am, for some split second there at the hospital, I think I actually did mean it….” Mac didn’t know what to say to her then, so she just sat there next to her in silence, feeling her own heart lurch painfully in her chest. Back to the present “God, please let him be alive,” Sarah Mackenzie whispered into the receding darkness of her room. “He has to be….” The harsh ring of the phone broke through the otherwise perfect silence of the room, and she reached for it slowly and mechanically, not bothering to turn on the light. “Mackenzie,” she said, her voice low and expressionless. “Mac? Mac is that you? It’s Webb.” The special agent waited for a few moments for a response. Not receiving any, he decided to continue. “Mac, I’m sorry for such an early call.” “I was awake,” she replied in the same flat voice. Clay sighed with a mixed feeling of worry and relief. “I may have some information about Harm,” he said cautiously, hearing her sharp intake of breath at his words. “I’m going to see your Admiral in an hour. Meet me in his office.” With this he hung up, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Chapter VIII One hour later Admiral Chegwidden’s office “You look like hell, Colonel,” was Admiral Chegwidden’s blunt appraisal of her disheveled appearance. It was an early Monday morning, too early, in fact, for the start of the workday, and the JAG headquarters were empty and quiet, save for the three people in the Admiral’s office. Seeing Mac’s dejected look in response to his statement, A.J. decided to shift gears. “Well,” he began, turning to the CIA agent, “you dragged us out here at the crack of dawn. What do you have?” Webb looked closely at the older man, noting the intense worry and hope that he tried to conceal behind a mask of sternness. Clayton bit his lip. Did he have the right to give them hope, any hope? The news he had weren’t exactly hopeful. “I spoke to my contact in Afghanistan,” he began, coughing, as he found his voice to hoarse to speak. Feeling their intense stares, he licked his lips nervously before continuing. “He heard rumors of an American pilot being held in the caves not far from Kabul.” “Is it Harm?” Sarah asked weakly. Clay nodded curtly. “We don’t know for sure … but he matches the description.” He was about to add something else, when Mac interrupted him. “When do we leave?” “I only found out a couple of hours ago myself,” Clay raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I haven’t called anybody yet, except you two. Besides, what is this ‘we’ you’re talking about?” Mac’s temper flared. “You don’t expect me to just sit here and do nothing while –?” A gentle but firm hand on her shoulder interrupted her tirade, and she looked up, meeting the reassuring gaze of her commanding officer. “The Colonel is right, Webb. We have both been sitting on our asses for nearly 3 months. It’s time to go get the Commander back.” He nodded at the phone on his desk. “I can arrange for a SEAL team to meet us down there.” Webb bowed his head in resignation. “Very well. I’ll see you down there then.” “You’re going?” “Harm’s my friend too, A.J. And I’m responsible for his being down there.” With that he turned and walked out the door. “He’s hurting,” Sarah commented matter-of-factly, watching the door close behind Clayton Webb. The Admiral nodded pensively, his eyes watching her intently. “So are you, Colonel.” She glanced up at his words, and he was startled by the haunted look in her dark eyes. “Sit down, Mac,” he offered softly, pointing to a chair. She complied wordlessly, arms wrapped tightly around her forearms. For a moment, it seemed to A.J. that were she to loosen her grip, she’d fall apart right here before him. And he wouldn’t be far off the mark – for holding herself together seemed to Sarah Mackenzie at the moment like something from Mission Impossible. “Talk to me, Mac,” his voice was gentle and caring, and Sarah fought the urge to run into his arms. “I’ve been having nightmares, Sir,” she managed, her voice shaky. “How long?” “Ever since … Harm went down.” A.J. nodded sympathetically, sitting down on the edge of the desk in front of her. Leaning slightly forward, he willed her to continue. “They were … vague at first.” She inhaled nervously, digging her fingers deeper into her flesh. A.J. was silent, waiting patiently. After a few long minutes she continued, her voice dropping so low that the Admiral had to strain to hear her next words. “Last night was … I s-saw him … being … t-tortured.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as the images assaulted her again. She felt his hand on her shoulder and looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. Her lower lip trembled as she spoke. “I s-saw blood … so much … blood…. And I felt him, Sir … It was like he called out to me. … I felt his presence … his pain … horrible agonizing pain.” She sniffled, lowering her gaze to the floor. “And then he was gone … as if he were –” She didn’t finish, as her body was racked with silent sobs. Without a word, A.J. stood up and pulled her into his arms. He held her small trembling form, ash she sobbed quietly against his chest. “We’ll find him, Mac,” he whispered soothingly. “Don’t worry.” The Admiral wasn’t sure whom the words were meant to comfort, but it was important for her … for both of them to believe that their friend was still alive. Maybe if they believed it strongly enough, it would come true… Chapter IX 2 days later US military base camp outside Kabul “What do you have for us, Commander?” clad in the desert cammies, Admiral Chegwidden towered over a short but stocky SEAL team leader. Lieutenant-Commander Brad Rockwell observed the small group that gathered in his tent, taking momentary refuge from the merciless desert sun: 2 JAG officers and a CIA agent – all looking ready for battle. He still couldn’t believe they sent lawyers to do this job – no matter how committed they were to finding their friend. Shaking his head slightly, he directed the group’s attention to the map that lay on the desk before him. “The cave is about 20 miles east of our position. If we head out now, we should be there by sundown. We can use darkness for our cover.” Rockwell glanced over at the female Marine who stared so intently at the tiny spot on the map, as if her life depended on it. “Ma’am, sirs, I feel I should warn you that the possibility of finding your Commander alive is practically nonexistent. If I understand correctly, by now he would have been in the hands of the Taliban for almost 3 months – that’s longer than what anyone could last, considering the things these people are capable of.” “You don’t know the Commander,” A.J. interjected. “He’s pretty tenacious.” “He’d have to be a goddamn Superman,” Rockwell muttered under his breath, as he once again shook his head. “With all due respect, Admiral, according to my intelligence, they were trying to pump him for information ever since they lost contact with their informer aboard one of our vessels. And the only reason I know that is because they recently paid a fair amount of money in an attempt to recruit a new informer.” “One of yours?” “Not exactly,” Lieutenant Commander nodded at the CIA agent. “One of theirs. He gave us inside information we needed to locate that group of terrorists … and your man.” He fell silent for a while, accentuating the gravity of his next statement. “You understand that the mere fact that they started looking for a new source of information suggests that the Commander couldn’t or wouldn’t provide them with any, and they no longer had the need for him.” He stopped, noticing the pallor of the Lieutenant Colonel’s face. “I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Mac’s eyes darkened with pain, but she held his gaze, her jaw set tight with determination. “We are ready to leave when you are, Commander.” “Very well,” he sighed, respectful of her ability to compose herself but somewhat annoyed by her stubbornness. “I’ll assemble my team.” * * * Several hours later Outside the caves Darkness descended quickly over the desert, pushing out the remaining sunlight and with it the day’s warmth. The desert air grew cold and hostile, as the rescue team, consisting of five active and one former SEALs, one Marine, and a CIA agent, reached a small ledge overlooking the rocky hillside of a giant mountain-mass. Panting slightly, they flattened themselves against the rocky surface, studying the area below. “Okay, listen up, people,” Rockwell began in a coarse whisper. “According to our Intel, there are a total of 15 Taliban in there. Two of them are standing guard at the entrance to the cave. Martinez, Burns,” he nodded to 2 of his team members, “your job is to take them out … quietly.” “Aye, Sir.” “Good. The rest of us will follow on your signal.” He paused, looking at the 3 newest members of his team. “These bastards downed 2 of our aircraft, killed 2 pilots and their RIOs … and very likely killed another one ….” He frowned, thinking what the JAG lawyers’ reactions were going to be when they find their friend – if there’s anything still left for them to find. “I don’t expect any of you to give these bastards any break,” he finished forcefully, as much for his SEALs’ benefit as for the other three. “Understood, Sir.” The small group moved forward, creeping slowly under the cover of darkness. Two figures separated from the rest of the group. Stealthily they neared the large gaping hole in the side of the cliff and pulled out their knives. The Afghani men that stood by the entrance didn’t have time to react – their throats cut in a swift deadly motion, drowning their silent screams in pools of their own blood. One of the SEALs raised his hand, signing to the others that the mission was accomplished, and the rest of the group quickly covered the remaining distance to the cave, weapons in hand, ready to fire. Chapter X Same time Inside the cave His mind drifted somewhere amidst the fog of semi-consciousness. His tormentor left the room a while ago, but he remained chained to the ceiling, his head hanging down, powerless to move. His body has long gone numb with pain and exhaustion, and he watched with a kind of fatalistic, dull fascination as blood from his wounds dripped slowly onto the cave floor, gradually forming a small crimson puddle under his feet. Every so often that puddle would drift out of focus, and Harm would wonder if that was the end. But some part of him still clung stubbornly to life, and so he remained suspended in that state of semi-consciousness, as life was gradually drained out of him drop by drop … by drop. Vaguely he heard some commotion outside the walls of his small prison, and moments later Saul came running back, his weapon drawn. Glancing back over his shoulder, he took a couple of steps toward his prisoner, pointing his weapon at the pilot’s head. “Time to die, American.” Harmon Rabb, Jr. closed his eyes, mentally calling up the dear face that appeared to him so often during his most dreadful moments. “Goodbye, Sarah,” he mouthed, and then a single shot rang out inside the cave walls. * * * Same time Opposite end of the cave The gunfire died away fairly quickly, as the few surviving Taliban members fled into the depths of the cave, pursued by the SEALs. Thirteen bodies lay sprawled on the ground near the cave entrance; most of them did not even have time to fire their weapons before meeting their deaths at the hands of the American team. Their mission was accomplished – the remaining Taliban would not offer too much resistance. But the main objective of their mission was nowhere in sight. Sarah Mackenzie frantically scanned the area, searching for any sign of her friend. Her weapon still in full battle readiness, she screamed his name, hearing nothing but the echo of her own voice in response. Suddenly, she heard more gunfire deep from the heart of the cave, and then Lt. Commander Rockwell’s voice yelled for her to come over. Exchanging a quick glance with the Admiral, she rushed toward the voice, not bothering to look whether her two companions followed. A young SEAL blocked her way just as she was about to enter a small cell at the end of the hall. “Ma’am, it doesn’t look good in there.” Angrily, she pushed against his chest, her hands balled up in tight fists. “Out of the way, Corporal!” she seethed, and the younger man complied, exchanging a concerned look with his commanding officer. The first thing Sarah saw when she walked inside was the body of an older Afghani man lying close to the entrance. “I shot him as he was about to execute the prisoner, Ma’am,” the Corporal supplied, pointing to the motionless figure in the center of the room. She followed his gesture and froze at the sight that opened before her. Emaciated, mutilated body of her partner hung lifeless from the crude iron chains in the ceiling. Her eyes drifted over his blood-soaked flight suit, the ugly swollen scars on his back, the sticky puddle of thick crimson liquid under his feet that kept getting larger with every second as a new drop of blood was added to its contents. That sight coupled with the nightmarish images from her dreams assailed her mind like a raging hurricane. She couldn’t breathe. Dizziness overwhelmed her, and she swayed slightly, feeling her knees buckle. A pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders preventing her from falling, and she heard the Admiral’s voice boom above her ear: “Get him down, damn it!” The above command brought her out of her trance, her marine training kicking in, and straightening herself out, Mac rushed over to her partner’s side just as Lt. Commander Rockwell removed the last of the iron rings from around the prisoner’s bloodied wrists. Deprived of his only support, the Navy Commander sagged heavily into Mac’s waiting arms. Gently lowering him to the ground, she began frantically feeling for pulse. With her trembling fingers still pressed against his neck, she felt him stir, and her heart jumped with joy when she saw his eyes flutter open. Clouded with pain, his eyes rested on her face for a brief moment, and his dry swollen lips moved weakly, straining to form her name. “S-sa…rah… you … c-came…,” he managed, before his world was plunged into total darkness. “I’m here, Flyboy. You just hang on. Hang on,” she whispered, running her fingers over his gaunt pale face stained with traces of dirt and dried blood. He was alive, and for the moment nothing else mattered to Sarah Mackenzie, as she cradled him in her arms, oblivious to the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks. Brad Rockwell approached the Admiral who stood quietly over his two junior officers, his own heart filled with immense relief at finding Harm still alive and enormous rage at the monsters who did this to the man he loved like his own son. “I’ve radioed ahead for the chopper to pick us up, Admiral,” Rockwell reported in a hushed voice, glancing down at the couple. “It should be here within a couple of minutes.” A.J. looked over at the man as if seeing him for the first time. Then, realizing what the Lt. Commander said, he nodded, turning his gaze back to his officers. “Thank you, Commander.” The SEAL team leader coughed awkwardly, getting his attention one more time. “Sir, we managed to capture one of them alive. I thought you’d want to know.” Something dark and deadly flashed in the older man’s eyes, as he turned to face Rockwell, and it took all of his training for the young SEAL not to step back. “Very well, Commander. I’m sure Mr. Webb would want a few words with that man.” He turned away again, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “You just keep him away from me,” he added in a low menacing whisper. Chapter XI 1 and a half week later Bethesda Naval Hospital Awareness flooded back slowly, bringing with it an overwhelming feeling of weakness, punctuated by a dull throbbing pain. He felt a presence in the room with him, and his body tensed involuntarily in anticipation of more pain to come. But the torture never resumed, so after a long agonizing wait, he risked opening his eyes to see what was going on. The brightness of the pristinely white room filled with warm sunlight assaulted his senses, and he winced, his eyes no longer accustomed to anything but the cold darkness of the cave. He waited patiently until his eyes adjusted to the blinding whiteness of the room. Was this a hospital? How did he get here? He frowned, straining to remember. A slight movement off to the side caught his eye, and he turned his head slightly, instantly regretting the movement, as the pain shot through his body with renewed force. Closing his eyes again to ward off the pain, he felt a warm, soothing hand lay softly against his clammy forehead, smoothing away the pain. He looked up tentatively, blinking as the familiar precious face came into view. “You’re awake,” she whispered, tears of joy brimming in her large brown eyes. He smiled contentedly, reveling in her sweet features. She was here next to him. His Sarah…. “Don’t … cry … Marine …. Don’t cry.” His throat was dry and his voice weak and hoarse, but the words carried clearly, tugging at her heart with bittersweet feeling of happiness. He wanted to reach out his hand and wipe her tears away, but his weakened body refused to cooperate, and he bit his lip in frustration. She smiled, noticing his effort, and took his hand in hers, gently lifting it up to her lips and pressing it against them. “I’ve missed you so much, Sailor,” she whispered, her warm breath caressing the back of his hand. “Me too,” he managed, feeling his eyelids grow heavier with every second. He struggled against the overwhelming desire to sleep, forcing his eyes to stay open, fearing that if he were to close them he’d never see her again. She must have guessed his thoughts, for she smiled softly, running her hand along his forehead and down the side of his face, flinching as her fingers smoothed over a long jagged scar above his temple. “You rest now, Harm, and don’t worry about anything. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” “Promise?” he mumbled groggily, relaxing under her touch. “Promise,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his forehead. “Sleep.” Sarah Mackenzie leaned back into her chair, watching her peacefully sleeping partner, exhaustion mixed with relief washing over her. From the moment she held Harm’s bloodied form in her arms back in the cave in Afghanistan until days later when the doctors declared him stable enough to be transported back to the States, Sarah couldn’t let herself relax. The horrifying images of the deep bleeding scars on his back, the torn wound in his left shoulder, the long jagged gash in his side left by some crude, sharp weapon – those images would stay with her for a long time to come. She was so scared back in Afghanistan that he would die there in here arms without giving her a chance to tell him – God, there was so much she needed to tell him! The chilling words of the Seahawk doctor still echoed in her ears. Flashback “The Commander is very fortunate that you found him when you did. Hours, maybe even minutes later –,” the doctor shook his head ruefully “Well, frankly, I’m surprised that anyone could endure as much abuse as the Commander has and still survive….” “But he will be all right?” she asked him then. The doctor merely shrugged. “His physical injuries will heal eventually, if that’s what you mean. Some scars are bound to remain, of course.” He pursed his lips, staring her squarely in the eyes, and added in a grave, quiet voice. “It’s the emotional scars I worry about, however….” End of flashback “Emotional scars.” Mac shuddered, thinking about the endless hours of ruthless torture that her friend endured; days of unending pain with no hope of ever being found – not alive anyway. “How horrible it must have been.” She sniffled, drawing a shaky breath, as she watched his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. He was so pale and thin, and weak, so unlike the strong vivacious naval aviator she knew. But he was here, and he was alive. A bittersweet smile touched the corners of her mouth. “The important thing is that you’re safe now, Harm,” she whispered, running a hand through his tangled dark hair. “The rest will be okay. … You will be okay – I’ll make sure of that.” She let her hand linger against his skin, closing her eyes in a moment of silent prayer. There will be rough times ahead, she was certain of it. But she also knew that, no matter what was to come, they will get through it … together. The end Watch for the continuation of Harm and Mac’s adventures in “Coming back into the light.”