Title: "Shades of Gray"
Author: AeroGirl
Email: michaerogirl@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Classification: Vignette
Spoilers: "Adrift," "Mixed Messages"

Summary: Follow-up to the seventh-season episode "Mixed Messages".  
To Webb, it was nothing more than business as usual.  To Harm, it was 
nothing less than a betrayal.

Author's Notes: If you haven't seen the episode, the basic concept is 
this: Webb and company claimed a Navy cryptanalyist who was killed 
was actually a mole for the Chinese.  He wasn't, of course, and they 
used that misinformation to trap the real mole, but the lies were 
devastating to the man's family.  The intel folks hadn't counted on 
Harm, though.  I've already forgotten the names of Cmdr. Steckler's 
family (let's face it, the episode wasn't that great), so I apologize 
for any holes.


"Shades of Gray"


1049 EDT
JAG Headquarters
Falls Church, Virginia

	Harm strode through the bullpen with a barely-concealed 
scowl.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd been nearly this 
frustrated.  A spy would not be brought to justice.  A dedicated 
officer would not get the honors he deserved.  A young family would 
not be whole again.

	Sometimes he honestly hated this job.

	"Harriet, is Mac in this morning?"

	He didn't have the first clue what to say to her, but he had 
to talk to someone.  Unfortunately, the lieutenant was shaking her 
head.  "Sorry, sir - the board says she's on leave today."

	Harm frowned in the direction of the colonel's empty office.  
"Figures.  Listen, I'm at Andrews for the rest of the day, so if she 
happens to call in, tell her I need to go over some files with her."

	"Aye, sir."

	"Misplace your partner again?"

	Harriet watched the senior attorney's features instantly 
darken at the sound of the other man's voice.  She quietly picked up 
her paperwork and headed for her husband's office.  From what little 
Bud had told her about the recent case, she could tell that this was 
a good time to get out of the line of fire.

	Harm's tone was cold as he continued toward his office.  
"Stay out of my way, Webb.  Our business together is finished."

	Clayton Webb hadn't been expecting a warm welcome, so he 
wasn't put off.  "Not entirely.  But I can appreciate why you might 
not be in my fan club at the moment."

	"That's a hell of an understatement.  Gunny!  Where'd you 
stow my flight gear?"

	"Under the empty desk in the corner, sir," came the immediate 
response.

	"And my new helmet?"

	"Master sergeant says it'll be waiting for you on the flight 
line."

	"You're the best, Gunny."  Harm retrieved his olive-drab 
duffel from under the correct desk and went into his office without 
another word toward his visitor.

	Undaunted, Webb followed.  "You're going flying?" he inquired.

	"I am.  What's it to you?"

	"Nothing.  It just doesn't seem like that long since you were 
treading water in the Atlantic."

	"It's what I do, Webb.  When I'm not getting screwed over by 
intelligence agents, that is."

	The CIA deputy rolled his eyes.  "Right.  Why is it that I 
once again get to be the designated asshole on this?"

	"You know damn well why," Harm returned, eyes flashing.

	"Hey," Webb said defensively.  "I'm not losing any sleep over 
my role here.  It's a shame your friend died, but everything that 
happened afterward was done for a greater good.  It's ugly, but 
that's what we do.  And he knew that when he signed up."

	"Oh, bullshit," Harm snapped, letting his anger loose for the 
first time.  "He didn't sign up to let you trample his memory for the 
'greater good'.  He didn't sign up to put his family through the 
agony of wondering whether their husband and father might have been a 
traitor.  You got what you wanted, sure, but the ends don't justify 
the means.  They don't even come close."

	"And what makes you the final judge of that?" Webb demanded.  
"God, Harm, do you really think you're seeing the larger picture 
here?  We got it done.  We protected U.S. interests, and the Jimmy 
Carter is safe for another day.  I came here to apologize for what 
Commander Steckler's family has had to put up with for the past 
week.  But I'm _not_ going to apologize for doing my job.  I thought 
you understood how this works."

	"Well, obviously I don't," the commander fired back, his 
voice laced with contempt.  "It's beginning to look like I don't 
understand a damn thing about you, Webb."

	It was a purposefully nasty remark, and it stung more than 
either of them had anticipated.  These two men had faced countless 
tests together.  At times, they'd considered each other friends, a 
meaningful term in a profession where friends were few and far 
between.  But at other times, they couldn't have been further apart.

	Webb walked over to the window without speaking.  Finally, he 
said, "You have a lousy memory, you know that?  I went to the mat for 
you when Sergei Zhukov went missing, remember?"

	"And look how well that's turned out so far," Harm replied 
without missing a beat.

	Exasperated, Webb spread his hands wide.  "Oh, for Christ's 
sake.  Now _that's_ my fault, too?"

	"Well, I typically blame State and the intelligence community 
at large, but since you're so eager to represent ..."

	"What do you want from me?  I'm not ashamed of what I do!  It 
may not be fit for the front page of the Post, and I may not get 
medals for it, but I'm serving my country, just like you."

	"You are _nothing_ like me," Harm spat out.  "I deal in 
truths.  And if Rick Steckler's sons ever find out the truth about 
what happened to their father, it will be no thanks to you."

	A realization dawned on him, and before he could think better 
of it, he was already talking.  "Oh, now I see.  It's personal, isn't 
it?  Just like always.  Reality check, Commander - some people accept 
the world as it is.  Not every kid who loses his father goes off on a 
thirty-year quest for redemption."

	Instantly a shadow fell across the other man's face, and Webb 
knew he'd crossed the line.  In that moment, he was more afraid of 
Harmon Rabb than he'd ever been, up to and including the night he'd 
stared down his pistol three years before.

	Harm leaned across his desk and spoke in a very low, very 
dangerous tone.  "Get the hell out of my office before I throw you 
out."

	After a few seconds, Webb found his voice.  "I didn't mean 
that.  I'm sorry."

	"You're not sorry in the least.  Not for the right things.  
Do what you have to do, Webb.  I've got a ride waiting for me."

	He swept past and stalked through the bullpen, flight gear in 
hand.  The intelligence officer decided to risk one last shot, and 
raised his voice.  "After all the things you've seen and done, how 
can you still see everything in such black and white terms?"

	The staff members in the room fell silent as Harm slowly 
turned back.  "Because sometimes I have to.  Sometimes there are such 
things as right and wrong, and throwing in grays just makes us more 
like the people we're claiming to fight.  We're the good guys, Webb.  
We tell ourselves that because we have moral responsibilities that 
separate us from them.  There are rules - we follow them, they don't."

	"It's not nearly that simple - "

	"Right now it is.  One of the rules is that we don't hurt 
people who aren't involved.  Another one is that we don't abandon our 
own.  When you break the rules, you're no better than they are.  
Pleasant dreams."

	And he was gone.

****************


1322 EDT
National Cemetery
Arlington, Virginia

	From his place behind the Steckler family, Harm watched his 
friend's wife accept the folded flag with only the slightest 
tremble.  There had been no commendations read, but the two of them 
knew that Richard Steckler had died bravely, in honorable service.  
For now, that would have to be enough.  The rest lay locked away, 
awaiting an elusive 'someday'.  Someday, when all the truths were 
safe.

	As the memorial ended, he remained with the family, offering 
silent support as they greeted the other mourners.  Out of the corner 
of his eye, he noticed Clayton Webb's approach, and he moved in to 
head him off.

	"She doesn't have anything to say to you, Webb."

	Most people would have backed away from a possible 
confrontation with a six-foot-four-inch naval officer in full dress 
uniform.  Webb was not most people.  "Maybe not.  But I have 
something to say to her.  Mrs. Steckler?"

	The small blonde woman turned slightly, and froze as 
recognition set in.  "I don't know what you could possibly want right 
now, Director," she said stiffly, her voice tightly controlled.

	"Only to apologize, ma'am," he replied solemnly.  Harm lifted 
an eyebrow, but didn't comment.  "Your husband was a good officer, 
and I take full responsibility for the actions that were taken in his 
name.  I wish I could explain to you why we felt they were necessary, 
but unfortunately that isn't possible right now.  I only hope that 
you'll believe me when I say that I do regret them."

	Mrs. Steckler just stared at him for a long minute, searching 
his gray eyes for sincerity.  "Why should I?" she asked honestly.  
"If you really felt this farce was necessary, why should you feel any 
differently now?"

	Webb met her piercing gaze and answered.  "Because someone 
reminded me that we have a responsibility to protect our own.  That 
should have included you and your family."

	Harm gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and after offering 
their condolences again, the two men moved away from the group.  They 
stood under a stately oak for a while, both quietly watching the 
scene below.

	Finally, Harm spoke.  "I'm beginning to understand why very 
few people stay in after their twenty years are up."

	Webb shook his head.  "Give me a break.  The day you leave 
the Navy will be the day we have to put _your_ ass in this place."

	"Probably.  Still ..."  His features were calm, but something 
ached behind his azure eyes.  "I'm tired of being a pallbearer, Clay."

	"Me, too."

	After another minute, he turned his head.  "So.  Were you 
exercising your double-talk skills back there, or did you mean what 
you said?"

	"Give me a little credit.  I meant it.  I do regret what 
happened.  It doesn't mean I've stopped believing in the fundamental 
necessity of what I do.  None of your jury-speech sound bites are 
going to shake that."

	"Good," he mused quietly, earning a surprised glance from his 
companion.  "I didn't have any right to jump on you the way I did.  
It's not like I resent your entire existence.  It's just - the things 
you have to do sometimes ... I don't think I could ever bring myself 
to do that."

	"I know you couldn't.  That's the difference between you and 
me."  Webb scanned the unending rows of simple white markers with 
unflinching eyes.  "One night back in May, I was working late on an 
op-plan when one of my analysts came in and said that my 'pilot-
lawyer friend' had crashed his Tomcat off the coast.  Our information 
was pretty sketchy, if you can believe that.  They told me you were 
dead."

	Startled, Harm turned to him, but couldn't find any words.  
Webb gave a little shrug and continued.  "I sat at my desk for a good 
hour, just feeling profoundly depressed.  Eventually, the director 
wandered by and asked what was wrong, and all I could think of to say 
was, 'We just lost an honest-to-God hero.' "

	There was an awkward silence until Harm began, hesitantly.  
"Clay, I'm not - "

	"Sure you are.  And what's more, you know it as well as I 
do.  You're an all-star in the air and in the courtroom, and you make 
the recruiting posters look good.  Most importantly, you won't 
compromise your ideals, no matter what the cost.  We need people like 
you, and we need the public to see that people like you are out 
there, defending them and representing them.  People they can admire 
and take pride in.  They don't need to see the people like me, 
because we don't always do the most admirable things.  But I know 
they need us, too.  We're the good guys because of you, but not in 
spite of me.  We both have a place, and a duty ... and a legacy to 
uphold.  I don't think either of us has outlived our usefulness just 
yet."

	Their eyes met and locked for the briefest of moments: long 
enough for a silent understanding to pass between them.  Then, each 
went back to gazing across the flawless green fields.

	"Look, I have to get going.  More smoke-and-mirror tricks to 
plan, and all that.  I'll see you around."  He started toward the 
path, but Harm called after him.

	"Clay."

	He turned halfway back.  "Yeah?"

	"Actions make heroes, not images."

	"You earned it on your actions."

	"So did you.  Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.  Even 
me."

	The barest hint of a smile flickered across his face, and he 
gave a short nod.  "Take care of yourself, Harm."

	"You too, Clay."


****** THE END ******