AN: A very short, definitely one-shot piece of nonsense that came to me as a motor cycle purred past while I was stuck in traffic this morning behind a long line of stopped cars, trucks and buses.

Secured for the Day

Lieutenant Commander Rabb switched off the light and closed the office door before heading down the hallway to the rest room, emerging five minutes later sans uniform but dressed in boots, jeans and leather jacket with crash helmet dangling from hand.

"Good night, Commander." The JAG CO's voice reached out across the empty bull-pen.

"Good night, Sir!"

The CO turned and exchanged a grin with his Yeoman. The younger officer had been on a high all day, it had been good to see, considering all that had happened in the past, and that happiness had seemed to spread through the whole office. He could hardly remember a time when people had been so cheerful, or had achieved quite so much on any one given day..

Outside in the parking lot, the birthday present was waiting: 400 pounds of gleaming black BMW F 800 ST. Swinging a leg over the seat and cramming the helmet into position, Rabb thumbed the starter button and the twin cylinders purred into life. Accelerating gently out of the parking lot, the motorcycle leaned into the left hand turn onto Sleepy Hollow road leading to the on ramp for the Beltway.

Once on the Beltway, Rabb twisted the throttle wide open and the black machine's engine changed from a gentle purr to a throaty snarl as it hurled itself down the highway, the rider thrilling to the speed, the handling and the sheer power of the machine as it wove between and around the end-of-day traffic snarls; a far cry from the classic, but very old, very heavy and by comparison clumsy, Indian 1200 which had been the rider's previous motor-cycle. It was the difference between riding a plough-horse and a thoroughbred.

All too soon, the BMW reached the Little River Turnpike off-ramp and the throttle released, the engine wound down to a steady purr once more, as it idled down the slope to the junction, before turning left to cover the last mile to the little house on Annandale Road.

Gently braking to a stop, the rider thumbed the kill switch and the engine note faded into silence, but not before its sound had brought the rider's partner to the door.

Staying silent until the motorcyclist had dismounted, the waiting figure asked, "Well?"

Crossing the few feet of gravel path that separated them, Lieutenant Commander Loren Rabb pulled her helmet off and shaking her blonde hair free, she reached up, pulled his head down and kissed her husband, then with shining eyes said, "Harm, it's beautiful, just perfect, thank you!"