WHILE MORTALS SLEEP

Genre: Romance/Angst with more Action/Drama (I hope) after Ch. 1.

Rating: PG 13 to be safe (for some language and maybe themes).

Disclaimer: Characters and incidents from JAG are the property of Donald P. Belisario Bellisarius Productions/Paramount/CBS. This story is strictly non-profit, just a way to share the fun and pay tribute to the joys and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent any one living or dead, so any resemblances are purely coincidental.

Spoilers: Primarily When the Bough Breaks and The Killer. But references to the Pilot and some other episodes, particularly in season 7.

Author's Notes: The title of the story is a phrase from "O Little Town of Bethlehem." While I've been in Italy, I've never been to Naples. I've never been on a carrier either, though some facts here are from research in news sources. I have not seen all the episodes of JAG. Any idiocies herein are entirely my own.

Feedback: I'd really like it. This is my first fan-fiction attempt.

WHILE MORTALS SLEEP

Chapter One: Between the Lines

Scene One: Posta Prioritaria

Naples, Italy

Afternoon

3 December

The postcard catches my eye—the view of the bay is just what I see from where I am standing. Minus the postcard rack, of course. The same curve of land and expanse of water, with Vesuvius dominating sea and sky. But the water in the picture is that odd turquoise you see only in postcards. The bay in front of me is darker--almost indigo. I dig some change out of my pocket and buy the card. I can always drop it in the mail on the way to the airfield.

There's enough of a chill to make me glad I've got my jacket, but all around me Naples still wears the colors of summer. These narrow streets are as crowded and noisy as a carnival—or a carrier. A little further on, a display in a shop window catches my eye—a leather aviator-style jacket a lot like mine, surrounded by a display of purses and gloves. A little hand-lettered card in the corner of the window assures me they speak English . Stepping in, I inhale the rich scent of new leather. A pleasure right up there with the smells of good cigars, real coffee, and the perfume worn by a certain Marine I know.

The shop is so small, it makes me feel enormous. Not so much a bull in a china shop as an elephant in a shoebox. The proprietor, on the other hand, is perfectly proportioned to her shop. And perfectly proportioned in other ways, too. A tiny, fine-boned woman with hennaed hair, she is as elegant as the gloves in the window. "Bongiorno. May I help you?" Her English is half Naples, half Oxford and her voice has a smoky quality that makes the simple question sound like a proposition.

"Uh, yes," I manage, pointing to the jacket in the window, "How much are you asking?" Her eyes travel over the lines of my jacket, resting, just for a moment, at the level of my shoulders. Then she looks up at me, tilts her head to the side, and smiles, "But surely you do not need another?"

"Uh, no. It's for a friend." She smiles knowingly as my gestures indicate the size I am looking for. She pulls out several and after a little discussion I decide on a jacket the color of espresso-- the leather is supple, creamy to the touch, the top-stitching perfect. It's a pilot's jacket, but the lines are softened somehow. I manage to get her down to three-quarters of the original asking price before I cave. She knows how badly I want that jacket.

Moments later, I am sitting in one of these little cafes by the waterfront. Nearby, a guy leans against the stucco wall, playing a concertina. Nothing I recognize. Neapolitan folk songs, I guess. I order a coffee and take out my pen.

Hey Mac. Well, it's a start. The concertina wheezes, then breaks into a jaunty tune I've heard before. A long time ago.

And suddenly I am sitting at another café, further down the waterfront. Kate Pike is sitting across from me, in civvies—one of those silk blouses that cling in all the right places. And she is leaning toward me, laughing, holding up her wine glass and saying… I can't remember really. Something that didn't matter even then. We had just finished up the Board of Inquiry business on the Arutti murder. Kate was unwinding, —easy, playful, bold. Oh, she didn't put up with any shit from flyboys, all right. But she sure knew how to say no without shutting the door completely…and eventually, we bent the regs all to hell.

"Red light, Commander." But it's Mac's voice I hear in my head and it's her eyes I see, smiling out of her most serious Mac-Marine face. I'm glad we're beyond that traffic light stuff. At least, I think I am.

After Kate, I swore the best way to survive was to keep my women in two categories—available civilians and untouchable comrades. All right, there was Jordan. Major infraction of my own regs. After that, I swore I'd keep my hands off any woman in uniform. Not my mind of course. Though I do try. But even at the office sometimes we'll be joking around—Mac and I—and suddenly I am imagining her leaning across some table in a silk blouse, those generous lips of hers slightly parted…you get the idea.

Okay, well, more than that, really. Hell, when I walked into my hotel room the other day the first thing I felt was a hint of steam in the air, then the smell of gardenias. Then I caught a glimpse of very female legs, tawny skin with that fresh-from-the-shower glow, and dark hair, tousled and wet. And just for a heartbeat, I thought that Mac--who's always finishing my sentences--had somehow guessed my favorite fantasy and brought it to life. She is, after all, clairvoyant.

But it was Manetti. I nearly choked. This beat all for red-light, career-busting, weird-ass behavior on the part of a female officer. It felt like a trap. But she was cool, almost unruffled. All in all, she was more matter of fact than apologetic about her invasion. That's how it felt. My fantasy turned inside out and upside down by a usually competent and law-abiding junior officer. What was she thinking?

The next thing you know she was telling me I was too "old" to be the serial killer.

That stung. When I walk into a room, women still open their eyes a little wider and do that hair-arranging thing. You know—where the long-haired ones brush the backs of the fingers of one hand up under their hair, lifting it from their shoulders, then letting it fall. Even the ones with the little-boy cuts brush the tips of their fingers along the side of their head just under the crown. It's code. And yeah, it's good for the ego. But it is also the same, over and over. When did that game lose its charm?

Hey Mac. I look at the greeting and add, Bet ya wish you were here. Voices from the next table catch my attention. Two clean-shaven men with blue-black hair, one fiftyish and pudgy, a sort of latte-colored Pillsbury Doughboy, the other a wiry, thin-faced guy hardly out of his teens. Whatever they're speaking, it's not Italian. Sounds a heck of a lot like farsi. Wish Mac was here. She'd know. Not only that, but she'd understand what they're saying.

Whatever it is, they are leaning close in toward one another. Before I turn my eyes back to the postcard, I notice how the younger fellow spits out his words. He is drumming the tips of his fingers on the table-top as if it were a computer keyboard. The older man speaks more slowly, and somehow I get the impression that there is ice under the bourbon smoothness of that voice.

Hey Mac. Bet ya wish you were here. Pizza and gelati everywhere. "Sea Hawk." I could swear I heard one of those guys say the name of the ship. Probably one of those tricks your mind plays. Just because Mac's on the Sea Hawk and not here. But I can't shake the feeling that I heard what I heard. And it's not a good feeling.

By now you've probably got that ward room under Marine control. As I finish my sentence, a fluttering movement--something red--pulls my eye in another direction. It's a woman's skirt, longish and in some light-weight fabric the wind toys with. And it's not really red, but one of those colors between pink and red that women always have fancy names for. The skirt lifts and falls, revealing shapely legs. My eyes follow the line of the skirt to where it clings to the smooth curve of her hip. Then I take in the lithe movement of her arm as she adjusts a filmy scarf she wears wrapped over her short dark hair. The ends of her scarf are flung back over her shoulders, in a way that gives her a sort of Middle-Eastern look. She stands with her back to me, gazing out over the water, with her chin lifted a little.

My throat tightens and I feel a kind of thickness under my breastbone where my heart should be. Then it starts beating again. And quickly. Before I can call out her name, she turns away from the water and toward me.

Her large dark eyes sweep over and past me. And—after I swallow hard--I have to laugh at myself. Of course it's not Mac. She's on the USS Sea Hawk in the Indian Ocean. And it looks like she'll be on her current TAD more than "only two weeks." Between the war games and the recent mobilization, not to mention mountains of red tape and forms in triplicate, she'll be lucky to be back in Georgetown for Christmas.

The woman who is not Mac is looking for someone, her face pensive. Then suddenly it is lit up from within by the most stunning smile. All I can think of is one of those Madonnas they have in the churches here, with a hundred votive candles glowing all around it.

"Nikos!" she calls. "'Vanni!" A little boy in a sailor suit—the kind with short pants—breaks away from a man in a fisherman sweater and jeans. "Mamamama!" The child explodes into her arms as she leans down to scoop him up. The man pauses to let the child soak up his mother's caress. As she lifts the boy, the man—I guess it's his father—takes a few quick steps forward and pulls them both into his arms. They are holding the child up together, the boy nuzzling his mother's cheek as the father's mouth seeks hers. When they meet, it's a kiss of the sizzling sort. Then she draws her head back a little and gazes into his eyes. "Nikos." She says his name like a blessing. Of course, he kisses her again.

This "Nikos" is not much taller than the woman in the scarf, but he's got very broad shoulders and slim hips. His cropped black hair is a crown of thick curls with a hint of silver just by his temples. He pushes the scarf back with a gentle movement of one hand, running his fingers through her hair, while with the other hand he still helps to support the boy. For some reason, suddenly I have a lump in my throat the size of a helo and my eyes tear up like I'm facing into the wind on the fantail.

I scrawl a couple more lines, pay the waiter, and take off for the hotel.

Hey Mac. Bet ya wish you were here. Pizza and gelati everywhere. By now you've probably got that ward room under Marine control. Think of me when you're up on the fantail. Hurry back, Sundance. As always, Harm.

Scene Two: Special Delivery

Aboard the Freighter Jade Mountain

In Port on the Gulf of Aden

Just before dawn, 5 December

The travellers board in blue darkness, carrying little luggage. The man in Western clothes—black jeans, black turtleneck, black leather jacket--is bearded, with deep-set eyes. His companions wear flowing robes and kaffiyeh. The three are met by a man with markedly Asian features under his mariner's cap. He presses the palms of his hands together in greeting, but does not bow. He speaks directly to the bearded one, his voice half-hushed but loud enough for the others to hear. "You are just in time, my friends. We have orders to move into position tomorrow. We shall have our target before the week is out."

The bearded man nods. The taller of his two companions says, "As the Wasp has arrived, can we assume he carries his Sting?"

The mariner nods. "Safely aboard. We have just received most excellent shipment of carpets. Among them, one most precious from Pakistan."

The bearded man says, "Do we yet have a room in which to display it?"

"Mustafa watches, my friend. He sends word soon."

In the hold, deep in a box of rolled carpets, one black-market special American-made Stinger.

Scene Three: Ship to Shore

Dawn, December 7th

Pearl Harbor Rembrance Day

The Roberts Residence

Lt. Bud Roberts smiled as he clicked on the icon signaling an incoming message.

Hey Sir, you there?

Sure am. How's it goin' Coates?

Busy day, Sir. Visiting Navy and State Dept. brass. A wreath ceremony on the flight deck with a brass quintet. Some journalists flown in for sound bites and photo op. One of them's staying on, to do some sort of photo essay.

Anybody I know?

I don't think so, Sir, but he's pretty famous. Gray Caldwell. Won the Pulitzer for his book on child soldiers in Africa and South America.

Yeah, I saw that one. What's he like?

Hot, Sir. In an older-guy sort of way. But quiet. And he has these eyes. Gray with little flecks of blue and green. They feel like he's looking right into you.

Got a crush, Coates?

No sir. But it wouldn't matter if I did. You should see him look at the Colonel—like a homesick sailor coming into port.

Mmm. Keep me posted on that one.

Sure thing. Hey, how's little AJ?

Doing great. I can't wait for you to see him.

I'd like that, Sir. And Harriet?

Pretty busy these days. She's been shopping and decorating like this is the first Christmas in the world.

You're one lucky man, Sir.

I sure am…. Hey, how's the Christmas shopping on the Sea Hawk?

Not so bad, Sir. We're processing the paper work for a new round of vendors today. Sounds like good stuff—some hand-crafted. Contracts with guys from Dubai, New Delhi, and Naples. Odd though. The guy from Naples—his name doesn't sound Italian. Farak or something like that.

Hope they've done a good security check.

Oh they have, Sir. They run these guys through a sieve. By the way, how's the Commander?

Growly. Mutters under his breath a lot—mostly stuff about Marines dodging their fair share of stupid onshore cases. How're you and the Colonel getting on?

She's a stickler for details but great to work for. Most of the female junior officers are already looking to her as a mentor, Sir. She really listens.

Yeah. We sure miss her here. Last night the Commander came over for dinner. When AJ saw him he yelled "Unca Harm!" and grabbed the Commander's leg, then he swung around it, looking behind him and calling, "Auntie Mac???"

That's sweet. She's got little AJ's picture on her office desk. Hey, I don't mean to gossip or anything, but she's got a picture of the Commander, too.

In the office?

No, in her quarters. Just a snapshot. He's in civvies, standing beside a yellow Stearman.

Yeah, that's his. He takes her up now and then. The Colonel, I mean.

Maybe that explains it.

Explains what, Coates?

The Colonel. She's generally pretty cheerful, but now and then, when she thinks I'm not looking, her shoulders just sag a little and her eyes go kinda sad. Think she's pining away for the Commander, Sir?"

Red light, Coates. We'd better not go there.

Sorry, Sir. But there's another thing…

In his mind's eye Bud could see Coates' grin. He smiled and tapped in:

Okay. I'll bite. What other thing?"

She got this postcard, Sir. From Naples. I couldn't help but see the message when I sorted her mail. It didn't say anything much. Dumb, really. But it was from the Commander. Maybe it was code. Anyway, when the Colonel read it, she got all teary-eyed. When I asked her if she was okay she about bit my head off…

Scene Four: Caveat Emptor (Let the Buyer Beware)

Visiting Concessions Booths

USS Sea Hawk

Morning of December 9th

Barak al-Barak sank his considerable bulk into the folding chair behind the table that served as the main counter for his concession booth. He surveyed his goods. The Committee had done an excellent job. Everything hand-crafted, from the turquoise bracelets to the silver torques. Nothing to raise alarm. Nothing at all. Stupid Americans. Looking always for the material, for what is outside. Sniffing for powders, x-raying gadgets, waiting for the twitch of a facial muscle. But what is most dangerous a man may carry invisibly, in his heart, in his brain. He looked at this young companion.

"Call me Ali," he had said. Barak knew that it was not his name. Perhaps he had no name. They knew him—they all knew him—simply as "the Cipher." The zero, which had come from the East, made all this technological world possible. But the Infidels saw it as nothing. A lack, a gap, an absence. The thin young man was watching the first customers file into the room. His eyes missed nothing. Already he was looking for the gap he could slip through. He did not even need to bring aboard a laptop that would arouse suspicions. He could get one here. All he needed was on this ship and in his head. Just a little sequence, a tiny infected strand of mathematical DNA. There is only the One. All else is naught. The Cipher smiled.

Scene Five: Blue,Blue Christmas

Col. Sarah MacKenzie's Quarters

On the USS Seahawk

10 December

Twenty-three days, seven hours and fifty-three minutes. So far that's how long my two weeks TAD on the Sea Hawk have lasted. It may be at least another ten days before the new chief legal officer comes aboard. Several of the paralegals have suggested that I ought to consider staying out the tour. But I need to get back.

As always, Harm. This is no place to sort things out. It's Harm's world—not just the tomcats and the flight deck--but everything here--the kneeknockers and narrow passageways, the noise, the jokes in the ward room...

Every time I brush against the arm of some flyboy in a flight suit, I might just as well be back at JAG, trying not to blush when Harm's hand touches mine as he hands me a file. When I open the door from my quarters, I keep seeing Harm standing there with our float coats and ear guards. Chivalry, squid style.

When I put in my earplugs and lie down to sleep at night, the ship's hum is all around me--I feel its vibrations on my skin like kisses. I guess that you could say I have it bad. I'm in love with him, my heart whispers, maybe a thousand times a day.

As always, Harm. But he's oceans away. I am still hoping to see him at Christmas, though… and that makes me luckier than most. Nearly six thousand women and men on this ship and most of them are missing someone, have someone waiting and praying for them somewhere. The only way they'll be home for Christmas is in their dreams. I think I'll ask Gray—he's got a harmonica with him-- if he knows that Christmas song, the country one about a "blue, blue Christmas without you." It ought to be our holiday theme song around here.

As always, Harm. Sometimes I let myself imagine Harm strumming his guitar, singing to me as if I were the only woman in the world. Sometimes I let myself remember dancing in his arms, his hand warm against the small of my back. Sometimes I imagine waking up to find him lying beside me—in my bedroom, in his, on some god-forsaken hillside in country, by a cozy hearthfire in some place I've never been. And I know that every last one of them at JAG has seen the reflection of my fantasies—that hunger showing in my eyes like tears.

Even Gray has noticed. After I had quoted Harm half a dozen times in the course of our first conversation in the ward room, Gray asked. "This 'Harm'—who is he?"

"Commander Rabb. My partner." Dammit, I probably blushed.

"Oh." I swear Gray looked disappointed. "I thought…I mean Petty Officer Coates implied that you were…unattached…at the moment."

"Oh, not that kind of partner. We work together at JAG. We've been a team for a long time. You know how it is. You get to acting like an old married couple. All of the habits, none of the privileges."

Gray laughed. It sounded like relief. "Then, Colonel Sarah, I do not need to fear the vengeance of an angry commander if I happen to tell his partner that she has most beautiful eyes?"

I know I blushed. And muttered something noncommittal. Seeing my uneasiness, Gray backed off. On safer ground, we discussed his photo essay on Christmas at sea. And his next "mission"—documenting the suffering of Afghani children born into a world of land mines and hunger and perpetual war. He was slated to accompany a group of MSF doctors setting up a new pediatric clinic in some remote town. I thought of Bud. And of the news broadcast that made it seem like there was no danger to the boy he wanted to save. Oh yes, a few landmines, no problem. The villagers know where they are. Every last landmine? All the unexploded cluster bombs? How could a reporter who'd been in country fail to notice the maimed children? How could a journalist who'd done his homework not know the bitter statistics?

Gray and I have already found that we differ on many things. Not least of them the role of the U.S. military in various hot spots around the world. But we both find the suffering of children intolerable. I think Harm would like this man. I know that I do.

It always comes back to Harm. Whatever the future brings, I want him in my life. I'll be Sundance to his Butch Cassidy any day. In a way, I feel like I know Harm inside and out. I can finish his sentences, for heaven's sake. But I honestly can't tell whether the warmth that's there so often in his eyes is kindness or something more.

As always. He's been there for me through so much, seen so much of me—angry, scared, competitive, stupid, drunk. I know I'll never find another friend like him. Lovers are two for a penny, but best friends, priceless.

So, if one fine day, he came bearing roses and kisses, would it be worth risking it all? Oh yes, my heart whispers. No way, my head shouts.

As always. Not a sister, not a lover, I keep drifting in this limbo that feels too awful much like wanting that one damn drink that will bring my life down around me like a direct hit.

As always, Harm. Sometimes I think that it will never be better than it was here, the one time Harm actually admitted outright in so many words that he was glad to have me with him. As usual, I read too much into it. I certainly remember it too fervently. That's one of the funny things about being best friends—the words and gestures can mean so many things. There is no protocol. No signpost to say, "This is where we are." All you ever have is a moment that's gone before you know it. And you never get it back.

Get a grip, Marine.