SECOND WIND (1/6)
Dedication: To Siamese Cat and Daenar who, in daring to "think outside the box," gifted the JAG fanfiction world with some incredible stories! We honor you and we miss your work.
Disclaimer: "aAll the usual legalese"
WARNING: If you as a JAG fan believe that Harm is "destined" to be the Judge Advocate General of the Navy, and/or that he has no weaknesses or faults, personal or professional, you will not like this story. If you decide to read it anyway, don't complain about it to us later! We do promise a happy ending!
A/N: We have taken certain liberties to fit the theme of our story: FW&FS took place, for the purpose of our story, a few weeks earlier than it did on TV, on 31 March 2005. The command that Gorilla Don and his banana-eating chimps ordered Harm to has not existed in London since 2004, when Commander, U.S. Naval Forces Europe moved to Naples and merged with Commander, Sixth Fleet. The new command is the maritime arm of the European Command. For the purpose of our story, it is still in London. Mac was selected for 0-6 spring 2005. In the Navy JAG Corps, 20 years is NOT required for 0-6 – please don't complain to me about it again. Terms of the SOFA The episode FW&FS took place, for the purpose of our story, a few weeks earlier than it did on TV, on 31 March 2005. prevented Mac from getting a work permit in England. Finally, we have exaggerated General Cresswell's behavior (no insult intended to his fans) and the administrative demands of Harm's new billet.
The command that TPTB ordered Harm to has not existed in London since 2004, when Commander, U.S. Naval Forces Europe moved to Naples and merged with Commander, Sixth Fleet. The new command is the maritime arm of the European Command. For the purpose of our story, it is still in London.
Glossary of Military Acronyms and abbreviations used in this chapter that you may not be familiar with:
COMUSNAVEUR – Commander, U.S. Naval Forces Europe
LN – Legalman. The closest equivalent civilian occupation is paralegal
LN2 – denotes a second class petty officer (paygrade E-5)
"C" School – advanced training in a specific military occupational speciality after boot camp
SOFA – Status of Forces Agreement
BritishEnglish /U.S. vocabulary: "When in London, do as the English do" …thus, we have used underground and tube vice subway, lounge vice living room, flat vice apartment.
1700 (5:00 p.m.)
Office of the Force Judge Advocate
COMUSNAVEUR
London
13 October 2006
The rain—or drizzle—or that infernal mist -- what in the hell do you call it anyway? he wondered—matched his mood—along with the perpetual "London" fog. After the first summer in London—which had been atypical -- bright, sunny, and just-right warm-for-human-comfort, the more typical English winter had set in and he felt like he was literally and figuratively living "in a fog"—not withstanding the presence of Mac. She was, indeed, the one bright spot in his life these days, along with their darling daughter, of course—but sometimes, even the warmth of her presence wasn't quite enough to pierce the emotional "fog" threatening to engulf him.
He couldn't remember when he had ever felt this way—maybe after Jordon had left?—but that was different. The loss of that personal relationship had hurt—but he had had both his job at JAG HQ and his best friend, Mac, to help him through that. Now, the fog that he was in emotionally felt like he was separated even from his best friend. Paraguay was exquisitely painful, but the CIA, ironically enough, had come to the rescue then—and after the CIA, Mattie had miraculously shown up in his life and helped ease the pangs of loss, disappointment, and disillusionment. And being back at JAG, even swamped with the Imes cases—well, all of that had eventually brought Mac to him, even on just a "friendship basis,", especially after he conceded it was a "foolish" idea when co-workers got involved with each other in any other way than friendship. It had been tenuous, full of uncomfortable and—he winced—lots and lots of adolescent moments—for both of them, but by the time the General had unloaded his bombshell that had so thoroughly disrupted well-established lifestyles, he and Mac had once again become close. He had thought when Mac agreed to marry him, and they decided on the coin toss—to decide their "fate" together, they would at last have at least a share of the happiness Bud and Harriet seemed to possess without even trying. His mind flitted back to the memory of that particular conversation with Mac early in their friendship: she had commented they just were happy—they didn't have to work at it! He wondered, as he shifted his position to try to get more comfortable, just exactly what that met. He wished, not for the first time, just what Bud had that he didn't have—and further wished he and Bud had had the kind of relationship where he could have asked his closest male friend what the secret was. But rank and age, in addition to Bud's perpetual hero-worship—and Harm couldn't help but grin a little at that—had prevented that kind of friendship/relationship. The grin fell away from his face. It wasn't only that—it was his kind of personality that prevented that kind of male closeness. It was the same thing that had kept him from acting on his feelings for Mac lo those many years!
He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window and absently-minded noted the flock of English sparrows gathered around his window sill, trying to stay out of the worst of the moist, cool air. "Damn the humidity, anyway!" It was enough to bring a bone-marrow deep chill and he shook himself, as if to generate some internal warmth. In a way, he thought sardonically, it was worse than having hypothermia—at least, in hypothermia; attempts to internally warm one's self were very well defined, and, in his case, anyway, worked very well. This—this "chill" went far deeper than that and he couldn't help but wonder what would warm him, inside and out, again.
He watched, lost in thought, pen tapping at his lower lip, as the sparrows—there were three of them—struggled to keep their collective footing on the window ledge, out and away from the misting drizzle. Was it symbolic, he wondered absently, of the struggles he—and Mac, by extension—werewas having settling into a new location?
He had never been one for introspection—wasn't that Renee's big complaint about him so many years ago?—but now, he was forced to sit still. Hell, there wasn't much else constructive he could do but reflect upon his life.
He remembered—Gd! It had seemed so long ago—the thrill of surprise and shock when General Cresswell had announced, first his transfer to London and then his promotion to "greatness", as Mac had put it so cynically. He had truthfully given up on ever achieving "Captain," especially after returning to JAG fromafter his brief "exile" after Paraguay, and it had been a "charge" to hear himself addressed as "Captain,", even by Mac whom, he suspected, knew better. The corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny grin—she probably knew better than he how he had felt! That fact hadn't kept her from commenting in a tone of voice that let him know his elevation would not keep her from challenging him when she felt his ego was "getting out of hand." Thank God she was a permanent part of his life! What he would have done without her to look forward each and every day, he didn't want to contemplate. He had gone through that once before—six long, dreary months in which the "blues" had been kept away only by the level of action he undertook as pilot for "Air America" as Sturgis had so aptly and cryptically put it long ago—he had been too tired at the end of each night to do much thinking/ or reflecting on the state of his life at the time. In addition, there were some situations—which Mac could never know about, regrettably—in which there had been too much adrenaline flowing through his veins for him to even give the emptiness of his life much thought!
He was absently-minded tapping his pen against his lower lip as he let his mind flow back to the direct aftermath of Paraguay and the scene in Admiral Chegwidden's office. Was it true, after all, he was an "adrenaline junkie" as the Admiral so scornfully put it? Did he live for the adrenaline rush that came before each successful mission in flight or "pulling a rabbit out of the hat" in a seemingly impossible-to-win court trialcase? Was he so totally driven by his emotions he couldn't think logically at all, especially when it came to his own life? And why, in the name of all that was holy, wasn't he talking to Mac about this?
He was a Navy man, he automatically thought in nautical metaphors. If he had been asked at that very moment to describe what was happening with his emotional life, he would have compared his darkening mood to that of the rising of the ocean tides. The darkness would retreat, much like the tide going out, only to come back in, a little bit closer to the center of his very being, much like the ocean waves would come in a little closer each time the tide would come in. To call the chronic lo-grade grayness that seemed to want to eventually overtake him a tsunami was a bit extreme. To call it an ongoing "threat" like a slow flood would be more accurate. His memory took him back to the 1993 floods of the Midwest—he had been in law school—the photographs and the news broadcasts coming out of the Midwest at that time had been memorable and unforgettable. And, being as young as he had been, he had been impressionable—and those pictures stuck with him. The analogy fit, he decided, in more ways than one. There had been few towns and cities along the Mississippi that had escaped the ravages of the slowly-rising waters, despite having more than ample warning to build up their levees and sandbag walls. He felt as though he were in the position of those towns along the Mississippi—he could "see" the flood waters coming, and he could see that his own efforts at keeping those flood waters of depression at bay wasere a slowly-losing proposition.
So what was his problem, anyway? On the face of it, he had the "good life"—a wife he adored, even if his efforts at conveying those emotions to her still came out a little stiff and stilted at times. He had a job with prestige that was supposedly important. And wonder of wonders, he had his own biological daughter he was an absolute wimp over. MacKenzie O'Hara Rabb. The newest "love of his life." His normally stern facial expression softened at the thought of Mahara. She existed, in spite of Mac's endometriosis and a low sperm count/below average motility. He sucked in his breath. He had never had reason to question his own masculinity before—that had been a shock—and a blow to his ego! Mac had been there for him, as much as she had been there for him when he found out the truth about his father. He was profoundly grateful for that—but he was sure that shock to his self-image was at least partially responsible for the "down" he was currently experiencing. It was just one of many little straws that had stacked up on him since he'd gotten his orders to London. Thus, all was not "perfect" in his universe.
He sighed, and unconsciously made a facethe facial expression hardened. Although he had managed to keep one promise to Mac – their hand-shake deal to "go halves" on a baby—even within a reasonable timeframe, in light of all that had happened that last year under Chegwidden's command, there was another promise he hadn't been able to keep—to Mattie. He had told her, just as soon as he could contact her after the General's bombshell, he wasn't going anywhere without her—yet, the Court had not allowed him to take her to London. Instead, his parents had stepped in, and Mattie was now living with them in La Jolla! Just thinking about the court hearing and his attempt to request assistance from his CO was so disheartening.
Flashback
Blacksburg County Courthouse
Blacksburg, VA
6 April 2005
Hearing In Re Custody and Adoption of Mathilda Grace
"Mr. Rabb. Ms. MacKenzie." The Honorable Elena Antonia Alvarez prided herself on carefully reasoned rulings that complied with all legal requirements but at the same time were fair to the litigants before her court.
"I have carefully considered your petition, your testimony, the affidavits and other testimony presented, and the Department of Social Services' position. I have no doubt that you love Mattie Grace and want only the best for her."
"However, the law in this state is clear. I cannot and will not terminate Mattie's father's parental rights and allow you to adopt her upon an ex parte hearing four days after the filing of the petition before this court, a petition that has yet to be served on Mr. Johnson, thus not permitting him to be present and heard."
Mattie gasped, beginning to cry soundlessly, as the nurse and Harm hovered over her. "He's not here because he abandoned me and took off on a drunk! Judge …please …please don't let them dump me in a nursing home bed to die."
"No one is going to dump you anywhere," Judge Alvarez' voice was clear and compassionate as she regarded the roomful of uniformed and civilian supporters, the tall handsome Navy Captain and the strikingly beautiful woman next to him at the counsel table in a cream-colored suit.
"I am prepared to grant Mr. Rabb and Ms. MacKenzie joint legal guardianship, but will not permit you to leave the country and live in London. That would be tantamount to permitting an unofficial, unauthorized adoption. As guardians, they will determine, subject to the Court's approval, where you live and necessary medical care and rehabilitation. The State of Virginia will pay the required costs since your father carried no insurance and the National Transportation Safety Board has informed the Court that its investigation into the cause of the accident that resulted in your injuries will take up to two years. Mr. Rabb, I understand the impact of your military transfer orders, but I simply cannot allow Mattie to reside in England."
Harm rose to his feet. "Your Honor, may we have a brief recess?"
"For the purpose of …?" Judge Alvarez inquired.
"I need to call my commanding officer and request that my orders be changed or cancelled or that he approve a request to retire."
"Very well. We will reconvene in thirty minutes." The judge's gavel banged sharply.
"Harm," Mac whispered urgently. "We can't leave her here alone. I'll stay with her."
"No." Mattie had calmed herself and she grasped Harm's hand with her stronger right fingers. "I'll be okay. You have to go with Harm. I don't want him to be alone either."
"My enlistment's almost up." Jennifer Coates was trying hard not to cry. "I can get a job here in Blacksburg."
"Stay here." Harm tried to sound positive. "I'll go call the General."
"Good luck," Mac muttered. "He wouldn't even see me last Friday."
Frank and Trish finished whispering and approached the group gathered around Mattie's wheelchair. "Mattie, if Harm can't get his orders changed, you'll live with us. We don't need a birth certificate for you to be our granddaughter. You're Harm and Mac's daughter now, whatever the Judge says, and that makes us your grandparents. You won't be alone or in a nursing home …. Jennifer, you need to stay in the Navy and continue your education."
"No luck." Harm's flat, discouraged voice interrupted behind them. "He was … impossible….just impossible."
"We want to testify or meet with the Judge," Trish Burnett was firm. "As soon as Mattie can leave the hospital here she'll come to La Jolla for school and rehab."
Frank spoke to the Judge's clerk, advising that they were ready to resume at Her Honor's convenience. "Harm, it will work out …we'll make it work."
"Mr. Rabb?" Judge Alvarez somehow just knew this wasn't going to have a happy ending for the man who so obviously loved this young girl.
"Your Honor, I have been ordered to report to my new duty station in London as scheduled. I respectfully ask the Court to reconsider its decision and allow Mattie to join my wife and I as soon as she can travel."
As Judge Alvarez shook her head, Frank and Trish rose. "Your Honor, we are Franklin and Patricia Burnett, Harm's parents. If you cannot let Mattie live in London, we request that you permit her to live with us in La Jolla, California. We will provide any necessary medical care and education that this State can't or won't. We consider Mattie our granddaughter now, and she won't ever be alone or want for anything."
Even as they had hurriedly prepared to travel from San Diego for Harm and Mac's marriage in the Clerk of the Court's officewedding earlier that morning and the hearing, Frank had anticipated this problem. "Your Honor, we submit for your review a copy of our last year's tax return, affidavits from our minister and personal attorney, a letter of admission acceptance from La Jolla Country Day School, and photographs of our home, which we will modify for wheelchair accessibility. Mattie will travel by chartered air ambulance with whatever doctors or nurses her doctors here recommend. We are prepared to answer your questions, post any bond the Court requires, and provide any other information necessary for your decision."
Judge Alvarez perused the documents and nodded. "I am prepared to rule on the petition before the Court."
(Flashback continued)
If Harm had had any remaining doubts that Frank Burnett considered him his son, they had been dispelled. That evening, as Harm and Mac signed general, medical and in loco parentis power of attorney documents for him and Trish, Frank made it clear.
"Harm, you and Mac are our children, and Mattie and any other children you have or adopt or consider your children – like Mac's 'sister' Chloe – are our grandchildren. You will all inherit from us – we have enough for ourselves and a dozen more. I know what the Navy pays you and it would be many times that in the corporate world. I don't want any of you to worry about money." Frank was veryfirm and clear. "Step" or not, Harm was the only son he had.
"Dad, please ….I need to support my family," Harm swallowed the lump in this throat, overwhelmed by Frank's words and obvious feelings. For the first time in his life, he called Frank "dad."
"And your mother and I need to support ours," Frank retorted. "Fine…you send me a check every month …it'll go straight into Mattie's college fund."
END FLASHBACK
Harm grimaced: the irony wasn't lost on him—Mac, the original "love" of his life was with him—but the other love, the one "innocent love" he had gained during that six-month exile—had gotten physically as far from him as Mac's original orders would have placed her! Was there some kind of karmic justice in that? he wondered. And the fact he hadn't been able to keep that promise just absolutely "ate" at him! She wasn't doing as well as she thought she should be—and he was profoundly frustrated at the fact he couldn't be there physically, to reassure her with the hugs and the verbal encouragement only someone who had walked a similar path years ago could provide! It had taken him months to recover from his ramp strike, and although he could—and did tell her—over the phone, it wasn't the same as being there face to face, and both of them knew it!
He was both depressed and stressed, and he knew it! At his "annual" five-year physical last month, the doctor had bluntly told him to exercise, lose the weight he'd gained in the last year, and had proscribed medication for his elevated blood pressure. Something had to give!
Was his job important? Just what was his job anyway? He glanced down at the latest report he was supposed to be working on. It was a statistical analysis of temperature control costs! Ugh! Sure, he knew intellectually that conservation of both scarce energy resources and scarce facilities maintenance funds was important, but THIS was what he was doing after 21 years as an aviator/lawyer? He leaned forward and looked at the next stack of papers that lay underneath that particular report. He mentally groaned. It wasn't much better—it was supposed to be a report on utilization of manpower resources! This was supposed to be important!
Flashback.
Earlier that morning.
The intercom from Legalman Second Class Julia Vaughn's desk interrupted Harm's musings. "CAPT Rabb."
"Sir, General Cresswell is on line 2 for you." LN 2 Vaughn was unfailingly polite to her handsome boss, but she was beginning to regret her decision to enlist. Her Associate's degree in Paralegal Studies had gotten her advanced paygrade and a guaranteed slot in Legalman training after boot camp. Her top scores at the "C" School won her the coveted London billet …where she did what? play receptionist because she was the junior legalman!
"Thank you Petty Officer," Harm's response was automatic as he stabbed viciously at line 2, a headache already forming. It was 0630 in Falls Church and sure as s he knew what General Cresswell was calling about, and it wasn't to wish him a pleasant day and weekend.
"Good morning General."
"It was until I opened your quarterly metrics report," Cresswell wasted no time on pleasantries. Not for the first time, he wondered idly what would happen if he somehow engineered a switch and replaced Rabb with MacKenzie. As Chief of Staff, she'd routinely knocked out all required reports and other administrative taskings without missing a beat while carrying a full caseload. He slammed the door shut on that thought – MacKenzie had thrown her career away! "CAPT, didn't you review the instructions attached to the new template?"
"Umm…" WHAT new template? Harm groaned inwardly. He'd carefully copied the final version of the third quarter report as a "go by" and double checked each number, percentage and header!
"Rabb, these reports are IMPORTANT to the CNO and the SecNav, among others. Manpower and budget allocations are made based in part on them!" Cresswell's voice just dripped exasperation. "In addition to Coates having to reformat every one of your bar graphs into a pie chart, your failure to provide exactly the new information requested, in the required format, has held up the London info being consolidated for analysis with every other SJA office's!"
His head now pounding, Harm offered weakly, "my apologies Sir, shall I rework them and re-send ….?"
"NO, we'll fix it here. Next time, READ the instructions we email before you just use a "go by." Every other SJA does!" Cresswell was now icily scathing. Rabb was one of the finest investigators and trial attorneys he'd ever known, but when it came to admin routine, he was a dumb cluck, bar none.
"Yes Sir." Harm had early on resolved to keep it short and sweet with his boss and not let himself get upset. Easier said than done, by far. Every other SJA, yeah, right. Every other major command SJA and FJA has a deputy and a Warrant Officer or Gunny to run the bullpen and prep the admin work.
Fumbling in his desk for his bottle of Pepcid AC, Harm knew he'd never keep lunch down. Reviewing the schedule Petty Officer Vaughn placed on his blotter each morning, he groaned again at his 1300 (1:00 p.m.) meeting. Security issues in connection with the London Youth Soccer Day championship COMUSNAVEUR co-hosted annually. For this he was a Captain in the JAG Corps?
(End Flashback)
Just remembering the "conversation" made Harm's stomach churn anew.He leaned back in his chair. Contrary to popular myth, he was just as capable of being logical and rational, and of "crunching" numbers as anyone—as he had demonstrated several times in the past at JAG HQ! Brief pictures lasting all of two seconds of Bud coaxing funds for repairs to the actual building precipitated by his gunfire antics of many years ago, of Renee taking a quick look at the procurement documentationrequests from the Pentagon on a particular war bird request and making some suggestions flickered through his mind. He was intelligent enough to do it—with help, he grudgingly admitted to himself. In both those instances, it had been other people who had been the inspiration behind the positive results, although—and he grinned, more a smirkgrimace, really, at the thought he had at least briefly "snowed" the Admiral—although he really didn't mean to—on that aspect of his job at HQ. Okay, so maybe building maintenance and procurement requests were important—he just didn't feel like they were. And—that was the problem. It was him, and it was his attitude. If he were to keep back the oncoming waves of depression that were threatening his happiness—or, to be more accurate, keeping him from being happy, he had to change.
Which brought his mind around to Admiral Chegwidden. The pen he was unconsciously tapping against his lower lip stopped and he put it down on the desk and shifted once again, this time leaning back in his chair. His right arm unconsciously bent at the elbow and he leaned his head against it, thumb aligning with jaw and forefinger landing near the side of his nose pointing up, parallel to said nose. It was a pose he had adopted early in his time at HQ and it was one he used, without being aware of it, when he thought about his former CO.
He thought briefly and strongly enough to shift still again reaching for the telephone, thinking about reaching out to the retired admiral to discuss his quandary, going so far as to pick up the receiver and then stopped. What would he say to his old CO/ nemeses, anyway? And, more importantly, what would the old war horse say to him?
He could just imagine it. The gruff voice that had reigned supreme for nine years over JAG would have been irritated. "Just what did you think a promotion entailed, anyway, Rabb?" He could picture the Admiral snorting and adding, "Suck it up, Rabb. You made your choice, live with it!"
He thought about that. He had been telling the truth when he had answered Chegwidden's question about how much thought he had given to his career—"not much, sir." He couldn't remember the exact words, but something about thinking about his career only when it appeared he was about to trash that same career through whatever action he was about to undertake! He grinned a little. It was true—he had thought a long time ago he would "top out" at Commander—never thought he would make Captain. So what did this promotion mean to him, and what had he expected, anyway?
He was a lawyer. First and foremost, an attorney-at-law. More specifically, a Navy lawyer, a member of the Judge Advocate General's Corps. He found himself startled by that thought: for so long, he had self-identified himself as an aviator first and foremost, then lawyer. That was a switch in his thought process, and he mused on it. He had told Renee so long ago that he didn't have much insight into his own behavior—now he was beginning, at this rather late date, to gain that insight. For example, for the first time, he wondered if histhat self-identification as "aviator" came from a desire to live out his father's shortened life, rather than his own. Captain Pike , the CAG on the Seahawk when he'd returned to flying, so many years ago,had made the comment, "Your heart's in the law. You love it." Why hadn't he had the good sense to pick up on that comment, then—instead of years later? But where, then, did that leave him?
He shifted, his hand going from his jaw to the pencil, and the pencil-tapping on his lower lip continued.
Who was he, really? He had always considered himself a "man of action"—and it had been most obviously expressed in his enthusiasm for aviation. "Sarah", his biplane, had been restored supposedly as a form of "therapy" after his ramp strike, but in reality, since he was being honest with himself, it was done mostly out of an effort to reconnect in some fashion with his father. He had proven to his satisfaction—and everybody else's, for that matter—he was a superb aviator. But that was then. This was now.
His mind flitted back to that humiliating scene that had occurred when he and Mac had gotten back from Paraguay, when he found out how quickly Admiral Chegwidden had processed after he had turned in his resignation. What exactly was it the Admiral had accused him of being? ". . .not a team player, . . .fed up with this man's undependability. . .." and perhaps, most importantly, given his current position, "not able to see the big picture.". He hadn't had time to really consider the question—what he remembered most clearly was his response, him telling Mac the Admiral was telling both of them what Mac had said in their endless discussions in their free time—that Mac was being confirmed in her opinion that he couldn't change.
He became aware of something else flitting around the edges of his mind. He had really wanted this promotion and he had wanted to keep his career in the Navy which was what led to the creative idea (some would call it "childish") of using the coin toss to determine which of them would give up their self-defining careers. Upon further reflection, he came to a couple of conclusions, which he thought would startle Mac considerably. He wanted to continue his career in the Navy because it grounded him, gave him a support structure otherwise missing from his life. His life with the CIA had, if nothing else, proved to him that he needed that structure! Was that so true now? He decided Mac was a very good substitute for the institutional structure of the Navy, especially since she knew him so-o-o-o well! He smiled. That should make her feel better, anyway.
As far as the promotion itself goes, he thought of Admiral Chegwidden once again. The promotion was important to him ultimately only in that it validated his career to-date in the Navy especially after that awful interview in the Admiral's office. He had had a point to make—and the powers-that-be whothat existed in the form of the promotion board had made his point for him. At the thought of that "conversation" in the Admiral's office, he still felt a flicker or two of anger. He shook his head as if to clear it. The fact that he still felt resentment, hurt, a sense of betrayal on the part of his former CO meant, to him, that he still hadn't quite fully "recovered" from that fateful day. He remembered, too, seeing the shock and sadness on Mac's face although, if he had to guess, it was probably mostly shock. Although he hadn't been around for months after that, he understood from Bud that it had taken a long time for her to regain her equilibrium, both emotionally and intellectually. He had come back to see some of that—and had been, at times, the target of the off-balanced Mac. And of course, he had contributed to her burden at the time, still stinging from the aftermath of Paraguay. But he had learned his lessons well. Before Paraguay, he would have been eager to jump in to "save Mac" from herself. After his return, he was much less willing to "go out on the limb,", even in the pursuit of justice. And he had learned not to trust his CO, whoever it might be at any given time, not quite so much! Now that was a thought. He frowned. He wondered if that aspect of "lessons learned" had anything to do with his not-so-good working relationship with his new CO, General Cresswell. He wondered, briefly in passing, whether his deteriorating relationship with Mac (at the time) was also a result of having learned not to trust colleagues quite so much, either. He knew that had something to do with his now-sour relationship with Sturgis, as well. Only his relationship with Bud seemed to have escaped the aftermath of Paraguay. Even with Harriet, he had pulled back a considerable distance. He had also learned to curtail his creative "moments of inspiration" to more appropriate times—and that discipline had served him well. He still, however, had a hard time forgiving the Admiral. He had kept those particular feelings hidden under those tight emotional controls, however, and no one, least of all, the Admiral, had really guessed at how he really, honestly felt at the time.
Now, it appears, all of that suppression was catching up to him. He heaved a big sighn, leaned forward, and took another look at the report he was supposed to be working on. It still looked as dry the fourth time through as it did the first time! Damn it anyway! He was no "bean-counter,", no office toddy—and Ted Lindsey's face appeared before him for a nanosecond—what in the hell did the General expect, anyway! That angry feeling that had been stirred up briefly with the memory of that "conversation" flared into a bright, flickering flame. He clamped his lips together in an effort to control the "fire"that flame and forced his mind into the "rational, analytical mode.". He wasn't happy with the necessity of looking at his life—but it sure as hell was better than these dry statistics!
He reached the conclusion, something had to change. The question was, was it necessary for him to change to be happy? And to change—what? That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? To change would be to change into a man that Mac, especially, might not recognize and therefore, might have regretted marrying.
Fact in point, he had changed, and to a considerable degree—thanks to Mattie! Mac herself had commented on it shortly after they were married. His mind flitted back to that memorable morning—what? a week after their wedding, a week of waking up to a feeling of constant, astonished delight of Mac in his bed!
He refused to allow himself to remember, in his office, being the professional he prided himself on being, the exact details of that astonishing morning, but he did allow himself to reflect on the one remark which stuck like Velcro in his memory: She had said, "For what it's worth, sailor, I think you've hit your stride this last year as 'attorney-at-law'." She had continued, "It's as if you no longer have anything to prove to anybody, least of all yourself about where you belong. I even think—"and her eyebrows went from concentrated frown to upright 'attention' as if to ask the question she didn't want to ask verbally,--"I even perceive a change in your attitude towards flying!"
He shook himself, to bring himself back to the present, uncomfortably stiff chair. The thought went through threw his mind—he'd have to ask Frank if all executive chairs were as uncomfortable as his—and what could he do about it. That brought his mind from memories and back to the present issue of his current unhappiness.
. To require him to adjust his own attitude that much would take substantial effort, and, especially since Mac was now a permanent part of his life, he wasn't sure it was worth it, although the question of just why he wasn't sharing all of this with Mac also presented itself. His reasoning for not doing so all of a sudden loomed large. The Admiral popped back into his mind and he imagined he thought he saw a frown, deep enough to hit the bottom of all seven seas! Inwardly, he cringed. Despite all the bad feelings that existed between the two of them in the last year or so of the Admiral's tenure as JAG, he still respected the man like he respected few others. Certainly, there were few whose respect he really wanted, and the Admiral was numbered among the few. He squinted and stared at the figure in his mind.
"What do I do, Admiral?" He was so preoccupied he wasn't sure he spoke the question aloud, but it didn't matter.
The imaginary Admiral looked him square in the eye. "Remember I asked you what you would do to keep her?" He nodded. "Isn't that the real issue here?"
The question took him aback. He was forced, suddenly, to consider what might happen if he didn't change his reticent ways enough to share this particular struggle with Mac. That was the side of the issue he had never bothered to think about. And that led to the further thought that maybe, perhaps, in helping him deal with his struggles, it might make Mac a little happier.
All of a sudden, he'd "had it" and he moved in his rapid-pace fashion, standing abruptly and moved around his desk. He grabbed his cover and headed out the door, barely glancing at Petty Officer Vaughn.
"I'm going home. You can secure too; have a nice weekend."
She startled and looked up and responded, "Yes, sir!" His words were trailing him in his wake.
He took a deep breath once outside the building. London used to be one of the most polluted cities on the earth; however, since the crisis of the late 1950s, steps had been taken to cut down on the worst offenders, and now London was no worse than the biggest cities in the States. In any case, it felt good to be able to breathe fresh air and not the recycled reconditioned air so typical of so many offices world-wide. He headed for "the tube" anxious to get home to the one warm spot in his world. He resolved to discuss the issue with Mac at the earliest opportunity, mulling over the arguments he would present, as if in a trial before memberscourt case, for his early retirement. For the first time in a long time, he felt things were looking up, to the point of almost—not quite—breaking out into a whistled rendition of "Anchors Aweigh!"!
End Part I