To Be a Phoenix

by highplainswoman

How does Mac come to terms with Harm's disappearance shortly after he's been terminated from the CIA, especially when she ultimately discovers she's pregnant with his child? This is a diviance from cannon after Season 8, if memory is correct.

-17-

Disclaimer: Don't own JAG

A/N: I first tumbled onto the "legend of the Phoenix" when I was a little girl reading The Black Stallion series by Walter Farley many years ago. (To see the full explanation, type in "The Phoenix Legend" in the search engine—I used Google.)

A/N: Tati aka Trinity: email me, please. I was pleased by your comments about "Child of Mine" and would like to "work" with you on the continuation of this story. See my profile for the email address.

Spoilers: The opening scene in this story takes place at the end of the time Harm was working for the CIA after he was fired from the CIA for getting his picture on the news—and he never went back to the Navy/JAG after that six-month period. There is no "Mattie" and no unorthodox living arrangements with Petty Officer Coates, either. For purposes of this story, there was a change in JAGS, according to the "cannon". There was no medical crisis with endometriosis and Mac was very much involved with Clay, as implied by the "cannon".

"To Be a Phoenix"—Part I

The Phoenix legend is this: The phoenix is a supernatural bird, living for 1,000 years. Once it's time is up, it builds its own funeral pyre and throws itself into the flames. As it dies, it is reborn anew and rises from the ashes to live another 1,000 years.

Colonel MacKenzie's Apartment
Georgetown
Some Late Friday Night

He came, he saw, he conquered—and he left.

He had knocked on her door that late Friday night and she had answered it. When she opened the door, he came barreling in without an invitation, not that he had needed one. That should have been her first tip off something wasn't right with him. If she had had a chance to see the expression on his face, the glint in his eyes, she would have seen concentration, focus, and desperation. He had headed quite purposefully to the entry of the hallway to her bedroom and stopped abruptly. He cocked an index finger at her, and said, "Come with me." She had done just that—and the fireworks had started.

He had pushed her onto the bed and flung himself on top of her. She had struggled to get out of his "hold", once the initial shock dissipated. But his husky voice had muttered in her ear as he held her arms above her head against the mattress. "Not this time, MacKenzie. You've dished out a lot of teasing; paybacks are hell!" She had continued to struggle until he had moved both of her wrists into one of his big hands in a fit of impatience and seized her chin with his free hand. "You will stop struggling, or by God, I will make sure you stop struggling." There was a rough, sandpaper coarseness in his voice she had never heard before and that quality, not the words, alone made her stop. She had finally looked into his eyes and, for the first time since she had met Harmon Rabb, she was physically afraid of him.

He had "taken her" with force, conviction, roughly, without consideration and with finality—he was definitely in command, as if to prove her right one final time—that it was all about control and "who wanted to be on top". There was anger, frustration, lust, greed, desperation, and a certain degree of violence involved—she had the bruises and marks to prove it. She suspected he did too—after the initial shock wore off and her resistance died as his hands worked their particular kind of magic over her body, she had responded with enthusiasm. Her fingernails weren't that short and she had really raked his back in her passion. It was a side of him she had never seen before, hadn't known even existed.

She shivered afterwards, sitting up while holding the sheet to cover the upper part of her body as she watched him get dressed. The words that came out of her mouth were bitter. "Well, I hope that satisfied you."

There was a very grim chuckle and a sardonic grin tossed her way. "It did." He stopped dressing, holding his shirt in his hands, and studied her with a focused intensity. She saw despair almost overwhelmed by desperation, among other things, there. "You'll survive, Marine. You always do." She was stunned by his parting words, whispered in a fierce and overwhelming embrace after he had gotten dressed, "See what you've missed out on over the last six years!"

And he was gone.

The shocks weren't over for that night. Within the hour, there was an insistent pounding at the door that refused to acknowledge denial of entryway. She had thrown on a long robe, tied the knot resolutely, and rushed to open the door, not quite ready to read the riot act to the unknown persons—although if it was Harm, she was REALLY going to unload—wanting entrance at 0200 hrs. She was shocked beyond belief when she opened to see Admiral Chegwidden standing there, decked out in a casual black t-shirt and blue jeans, looking both apologetic and concerned.

"Colonel? I apologize in advance for coming by at such an ungodly hour, but I got a really alarming phone call about an hour ago telling me you were in danger."

She had no idea how she looked but she knew she must have assumed the "deer-in-the-headlights" look. But that alone wouldn't account for his look of shock.

"Colonel?" She saw his eyebrows shot up his questioning way and his eyes take in her face and neck focusing in especially on her neck. Her free hand flew up to her throat and she widened the door.

"Come on in." She walked over to the coach and sat down, bewildered at this latest turn of events. The admiral joined her. "Can I get you something to drink—coffee, maybe?"

She couldn't read his eyes as he accepted her offer. "I think that's a good idea. I have a feeling this is not going to be pleasant."

After a few minutes, the coffee was brewed and they were sitting in her living room. "Colonel, what happened here tonight?" His tone of voice told her she was talking to her commanding officer, not a friend, despite the circumstances.

"Nothing, sir." Her iron discipline, drilled into her at boot camp and enhanced through life experiences, held, and her voice had, she hoped, told him nothing. It hadn't fooled him, though, and she saw his eyebrows come together in a questioning look.

"Nothing, colonel? Why is it I see a few marks I suspect will turn into bruises along your jaw line?" She saw his eyes fall to her neck. "Why is it I see a lot of marks along your collarbone?"

She flushed. She hadn't bothered to look in the mirror. All she had seen were the bruises along her torso. Was there blood on her sheets, as well? She had felt the stickiness between her legs and had assumed it was the normal aftermath of sex. He continued. "Why did I get a mysterious phone call not quite an hour ago informing me you might have been assaulted?" His voice dropped from the command mode to that of a friend. "Were you raped, colonel?"

Her humiliation was now complete.

She held her coffee mug in both hands. How the hell do you answer that one, anyway? In a sense, it could be construed as rape, since she had initially resisted. And it had certainly been very rough and, at times, painful. But she had responded and, after a bit of time, just as enthusiastically as he had—although "enthusiasm" might be the wrong word to describe the fierce energy both had displayed. She decided diversionary tactics were called for. "Who called you, sir?"

He was leaning forward with his head tilted towards her, as if to catch whatever she might say. "I don't know. It was a muffled voice, as if there were a handkerchief over the phone receiver. Definitely male." She saw the suspicious look come over his face. "It almost sounded like Rabb. I tried calling his apartment before coming over—and I got his answering machine." He paused, bit his lower lip, and then turned to look her squarely in the face. "Do you know where he is?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "At the moment, I don't know. " She bit her lip looking at her CO with uncertainty written all over her face. He caught the expression and his own eyebrows elevated in an unspoken question. "He was here earlier."

"Oh." There was a shocked pause, a biting of lips on the Admiral's part, and then a decision had apparently been made. "Colonel, I'm not sure I want to know the details—but what I do want is for you to get over to Bethesda for a physical check—just based on what I can see. " He held up an arm to block whatever protestations she might have issued. "I also want a 'rape kit'—just in case—for your own protection, Colonel. Neither are options—this is a direct order. Beyond that, if you want to press charges, then I need the details. Otherwise, I don't."

She put her coffee mug down on the table with a firm "clunk". She couldn't challenge him, not here, not now. A direct order was, after all, an order. She didn't even want to think about the implications of his reactions, especially towards Harm. Deal with one problem at a time, she told herself—otherwise, she knew she would be overwhelmed.

An electric light bulb went off in her head: was this the sensation, the feeling of being overwhelmed by events; was this what he was feeling—had felt over events of the last year, starting with his murder court martial, the bizarre mission fiasco known in her mind as "Paraguay", and ending with the stunt on the Patrick Henry that had gotten his face plastered all over the television sets? She bit her lower lip, and then got up.

"Yes, sir." She turned a questioning look at her Commanding Officer. "I suppose it would be best to do this now, as opposed to in the morning?"

He heaved a sigh. "Colonel, I would feel a hell of a lot better about you if you went to Bethesda now. I'll even take you. Tomorrow—hell, it's already tomorrow—it's Saturday morning—no work. You can sleep in after you get back."

In retrospect, she reflected it was just as well Admiral Chegwidden had come over when he did. Years later, she often wondered if Harm had known what he was doing when he called the admiral—she had to assume it was Harm's voice over the telephone that night. The timing was too coincidental—and it would have been so much in character with the Harm she had known to be –noble and honorable as much as he knew how to be, regardless of how it might have reflected on his character. He knew her only too well—if someone hadn't been there almost immediately, she might have closed up and told no one, suffered in silence. And by choosing to call her Commanding Officer, he had made damn sure that wasn't going to happen, no matter what kind of impact the implications of accusations of assault/rape might have had on Admiral Chedwiggen's opinion of him. A shiver went down her backbone as she remembered the expression on his face, in his eyes as he had slipped away into the night—he had also been acting like a man who had had nothing else to lose—and that went a long way towards explaining Harm's uncharacteristic selfishness.

She went to her bedroom to get into more suitable clothing than a robe—she knew better than to take a shower, as much as she wanted to. When she came back out, the Admiral was just putting away his cell phone. She stood there in shock—this was, after all, her business and no one else's. "Who'd you call, Admiral?"

He sighed and looked at him as he put his phone in his pocket. He peered at her over his glasses. "Commander Turner."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Just that I was taking you to Bethesda and I wanted to meet with him there."

"And just what are you going to tell him there?"

There was a heavy pause. Then, "What do you want me to tell him?"

She grimaced then looked her commanding officer straight in the eye. "Not rape, not assault."

He sighed. "Just why are you protecting him, anyway?" He tossed a glance her way and then said, "Never mind."

Of all the questions he could have asked, that was the one she didn't want to answer. She picked up her purse and looked at him. "You're the one who wants to do this. Let's go."

Admiral Chegwidden's Office
JAG Headquarters
Monday Morning

"Harmon Rabb has faced a lot of things, including two murder charges and a possible disbarment, but assault and/or rape is the one thing I never thought we'd have to be considering." The Admiral combed non-existent hair with his left hand while tapping a pen on his desk with the right hand,

She just stared at him, sitting in her customary place, biting the inside of her lip to keep herself from speaking the first thing that came to her mind. Finally, she spoke. "It's you who's calling it 'rape'."

"You still don't think it was, Colonel?" She just shook her head. The admiral turned to the colonel and his gaze softened just a bit and he went to sit down in the chair beside her. "Colonel, I know you don't want to think he assaulted and/or raped you, but I want to make damn sure. You've got bruising on your face, indicating blows to the face; you've got marks on your neck, indicating something else entirely. Just what else is an outside observer supposed to think?" He paused, a thought coming into his mind. "You're a damn good prosecutor, Colonel. One of the reasons is you take the hard line. Think about this: If you saw the marks and/or bruises you had on you that night on some other woman, just what would you think?"

Her hand went up to her face. "I thought I hid all of that with makeup," she answered, avoiding the original question.

"Colonel, anybody can see you're hiding something—you look like Tammy Faye Baker!—and that's not like you! And you're avoiding the question." His voice dropped even lower. "You've been around enough to know this sort of thing can warp a person's point of view. Whatever happened, happened to you." He purposefully avoided using the word "victim", knowing how she would react. "I just want to buy some time for you to decide for sure just what it was that happened." His gaze and his voice hardened. "I'm also ordering you into counseling—"again he held up his arm to forestall her objections, "to help you see things through." He leaned forward and dropped his voice still another notch. "Colonel—Sarah—you've been through a lot. Whatever happened in Paraguay—and 'getting Sadik'—and now whatever happened between you and Rabb—there's a lot to sort out—and you're not acting like yourself. I want my Chief of Staff back. You understand?"

She nodded. She didn't speak. She was fighting off the tears. The Admiral stood up and walked behind his desk and punched his intercom. "Tiner! Get Lt. Roberts and Commander Turner in here at once!"

Within a couple of minutes both men were standing at attention in front of him. "At ease, gentlemen. Have a seat." He walked around to the front of his desk again and leaned against it, his arms folded in a familiar gesture. "We have a situation which demands input from Rabb. Have either one of you heard from him, say, within the last 72 hours?"

Both men shook their heads in the negative. Neither one of them glanced at the sitting Colonel. Whatever curiosity they had was kept buried behind poker faces. Lt. Roberts was the first one to speak.

"Sir, he didn't come over this weekend—but since he's joined the CIA, I just assumed something had come up—" he reverted to his old bumbling, rambling self. "He usually comes over at least one day a week to spend time with little A.J."

Commander Turner frowned. "He also didn't show up for basketball Saturday afternoon, either." He tossed a glance towards Roberts. "Like the lieutenant here, I just assumed he was on a CIA assignment. It hasn't been the first time he's missed a practice session--" she saw him bite his lower lip in concentrated thought: "—although he usually calls to let me know when he's not going to be able to show up."

For the first time, the Admiral looked at the Colonel. "Well, we know he was in contact with Colonel MacKenzie late Friday night." The Admiral ignored the looks the two men tossed to the colonel. She could see the speculation in both men's eyes and blushed. He then turned and walked to his chair. "Find him. Get him in this office ASAP." He glanced at Mac. "And, Colonel, I believe you have at least one phone call of your own to make." His glance told her he was quite serious about the counseling.

The three men in the room saw her heave a sigh before all three of them snapped to attention, the Colonel standing up, and saying, "Aye, Aye, sir," before leaving the room in dismissal.

Four hours later, they were back in his office, the Colonel having reported earlier about her schedule appointment with a counselor at Bethesda. She sat motionless in her chair as the two men reported on their activities.

"Sir, I called his home phone number. Home telephone service has been disconnected. " Commander Turner frowned and looked at his notes. "I also tried calling his cell phone. That, too, has been cancelled."

She sat up, all ears. "That can't be right, can it, Admiral? I mean, I just saw him Friday night—and it's Monday! Doesn't it take longer to disconnect telephone service?"

Lt. Roberts commented, "Not if he's been planning for a while. When Commander Turner told me about the telephone service, I checked with the utilities—those, too, have been turned off."

Both the Admiral and the Colonel turned their heads sharply to look at Lt. Roberts. It was the Admiral who asked the next logical question: "Has anybody been to his apartment?"

"Yes, sir." It was Commander Turner's turn to deliver shocking news. "His apartment is bare and empty. There's no furniture, nothing to indicate he had ever lived there. And his Lexus isn't in the parking lot, either."

Her stomach was tied up in knots. This was so unlike him. If there was anything constant about Harmon Rabb Jr., it was his loyalty to his friends and country—which had resulted in a certain kind of stability. Now, he was acting like a man who had something to hide—with resulting instability, the ripples of which she was beginning to feel.

The Admiral's voice was full of disbelief. "You've checked with the DVM, banks, credit cards, the VA—he's a veteran, now—how about his Stearman?"

Bud shook his head and addressed the last issue first—the results of his research had been jaw-dropping shocking. "The tail number on the Stearman was registered with the FAA. Their records show it has been sold." Bud hesitated. "Checks with his credit card companies indicate the cards haven't been used in a month or so. His checking account was also closed last month." Bud hesitated. "Sir, this is something I should have mentioned before, but Harriet and I received these papers in the mail at home a month or so ago. We were floored." He handed an envelope to his commandeering officer. The Admiral took the yellow manila envelope and removed the contents and surveyed them, a thoughtful look on his face.

"You think Rabb did this?"

"What is it, sir?" She didn't move from her position in her chair.

"Papers establishing a trust fund for the Roberts' children." He glanced down at the papers once again. "$100,000 as a base—and with no indication as to where the funding came from."

"I looked into it. The bank officials tell me it was all paid for in cash. When there's this amount of cash involved, they register the numbers on the bills, but there's no way to track him though those numbers previous to that particular transaction. Apparently, he—or someone matching his exact physical description—showed up at their trust department one day with a briefcase full of cash and papers to account for where the cash came from, and that's all they could do. It all looked on the up and up, so they didn't pursue it any further." He shrugged. "The paperwork documenting the sources of the cash indicates proceeds from the sale of his apartment and his Stearman."

She half-smiled. This was so typical of him, before Paraguay, anyway—to think about the Roberts' children. What was not so typical, however, was the selling of his beloved airplane. Her feeling of foreboding increased as time went by and new "facts" came to light. Her attention was caught by the Admiral's sigh.

There was a pause in the room as all thought about the implications of the result of their research. It was Bud who asked, "Has anyone thought to check the State Department?"

Mac shot a questioning look towards the junior officer. "I don't necessarily mean Webb. I was just thinking about his passport. In all likelihood, they might be able to tell us when and where it's been used if he's decided to go out of the country." He turned to Mac. "For that matter, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to check with Webb—or 'the company'—for all we know, he might be on a long-term assignment."

Mac shook her head. "Clay's totally out of it—in more ways than one." She had, uncharacteristically and inadvertently revealed more than she had intended with that statement and the Admiral's eyebrows shot up. He quickly removed the surprised look from his face. She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Maybe—who's the gal that he supposedly married before he took off to Paraguay?"

There was a fragile glimmer of hope in the room. They all looked at each other and then the Admiral took charge. "Mac, I want you to stay completely out of this. I don't really know what went down between the two of you down there—"he raised his hand—"and I don't really want to know, at this point. What I do know is that you cannot possibly be 'objective' about Mr. Rabb. Lt., why don't you follow up on the State Department idea and, Commander Turner, you follow up on the CIA angle." He glanced at his watch. "Meet back here at 1600."

At 1600 hours, the trio was back in the Admiral's office, seated at the chairs placed in a half-circle in front of and around the Admiral's desk.

"Okay. What do we have?" The Admiral sat at his desk peering at his officers. A glance was exchanged between all three of them. It was Lt. Roberts who broke the ice.

"The State Department confirmed he had a valid passport—but they couldn't confirm whether he has gone out of the country within the last 72 hours. It will take another week or so for that information to come in. But as of 72 hours ago, he was still within the continental boundaries of the United States."

It was Commander Turner's turn to report. "I contacted Catherine Gayle, and like all CIA staff, it was hard to get any thing out of her. However," and he looked down at the notebook he was carrying as if to make sure he got his report right, "she did confirm he isn't 'on assignment—in fact," and she saw Turner bite his lower lip and toss a brief glance her way, "he was terminated after landing that C-140 on the Patrick Henry. Something to do with 'having blown his cover'." He turned back to face the Admiral. "Sir, there's some concern over there about his mental state of being. Not officially, of course." He bit his lip again. "Ms. Gayle indicated she was concerned because he's taken on a lot of outright dangerous missions before this last one—as if he wanted to die 'in the line of duty' or something."

The silence that greeted this last statement was immense. Mac was reminded of the Grand Canyon and how big that gap was. Metaphorically, this gap was just as big.

"Okay." There was another big sigh coming from behind the big desk, then the Admiral squared his shoulders as if he had made a decision. "Commander Turner, put in a call to the District's DA and have him issue a bench warrant for Harmon Rabb, Jr. Also, call the DC police, the FBI, ATF, and any other federal law enforcement agency that might have enforcement powers for an APB on him" He held up a hand to forestall her objection. "As a material witness, Colonel." She felt his gaze on her harden. "I'm not so sure a crime has not been committed—and I want to find him to get his side of the story." He looked around at the three officers he was facing. "Commander Turner, Lt. Roberts, you're dismissed."

"Aye, Aye, sir". The two men left the office, bewilderment and confusion written all over their bodies.

She choked down her protests and her own anger. Somewhere in her mind, she knew he was right, at least about some things. She shifted and then squared her shoulders. She had a question of her own. "Sir, I'm not sure what happened wasn't what happens to a lot of married women—women who give in rather than fight their husbands because they've had a bad day at work or the kids acted up or whatever. But that's my issue to deal with." Her own voice hardened. "What I want to know is just why you're so angry with Harm?"

The admiral's face turned cold. She shivered but refused to back down. "It's none of your damned business."

She shot back. "Well, don't take it out on the rest of us, then, sir. Otherwise, it is 'my' business—as Chief of Staff."

He sighed. "You're right." He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. "He refuses to 'grow up'—either about his career or you, for that matter." His eyebrows shot up and he glanced at her. She kept her face a careful blank. "Colonel, you have no idea how many times I've stuck my neck out on the line for him. Furthermore, I don't know if I'm so much angry with him as much as I'm disappointed in him."

"Disappointed, sir?"

There was another sigh. "Yeah. I had hopes that he would someday take over this chair. He has all the talent—God, more than enough talent, really—and drive and ambition. He's only got one major problem, so far as I can tell—he's emotionally unstable and 'stuck', for lack of better words."

The revelation took her breath back. Of all the things the admiral could have said, this was the last thing she would have expected. Emotionally unstable? There was another electric light bulb flash in her mind: "Emotional Unstable" implied a lack of steadfastness, of dedication. She had always admired his determination to go for the truth of any given matter and he had always "been there" for her, as demonstrated by his willingness to fly through stormy weather to get to her almost-wedding. And, as far as Harm eventually becoming the JAG, well, he had effectively shot that out of the water when he had resigned his commission to come after her. People had always said he was ambitious, but she knew that to be a myth—or at the very least, a minor part of his personality.

"I see."

"Since we're into the 'touchy-feely' things," and she could see how painful all of this was for the Admiral, "I might as well confess, too, part of my disappointment stems from where my own career has ended up. I had hopes of becoming the next CNO—and that's been scuttled." He sighed heavily.

She had enough presence of mind to ask, "Sir?"

"Yeah." He got up and walked to his window, the one spot in the room where the staff had gotten used to seeing him "think". "Do you remember when I got shot by the hunting guide a few years ago as a result of investigating an Admiral's suicide?"

She nodded. He continued. "I was given a choice: I could either continue to investigate or I could drop the investigation since my name was on the 'short list' for the then-vacant CNO position."

She inhaled sharply, the implications quite clear. "You continued the investigation."

"Yeah." He moved back to his desk. "Partly because of Rabb's encouragement."

Oh, boy! Did that ever make thinks a whole lot clearer! He was "living vicariously" through Harm's career. Since he, Chegwidden, had no hopes of his own career advancing, he had pinned all of his hopes on Rabb—and Rabb kept letting him down.

"I see." The admiral turned to her, only a trace of the anger, bitterness, coming through his eyes.

"Not a word of all of this to anyone else, colonel."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed—unless there's something else." His voice was back to the old gruff CO she was used to.

After a couple of days with no results coming in from any source, anger on the part of the Admiral turned to concern and, among office staff, moral sank day by day as the implications of the search (which hadn't been necessarily "classified") leaked out and there were no reported positive results. There were unscheduled meetings with the SecNav, with the Director of CIA Operations Kershaw. Those had been brief and, as Mac observed each visitor trooping out of the Admiral's office after just a short time, a sinking feeling within her stomach had grown. There was a second meeting of senior office staff a month after that memorable night and results of their individual research efforts were "put on the table."

It had been her idea that prompted a conversation between Lt. Roberts and the commander at Ft. Leavenworth, KS. That, in itself, was a chilling conversation and prompted a visit to the military facility. She shivered as she remembered facing Clark Palmer.

FLASHBACK

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the pretty colonel? Did my 'wedding gift' cause you to cancel your wedding?" Palmer had grinned.

She forced her stomach to stop knotting itself up in knots and pretended like she didn't feel the chill going up and down her backbone. Her voice was as full of ice as she could make it.

"Palmer, my personal life isn't any of your concern. What I want to know is have you had any contact with Commander Rabb in the last two weeks or so?" Palmer probably knew Harm wasn't in the Navy anymore, but she didn't need to confirm that for him.

Palmer's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's missing, is he?" He chuckled and she saw his face gain a thoughtful look. Then he had looked at her. "My, my, my. " He had then leaned over the table to intensify his gaze. "Colonel, they say revenge is a dish best served cold. You know what's even better?"

She shook her head, keeping mute.

"Revenge is especially sweet when you didn't have a God damn thing to do with it!"

She had stalked out of the interview room, thoroughly convinced Palmer had nothing, for once, to do with Harm's disappearance and reported her opinion back to the next staff meeting.

END OF FLASHBACK

Back in the Admiral's office, the senior staff sat, a somber atmosphere settling in the room. Mac was stunned and numb. If there had been anything she thought she could have counted on, it was him being there for her, for them, through thick and thin. And now, apparently, he wasn't. But then, she viciously told herself, he didn't make any promises to you did he? Especially immediately after Paraguay and the bitter words/argument they had had on that in-her-mind infamous taxi stand. Back in the Admiral's office, the senior staff sat, a somber and stunned atmosphere settling in the room.

"Well, where does that leave us?" The Admiral looked around at his senior staff. It was Sturgis who spoke up.

"It leaves us with exactly nothing." He looked down at the floor and then glanced back at the colonel and faced his commanding officer. "I even took the liberty of asking Bobbi if there was anything she could do."

Mac shook herself and looked at Sturgis sharply. "What could Bobbi do the rest of us couldn't do?"

Sturgis recognized the pain in her voice and refused to allow Mac's tone of voice to rile him up. "Mac, we're friends of his, too. I was thinking she could pull all kinds of levers within the federal bureaucracy to see if any federal agency has had contact with him." His voice remained gentle and calm. "You know, the bureaucracy responds to Congressional inquiries like nothing else."

The Admiral's eyes shot up. "And you say there's been no result from her inquiries as well?"

Sturgis nodded, solemn, although Mac swore she thought she could see some real pain behind his quietness. "I suppose, if nothing else, we could flag his record at the IRS and wait to see when his return for this year comes in and where it's coming from."

Mac was aghast at the suggestion. "Sturgis, there are several problems with that idea, both legal and otherwise. For one thing, that's months away. Secondly, isn't that sort of thing a violation of privacy laws?" She was a good attorney, but tax law wasn't her area of expertise.

Sturgis shrugged his shoulders. "As to the first issue, that might be a last resort—something to do while other avenues are being pursued. Secondly, we're not looking into the specifics of the return itself—we just want to know where it's coming from. It's like a return address on an envelope—nothing private about that."

She and the Admiral sat there lost in thought, then the Admiral shook himself. "That's an excellent idea. Do it." Sturgis made a note to himself.

The Admiral was quiet, standing by his window staring out at nothing in particular. It was a stance, a pose the senior staff members recognized as "lost in thought" and remained quiet and respectful. Then he turned and looked at each of the staff members sitting in their chairs. He sighed.

"What we have, it appears, is a missing person. What are the possible causes?"

Each of the members looked at each other. It was Sturgis who spoke up. "There are two possible scenarios. Number One, he wanted to disappear out of plain sight, in which case he might possibly resurface at some point in time or," and Sturgis gulped, paused before moving on," or, number two, he was killed somehow, someway—anything from foul play to an accident." He waved his hands helplessly. "If it was the latter, I would have thought the body would have shown up somewhere, at some time if nothing else, to be identified."

Mac shuddered. Bud looked at her in his innocent, inquisitive way. "Maam, how 'bout your psychic abilities?" She glared at him, her feathers ruffled a little and then backed down. There were far more important issues to deal with here than her own pride. She glanced down at her hands that had been twisting and wringing themselves all during the discussion. "I haven't 'felt' him in some time," she admitted quietly. "I don't seem to have that 'connection' that enabled me to find him in the ocean that one time." She took a big breath. "I haven't felt that connection since I got back from Paraguay."

She saw Sturgis's eyebrows shoot up in a question mark: It was Bud who stepped in to answer the unspoken question. "It seems, from the little legitimate research that's been done, those psychic abilities—that 'connection'—works only when both parties involved are trying to reach out."

She forced herself to remember the bitter conversations she and Harm had exchanged during that very painful time.

Sturgis turned to Bud. "But what about Mac's connection with Commander Aiken that one time?" Bud shrugged. "Apparently, Commander Aiken was trying to reach out and the colonel was inadvertently 'open' to those 'vibes." She saw Sturgis lean back in his chair, lost in thought over the revelations.

She looked at Sturgis for both emotional support and to voice a thought that had just sprouted. "There's one other option—that's suicide."

The senior staff members looked at each other in shock. This was not something they wanted to think about. It was the admiral who motioned her to continue. She bit her lips and they could tell she was thinking out loud.

"Think about what all of this looks like from his perspective. I guess we can all assume now how he felt about me—"she refused to let the pain located at the back of her throat stop her from continuing, "and I 'screwed things' up in Paraguay because I couldn't see things for what they really were. He had just given up his career in the Navy—the one fundamental thing that has identified him for the last—what—sixteen years or so. The CIA took him in to fly—and he got canned because he did so well what he does best—which is to fly. It could look like he was of no value to anyone."

By the time she finished her summation, there were tears in her eyes and her voice finally broke. No one said anything.

The Admiral finally broke the silence. "Okay, that's three possible scenarios: 1) We know he's not on a long-term assignment with the CIA, 2)we also know, at the very least, he was going to move out of the DC area—and so far, there's no indication he's moved overseas. 3)We have no body to identify, so we don't know if he's dead or alive—but since there's no body, we need to assume the best. We can also probably assume, according to your latest information, Clark Palmer hasn't gotten to him, and Ted Lindsey's behind bars—the two most likely suspects in any possible foul play. So, if we're assuming anything at this point, we assume he's alive." A thought struck him. "Has anyone contacted his parents?"

Her face turned white. "That is possibly the one last thing we can do—and I'm not sure I want to do it. All we know at this point is he's missing—and do you really want to submit his mother to going through all of that—again?"

"Good point, colonel." He sighed. "I guess we can wait on that one."

It was Lieutenant Roberts who summed up the situation. Mac was struck at the profound irony of the situation. While it may not have been with Harm's eloquence, there was the shadow of the influence the older man had had over the younger man's professional development. "It's a big country, 3,000 miles from coast to coast; over 250 plus million people. As big as some would say the federal government is, it's not large enough to track every one of those people every single day every single year." He drew in a deep breath and Mac knew, with a gathering dread, he was going to summarize what they all had come to realize in the past couple of weeks. "Sir, Commander Rabb is a trained and highly skilled investigator. He knows every trick in the book—and then some. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

TBC. . .

A/N: This is an expanded version of "Child of Mine"—looked at that story and decided there were just too many "possibilities" to leave that general overall picture alone. Details from that story are obviously changing. Reviewers: need a couple of questions answered: is there "too much detail" about the beginning of the search for Harm? Secondly, does the time frame make much sense?

A/N: It seems to me, from my memory, Harm had a legitimate request of Mac when he asked for an "operating manual" once he found her in Paraguay. She was, understandably, acting quite "flakey" and inconsistent. The point of this story is to demonstrate how she "found herself again" without Harm in the picture. And to reiterate, if anyone wants to figure out what Harm was thinking/doing and/or what happened to him, feel free to write about it. I purposefully tried to do two things: 1)cover all the possible scenarios, and 2)leave it open to anyone who wants to try to explain what happened to Harm.

A/N: On a much lighter note, we sure do like to beat up on our heros, don't we?. . .