A/N: Written for the NFA White Elephant Fic Exchange. My prompt was "Mayday! Mayday!" ...and no, there are no maypoles in this story. Tim's a geek. He knows it. He accepts it. ...but what happens when the geeks are the target? It's Tim-centered (as usual) and pretty angsty (as usual), but this one doesn't exactly...end. You'll see.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I making any money off of the NCIS universe. I do not own the characters, nor the franchise. I'm just a grad student who likes NCIS.
Neverending
by Enthusiastic Fish
Chapter 1
"We're on approach. Got a nice view of West Virginia out the windows right now."
There was a laugh in response to the pilot's report.
"Nice view of West Virginia?" Larson repeated. "It's West Virginia. All there is down there is hills. They don't even have decent mountains."
"They're technically mountains," Keating corrected.
Larson shook his head emphatically. "Come on, Keating. We flew over real mountains on our way back. These don't compare. Real mountains aren't...green...and...they're not mountains!"
"I have to agree," Johnson put in. "I grew up in the heart of the Rockies. The Appalachians are pitiful in comparison." She grinned at the FBI tech.
"I think you're just ganging up on me," Keating said. He turned to Tim who'd been nearly asleep. "Come on, McGee. Help me out here! The other agencies are taking over!"
Tim yawned and chuckled. "Well, if we're going by technical definition, then the Appalachians qualify. If we're just comparing height...then, I have to agree that...the Rockies beat them hands down."
Johnson and Larson gave him a thumbs up in support while Keating pouted good-naturedly.
"However," he added slyly, "since not a single one of us has the power to change the designation, I think we're safe in calling the Appalachians mountains."
"Spoilsport," Davidson said, joining in the debate for the first time. "Comparisons are what make America great!"
"If you wanted illogical discussions, Davidson," Tim said, "you shouldn't have got on a plane full of computer geeks. You want pointless observations, I'll be happy to introduce you to my colleague, Tony DiNozzo."
"Point taken."
"DiNozzo? You work with DiNozzo?" Larson asked incredulously.
"Yeah. You know him?"
"Well, no. I've heard about him."
"You know Slacks...I mean, Sacks, then?" Tim asked.
Larson chuckled. "Yeah. I've heard him complain about you NCIS guys more often than I can count."
"Glad to know we've made an impression."
"Oh, you have."
Keating looked at Tim and then back at Larson who didn't seem in the least put out by their place of employment. The conversation steered away from mountains and agencies and Tim leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes once more. He had found himself kind in a strange position on this trip, just because he was the only person who was a field agent in addition to being a computer expert. It was like when he'd been in Cybercrimes. Carry a gun and they think you're something amazing. It didn't occur to him that it might have more to do with his attitude than his firepower.
"McGee?"
"Yeah?"
"Why did they send you along? Most of the agencies only sent one representative."
Tim sat up.
"I'm assuming it's because I do both computer stuff and agent stuff." He paused. "Does it bother you?"
"No. Should it?"
Tim smiled. "Do I bother you? I mean because..."
"...because you took back a desk that was always yours anyway?" Keating shook his head. "No. I didn't want to be a field agent, really. I...I thought it might be nice to try it, but it was a distinct relief to go back to Cybercrimes."
"Well, you can have it."
"Oh, yeah, whatever. Those guys down there were positively gushing about you when I went back."
"They don't get out enough," Tim said, rolling his eyes. "They should come upstairs and see how the team treats me. That would cure them of any illusions they have about my position. Besides, I'm where I want to be."
"So am I."
Tim nodded. He was about to say that he was glad, but a sound from the cockpit attracted his attention.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
"Yeah."
Everyone had stopped talking. The sound repeated.
"That was gunfire!" Tim said, standing up and turning toward the cockpit, his hand on his own gun. Abruptly, the plane began to shake and Tim was tossed back down to his seat.
The door to the cockpit burst open and suddenly, bullets were flying. Tim was hidden, for the moment...but that meant he got to see Keating die...followed quickly by Davidson, from the CIA. He grabbed for his gun and nearly dropped it when a bullet bored through the seat and buried itself in his side, just below his waist. It felt like his hip had just exploded. He shouted and then peeked over the seat. The co-pilot...he was a sub because the regular co-pilot had called in sick. Was he really sick or was he dead? Tim now wondered, but he didn't have time to do anything but fire back, trying not to see Larson catch a bullet in the head.
"Stay down, Johnson!" he called and fired again. It was like a nightmare. There was nowhere to run. The seats weren't bulletproof...but neither was the man shooting at them. Tim just needed to get a good shot. The problem was that his vision kept blurring and his side felt as though it was on fire.
"McGee!" Johnson shouted to him. She had seen that he was injured and began to stand.
"No, Johnson!" Tim shouted...too late. Her head moved above the seat...and she was dead before she hit the ground. Angry now, both at himself and at this murderer, Tim forgot the pain for the moment. He began to fire relentlessly. The bullets flying at him stopped. He cautiously looked over the edge, fired twice more and then stood up. The man was on the ground. The plane shuddered again and Tim lurched to the cockpit, never knowing how he managed to run when his body was shaking as much as the plane was.
The pilot was dead, his blood splattered on the window. Tim knew nothing about flying. Nothing at all...but he slid into the empty co-pilot seat, automatically putting on the harness, trying to ignore the fact that he was, quite frankly, in agony. He searched around and found the radio. His side was throbbing and he could feel blood soaking his pants.
"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" he shouted. Long inactive neurons rubbed together and he suddenly remembered how to officially call for help. His dad had taught him back before he retired from the Navy. Tim had been about six years old. "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! ...um...Dulles! This is...I don't remember the callsign..." He gasped as the pain in his side flared up again. "...this is...uh...it's an FBI plane coming from Los Angeles. It's a Gulfstream V. Shots fired. Pilot is dead. All aboard are...are dead...except me. I've been shot...and we're going to crash. I don't know how to fly, but we're going down."
The radio crackled and then a voice came on.
"This is Dulles. We have you on our screens over West Virginia. Is this correct? Over."
"I think so. I don't...I don't know what to do! I'm with NCIS. Navy...not Air Force!"
The voice was very calm. "Okay, can you see the...looks almost like a steering wheel?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Now, right ahead of that is an altimeter. Read off your current altitude."
"Okay...we're at...it's going down really fast."
"Fine, just pull gently up on the yoke...the steering wheel."
"Okay...pulling." He moaned and tried not to panic. His vision began to blur again.
"Sir, you said you were injured?"
"Yeah...shot me...in the side. I..." Tim shook his head. "Altitude is...going down still. At...15,000. Still falling."
"Sir...sir! You need to pull up!"
"I'm trying! Nothing's happening! We're still going down!"
"Can you see any clear space to land?"
"It's all trees!" Tim stared out at the approaching ground. "I don't want to die..."
"Sir, you're not going to die. We have you on our screens. What you need to do is slow down the plane so that you can have as smooth a landing as possible."
Tim winced and laughed shakily. "Smooth? Landing in the forest?"
"Can you see a road?"
"No. Man...it really hurts. Oh!" Tim saw a road peek out of the trees and then disappear again. "I just flew over a road."
"Still descending?"
"Yes. I'm at...10,000 feet."
"Okay, pull back on the throttle. That's the main..."
"I can see it. Pulling back...how far?"
"Just gradually reduce your speed, but not below 70 knots."
"What happens at 70 knots?"
"You stall."
Tim laughed again, although he didn't feel like it. What he wanted to do was pass out. He put a bloody hand on the throttle and eased it back, feeling the plane slow, even if the descent didn't. He kept pulling it back and then jumped as an alarm went off.
"There's a beeping! And a light flashing!"
"What's your altitude?"
"5,000...I don't think I'm that high up."
"You're not. That's the height above sea level. You're going to have to land now, sir...what's your name?"
"Tim. McGee. I don't...I can't do this."
"You can. You have to. Put down the landing gear. It probably will break but it might help. You're going to make a rough landing. What you need to do is keep the nose up. Pull on the yoke and pull up the nose of the plane. That will keep you from rolling."
"I can't."
"You can, Tim. You can. Just pull up. And do it now!"
Tim pulled on the yoke, pulled it as hard as he could and the nose did come up. He didn't get a chance to celebrate because, just as the nose came up, he hit the ground. He heard nothing. It seemed as though the world had gone utterly silent. The trees took over the view out the main window...and even the glass seemed to shatter in utter silence.
Then, the silence abruptly became a roaring sound that shook the entire world and threw Tim from the horror of impact into darkness.