A bungled prisoner escort lands Harm in the New Mexico Desert, trying to set it right. As usual, the JAG characters don't belong to me – but everyone & everything else does.

Enjoy!

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1500 ZULU

New Mexico Desert

Search Headquarters

I paused and studied the man in fatigues. Six foot or so, probably early thirties - a little tough to tell from the rear - dark hair cut military short, deliciously fit; standing almost at attention and glued to a cell phone while everyone else was in a rush to get to the search briefing. Definitely not a regular in the search and rescue scene; but definitely someone who piqued my curiousity.

I strolled toward the helicopter a few yards away. "Hey, Sam," I casually asked one of the pilots, "is he one of yours?"

Sam pulled his head out from under the hood - or whatever they call those things on a helicopter - and looked in the direction I'd nodded. "Nah," he shook his head, "he's Navy."

"Figures. He's too good looking to be Air Force, let alone local in your unit at Kirtland." Oh, well, such is life. "How can you tell with the camo's?"

Sam shrugged. "He's the dude who caused this whole thing. Don't know why they sent a lawyer to escort a prisoner, anyway. Would've thought an MP would make a better job of it."

"You mean the Navy didn't trust you guys?" I couldn't resist the jibe.

He laughed and went back to his pre-flight. "Watch it, lady, I'm flying you and that dog in today….and I hear that there might be some turbulence…."

Navy stood between me and the search meeting – almost - so I detoured a bit further to continue my investigation. The tall and impressively good looking part I'd already deduced. The dressing down that I overheard from his cell phone was impressive, too.

"Well, then, Rabb, you'd better get out there and bring Reynolds in. Do I make myself perfectly clear?" Even I cringed at that voice and wanted to salute. Me, a sworn civilian, who couldn't speak military and only dealt with their helicopter pilots on search missions because I didn't have a choice.

"Yes, Sir, absolutely clear. Sir."

"Good. See to it." Even the sound of the phone on the other end slamming down sounded authoritative. I felt somewhat sorry for the guy on the receiving end, who managed to cringe slightly and sigh at the same time.

He turned around. Whoa, even more impressive. Blue eyes, nice jaw, a few stitches on his forehead, I'll bet there's a wild smile just currently hidden…. Whoops, I'm staring. Not polite.

"Bad day at the office?" I asked, trying not to act too stupid. It had been a long, long time since anyone had put me on a don't-act-stupid alert.

"No," he replied, "about the usual." He folded the cell phone, slid it into a pocket, and fell into step next to me. "I'm Harmon Rabb."

"Jen Little." His handshake was nice; strong, natural, relaxed. Nice hands, too. "The pilot said you were Navy. Doesn't that mean you come with a rank?"

"Commander, actually, but most people just call me Harm," he smiled a bit. Yup, nice smile, but it faded quickly. "The Admiral, on the other hand, sometimes just calls me sh…."

"LITTLE!" The Search Commander's voice boomed across the area. "YOU'RE LATE! WHERE THE BLAZES ARE YOU THIS TIME?"

We looked at each other. "Me, too." The laugh was real, from both of us, as we joined the meeting.

The Search Commander glared. "How nice of you to join us. And to bring along Commander Rabb, who will now brief us on our missing person."

My companion imperceptably straightened and moved authoritatively to the face the motley - but highly expert - group of searchers. "Thank you. Lieutenant Joe Reynolds is being sought by the Navy for his involvement in two significant crimes. The first, illegal sales of stolen Navy weaponry. The second, a murder of a military police officer, which occurred during a transaction, and here in New Mexico." Rabb paused and scouted the group. "He is also being sought by the New Mexico State Police in conjunction with his armed assault on an officer, using the officer's own weapon. The assault occurred during his escape attempt from the Albuquerque airport."

"Pretty successful for an attempt," someone behind me muttered. "Damn lawyer."

Rabb ignored this comment and took a breath to continue, but was interrupted by the Search Commander. "Thank you, Commander. Reynolds then proceeded to Bandolier National Monument in a stolen vehicle, which was abandoned not far from here. A rifle and other items were also reported missing from the vehicle upon it's recovery. We have witnesses who saw Reynolds heading into the back country, and a possible sighting ten miles further in. Which is why we are here today. Consider Reynolds armed and dangerous.

"Folks, the weather is deteriorating and there is no guarantee of helicopter rides back out, so pack for the duration. We will have civil air patrol and other fixed wing support for as long as possible. The terrain will make radio communications difficult – grab your ham gear, you may be able to relay through the repeaters in Santa Fe or Albuquerque as backup. Search assignments are……" He checked his list and the corner of his mouth turned up just a little bit.

"Little and Rabb. Dog Team One. Insert at the place last seen. Cover grid nine. First insert, move it, now."

Rabb? How on earth did I get stuck with the (albeit handsome) Commander? This was work , not some day hike, and lives were at stake - my life, in fact, if the weather went bad and we got stuck. Searches were inherently dangerous. And I did NOT like the idea of searching for someone who didn't want to be found and probably had a gun to prove it. Been there, done that, don't want a re-run. I ranted and raved, silently, all the way back to my truck, cursing Rabb for getting us into this search in the first place, and next for being here so that I got stuck with him.

My hand shook as I slid my handgun and an extra clip into my pack for the first time in my search career, double checked my radios and the spare batteries, grabbed an extra gallon of water and added my bivvy sack and down parka, and clipped a leash on Timber. Who was, as usual, excited to be going. He didn't care who he looked for.

"Rabb!" I yelled, when I spotted him heading toward the helicopter, which was already spinning up. "Come here for a second!"

"Jen? What's up? And who's this?" He asked.

"That's Timber, the reason that we're Dog Team One. What do you have in that pack? How much water? What survival gear? Come on, come on, we don't have much time, the air's thinning."

"Air's thinning?" He looked puzzled. "Oh, yeah, right, high altitude and air density for lift for the chopper, it's getting warmer. Got it."

At least he was a quick study. I reached for his pack, and he pulled it back. "It's fully equipped, compliments of the Air Force."

"Fine," I said, "add this." I gave him another gallon of water, a plastic tarp, some cord, a box of granola bars, and a few garbage bags anyway. He looked annoyed, but he'd appreciate them if we got stuck somewhere. I gritted my teeth and climbed aboard the helicopter, followed by Timber and Rabb.