This is the second "outing" of the recently formed writing team of highplainswoman and janlaw. A/N3 following "Dining Out" contains information about us. This piece can be considered either a follow-on to "Dining Out" or a stand-alone story.
We gratefully acknowledge TomCatGM's assistance. She did a magnificent job bringing out issues and clarifying the confusing parts of this piece.
Admiral's Mast/Captain's Mast is the Navy term for non-judicial punishment under Article 15, UCMJ. It is commonly known as "Office Hours" in the Marine Corps and the Army. A different type of Mast is "Request Mast," which occurs when a Sailor or officer requests a personal meeting with his or her Commanding Officer. The purpose is usually to make a request or discuss a matter of concern to the service member. Many commands are run far more formally than our beloved JAG HQ ever was, where A.J. permitted (maybe "suffered" is the better term smirk) easy access to his inner sanctum. One can think of the meeting that's the forum for this story as a type of "Request Mast."
Spoilers: References are made to various specific episodes from the ten seasons. Be interesting to see how many people catch the specific references. (If anyone wants to regard that as a challenge, be our guest! LOL)
"Admiral's Mast"
How Do You Sum Up a Man's Career, Anyway
Part I—The Aviator
2000/8:00 p.m.)
The Vietnam Memorial Wall
Approximately one month after Harm/Mac's transfer/promotion
Retired Rear Admiral Tom Boone stood quietly and reverently in front of a specific name on The Wall, lost in thought. Actually, he was having a conversation within the walls of his mind with his friend, Harmon "Hammer" Rabb, Sr., about his son, Harmon Rabb Jr.
Well, ol' buddy. What do you think of your son, now? Made Captain, transferred to London as Staff JAG for Naval Forces Europe, no less—an accomplishment of no mean degree. And finally getting married to that spitfire of a Marine. Tom winced. He respected Colonel MacKenzie—he just wasn't sure he liked her, and he was very unsure as to whether she was truly the woman for Harm. Harm certainly didn't seem to have any doubts, however, so he had kept his opinion to himself. He mused—women certainly flocked to Harm to such an extent that he thought Harm was tripping over too many women in his life at times. They were almost all very strong, successful women in and of their own right. Tom grinned to himself: no "wimpy women" for that Naval aviator! He had classic good looks; certainly a draw, but there was more to it than that. Harm just plain liked women as people—and women instinctively felt that and showed their appreciation by becoming, not sexual objects, but friends—friends with undying and uncommon loyalty. Harm's genuine affection for Harriet Sims amply demonstrated Harm's genuine attitude towards women in general. Tom felt a momentary flash of "old age" at that thought—Harm was part of the "new generation," the generation of the '60's that thoroughly trashed the notion men and women could not be merely "friends"—and Tom had to admit, there was something to be said for that thought. Even at his age, he perceived a "richness" to Harm's life as a result—a richness that was missing from his life and that of his own contemporaries. Tom sighed. He truly wished Harmon a good life with the beautiful Marine. He certainly deserved it.
He shook his head. He really shouldn't doubt the bond between Harm and the colonel. Harm had eventually told him about the two trips to Russia and what had really happened to Hammer. He was glad to finally know the truth – he had always felt guilty that he had come home and Hammer hadn't. For years he'd had nightmares about Hammer in a bamboo cage or maybe in the "Hanoi Hilton." Then when the war was finally over and he wasn't released with the other POWs, Tom had tried to contact as many as he could. No one had ever heard even a whisper about his fate. At least the not knowing was over for Harm and Trish.
He supposed he really owed the colonel for her devotion to Harm—he wasn't sure how many women would have followed Harm—and saved his skin, by the way, in more ways than one during the whole time Harm had been trying to come to terms with his father's disappearance. And, of course, there was that Article 32 hearing over the murder of a Russian mobster—all connected to the search for the truth behind the MIA rumors. He had been out of the country the first time Harm had faced a murder charge and was profoundly relieved to find out about it only after the fact. He grinned, remembering hearing about the brig break. "Hammer," he told his old friend, "Harm never does anything half way."
Tom acknowledged to himself that perhaps a small part of his resentment against the colonel was definitely for Harm's sake—she'd damned near cost Harm his entire Naval career – not to mention his very life – when she'd let herself get involved in that business for the CIA in Paraguay and it "went south." He remembered his shock when he heard Harm had resigned his commission and literally "headed south" to the South American country. If he had been anywhere in sight at the time, he would have taken a "hammer" to Harm. As it was, Harm had shocked his friends again when the rumor mill chatter had it that he had gone to work for the CIA after he got back. He had also gone more-or-less underground to his friends. For months, he had been totally out of contact with anybody and everybody who had meant anything to him. Finally, bumping into Tobias Ingles at the Pentagon, the newly frocked RDML Ingles had told him Harm was back at JAG, and had somehow also gained a teenage ward along the way. It was then that Tom made a special effort to get back in touch with the son of his old friend.
When Harm had introduced Tom to Ms. Matilda "Mattie" Grace, there had been a twinkle in Harm's eyes and a grin on his face. Later, the two men had shared a drink and a laugh when Tom asked Harm, "What is it with you and spicy women, anyway? Even the young 'uns?" Mattie was certainly a handful, and Tom was very curious as to how she and Mac got along. It had been no real surprise when he had been informed by his sources the two really hadn't known each other all that well until relatively recently.
He knew Harm had been devastated by Mattie's accident. He understood they were making plans to transfer her to London to continue her rehab. He truly wished Mattie well—she had been very, very good for Harm, saving him from sinking all the way to the bottom of the well of bitterness springing from the business in Paraguay. For that reason alone, he was prepared to like and love Mattie for her own self. He hoped she'd fully recover and that her dream of Annapolis and following Harm into Naval aviation hadn't ended with the plane crash. As far as Mac was concerned, well, he was prepared to suspend judgment and see how that adventure turned out. That marriage was either going to be heaven on earth or Dante's seventh level of hell revisited.
How do you sum up a career such as Harm's, anyway? It was certainly colorful and event-filled to date, and with his recent promotion, he was certain there'd be more to come.
Tom didn't care much for lawyers—their way of "fighting" was too ambiguous, too subtle. Give him a tomcat, a squadron of tomcats, or even a battle group of ships, for that matter. Add a clear-cut enemy and he was in his element. But, he had reason to be thankful for lawyers—especially Harm, and especially because Harm himself had proven to be far more than just "competent" in both of his chosen careers. Maybe …outstanding, brilliant, or superlative? Hell, maybe all three!
First, he absolutely owed Harm his very life thanks to Harm's inherent abilities—hell, natural talent—as a Naval aviator. Secondly, he had been cleared of, first, sexual harassment charges when he was a CAG, and then towards the end of his career, war crimes charges stemming from his tour of duty in 'Nam. He grimaced: what did the colonel have against him anyway, he wondered? She had been trial counsel two out of the three times he had needed legal advise beyond the routine "wills" and "taxes" that Navy legal assistance provided, and poor Harm had been caught between the two of them, although Harm had handled the situation well enough. Tom sighed. He supposed it was some kind of rule—what goes on in the courtroom stays in the courtroom. Otherwise, how could lawyers be friends? That was a kind of detachment he found difficult to comprehend.
Harm's career in Naval Aviation, on the other hand, while short, was positively brilliant. Two DFCs and a silver star were graphic proof of his abilities. Not too many flag officers had those kinds of decorations. Appropriate, Tom supposed, for a rare kind of courage—and creativity. He chuckled in admiration: not too many aviators he knew could come up with the "tail hook maneuver" like Harm had that had saved a couple of flyers from an unpleasant, uncertain fate over the Balkans. Not too many aviators he knew of would come up with the notion of "playing tag with a dirty nuke" and not too many would have the courage to try a maneuver of tipping a wing more than 45 degrees to save a couple of flyers suffering from oxygen deprivation. It wasn't that Harm wasn't afraid—he had confessed that in an oblique manner, stating it was "desperation" that inspired such a maneuver, to anybody who asked—but he acted anyway. This was the real definition of courage, as far as Thomas Boone was concerned, and the first "Hammer"—Harm's father—would have certainly been proud of everything his son had achieved in his career. Indeed, Tom thought Hammer's chest would be thrown out in so much pride, the buttons on his uniform blouse would have popped off!
And all of that wasn't even mentioning Harm's deep and sincere compassion for others – strangers as well as friends. Tom had been profoundly moved when Harm had given his precious wings to the young newly-minted aviator whose dream was to become a Blue Angel but had missed his winging ceremony because of a friend's problems. How many times had Harm demonstrated a true compassion both in the air and in his legal career—of which Tom actually knew very little, beyond some of the higher viz cases that were mentioned in Navy Times articles from time to time. But he knew there were plenty – the Cuban refugee child had made the news, as well as the dirtbag Chief who'd murdered the little girl and nearly killed her sister, the Vietnamese kids held in sweatshop slavery – and Tom figured there were more he'd never know about. Harm certainly never sought medals or publicity. Some thought Harm was arrogant and brash—but that was nothing but the self-confidence every Naval aviator had to possess in great quantity or wash out early in his career – or get himself killed.
Reaching out and gently touching the name on the black granite wall, he caught a movement out of the side of his eye. He dropped his hand and turned, only to see Harm's old CO, now-retired Rear Admiral A.J. Chegwidden slowly making his way along the Memorial Wall. He watched and waited as the other old salt came to his side, came to attention, and saluted, holding the salute longer than absolutely necessary. His arm snapped down, and it was only then that he turned to Tom and offered a hand for the customary handshake among equals.
"Hello."
Tom's eyebrows lifted. "Is that all you're gonna to say to an old fellow officer?"
Chegwidden snorted. "Fellow officer? Hell no. I've considered you a friend for 35 years!"
Tom grabbed for the offered hand, shaking it in a vigorous fashion. "What brings you out here tonight?"
"I just got back in the country – was glancing through the last few months' worth of Navy Times and saw the news from JAG Headquarters. Called the Roberts and heard about Mattie's accident and the marriage."
There was a pause. Tom glanced at the other admiral. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
Tom grunted. "I would've thought you'd have more to say."
This time, it was Chegwidden's eyebrows that climbed half ways to a non-existent hairline. "I haven't quite decided what my reaction is." He paused, then continued. "I think my initial reaction was one of shock, then delight." His chuckle sounded false to Tom's ears. "I'm happy for both Harm and the Navy. Despite his faults, Harm has done a lot for the Service and it would've been a damned shame if he hadn't been promoted!"
Tom's eyebrows shot up and A.J. continued, answering the unspoken question. This time, his chuckle was for real. "Lord help the person – even my successor - who gets in the way when Harm and Mac finally decide what they want! I am truly happy for them – for nine long years it was the JAG Daily Soap Opera in the bullpen. There were times when I expected a request to film "As the Bullpen Turns" or "The Lawyers and the Restless" onboard. All I can say is 'hell, it's about damned time' or something like that. I'll tell you, there were times the last few years I considered just giving them an order! I swear, it probably would have improved morale and 'good order and discipline' at JAG! Not to mention stop Harriet's matchmaking – and distribute the office pool. I heard the amount was nearly in the five figures by the time I retired, and that was over a year ago."
Tom just glanced at the other admiral and then turned his face back to the wall and gestured towards it. "Hammer would've been proud."
There was a grimace on A.J.'s face and a pregnant pause before Chegwidden responded. "Yeah." He skipped a beat. "Rightfully so."
Tom shifted his position and turned his body to fully face the other admiral. "So, to repeat: what brings you out here tonight?"
There was an unusual shuffling of feet on Chegwidden's part, a shrug of the shoulders. "I suppose I wanted to honor Harm, but I'm not quite ready to call him, so this is the only way I can."
Tom refrained from saying anything for a couple of minutes as they both stared at the name engraved on the Wall. Then he looked at A.J. "Buy you a drink?"
The other man's face brightened. "Sounds like a plan. Actually, I've been meaning to call you. Promised myself I would when you couldn't make it to my Dining Out. I'm glad we've met up tonight."
Tom jerked his head towards the street. "Benzinger's?"
"Hell, no!" Tom was brought up short by the other's strong reaction. There was an apologetic tone to A.J.'s voice: "Benzinger's has a bad taste in my mouth—ever since. . ."
Tom thought he might have been blinded by the light bulb that went on in his head. He glanced at A.J. "The murdered lieutenant?"
They started walking towards the street and their parked cars. "Yeah. That was a bar most of the O's and the bullpen frequented. I think the group started hanging out at McMurphy's for drinks and pool and darts and so on after all that was put behind us."
Tom could only nod. "Understandable." Another pause. "McMurphy's it is. I'll follow you."
End Part I.
