As I post this, it is Aug. 23 in Los Angeles, California, and Aug. 24 in Canberra, Australia. Therefore, it is Scott's birthday and Alex's, too. Happy birthday, guys.
This story is mostly nice, but when Danny talks about the worst he's ever seen, it gets intense. Just a warning.
Mutual Aid
They drew a few odd looks as they approached the officer's club at Pearl Harbor Naval Station, the tall, upright Navy lieutenant commander in his dark dress uniform striding along with a civilian strutting beside him who barely topped the commander's shoulder.
Wearing his best dark gray suit, with a light blue shirt and a diagonally striped gray and blue tie, Detective Danny Williams (the civilian) felt a little strange about going to a nice restaurant with his partner. Going out for a beer or for pizza, OK, but to a nice restaurant? Still, it was his birthday and it was probably the only time he'd get to see the inside of the officer's club, unless they found a body there. And you never saw a place at its best when that happened.
The fair-haired detective's quick, curious gaze flicked around the room as they entered. Subdued tan walls were livened up by photos of harbors. He recognized Pearl and New York, and realized with amusement that they were all naval bases shown at their scenic best.
The dining room was quiet. One elderly couple was just finishing an early dinner. The man was in civilian clothes, but had to be an admiral, judging by Steve's deferential nod. A quartet of women, officer's wives maybe, chatted in a corner booth, as they studied their menus.
Raucous sounds came from the bar area, but that was half the restaurants Danny had ever been in. The officer's club was disappointingly ordinary, Danny thought.
Steve caught his scrutiny from the corner of his eye.
"Cut it out," he ordered as he removed his hat from his dark hair. "They'll think you're casing the place."
"Commander McGarrett," the manager greeted him. "Good to see you again, sir."
"Mr. Walters. This is my friend, Detective Danny Williams and today is his birthday."
"Congratulations, detective," Walters said, as if Steve hadn't made arrangements at the officer's club a week before. "Please come this way."
"Doesn't look like we needed reservations," Danny commented.
"Yes, why is it so empty?" Steve asked.
"General inspection tomorrow. No one has time to go out."
A burst of laughter came from the bar.
"Except them," Danny commented.
"Their ship just got in from the Gulf. No inspection."
Their waiter approached, deferentially asking if they'd like something to drink.
"It's your birthday, Danny. You can have anything you want. How about a beer or maybe some champagne?"
"Not wine," Danny snorted. "People will think we're on a date!"
"Don't ask, don't tell," the cheerful waiter said with a bland expression. The commander gave him a stern look, but the civilian waiter was uncowed.
"He's just my partner," Steve said crossly, before he remembered that there were other meanings of "partner."
Danny briefly enjoyed his friend's embarrassment, but realized a straight Navy officer could suffer, if someone started a rumor that he was gay. As always, Danny had Steve's back.
He pulled out his badge and slapped it on the table.
"Commander McGarrett is my partner, as in police officer," Danny clarified. His voice was mild but his eyes were cold. "I'd hate to think anyone was spreading unfounded gossip about him."
The waiter nervously thought that the small man might be more dangerous than he looked. Then again, he did hang out with a Navy SEAL.
"Really, sir, I wouldn't," the young man said earnestly. "I've seen people badly hurt by gossip."
Danny nodded once, then asked about the beer selection. But he left the badge on the table as a reminder.
"Thanks."
Danny waved it away. "I think of what gossip did to Chin," he said darkly.
This time Steve waved it away. "None of that. Today's your birthday. What do you want to eat?"
After a brief discussion, Danny settled on a filet mignon, baked potato and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. Steve chose mahi mahi with spring vegetables.
"That's how he keeps his girlish figure," Danny confided to the waiter.
"Hollandaise is mostly butter, you know," Steve said disapprovingly. "Think of what it does to your arteries."
"'Healthy food' and 'birthday party' are two phrases that do not belong in the same sentence," Danny answered, unperturbed. Despite his weakness for rich food, he was as fit as his former Navy SEAL partner; he just wasn't as showy about it.
"You know, I can tell it's my birthday," Danny continued. "Because you're not nagging me about my tie."
"Even in Hawaii, there are times when a suit and tie may be appropriate," Steve admitted. "Weddings, funerals and dinner at nice restaurants."
"How'd you know it was my birthday, anyway? I didn't say anything. Heck, I didn't even think about it myself."
"I'm the boss, remember. I've read your personnel file."
While they ate, they talked about everything but work, not wanting to spoil the meals of the nice ladies in the corner. Steve even let Danny rhapsodize about the Yankee's stellar season. They also speculated about the promised birthday surprise from Chin Ho Kelly and Kono Kalakaua.
"They haven't told me anything," Steve said. "But knowing you, it'll have something to do with food."
"As long as it's not raw fish or pineapple on pizza," Danny said with an exaggerated shudder. He was confident, however, that the cousins wouldn't play such a joke on him for his birthday. Every other day of the year, maybe, but not on his birthday.
The birthday boy lingered over his meal, savoring every bite of the tender, juicy steak; but Steve seemed to hurry through his fish.
"Excuse me for a minute?" he asked, already starting to rise. "There's someone I've got to talk to."
He left his friend staring after him, but Danny was a detective after all.
"Is he actually getting me a birthday cake?" Danny asked the waiter in amusement.
"I couldn't say, sir," the man answered, deadpan.
"A 'no comment' is as good as a 'yes,' according to reporters," Danny answered.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" the waiter said, sidestepping the query.
"No, I'm good." A burst of laughter and jeers from the bar interrupted them. "But I think you should get those boys more food and less booze."
"They may have the same idea. Here they come now," the waiter said.
The officers' wives looked nervous and censorious in equal parts as the seven young lieutenants entered the dining room. Danny's quick eyes assessed the group and dismissed them as boisterous but harmless. He turned back to his dinner. But one officer seemed stung by his disinterested gaze.
He evaded the waiter and wavered over to Danny's table. He stood over the detective, swaying.
"What's this? What's this? A civilian in the officer's club?"
The waiter tried to corral the lieutenant and herd him back with the others.
"He's a guest of Lieutenant Commander McGarrett," the waiter warned. "Please be seated, sir."
"Come on, Reeder, I'll buy you dinner," called one of the officers who seemed more sober than the others. He came over to pull his friend away.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said to Danny. "Reeder had a bad time in Iraq. He was in the middle of a bombing at a market. Some of his men were targeted and there were women and children … He was a hero, helping the wounded, but it's catching up to him now."
Danny understood how you could fall apart once the stress was over. He'd seen it. Heck, he'd done it.
He tapped his badge on the table. "I understand. I've seen a few things."
The officer nodded and tried to tow his friend back to their table, but Reeder shoved the other lieutenant away and planted his feet obstinately. Danny could see tears in the young man's eyes.
"What do you know, sitting here safe at home while we're over there fighting to keep you free? What do you know? Have you seen the bodies of women and children lying in pieces in mud that's half dirt and half blood?" His voice rose to a feverish scream. "What's the worst you've seen?"
In the kitchen, Steve was displaying his Five-0 badge to the pastry chef so he could pipe a replica on the cake. The waiter rushed in, slipping on the tiled floor.
"A bunch of drunks are provoking your friend! I'm afraid there may be a fight!"
Steve was immediately concerned. "Damn it! Danny might have to hurt someone," he said as he rushed out.
The civilian was definitely more dangerous than he looked, the waiter thought as he followed the commander.
Steve hurtled through the door. "Stand down!" he ordered, then skidded to a halt as the scene in front of him registered.
Danny still sat in his chair. His right hand twisted a young lieutenant's arm behind him and his left hand pressed the kneeling officer's face against the table.
"I think he's already down, Steve," the detective said judiciously.
"They said there was a fight."
"I wouldn't call it a fight," Danny said. "This one was too drunk to be a challenge. The only problem was: he had a lot of friends."
Steve's laser glare scanned the room. The women diners had wisely fled. Six lieutenants in various stages of drunkenness and various stages of anger had been converging on Danny, but the entrance of a lieutenant commander in full rampage sobered them and made them draw back.
"Are you all right, Danny?"
His partner gave him a look. He took his hand off the lieutenant's face, pulled a piece of steak gristle off his lap, plucked a spear of asparagus off his shoulder and flicked a dribble of sauce off his cheek.
Steve realized the Naval officer had dumped Danny's plate of food on his head and best suit — and hollandaise is made mostly of greasy butter. His eyes kindled with a spark that flared into fury like a pilot light on a furnace. Danny felt warmed by the anger on his behalf, but the lieutenants cowered from the sight of the commander's wrath.
It was very gratifying, Danny thought, but not what he wanted for his birthday entertainment.
"Steve! My birthday, remember. Anything I want, you said. I don't want to spend the evening filing charges and filling out reports. That's too much like work. Heck, it is work."
Steve let his anger subside. "What do you want?"
"Can we handle this civilly — like civilians? I want an apology, and I want someone to pay for my dry cleaning, and I want this one — he gave his captive a trifling shake — to listen to a story.
He released the lieutenant who sat back on his heels.
"A story?" the young man gasped.
"You asked me a question," Danny said. "You could have asked more politely …" The detective used his napkin to wipe hollandaise from his face. "… But you asked what was the worst I've ever seen, so you're going to listen to my answer."
Danny's expression had gone bleak. Steve had an inkling what story he would tell.
"Danny, you don't have to," he said gently.
His partner looked at him curiously. "You know?"
"Personnel file, remember. Awards and decorations."
"Oh that." Danny shrugged. "I didn't do anything special. Everyone who was there got one."
"Everyone who was there deserved one."
Danny shrugged again. "It's not what I wanted to think about on my birthday, but once I did, I need to talk about it to exorcise it again. And he's going to listen."
"As I believe I mentioned, I am a police officer," Danny said, rapping his food-spattered badge. "When something big happens — like a plane crash — cops from other jurisdictions rush to help. We call it 'mutual aid.' Ten years ago, when I worked in New Jersey, I was part of a big mutual aid call — the biggest I know of that didn't involved a natural disaster."
One of the lieutenants swallowed. "9/11," he said in a hoarse Brooklyn accent.
Danny dipped his head in acknowledgment. "9/11. No one had to call us in to headquarters when we heard about the planes crashing into the Twin Towers. Every person in the department showed up, including the detective who was eight months pregnant. We left her to man the phones. I was one of the officers sent to New York. There were five of us crammed in a patrol car screaming east on Highway 78 heading toward the Holland Tunnel. One tower was already down and the smoke rising from the other drew our eyes like a signal flare. I was looking right at the second tower when it fell."
Little sounds, half gasp, half sob, were the only noises in the silent room. The Brooklyn lieutenant unashamedly wiped tears from his eyes. Another man buried his face in his hands. Reeder hugged his knees as if suddenly chilled.
Danny realized how young these men were and wondered how many had been inspired to join the Navy because of 9/11.
"I helped pull four bodies out of the ruins, all NYPD, first responders who had rushed toward danger to save lives — and lost their own.
"And then there was Julia."
Danny hunched over, regarding the floor without seeing it, rubbing his hands between his knees. After a long moment, he pulled out his wallet and fished through the photos in it. Steve thought his partner's hand was trembling when he extracted a photo with scuffed and tattered edges. It was an official NYPD portrait of a young woman with red hair coiled on her head. Posed in front of an American flag, she wore a police uniform and a broad smile.
"She was 28, with a 7-year-old son and a husband who, fortunately, was at work in Connecticut.
"Julia was stationed at the perimeter, trying to keep civilians out of danger, but a chunk of the tower crashed on her patrol car. She was badly injured. Her left leg was crushed and pinned in the wreckage.
"The only way to get to her was to crawl under a slab of concrete, through a broken side window. I was the only one who could fit through the space," said the detective. They could all see he wasn't a big man.
"So I got to crawl in with a saw and cut Julia's leg off so we could pull her out of the wreckage," he said brutally. How else could you say it?
Danny took back the photo, caressed it with his thumb and carefully put it away.
"She died anyway, two days later. Her injuries were just too severe, but she was so grateful …" Danny's voice broke. He swallowed, wiped his eyes on a dray patch of his sleeve and continued, "She was so grateful that she had a chance to say goodbye to her family. Now they send me a card every Christmas. Her son, Charlie, will graduate from high school this year. He wants to be a cop like his mother — like me."
Danny looked his now sobered assailant in the eye. "So that, lieutenant, is the worst I've seen. Enemy action on American soil. Innocent blood spilled in New York City. Blood on the street. Blood in the air, in the dust and the smoke. Blood on my hands and in my dreams for more than a year." He realized he was rubbing his hands again and deliberately planted them on his knees. "Try to remember next time that the military, the police and other first responders are all doing the same job, protecting other lives at the risk of our own. While you're out saving the world for democracy, we're at home making sure you have a home to come home to."
Danny flicked his fingers at the young man on the floor.
"OK, I'm done. You can go now. I needed help after 9/11. You need some now. Get it before you get into more trouble." Even to himself he sounded fatherly. Came from being a father, he supposed.
"Yes sir," Reeder promised. "If you'll send me the bill, I'll pay for your dry cleaning or" — he winced a bit at the expense — "a replacement suit, if it can't be cleaned."
"And we'll pick up the tab for your dinner tonight, yours and the commander's," the other lieutenant offered.
"And detective …" Reeder snapped a salute. His six comrades followed suit and Steve joined them. "Thank you for your service."
Danny returned the salute. "Thank you for yours, lieutenant."
They took the cake to go, because Danny was increasingly uncomfortable in his food-doused suit.
As they left the officers' club, Danny wiped ineffectually at his chest. The buttery sauce was congealing into sticky fat that glued his tie to his shirt. He pulled it loose and held it with two fingers while he studied it, wondering if it could be salvaged.
"You sure know how to throw a party," he said.
Steve came to a dead stop. "Damn! They just paid for your birthday present. Now I have to think of something else to get you!"
Danny twiddled the stiffening piece of cloth in his hand. "You could buy me a new tie," he suggested.
A/N: No disrespect meant to the members of the military (because I was one). Dedicated to the first responders and the servicemen and women as we approach the 10th anniversary of 9/11.
And on a lighter note, if you want to see what Kono and Chin have planned, look for "Jersey Luau," a chapter of A Little Bit of Danny, coming soon.