NB: Oh another Skates story. Before you moan, this one will be one of the most ambitious yet after "A New Love".

The President referred here is not that of any present or past US President, although based on the JAG timeline and thus years, it is around the mid-2000s.

I, the author, have no knowledge of US nuclear command and control structure, and thus definitely no idea of how the US nuclear briefcase, or "The Football" really works. Most of what is described here is derived from previous movies and fiction books, plus quite a big of imagination.

This story is set just after Harm was cleared of murder charges against Lieutenant Singer and around the episode "Lawyers, Guns, and Money." I've tweaked it so there's no mention of he Turner case and it helps by eliminating Mac from the picture—again!

Before any of you comment that Skates as a NFO/WSO shouldn't be an instructor, I'm stretching the aviator training part. Besides, it's fiction.

Tidal Basin, Washington DC

0500 hours

It wasn't the job she dreamed of, not after travelling thousands of miles and navigating through tons of paperwork to reach this capital city. Martina Gomez was her name, a Bolivian girl who was born into poverty and nearly being forced into prostitution. Martina was not exactly her original first name; the missionaries who found her cramped in a truck gave it to her after they failed to pronounce her original name. But it was them and their organisation that brought her to what she heard was the "Land of Opportunities". Martina always wanted to be a cook—she had seen her mother work tediously in the kitchen before the lady passed away. But once Martina arrived in the city, no outlet, even the smallest food stall wanted to employ her. "We take in our own first," was the common answer she got, although she failed to understand the meaning. Finally, she found this position of a park cleaner. It certainly was not her dream, but at least it would give her some American dollars to repay those who helped her along the way, plus increase her chances of living in a better accommodation.

The job demanded her to rise early, though it was not something new to Martina. Despite the odd hours, Martina was always on time, her cleaning trolley squeaking and thus breaking the silence of the morning. The only people she would disturb were those homeless vagrants sleeping on the sidewalks or underneath the various trees. By now, many of them were used to their wakeup morning call and she would return their greetings.

It was just as she turned the corner when she spotted a huge lump on the ground. Moving closer, she could tell it was a human body, and she guessed it was another homeless person sleeping out in the Tidal Basin. The morning wind suddenly blew, and she caught a strong stench coming from that lump. Gently poking it with her broomstick, she let out a scream as a horde of flies burst out from the shape.

USS Patrick Henry

Somewhere in the Mediterranean

Thirty six hours later

"No... a little higher, a little higher, damn it, I said a little higher. Don't easy back too sudden...oh... SHIT!" Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth "Skates" Hawkes braced herself and closed her eyes thinking this was the end...no the beast she was in suddenly stopped. Skates snapped her eyes open and shook her head. Yes, she was back on the Henry, the ship was bobbing up and down, the multi-coloured shirts were buzzing around the deck. A snap-hiss, and the canopy was opened.

"We're back, ma'am," the FA/-18 F pilot, Lieutenant Christopher "Buzz" Stead remarked, as he lifted himself out of the "front seat" and climbed down. Seconds later, Skates got out to, but shrugged away the protruded hand that offered to help her down. Drawing up to her full five feet and two inches, she bellowed, "What the hell were you trying to do, Lieutenant? Commit Suicide?!"

"I was correcting my approach..."

"And I was giving you crystal clear instructions ! Damnit all to hell, Buzz, this is the fourth time you've not been listen to me as your instructor! Look," she gestured, "you caught the 'one wire' yet again! What is your wish? To be a proper aviator or to have an early death?"

"Ma'am..." But before the green naval aviator could reply, Skates stormed off to the hatch and in her rage collided into her Squadron XO, Commander Billy "Panther" Dawkins. "Easy there, Skates, I know you're having a rough time with the newbies."

"Rough time Panther? It's hell the minute I enter the cockpit with those guys. I can't recall aviators this clumsy since my time as a Tomcat RIO and now as Super Hornet WSO," she groaned at her superior. Technically she should have addressed a superior with more courtesy, but Panther and Skates has a close working relationship.

"Missing the ol' Tomcat and Batman aviators, Skates?" His comment brought waves of memories of her time with her old squadron. The aggressive and reckless X-Man, the arrogant Bommer, the by-the-book Tuna and of course, the best of the best, Harmon Rabb. Skates missed Harm as her main driver. He as an aviator was everything that a back-seater ever wanted...

"By the way, I was expecting to run into you. The Big Man wanted to see you in person. Now." The "Big Man" was the informal name for the task group commander, Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Gordon Lawrence.

"The Big Man? What ever...I haven't done anything wrong have I?"

"Not that I recall. But seeing the Admiral when none of us poor ol' aviators haven't has got to mean something big. Good luck with him."

Super Freakin' Shit, Skates thought, passing her helmet to a passing Petty Officer to stow. Her XO was right, there was something amiss when a two-star ask to see you in person.

"Enter," cam the sharp reply to her knock. She did so and snapped immediately to attention. "Lieutenant Commander Hawkes reporting as ordered, sir!"

"I hear you just let loose you anger and the new aviators, Commander?" The Admiral started, rising from his desk. He was a six foot two tall man and most definitely towered over her. "Sir," she replied, hoping this wasn't going to be a long critical review of her training procedures. "I do apolo..."

"At ease Commander, you've not on trial here for your training or how you handle your juniors. Have a seat," he gestured to be cushion chairs, the luxury which was entitled to senior officers. With a sigh of relief but a bout of curiosity mounting, she did so and he dropped an-inch thick red-covered file onto her lap, the words "TOP SECRET Level Four" typed diagonally across the cover.

"You might wonder why I called you straight up here and why an old foggy sailor like me wants to see a young O-4 like you," he continued, noting her momentary shock. "Go a head, open the file." Flipping through the first few pages, Skates stopped at page three which read:

Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Catherine Hawkes, USN to report to the White House Communications Agency section, White House Military Office, Washington D.C. to hold and protect the Nuclear Briefcase that links the National Command Authority to the nation's...

"Oh my gosh, I'm to carry the Nuclear Football?!" she gasp out loud. Coming from a family who lived in various cities along the East Coast, she had heard stories from her relatives about the scare of nuclear war, with SAC Bombers flying over head, nuclear shelter drills and city evacuations. She especially heard stories of how her elder relatives thought the Cuban Missile Crisis would really go nuclear and flew away to South America. In college, she took a module on Cold War History and thus learnt the political and military implications, including the formation of the nuclear briefcase. "I mean sir, this is really a shock. I...I thought you have to have special clearance or something..."

"Yankee White clearance. It is special but not something that extraordinary. Those higher up probably did a good background check before sending you this change of orders."

"But..." Skates was slightly disturbed that they was, or could have been, a background check on her life or her whole family without her knowing, but remembered she was in the United States military. "...I thought you have to be someone special or something to carry the Football. I mean, sir, I've never been posted to STRATCOM or a any special weapons post or anything like that. My whole career has been as a NFO on carriers."

"You don't have to be. In fact Commander, I myself had a six month duty of carrying the football, not even having had a high command position myself. Besides, you're Tomcat and Super Hornet Wizzo right? The latter is still cleared to drop B61 bombs and I'm sure you were taught how to."

"Oh..yeah those," she vaguely remembered that part of her conversion from the F-14 to the F/A-18 E/F. "But really sir, what exactly will I be doing? Being handcuffed to a huge suitcase everyday and walking behind the President?"

The Carrier Strike Group Commander gave a short laugh that did not exactly easy her anxiety. "Commander, you've been reading too many science fiction novels or watching Hollywood shows. No officer carrying the Football ever gets handcuffed to the device; you basically carry it like a normal carry-on bag. You don't just walk and sit with it 24/7: There are mock SIOP exercises where you will play a key role, evacuation drills and liaising drills with the Pentagon and STRATCOM, observing global nuclear weapons proliferation and other tasks given by the WHCA or WHMO." SIOP, as Skates learnt before enlisting, was the Single Integrated Operations Plan, the fancy US political-military plan for global nuclear war. The Football was a key part in SIOP; without utilising it to end launch authorisation codes and targets, US nuclear weapons could never be released. WHCA was the White House Communications Agency while WHMO was the White House Military Office.

"But sir," Skates began another adamant line. "Can I respectfully decline this posting? I mean, yeah I might be clearing to hold the world's most dead briefcase but really, I don't think I have the capacity to be such a staff officer..."

"Commander, these orders came up from high and are final. I know you're apprehensive about holding the world's most deadly briefcase. However, it's not that boring or terrible a task as you think it will be. Besides, it brings you direct into the heart of the military apparatus and who knows, if you do your job well, you may get a sling shot into a top command position, way head of your colleagues here."

Skates wanted to object yet again but thought about it slowly. She really did enjoy her life onboard carriers, and despite the training challenges, carrier life was her life ever since she signed on to be a US Navy Officer. On the other hand, taking this posting, would, as the Admiral remarked, bring her close to high-ranking and high-flying officials and the chance to network with them. She flipped through the file and continued "Uhm, sir, but there's no PCS or COLA form here. Am I suppose to find my own accommodation?" PCS meant "Permanent Change of Station", the term for military personnel posting to a new unit while COLA was "Cost of Living Allowance", additional funding for personnel deployed to new locations within the US or abroad.

"It's a DOD posting and a Joint Forces posting, Commander. You can find your own place if you want to, but 95 or 99% of the time you'll be with the President or his staff, on the road wherever he goes and hardly staying in one location at anytime. I stayed in the Marine Barracks at 8th and I Street, pretty good facilities over there and free chow. I hope that settles all your worries? Go ahead and pack up and clear your duties here. Good luck and Godspeed, Lieutenant Commander Hawkes. I'm sure you'll do us all proud."

Skates snapped to attention and headed back to her quarters. DC, White House here I come she thought. Damn if I have to stay with the Marines all the way. I know just who to call...

US Navy JAG Headquarters

Washington Naval Yard

About 24 Hours Later

"Damnit, ring!" Commander Harmon Rabb swore, as he disconnected and reconnected his room phone for the umpteenth time. NCIS had done a "marvellous" job ransacking his office and misplacing many items. They also did a great job of disconnecting his internet and intranet terminals so much that he had to call technicians six times over to reset it. The rest of his office stuff was finally but slowly replaced, but his phone was still giving him trouble, forcing him to use the administration office phones to take calls and dial out.

Not that there were many phone calls for him. Ever since his name was cleared, Admiral Chegwidden has "punished" him by distributing the high-level cases and Article 32 investigations to the other staff and detailing him only occasional simple and boring cases and administrative work. Harm wasn't even allowed to sit second chair with his close colleagues Sturgis Tuner and Bud Roberts. Basically, he had been sidelined while everyone else save Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie was provided with proper work. Mac was attached to the CIA, specifically with Harm's friend/fiend Clayton Webb. Somewhere in Paraguay, she told him. The typical "need to know" crap from the CIA. He had tried to dissuade her from taking the assignment and warned her of the dangers but her usual stubbornness said no to him. Harm was basically left alone with nothing to do and no close partner to turn to. Well, maybe not today, he corrected. Bud Roberts had asked him for lunch to discuss a case Bud was handling. That kid is certainly turning into a fine lawyer, Harm thought, remembering the court room "battles" with him. One day he'll...

"Knock!" "Excuse me sir, there's a phone call for you," Harm sat up in his seat to see Lieutenant Harriett Sims, the office administration head and Bud's wife at his door.

"Oh," he replied, not expected any calls, given his "isolation". "Who is it Harriett?"

"Oh, someone you know. Someone both of us know," she grinned.

"Come on, it can't be a secret. Who is it Lieutenant?" Is it Mac, he thought? Would she be calling to update him?

"Take the call sir and find out," she indicated to a phone.

"Commander Rab..." He began.

"Hiya Hammer!" the familiar voice burst through his right ear...

"Skates?!" He exclaimed. Then catching Harriet's grin, Harm understood the earlier conversation. Harriet after all started off as the PAO on the USS Seahawk, where Harm first met Skates.

"Just point and shoot!" She gave her usual call. "Yes sir, it's me. I'm back, States side, just posted back to the old US of A. In fact, I'm in DC right now."

"Oh wow uh Skates, certainly a surprise. We've got to catch up on our stories..."

"Uh yeah Harm that's why I was calling. I'm only free now and wondering if you could meet up?"

"Oh," he glanced at the room clock. "You caught me on my schedule, Skates. I'm going to have lunch with Bud Roberts..."

"Bud Roberts? The junior JAG with you during the Seahawk investigation?"

"Yeah, you remember him. Say, if it's ok with you, you could meet both of us? Our lunch is suppose to be about a case but don't worry, you can fit in. Do you know Tingey Street, the Potbelly outlet? [1] We're going there."

"Potbelly," he heard the scribbling of a pen. "Righto, Harm. See you there!"

[1] This is a real outlet near the Washington Navy Yard in DC. I've never been there despite staying in DC for a couple of months.

To Be Continued...