All the important legal stuff is in part one.

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26 March 2003

We had a bit of an exciting night.  There's something about getting shot at that makes one glad to be alive, at least after the fact when one proves to be alive.  I'd forgotten how intimidating the sound of bullets hitting the outside of an APC can be.  But we got them all in the end, without civilian casualties, and made it to the assigned reconnaissance site without further trouble.  I don't envy the men and women who will be on the ground here after the Hussein regime is finally gone; these Fedayeen groups and the other less organized resistance groups will be a major thorn in the occupying forces' sides for a long time to come.

I finally have a chance to check my e-mail.  I am not the least bit surprised to see a dozen from Harm from his personal e-mail, all of which alternate between whining about my absence and worrying about my safety.  Chloe has sent two, both cheery and full of her teenage wit.  Imagine my surprise, however, to see an e-mail note from TrishRabbBurnett@Artsgallery1.com pop down into my inbox.

Mac, Trish wrote, I just saw you on ZNN.  You look great in those awful desert BDUs, in case my son never gets around to telling you that.  Speaking of my son, Harmon Rabb the Dense, and it dawns on me that she wrote this after she talked to him about my appearance in the war zone on ZNN, he's really terribly worried about you, far more than he will let on to either of us.  I honestly think that if something happens to you and you don't come back, he will die from a broken heart.  Men are such idiots, dear.  He loves you to the point of pain and wears it like a badge of honor – then hides the damn thing under his coat of pride.  Since his father did the same thing to me, I'm going to solve my problem the same way Sarah solved her problem.  With your permission, I'm adopting you as my daughter.  When and if my son gets around to marrying you, we'll add the "in-law" part to that.  If he doesn't, I'll still have a daughter of whom I can be proud, even though we've never met in person.  And you'll be around to take care of me in my old age, because if he doesn't at least ask you to marry him at some point in my lifetime, I will rise from my deathbed to kill him.  Remind me to show you the letter from Sarah when you come to visit me, Mac.  I've quoted it almost verbatim.  Frank says to tell you that he's always wanted a Marine for a daughter and lays claim to you, as well, if you would honor him thusly.  So, daughter of mine, know that you are loved by more than one person in the Rabb/Burnett clan (Sarah has said she enjoys her conversations with you immensely and likewise is included in this adoption scheme) who CAN say the "L" word and that we are praying for your safety and for Harm's rectal-cranial inversion to correct itself soon.  Hugs, Mom.

I laugh so hard that my nose starts to run and I think I've given poor Corporal Valencia heart failure with the noise I'm making.  Once I assure him that I'm fine, I craft a reply to Trish and Frank, with whom I have had numerous enlightening conversations over the years.

Dear Mom and Dad, I write, smiling to myself, I would be honored to be your adopted daughter.  I have one request, however.  Would you please tell that big, cocky, hotshot Naval Aviator brother of mine to put out or shut up?  I'd really like to be your daughter-IN-LAW sooner rather than later.  I really am fine, although I enjoyed my time in Afghanistan with Harm last year more simply for the company.  How's Easter to come visit us?  I'll invite Chloe down for her spring vacation and Harm and I will take a few days off.  Got to go now – need to e-mail aforementioned hotshot Naval Aviator in response to his 12, count them 12, e-mail notes since Tuesday morning his time.  Love and hugs, your daughter, Sarah.  And that seals the deal; Trish and Frank are officially my family.

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Stuart and Bob are set up now with a live link to ZNN headquarters in Washington; it's breakfast time in the States and the footage Bob got from his morning with us – it was an hour before dawn when we left our camp for the bomb site and almost noon when we got back – has been edited and sanitized for presentation to the masses.  I've cleaned up as well as I can, but I'm certainly not anyone's version of a cover girl right now, even though the reporter is waving me over for a comment.  He's obviously gone to the tape.

I go, not particularly willingly, but knowing that Harm will be glued to his TV right about now as he eats his boring breakfast of cereal and a banana.

Wait, that sounds good right about now.  MRE breakfasts haven't quite caught up with the other prepackaged repasts in taste and quality.  Oh, well. 

I smile at Heffernan as he counts down from five on his fingers.

Stuart resumes his report with a question.  "Colonel Mackenzie, not everyone will agree with your decision to hold fire until you were clear of the settlement.  What do you say to them?"

"We're here because we volunteered to serve in the Marines, and that means we've taken the risk that we might get hurt or even killed doing so.  The men who chose to come after us also knew the risks of combat, but the innocent civilians in that small settlement had no choice in whether the war came their way.  I refuse to be party to the loss of innocent lives as long as I have acceptable options otherwise, which in this case I did."

It must be a great answer; I haven't seen Dunstan smile like this since the court martial suspended his sentence.  "The words of a brave, capable Marine officer, Lt. Col. Sarah 'Mac' Mackenzie.  This is Stuart Dunstan with the Second Marine Intelligence Battalion somewhere in Iraq.  Any final thoughts, Colonel?"

You bet.  I look right into the camera the way I looked at Harm back on that damned bridge in Sydney.  Let's hope he's a bit more with it sitting there on his couch in D.C.  "We're surviving, and we'll be okay when we get back."  If he doesn't get that, the man has rocks in his head.

He might still have rocks in his head, of course.  Not that it matters; I love him, rocks and all.

=====

I've drawn the first guard shift of the evening, which is just fine with me because I can sit outside and enjoy the relatively clean air and early twilight sky as I patrol with Corporal Valencia and Sergeant Waggoner.  Valencia – "AV", as he's known in the unit – seems quite recovered from his exposure to my laughter earlier today; he's been telling us about growing up in a county in South Texas with a population of 500,000 cattle and 500 people and doesn't seem fazed at all by my laughter now.  Waggoner's deep, rumbling guffaws shake the air around us, but he proves Jack Henderson's assessment of his detection abilities to be right on the money when he waves us silent with a quick flip of his wrist.

How he heard it over his own laughter I'll never know, but after a moment of silence I hear what alerted him.  "AV, go back to Lieutenant Taris and tell him we've got visitors, status unknown."

"Yes, ma'am."  The bantamweight fighter moves off noiselessly.

"Waggoner, go right.  See if you can get a visual around the wall."  Our encampment is made up mostly of our vehicles and the tents in which we sleep, but somewhere along the line the crew found 30 feet or so of 8-foot wide corrugated tin that they used to secure the space between two of the four APCs.  There's space at either end for a lookout, which we post after midnight.  I go left, but before I can check out that end, Waggoner gives a hiss that carries on the night air without giving anything away.

I read his hand signals; we've got visitors of the extraordinarily unwelcome kind.

Sure enough, three seconds later the first grenade comes over the wall.  Either it's a dud or they're using very small load explosives because it barely leaves a dent where it explodes harmlessly against the sand, although the sand spray is impressive.  Note to self:  watch for flying silicone.

Things move too quickly for me to track adequately; at one point, I see a much larger grenade come over an APC into the compound and throw myself into Corporals Patterson, Correia, and Leavitt, hurtling all of us to the ground just as the explosion crashes around us.  I land on my wrist, but under the circumstances, a quick shake to make sure it's in the proper number of pieces and a check of the guys to assure they're unhurt is all I can spare just now.

The whole firefight takes 31 minutes and 15 seconds; we end up with 6 POWs and 3 minor injuries – two of the men have some bruising where they caught bullets in their Kevlar vests and my wrist is slightly sprained.  I also have a small cut on my cheek, which Corporal Correia, our medic, assures me doesn't need stitches.

Bob Heffernan saunters up to me with a grin that almost qualifies as "flyboy."  The retired Marine Reserve gunnery sergeant hasn't lost his touch; I saw him standing out in the compound with his camera going when a grenade landed less than 2 feet behind him.  The film will probably be a bit herky-jerky, but he threw the big rig off his shoulder and took Stuart down with him to the ground as the shrapnel settled over them.  Then, as if it happened every day, Heffernan was on his feet and filming again.  Stuart, on the other hand, sat and watched while he shook his head numerous time to clear it.

"Mac, you're gonna love the footage of this," the man says.  "Come see." 

I'm not sure I'll love it, but it will be interesting.  At least this way I'll know exactly what Harm will see in about 20 minutes.