McGee felt himself shiver. He wasn't cold but the tremors continued as he watched the ship fade into the distance. He made sure his finger was clear of the trigger of the gun he still held tightly clenched in his hand. Glancing across the tight space he was reassured that Gibbs also maintained a tight grip on his .45.
The two Americans locked eyes and Gibbs gave a small nod before looking warily around the tight group of men speaking to one another in rapid fire Spanish.
"Who's in charge?" Gibbs shouted over the din of the turbines.
A man about McGee's age with a neat mustache and scarred eyebrow indicated for two of the crew to turn over their headsets to Gibbs and McGee. He waited until the men had the coms secured before answering into his helmet mic, "I am Capitan Mathias Rivas of the Paraguay 1ยบ Brigada Aerea." He looked between the two men, "You ares Gibbs and McGee, no?"
"We are." Gibbs nodded, eyes still warily tracking across each member of the rescue team, "Where are we headed?"
Rivas gestured ahead, "An American ship off the coast of Sao Paulo." He shuffled through a bag under his bench, "It be just over an hour. Agua o barra?" He held up a couple of bottles of water and two granola bars.
Tim hesitated, eyes flicking to Gibbs whose eyes were focused on the snacks, but made no move to reach for them. Swallowing, Tim redirected his attention to the Captain and nodded, "Gracias."
He accepted everything and cautiously held out a bottle and bar to his boss.
Eyes still flicking to the other men in the helo Gibbs accepted the food from McGee, failing to conceal a wince as his broken knuckle inhibited his ability to open the packaging.
Without saying a word, Tim opened his bottle of water and exchanged it for the closed one in Gibbs hand and then did the same with the granola bar. Gibbs gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and slowly sipped on the water in between nibbles on the granola, his gun still clasped in his right hand.
Tim grimaced and for a brief moment considered giving the other man his snack bar as well; after all, he had part of a sandwich and two bites of an apple earlier in the day. His stomach roiled at the thought of giving up the food in his hand and, despite the guilt, he held on, taking larger bites than Gibbs but still managing to make the small snack last the duration of the trip to the USS Larson.
It wasn't until the skids of the helo touched down on the US Naval ship's landing pad that Tim allowed himself to feel relief; these men weren't impostors, this wasn't an elaborate rouse. Members of the Paraguayan air force had actually rescued them and had now delivered them to an American Navy ship.
Navy ships had always played a prominent role in Tim's life, looming large in his earliest memories, but never had he been so happy to see the carefully painted grey steel and color coded deck vests. He forced himself to blink back tears as two seaman assisted him off the helicopter and had to consciously allow them to lead him clear instead of falling to his knees to press his hands and face to the deck.
An American ship. The Navy. A word he had been taught to trust as resolutely as he had trusted the closest members of his family. For the first time he allowed himself to truly believe he might actually get home.
The thought sent a shock through him and he felt his knees go weak; if not for the young men on either side he would have collapsed. He might have felt embarrassed by the moment of instability, but he looked back to see Gibbs also being supported by two members of the Larson's crew.
The crewmen began to guide him through a steel portal and into the depths of the ship and for a moment McGee felt panic rise within him. His instincts told him to resist but he forced himself to take a breath and be comforted by the bright lights and smell of fresh paint as well as the concerned, yet welcoming smile on the face of the Chief of the Boat who stood just inside, waiting for them.
"Agents McGee, Gibbs?" The Master Chief nodded a greeting, "Greaves; I'm CoB; welcome aboard the Larson. The Captain will be down shortly; he's wrapping up a call with your director."
"Where?" Gibbs straightened away from the men at his side.
"Radio room." Greaves indicated one way, "But I'm to show you to medical."
Gibbs didn't budge, standing as stiff and as authoritative as he ever did; McGee could almost imagine that the other man hadn't been strapped to the table of a mad man only hours ago.
"I'd like to speak with Director Vance." Gibbs' good eye was locked with the Chief.
Greaves nodded, "And he has asked for the same, but he's made it clear he wants you go through medical first; SecNav is requesting a full sitrep on the two of you." He tilted his head, seeing the other man's reluctance, "A quick pass through sickbay and then there are showers, clean clothes and hot grub. I promise you'll be able to video conference with NCIS before the helo departs."
"What helo?" McGee looked to Gibbs and then back to Greaves.
"We have a day and a half of open sea travel." Greaves explained, "By then we'll be in helo range of Guantanamo where you'll catch a transport home."
McGee exhaled. There was a plan. And it sounded like a good one, a sound one. There was nothing left for him to do. Nothing left to worry about or scheme about. They would get patched up, he could finally feel clean again and eat and drink until he was satiated and sleep without fear of being woken by a baseball bat.
With an exhale he felt his mind relinquish the need to be working out what happened next. Looking to Gibbs he thought he could see similar relief.
Whether it was that relief or the orders from Vance, Gibbs gave up his argument, silently agreeing to follow the CoB further below deck to the medical bay.
McGee winced as his boss tripped over a knee knocker for the third time. He knew he had to be drained. He wasn't sure if the other man had ever actually slept over the last 2 months so much as he had extended bouts of unconsciousness.
McGee reached out, steadying him as he tripped again and almost went down in front of the sickbay.
He received a muttered grunt in return as Gibbs straightened and squared his shoulders before following the CoB through the door.
An officer with a shaved head and wire rim glasses looked up from a clipboard, eyebrows arching as the three men entered the white room. "These must be the NCIS agents." He smiled, passing the clipboard off and gesturing something to a younger Petty Officer, "I'm Lieutenant Indira, Ship's doctor."
"Gibbs." Gibbs gestured to himself then tilted his head to Tim, "McGee."
The doctor nodded, "Well, we're happy to have you aboard." He pointed to two bed stations in the corner of the ward, "We've been ready for your arrival, why don't you go ahead and get yourselves situated over there; we'll do a quick evaluation and then I'm sure you'd each be happy to take a shower before we take care of getting you hooked up with some nutrients and antibiotics."
McGee waited, watching Gibbs nod and move to a bed before he stepped up to the other.
He stood at the edge for a moment, contemplating the starch white sheet tightly pulled over the thin foam mattress. He looked down at his filthy clothes, the dirt and grease caked around his hand as he hesitated to reach for the flimsy polyester pillow.
"It's okay." A gentle hand rested on his forearm. The petty officer stood next to him looking at him with compassion, "They're just cotton sheets; if you don't dirty them then the fellas down in laundry won't have anything to do."
Tim snorted, but still made no move to get on the narrow bed.
"Go on." The petty officer nodded, "Follow your friend."
McGee followed her gesture to the other bed where it was clear Gibbs suffered from no such hesitation. Apparently allowing his exhaustion to take over, Gibbs had fallen forward on to the cot and was now curled on his side, hands hanging loosely off the edge, eyes closed and breathing steadily through parted lips.
Tim swallowed and nodded, climbing on to the cot and exhaling, forcing himself to relax against the soft material.
The petty officer smiled, "Here," She propped the back of the cot so he could be in more of a sitting position and handed him a juice box.
"Thanks." He muttered.
"No problem." She assured, patting his arm, "I need to take your blood pressure, can you take off this outer shirt?"
Tim didn't hear her, his attention focused on the other bed as Dr. Indira and a corpsman decided against waking Gibbs; simply rolling him to his back and unbuttoning the light blue shirt.
McGee fought the instinct to avert his eyes. He had caught a glimpse of the burns and bruises over the old scars on the other man's torso when he had exchanged shirts with 'Jefe' on the other ship. In the bright light of the sickbay the injuries stood out in stark contrast against the pale skin and a shiver ran through McGee and he fought to tamp down on the memories they kindled.
The Corpsman had a similar reaction, frowning at the sight in front of him, "Doctor?"
Indira grimaced and pulled off his glasses, a gentle hand touching the angry, red skin. "Electrical burn." He looked over his shoulder, "Is that right Agent McGee?"
Tim felt his jaw quiver and his eye twitched as he recalled the day that Roberto had pulled out the jumper cables, demanding to know what was NCIS and why they were targeting the R.A.C. "Y-yes." He nodded.
The doctor sighed and looked down, "We need to start an 87-A entry for his file." He directed the corpsman to a low cabinet, "Get the camera, sponge kit and burn gel." He turned to McGee, "Anything else we should know?"
"W..." Tim sighed and mentally berated himself to pull it together. He clenched his jaw. "Waterboarded. Earlier today." He blinked, "Or yesterday...I don't really know when it is right now."
"Okay. That's okay." Indira nodded, scribbling on his notepad, "We'll get him a chest x-ray to check everything out." He looked up from his notes and smiled gently to McGee, stepping closer to the side of his bed, "I'm sorry we're going to have to delay that shower; I need you to remove your shirt too."
Tim swallowed, "I don't..." He shook his head, "They didn't... do the same to me..." His voice faded as he watched the corpsman take pictures of the various wounds on Gibbs' torso, recording the evidence of torture the same way Tim had taken pictures of countless corpses over the years. He sent up a private prayer of gratitude that the depth of his boss' exhaustion kept him unconscious for what the staunchly private man would certainly have found to be humiliating.
He flinched as the doctor gently touched the rope burns around his wrists, "Okay, Agent McGee. But you still appear to have experienced some trauma." He looked into Tim's eyes, "Please take off your shirt so the Petty officer can take your vitals and be sure there isn't anything that needs more immediate attention?" He tilted his head, "We don't want you to come down with some kind of staph infection before we can get you home."
Tim nodded, and did as he was told, stiffly removing his filthy button up shirt and even worse t-shirt. He winced at the cool touch of the gloves and stethoscope as the petty officer took his vitals.
He focused on the ceiling as she lightly prodded and then photographed the torn skin on his wrists and the various bruises across his chest. He instinctively flinched as she pressed against his right ribs. They had been broken in the hours following their capture but he knew they had to be mostly healed and that the pain was a phantom, brought on by the memory of the torturous jungle trek from one rebel outpost to another.
"Okay." She finally declared, making a notation in a file. "If you want to shower you can use the ward washroom over there on the right. There is a towel, soap and toothpaste on the doctor's desk." She glanced at the tag on the inside of his t-shirt, "I'll pull some clean clothes for you."
He stepped into the washroom and shut the door. He was alone, for the first time in over 2 months. In the next few minutes he'd be clean and within the week he would be home.
Home. With Delilah. His wife.
His pregnant wife.
Two days on this ship, one helo ride, a couple days in Cuba and then one plane and one car ride. He was so close to her.
He clamped down on the sudden instinct to review the probabilities of helo, plane and car crashes and forced himself to take a deep breath and focus on trusting the men around him to get him home.
