Chapter 10: December 25, noontime

The many oars of the dozen MK7 lifeboats from the Anacostia base, plus the Barry's old-fashioned boat, cut the river water with firm, measured slaps. In the fog, the distant shore appeared cold and quiet. Slap, slap… Tim half-reclined in his boat, unable to get comfortable, and still a little nauseous despite the seasickness medicine the doctor had given him. I left the Yard hours ago…what's happened in that time? Please, God; I hope no one else has been hurt, or… He felt guilty for having left the Yard; for not having stayed to help, even at great personal risk.

Like many in situations of separation, his thoughts turned to his last meetings with his friends; to things left unsaid. If those had indeed been the last words he would have had with them…had the words been enough? Or would it matter, anyway, if the Guard didn't arrive in time, and they all died? War really is hell, he thought, and swallowed. He thought about telling himself that he was a fortunate guy, to have lived through so little warfare on his own soil, when in other countries war was recent history or even a fact of daily life…but he couldn't. Right now he found it hard to believe that he was fortunate in anything, other than just being alive.

He was pulled from his thoughts by cheers from the lead boats that caught on with the other boats: The Barry had not sunk! It really was not special, as destroyer ships from the 1950s went, but it had been moored for so long at the Navy Yard that it was like part of the family. As a symbol, perhaps, of the battle—well, if the Barry could take a beating and still be standing, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

Slap, slap… The lead boats were now slowing, cautious, eyes trained on the shore. The little fleet was at great risk of being fired upon if the enemy had seized the Yard; or even subject to being shot at by their own side in exuberant error.

Tim's boat, the Barry lifeboat, also carried the mission commander, a lieutenant. An ensign in the boat trained binoculars on the river bank, slowly seeping back and forth; back and forth. He stiffened. "Sir, the Isaac Hull gate is showing, I think, rifle fire. The enemy must not have gotten through yet."

"Score one for us," Lieutenant Casey Townsend said wryly. "Petty Officer Dingle, prepare to dock."

"Aye aye, Sir," responded the petty officer in the lead boat. His rowers smoothly brought their lifeboat toward one of the docks.

"Hold it right there!" Out of the fog, two men and a woman, all in Marines camo, suddenly appeared on the dock, rifles leveled.

"We're from the Anacostia naval base," called the lieutenant. "We're here to help!"

"Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't," said the woman Marine. "Can you prove it?"

The ensign in Tim's boat grinned. "Helen, don't you remember when you got a flat tire in the Yard, and I drove you home back to Norfolk, in my car with no air-conditioning, in the middle of July?"

She lowered her rifle and dimpled. "Danny? Danny Brown?!...Chief, they're legit!"

The chief warrant officer and the other Marine lowered their rifles, too. "In that case, welcome, men! We can certainly use you. Good grief; how many of you are there?!"

The other boats made way for the lieutenant's boat to dock first. He leaped out, shook the chief's hand, and introduced himself. "We have twelve men plus gear in each of twelve boats, and ten in this older boat; all eager to be of service. I'm sending these boats back to Anacostia to pick up more men. Meanwhile, we've sent a runner over to Bolling, next door, to see if the airmen at the air base want to get in on the fun."

"Wow. Wow," said the chief, shaking his head. "We just might win this one, after all."

- - - - -

Abby pulled Tony's borrowed sweater tighter around her as she worked in the storeroom. Her tasks didn't have her moving around enough to keep warm in the now-chilly NCIS building. What had started as a pleasant way of both keeping busy and being useful was becoming less satisfying. What am I doing here? Why didn't I leave days ago, like the Director said I could do? Everything's falling apart. I've counted the remaining unused candles, like the Director asked – 39. That's it, and then we go completely dark. I don't think I like the dark so much anymore.

She'd overheard snatches of conversation in her rounds. People were worried; strong people who could handle firearms expertly. The enemy had more powerful weapons. The gates were weakening; at least, the Hull gate was. Sooner or later they would break through. All communications were still down, and no one had any idea where the National Guard was, or if they'd arrive in time now. The horrid, horrid whiteboard in the squad room that bore the names of the wounded and the dead…she couldn't walk by it without whimpering. The tally now stood at eleven NCIS personnel wounded; seven dead. Paul Koski, listed as wounded little more than an hour ago, had died suddenly; his was the newest death name below Tim's. All these people, dead at Christmas…

Tim… Abby didn't want to cry. She didn't want to feel. If she didn't feel, maybe it hadn't happened at all. The act of feeling something hurt; hurt badly. How dare they take away such a good man as Tim?! At the thought of the word good, the tears came again. She'd been afraid of crying now; afraid that in the cold building the tears would freeze on her face. Instead they felt hot and salty and good, so she let them flow. Maybe the flow would wash out the pain.

Jenny saw the last bit of this, and hesitated before entering the storeroom. "Abby, I—"

"Oh! Director!" Abby struggled to wipe away the tears. She wasn't ready to talk about her feelings; not yet. Right now, the hurt had taken up residence inside her, and she was reluctant to let it out, letting out any of her memories of Tim. What if they took flight and never came back? "I, uh…I've found 39 unused votive candles. I counted them three times. Why did we have so many candles in the first place? There must have been hundreds to begin with!"

Jenny smiled slightly. "Before MTAC took up so much room here, back when it was ATAC, we used to have space for entertaining." She was glad to see Abby perk up a little at that. "Oh, yes. We had formal or semi-formal events here a couple times a year. Seating for a hundred or so. Usually this was to honor visiting dignitaries or such, but also for things like in-house awards. And we sometimes leased space to the Navy or the Marines for their entertaining."

"So…?"

"There was the idea that a votive candle on each of the tables looked classy. So candles were bought over the years. Many, many candles; all colors, depending on the decorating theme for each event. When MTAC was established in '02, the 'ballroom' vanished, and the remaining candles wound up in storage…Now we'll have to come up with a new alternative light source for our next power failure," she said wryly.

"Director, when these last candles are used up…"

"That won't be for awhile. We're in daylight now; we can start rationing candles. Let's extinguish half of all the ones on tables now."

"I'll get right on that, Director." Abby swiftly left the room.

Jenny lingered in the storeroom. She'd been prepared to tell Abby to take more downtime, to deal with her grief, but maybe having her stay busy was the better idea.

- - - - -

Word spread quickly through the building. The Navy has landed! In just those terms it came, comical as it might seem. From the Anacostia base, over a hundred fresh Navy men, ready to fight. Within an hour, that number would be doubled, they said. All special agents fit for action had by now seen a couple of shifts at one of the gates. All were now pulled back, letting the Navy take over.

This made things no less busy at NCIS. Returning agents strolled in, some laughing for the first time in hours, looking for food, for water, for a chair. Some peeled off for sleep, as despite the arrival of the fresh forces, there was no guarantee that NCIS wouldn't be needed again soon. To Abby's consternation, some picked up freshly-extinguished candles and relit them, just because they were unlit. She followed them, as best she could, from room to room, snuffing out those candles. Of course, others quickly relit them.

Gibbs saw this and grinned even as he was pulled aside to sign off on something. Then a Marine guard came up to him. "Agent Gibbs, sir. There's a man at the front entrance who says he works here but he has no ID at all on him. I find it suspicious, sir. He says you can vouch for him. Do you want us to put him in holding until you get a chance to—"

"What's his name?"

"Uh…I forget, sir. Sorry, sir."

"That's all right, Corporal. I'll be down there directly." Who could it possibly be? As far as I know, everyone's accounted for. Probably one of the CRFO agents, but how could he have lost his ID?

After signing and sending the papers to be scanned and filed, Gibbs took the stairs down to the front entrance. His right hand automatically went near his holster. In these times, trouble could be inches away.

The front entrance was dimly lit by the pale daylight coming in the front doors and three candles. The two Marine guards on loan were there, as were a couple of men he assumed were part of the Navy fleet, and someone in Navy sweats and a trench coat, leaning on a cane—

"Hi, boss; I um, lost all my IDs, my wallet, and, um, it's a long story—"

Gibbs stared, taking it all in, just a few seconds before rushing forward and taking him in a bear hug, startling the other men. "Dang it, Tim; we thought you were dead!" The tone of his voice carried more joyous expression than his words did.

"No, not yet," Tim laughed, his voice hoarse. "I was on the Barry when it blew. I'm okay, boss, but Faith—" he choked.

"We know, Tim. Her body was recovered. And we heard from Petty Officer Levitz that you had been on board. But you're sweating, and it looks like you have a leg injury. Let's get you to see Ducky. Can you climb stairs?"

Tim eyed the stairs. Yes, he could do it, though it would be slow and it would hurt. "I guess so, boss, but I've already seen the base doctor at Anacostia, and—"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "While Ducky's examining you, that will give you plenty of time to tell us your long story. I trust it will be good."

"Well, uh—" Tim looked distressed. How will Gibbs take it? Will he let me have it for leaving the building, and then the Yard?

But Gibbs only clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, McGee. I'm just glad to have you back among the living. Sailor, help me help him up the stairs."

- - - - -

Slowly Gibbs and Tim moved through the squad room, Gibbs matching Tim's limited pace. Around them shouts arose as people recognized Tim and surged toward him. Was this a Christmas miracle? Gibbs fought them off; Tim was having enough trouble walking. Someone then, inspired, pushed a rolling desk chair at them and bade Tim to sit, proud to be Tim's chauffer for the remaining distance to Tim's desk.

Tim put his head down on his desk; relief flooding him. I'm home. He was tired beyond belief, now that he finally had the opportunity to allow himself to feel tired. And he hurt. He felt in his pocket for the pills Doctor Sykora had given him. Better not take any more until Ducky sees me; see what he says.

"Get Ducky up here," Gibbs said to an agent. "Find the Director; let her know about McGee," he said to another.

"Someone said—" That was Tony, coming down the stairs from the third floor. "Said—It's true! PROBIE!!!" He launched himself at Tim, laughing and crying both. "How the hell—"

"McGee!!!" Ziva hurdled a desk to get to him. She was not a hugger by nature, but in this case she couldn't resist getting in from behind, since Tony clung to him at the front. Hers was a very brief hug, but Tim noticed it, and appreciated the gesture.

Ducky came at a run. "Dear me, Timothy. I am ever so glad to see you; injured is so much better than dead."

"I can't argue with that, Ducky," Tim said.

"Someone should tell—I'll go find her," said Tony, and ran off, without waiting for permission. But he stopped at the whiteboard on the way, drew a line through Tim's name on the death list, and added the name to the injured list, with a long arrow going from the former to the latter. Found alive!!!he added above the arrow, flanking the words with stars.

- - - - -

Tony found Abby in a conference room, snuffing out the room's two candles. "Come with me," he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her out the door.

"Tony, what—"

"Oh, save your voice," he said, grinning. "You're going to be yelling yourself hoarse in a minute."

- - - - -

Abby's scream in the squad room threatened to shatter the windows. "Too tight; too tight, Abby!" Ducky said. "He can't breathe!"

She did let Tim go, then; but took his hands, and couldn't take her eyes away from his face: that tired, dirty, scratched, beautiful face. She prayed her thanks that she'd been given a chance to see it again.

"Abigail, do let me in to see him," Ducky grumbled, even as Jenny came up and got in on the hugging act. He threw up his hands and allowed Jenny her moment.

"All right, now off with your sweat pants, Timothy. I need to check your wound," Ducky said, giving Jenny and Abby gentle shoves to the side.

"Here? In public??" Tim panicked.

"Oh, don't be so modest, Timothy. You're welcome to keep your boxers or briefs on. It's either that or you have to climb down the stairs to Autopsy."

Still blushing furiously, Tim pulled off the Navy sweat pants. This sort of thing is more frightening than facing a truckload of enemy attackers, he thought.

- - - - -

Tim related the story of how he and Faith had gone to the Barry, of the explosion, his finding of the lifeboat, his chance trip to Anacostia.

"And so you brought back the Navy. Good work, Probie!" Tony gave him an affectionate cuff on the ear.

"They volunteered. Who was I to say no?" Tim said with a tired smile. Then he thought of something. "Oh, boss! Director!" He nearly jumped up.

"Be still, Timothy!" Ducky said sharply, jostling Gibbs holding the flashlight as he did so. "I can't treat your wound if you're moving about."

"Sorry, Ducky. Has anyone checked the Navy Museum?"

"The…Navy Museum, Tim?" Jenny asked, gently, in the ensuing silence. It seemed, after all, like a strange non sequitur.

"I thought I'd made that clear. Maybe not. The reason Faith and I slipped out was because we had a hunch that attackers were already inside the Yard. She was in favor of checking the Barry first. I thought the Navy Museum would be a more likely hiding spot. We followed her plan—"

"And neither would have been looked at since at least Friday," said Ziva.

"Let's roll!" said Gibbs, looking around for a couple more for this ad-hoc team. "Good work, McGee. But don't leave the building again without authorization, got it?"

"Got it," said Tim, wincing as Ducky gave him a shot.

- - - - -

"It's times like this," Tony said as the small group crept up on the Navy Museum, right next door to NCIS, "that I think we should have a key to every building in the Yard. "You know, so we could take in their mail and water their plants when they're on vacation; roust out squatting terrorists…"

Gibbs only grunted. "Norris, Jones, watch the rear exit. The rest of you, we're going in the front. Everyone, I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful."

They knew what he meant. There were no lights of any type visible in the museum. They could be walking into the worst possible situation.