Chapter 14: December 25, early evening
At the wall where unknown persons had cut through, a lone Marine stood guard in the gloom. It would be awhile before the concrete repair work had solidified enough to be sure that the wall would hold. The Marine, one Corporal Michaels, was deemed young but effective by his superiors. He should be able to handle the position. Even without a working phone, he had a back-up in Private Yee, who would join in or run for help, if need be.
How dull this is, watching concrete harden. As much fun as watching paint dry.
Now where is Yee? He should have been back from the can by now… Instinctively he turned, his rifle leveled, at the sound of footsteps.
"It's just me, Michaels; Jason Yee," said Yee, not yet close enough to be visible in the faint cloud light.
"Okay, good." Michaels lowered his rifle. "I tell ya; I don't know whether to be unnerved or bored, waiting out here."
"A little of both for me, I guess."
They chatted a bit; on the weather, on Christmases past, on basketball, on what they would do when this crisis was over. Surely this wouldn't go on too much longer: the National Guard would arrive, or something else would turn in their favor, and the enemy would fall like bowling pins. This was an uncomfortable way to spend Christmas, to be sure, but Yee predicted that tomorrow would be sunny and warmer. Better days were always ahead.
Michaels stiffened suddenly as Yee was telling of one childhood Christmas in San Francisco. "…up on Nob Hill, the lights at Grace Cathedral—what is it, Michaels?"
"Someone's on the other side of the wall," Michaels hissed. Sure enough, there was a scraping as bricks were pushed around with some heavy instrument. Michaels quaked. This is it. What should I do? What should I do? Run for help? Have Yee run for help? No, I'll stand and do battle. That's what a Marine does. He had a last thought of his dress blues uniform; the most impressive uniform of all the armed forces. His family had been so proud when he'd been accepted into the Corps…
With a dull crash, the bricks gave way. One by one, four enemy combatants jumped through. Michaels got the first one, after two shots; it was the one to the face that felled him. It was the shots right after that that dropped Michaels, ending his indecision.
"Don't shoot!" Yee cried, his hands in the air. He knew a little Arabic, but not those words. He wasn't even sure that Arabic was their tongue. Giving that up, he said again in English, "Don't shoot! I'm the one who signaled you. I am one of your contacts in the Marine compound."
"Yes. Private Yee. Good work," said a man in dark camo, appearing to be the leader of the small group.
"Well, okay, then." Yee lowered his hands and avoided looking at Michaels' body. "So…" he looked at the three living invaders and swallowed hard. "So, now you probably want me to get you into the compound. I can do that."
"Tell us which floor the Major's office is on. Which wing."
"Uh, third floor. In the west wing. Major Stallings is said to like the view—"
"We will find him. And his staff. And everyone else we need to find."
This time Yee did look at Michaels; the shirt of his camo now one pitch dark blob. Blood looked as black as tar in the limited light. "We agreed that you would minimize the number of kills, right? You'll take prisoners when you have to, and get the files you're after?"
"That is a civilized response," the leader said with a smile, then a grin.
"Well, good," said Yee. "You understand I can't come with you."
"I did not expect you to." The leader drew a knife and plunged it into Yee's chest.
The trio stepped around the bodies and headed for the Marine compound.
- - - - -
When Gibbs next came up the stairs to the third floor, he found Jenny duct-taping lit votive candles in their glass holders to the wall; three in all along the main hallway and one on either side of the stairs, along the balcony. "I'm trying to discourage people from carrying around their own candle," she said. "We're running low, and I don't want others repeating Roy Quirk's action of managing to set his sleeve on fire."
Gibbs chuckled and sighed, and held the last candle holder in place for her while she bit off a strip of duct tape with her teeth.
"There. Thank you, Jethro. Are you going to interrogate the prisoner?"
"I thought I might leave that for one of the other agents. If we auction off the rights, we'd raise a substantial amount."
She smiled wryly and looked down. "No, I meant, when are you going to interview him?"
"Not just yet. Let him continue to sweat for awhile."
"Don't wait more than another hour, Jethro. He might have information that we need."
"I know. I won't wait too long. Anything else that you know needs doing right now? How are we fixed for supplies?"
"I have two of the Intel people and Abby counting foodstuffs. The Navy brought some provisions, some of which they've donated to us since we're billeting 20 of their men, but I think we're still going to be tight."
"And water?"
"I think we'll be okay there, though we may have to ask people to voluntarily conserve. We have a number of cases of water in the shelter-in-place shelves. As a last resort, we'll get into those." A thought occurred to her. "Have you seen McGee lately? He'd probably appreciate a visit."
"No, I haven't. Good idea."
- - - - -
Gibbs peered into the second floor break room, where one candle burned at the far end. Two men were asleep at that end. This wasn't good for what he wanted to do. He couldn't speak freely with Tim without risking waking the men, or having them overhear a private conversation.
Tim's spot was just inside the door, and Gibbs was surprised to find Tim loosely awake, and his cot exchanged for a gurney. "Hey, McGee," he whispered.
"Boss!" Tim sat up, smiling, though immediately hushed on seeing Gibbs put a finger to his lips. His eyes widened but he didn't say anything as Gibbs pushed the gurney out of the break room and to the end of the hall.
"Wait," said Gibbs, and quietly crept back into the break room, returning with the lit candle. "Now, whose…who did you have to kiss to rate a gurney?" he said with a smile.
"It was Palmer's idea. He said the pressure on my leg wasn't good on a cot; that a gurney was more like a bed. But if someone worse off needs it, I'll have to give it back. I know I'm more comfortable this way. Has Palmer been promoted to doctor?"
Gibbs shrugged. "When all this is over, this is one of those things that will never have happened."
"Got it. He seems pretty good, anyway."
"As long as he doesn't lose confidence, he should do fine."
Gibbs saw the sweat glisten on Tim's forehead, and felt it. Hot. Still? Tim had come in with the first Navy wave, feverish. Is this part of the reason Palmer put him in the gurney? I wonder how much he's told McGee?
"How's your broken wrist, boss?"
"Still broken. It'll heal."
"People—I know people who are a little cranky while their broken bones are healing. I, uh—"
Gibbs looked unusually fearsome by candlelight. Tim let his sentence die.
"Anything I can get for you, McGee?"
"Uh, no not really, boss. You have enough problems with your wrist, I'm sure—"
Again a glare. Tim would have pulled the thin blanket over his head if it would reach that far. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"You sure you don't need anything? More water?"
"No, I'm fine there. We must be starting to run low on bottled water."
Dang his calculating mind. "If you need water, you'll have it. Just ask. Are you warm enough?"
Tim hesitated. "Sometimes I feel really cold, and I want another blanket. Other times, I want to strip off everything. I—there must be other people who need blankets more than I do, boss. I can get by."
"Your bravery is duly noted, McGee, but trust me: as a wounded individual, you're up near the top of the list."
"I just figured…well, it's crazy…"
"What?"
"Well, I asked for a blanket, from, uh…" It was hard to think. "Conklin? Yeah. Conklin. No, that's not right. Zelig. Charles Zelig came to see me, and…" Tim started crying; couldn't help himself.
What the—? "What did Zelig say to you, McGee?" Give me a reason why I shouldn't go punch that bastard's lights out right now.
"I, uh…"
"Tell me, McGee."
"It was nothing. I, uh, asked him about the situation, since no one else had time to tell me."
"And?" How distressing can troop strength be? McGee's no coward.
"He, uh, he told me about all the people we've lost. Named them all; told me how they died. It's just…sad. Really sad."
Gibbs held his temper, while rolling over in his mind all the forms of torture to which he could subject Zelig. He may or may not be a double-agent, but he's a waste of space as a human being. "So now you know," said Gibbs. "We'll miss them all. But we need to keep going."
"Give me something to do, boss," Tim pleaded. "I have a brain, and a good memory; give me a problem to solve."
"I don't have any ideas at the moment, but I'll think on it. Let me get you back to the break room, and you try to sleep some more. You got painkillers?"
"One more pill, then I—I have to wait until Ducky comes back on. Palmer said he doesn't want to hand out prescription meds without Ducky's okay."
"That's reasonable. Okay, here we go…" Gibbs started pulling the gurney. "And I'll personally see that you get an extra blanket."
"Thanks, boss," Tim smiled, his eyes closing. "I know I can count on you."
- - - - -
Gibbs went directly to Autopsy after leaving Tim. Jimmy Palmer was spraying his hands with antibacterial wash. "Palmer. I hear you're doing a good job."
"Oh! Oh, hello, Agent Gibbs. I'm uh, trying my best." Jimmy smiled shyly.
"Keep it up. Can you let Ducky have another three hours down? Then you can have a good long nap yourself."
"No problem, Agent Gibbs. Something I can do for you? Is your wrist bothering you?"
Gibbs shook his head. "I'm after information. You put McGee in a gurney; told him it was to make his leg more comfortable."
"Yes; yes, I did."
"Very thoughtful of you. It wouldn't have anything to do with his fever, would it?"
Jimmy swallowed and looked away before looking Gibbs in the eye again. "He has an infection. So far nothing we've—I mean, Doctor Mallard—has given him has done much good. The wound needs to be seen to surgically; that's way beyond what we can do here without power. Agent McGee needs to get to a hospital. I—I was trying to make him more comfortable."
Gibbs looked at him for a moment, and then put a hand on his shoulder. "Good work, Palmer."
- - - - -
The Marine compound was relatively quiet where Leutze Park met the back of the compound. The three dark camo clad men slipped silently up to that gate.
A lone guard stood there looking bored. Who would expect trouble from inside the Yard? Nonetheless, his expression suddenly changed as a sixth sense alerted him. He brought his rifle to the ready.
The intruders had the advantage, though. The Marine was cast in the light of an oil lamp hanging overhead. Two tried to sneak up on him, to make the kill as silent as possible.
He saw them just in time to get off an unaimed shot. It proved useful, strangely; getting one man in the forehead. In addition, the sound attracted other nearby Marines. While the guard took a shot to the arm and fell, his life was saved by the intruders being too distracted by the other Marines to finish him off.
One of the intruders broke away, dodged to the side, and rushed into the compound. He moved fast, very fast, up the stairs on the west wing side. Additional Marines couldn't catch up to the wiry man.
"What's going on?" Major Stallings came out of his office, pulling on his coat.
"Major! Get back inside, sir!" more than one man called. But before the major could react, the intruder was right before him, and had his automatic rifle pointed at Stallings' gut.
"Whatever you want, you're not going to get it," Stallings said coldly. Indeed, at that moment, four Marines had caught up to the one, and put their rifle ends in his back.
"It does not matter," said the man, setting down his weapon. "The door has opened. You cannot stop our invasion now."