Chapter 26: December 26, 7:30 a.m.

Ziva slipped away from the scene as Ducky and Corporal Boyd arrived to treat Owings and Conklin for their burns. It would look too obvious for her to be hanging around, since she hadn't been interacting with Conklin, in the strictest sense, before the incident. The medics should have Conklin tied up for at least 15 minutes (and likely longer, if they attended to the other man—who surely had worse burns—first).

Quietly she stepped down the stairs to the front entrance. If Gibbs had come to check the logs, he was already gone. She scribbled her name and started to make up a reason for her going out, but one of the guards cut her off with a raise of his hand. "It's okay, ma'am. You're on the new list Agent Gibbs just gave us of people approved to leave without management consent."

"Oh. Well. That's good," Ziva said, even finding a smile to go along with her words. But she wondered: What is Gibbs up to? Was he trying to get Conklin to give something away, by making it easier for him to get out? Probably, but I wish he would tell us if so. She stopped herself in mid-reach for her cell phone, and felt foolish.

But her real aim had been to do a quick check on the situation at the gates. In the management meeting, no one had said anything about it, and she hadn't thought to ask. Probably means nothing much has changed: we have not gained ground, but neither has the enemy.

The sky was turning light in the east; sunrise was due in minutes. Not that they'd see the sun just yet; conditions were still overcast, but the air was different today: light and dry, not moist and heavy as it had been in the last few days. The wind was from the southwest, as well. Maybe it would clear off soon. She could only hope. Sunrise on another bloody day…? Shuddering, she dismissed the thought. That type of worry usually didn't come her way.

Ziva decided to go to the O Street gate first. Some of the Marines there knew her and waved to her. She picked out the one with the highest rank there—a sergeant—but the sergeant pointed her to a Navy petty officer, instead. "We're holding our own, Officer David," the PO said, as they stepped around a corner to escape most of the noise. "But not much more than that. Our men are tired, and I've heard that of all of the teams." He turned his face to look at the fighting at the gate. "We'll keep going until we drop, but I wish it didn't have to be that way. I wish…well, I'd better get back there."

At the Isaac Hull gate, the fighters were mostly Navy, with a few Marines. "We're dead tired, Ziva," the Marine in charge echoed the PO's words. "I'm afraid we'll have to call on NCIS again, pretty soon. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry," she said. "We are willing to do our part."

He shook his head, and she was glad he'd spared her the platitude on NCIS-civilians-weren't-expected-to-be-in-a-war. She knew that already. They had no choice.

"I am headed back to NCIS now," she said. "Would you like for me to send a team out here?"

"Anyone you can spare," he said.

It occurred to her, as she signed back in, that she didn't even know who the combat team leaders were now. Gibbs was ineligible, with his wrist injury; she had taken over for him, but she remembered being told that her assignment now to monitor Conklin took precedence over her combat role.

Management members make decisions, she said to herself as she climbed the stairs to the squad room. They can berate me later if they do not like my decision. Going over to the twenty or so agents sitting around there, she clapped her hands to get their attention. "We have been asked to supply troops for the Isaac Hull gate," she said, trying to let confidence show in her voice. "I need ten volunteers." To her surprise, she got them, and appointed one whom she vaguely knew as leader. The Marine she'd talked to would still be the actual leader, so she wasn't concerned about NCIS having to make combat decisions.

Now to find out what Conklin was up to…

Searching for a wheelchair? Look where the doctors are. Tony had quietly found one in a storeroom off Autopsy, and this he now pushed down the third floor corridor. I can live without lights, refrigeration, and ZNN…but I want the elevators back online! he thought. Carrying the chair all the way up the stairs from Autopsy had not been fun. He thanked his lucky stars that he didn't have to worry about sneaking it past MTAC. He didn't want to be asked the questions Conklin was sure to ask.

"Wakey wakey," he sang out as he entered the Director's bathroom. To his perverse delight, Tim had actually been asleep and Tony had woken him. "You are ready for NASCAR. Do you know how to operate one of these?"

Tim made a face. "Actually, yes. I've told you how I crashed my car when I was 16. I used a wheelchair for a few weeks after I got out of the hospital. And it wasn't that hard to learn even then. Can you unfold the chair for me?"

"You want to get in it now? What for?"

"I want to be ready. I'm not sleepy now. Don't ask me 'ready for what?'"

"You'll know it when you see it?"

"Well, I hope so." Since Tony had put the now-unfolded chair close to him, Tim sat up and swung himself into the chair. Then he reached under his pillow and removed Tony's sig, which he tucked into an inside pocket on the left side of the wheelchair. "Tell me," Tim said firmly, "that you have found a replacement sig for yourself somewhere."

"I," said Tony, wearing one of his fake smiles, "am fine. You are fine. Everyone's fine."

"Dang it, Tony; take your dang sig back. I don't want it on my conscience that despite you wearing a bulletproof vest, you were shot down by Conklin or someone because you weren't armed."

Tony reached into a pocket and withdrew a paperclip. "I'm not unarmed. I've been taking lessons from Ziva. I am up to method #9 for killing someone with one of these."

"Oh, for the love of pete, stop clowning around for once!! You could be killed out there!!"

"And you could be killed in here by that maniac!! Tim, I can't work knowing you're defenseless!!"

They turned silent, glaring at each other. Finally Tony said, "Get up. I'll fight you for it…come on, I said get up!!"

"You bastard!"

"Yeah, well, you know what, McGee? I'm going to take your weakness and exploit it. Yes, I am physically stronger than you at the moment, so I'm declaring you have greater need of the gun than I do. And that's that," Tony snarled.

Tim swore at Tony. Tony swore back, and walked out.

Shaking, Tim reached for the gun and patted it. He so hoped that this friendship wouldn't end on this note, and that this wouldn't be the last time he saw Tony.

Gibbs looked through the notes he'd made of the entrance/exit log. Conklin had been outside four times since the start of the attacks, for periods ranging from 10 to 43 minutes. All times were after dark. There was nothing else remarkable in the logs for anyone.

He couldn't force the data to make sense; he'd have to mull it over and see if his brain made any connections. Next on his agenda should be task number two: go outside and investigate. But before he did that, he wanted to check on Abby. While her courage in doing an agent's work was commendable, he was worried that she wasn't cut out for it.

After about ten minutes, he found her sitting with the Intel staff in a room with windows, where the daylight was just peeking in. She was listening to them intently, nodding and smiling or frowning at the appropriate points, offering a hug now and then. Gibbs went out, pleased. If the Intel staff had anything pertaining to Zelig or even Conklin, they'd probably sooner tell Abby than they would anyone in management. Provided she didn't spend all her time with just this group, she'd do well.

Jenny counted the shelter-in-place supplies, and sighed. She'd long considered the mandated concept unnecessary, an example of bomb-shelter-like hysteria. Of course there was some sense behind it: you wanted your people to have provisions in case some sort of disaster outside—radiation, civil unrest, blizzard maybe—meant that no one could safely leave the building. NCIS stocked the recommended water and first aid supplies, as well as blankets and pillows (which had already been put into use), and a small number of energy bars.

The water she loaded onto a cart, all seven cases of it. Two she would hide in her office, for very last resort…such as, if the tap water stopped running. One would go to Autopsy for the patients. The others would be generally available. I wish I had a sense of how much water we've been going through per day.

After a thought, she loaded all of the energy bars, too, on the cart. There were a few dozen of these. All would go to Autopsy. Beyond that, the only food remaining was some packaged dried soups and Cynthia's secret stash of enormous bags of M&Ms (plain and peanut), which she was finally donating to the masses.

This isn't enough to keep us going. I'll have to go begging to the Marines.

It hit her, then, that maybe this was the enemy's plan all along: a siege. At some point the Navy Yard inhabitants would be so hungry that they would surrender, or too weak to continue the fighting at the gates. And then the enemy will have us…