Chapter 37
Thirty years ago...
As the days went by, Sam began to recover. Physically, at least. The pain lessened as his body healed. He had discovered that he had blind spots in his peripheral vision and his doctor didn't know whether or not they'd go away. Still, he wasn't blind and that was a good thing.
But psychologically, emotionally, he began to sink. The reality of how badly the mission had gone, of knowing that, even with his determination not to destroy the village, it had been destroyed anyway. The knowledge that his team had all been killed and, for some, their bodies had been left behind because there had been no way to pull them out. He began to withdraw from the world around him into a dark abyss, sinking deeper and deeper into the quagmire. He refused to talk to anyone and refused to see his family. How could he enjoy the blessing of being home when his team would never have that again?
One of those dark days saw Sam sitting in his room, staring out at the world that would never know what had happened to the good men he had served with.
The door to his room opened.
"I'm not seeing anyone, Doc," he said, angrily. "Go away."
"No, Sam. Not this time."
Sam closed his eyes at the voice of his wife. He heard her walk over to him and sit down beside him.
"Please, Sam. Please, don't do this to me. You can't shut yourself away like this. Talk to me. Tell me what is going through your mind."
Sam sat there, his eyes closed and told himself that he would not answer. He would not speak.
Then, he felt a hand on his cheek.
"I need you, Sam. I can't lose you. I can't face this on my own."
Involuntarily, his own hand lifted and he covered her hand with his own.
"I'm so far away from you that I can't even see you anymore," he whispered.
"No. You're right here. You're with me. Here. Now."
Sam shook his head. "My body is, but I'm not."
"Then, come back."
"I can't. I'm in pieces, broken down. I don't know who I am, anymore."
"I know. Look at me, Sam."
Sam shook his head again.
"Yes. Look at me. I'm right here with you."
Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at Naomi, seeing the beauty before him.
"I'm still in pieces," he whispered.
"Let me help put you back together, then," she said, with a bit of a smile, but then, she sobered. "Sam, you can't change what happened out there by refusing to live your life."
Sam felt the tears that his father would have disparaged well up in his eyes and he shook a little bit as he tried to hold them back.
"I tried so hard, Naomi," he said. "I... I tried so... hard to do it right. And I failed. I don't know what to do, anymore." And for the first time since he returning to the U.S., he reached out. "I need your help."
Naomi leaned forward and hugged him.
"You only had to ask," she said.
The tears broke free and streamed down his cheeks as he cried for the men he'd lost, for his failure to protect the innocent people who had died, for the collapse of his own sense of self. He couldn't ever tell Naomi the details, but she didn't need them. Everything had been destroyed out there and he had tried not to need anyone, but he did and there was no way he could deny it when Naomi was right there, trying to give him the help he was trying to pretend he didn't need.
The road was rocky, but he started to climb out of the emotional trough into which he'd fallen. One of the things that helped him the most was when he started allowing Tim to see him. Tim had no idea how hard things were for his dad. He just knew that he was going to be home more, that he was hurt now, but he was getting better and the only restriction seemed to be that he didn't act too wild around him. Finally, Sam was sent home to finish his recovery. He wasn't moving around much, and he was still having trouble, but Naomi could be on hand most of the time to help him.
One day, Naomi had a doctor's appointment and she needed to leave Tim somewhere. She claimed that everyone was busy and it was a weekend. So Sam needed to watch his son until she got done. He didn't really want to do that. It was one of his harder days when he didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone, and he certainly didn't want to see life going on as usual, but it had to be done.
Sam was suspicious that there was really no other option, but he allowed it, assuming that he would simply have to struggle to keep himself from snapping at his son and then being relieved when Naomi came back.
That wasn't how it happened, though.
When Naomi left, Tim was still a little nervous around his father, but he smiled and climbed onto a chair by the bed instead of running off to play on his own.
Sam was about to tell Tim that he was tired and needed a nap. He was mostly bedbound, anyway, but Tim beat him to speaking.
"Daddy, I'm going to read to you like Mommy does when I'm not feeling good. I brought a book in here for you to listen to while Mommy is busy. Okay?"
Sam wanted to say no, but he nodded, thinking that this would at least give him the chance to avoid talking.
To his surprise, Tim didn't start reading one of his school stories. The book he had wasn't a novel. It was a book of poetry.
"Whose woods these are, I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow."
Tim paused and looked at his father.
"I've never seen snow, except on TV. Does it fill up woods, Daddy? Can there be that much?"
"Yes," Sam said, softly.
"Okay." Tim looked back down and found his place again.
Sam felt tears in his eyes, not because the poem was so touching, but Tim's earnestness in reading it was touching. He couldn't look up because he didn't know the words. He was following along with his finger, trying to get the meter right.
"My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
There was a pause and Sam couldn't say anything because he was so choked up. It was all right, though, because Tim didn't look up. He just went on to another poem and started reading that. On and on, for nearly an hour. Tim just read poetry to his father. He was so focused on the words that he didn't have much inflection. In normal circumstances, it would be boring, but this wasn't boring. It was beautiful, and it was so wonderful that, even if he didn't want to cry, Sam was crying silently at the dedication his son showed in being with his father. Finally, Tim came to one that really made Sam listen. Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night."
"'Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"
Suddenly, Tim stopped reading. There was still one more stanza. Sam knew it. He could have recited it himself because he had done so at his own father's funeral, but when Tim looked at him, there was something in his eyes that Sam couldn't quite read. Maybe it could be chalked up to his still-healing eyes. Or maybe it was just an emotion that Sam couldn't understand since it was coming from his seven-year-old son.
And Tim didn't need to read the end, either. He recited the last stanza from memory, looking right into Sam's eyes.
"'And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"
"Tim?" Sam said, his voice in a whisper.
"Yes, Daddy?"
"Come here."
Tim closed the book and obediently got off the chair and walked over to the bed. Then, he climbed up so that he was right beside his father. Sam took his son in his arms and hugged him tightly. Tim hugged him back.
"Daddy, you've been so sad. Mommy said that you were hurt, but it's not just hurt. I don't want you to be sad, anymore, and I don't want you to go, anymore. Can you please stay and be happy, too?"
Sam just sat there, hugging his son. It didn't matter that Tim had interpreted the poem literally. It didn't matter that what he was saying didn't quite fit with what Dylan Thomas had meant. None of that mattered. What mattered was that his son cared about him and wanted him to get better.
"I love you, Tim."
"I love you, too, Daddy."
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Present...
Sam was sitting pensively in his chair, trying to convince himself that he should just turn in early and hope that tomorrow would seem better than today had. Knowing as he did what the charges would be based on, he couldn't help but remember the pain of that time, the knowledge of so many deaths, and from a moral point of view, to some degree, he still felt responsible. And yet, he knew that, legally, he wasn't. If they wanted to accuse him on moral grounds, he wouldn't be able to fight it, but he had not pulled the trigger on any person and he had tried to prevent more deaths. So he could fight with a clear conscience, knowing that what they wanted to do was wrong.
"Sam, is there anything you need? Besides the obvious, that is."
Sam took a deep breath and looked over at Naomi. He smiled.
"Kahlil Gibran. 'Your friend is your needs answered.'"
Naomi smiled back. "I take it that's a no?"
"'A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy.' Albert Einstein."
Naomi laughed out loud.
"Now, I know you're just pulling those out of thin air. I'm sorry, Sam, but that doesn't sound deep or meaningful at all."
"Everyone can have an off day on occasion. Even Einstein."
A knock on the door interrupted the teasing and Naomi walked over to answer it. She checked the peephole, first, and got a quizzical expression on her face. She opened the door.
"Captain Coleman, what brings you here at this hour? Come in."
"Thank you, ma'am. I'll try not to take too much of your time."
"Have a seat," Naomi said, gesturing to the couch. Faith sat down and set her briefcase on the floor.
"Is there something wrong?" Sam asked.
"No more wrong than it was before, but I did want to tell you what I've learned, bring you up to speed. First of all, does the name Stidden mean anything to you?"
Sam looked at Naomi as she sat down and then furrowed his brow.
"No. Although it does sound somewhat familiar. Should I know about him from the mission?"
"I don't know about that, but he's currently the Secretary of Defense."
"Oh. Yes, of course. I should have remembered that name," Sam said. "But I have to admit that I'd be hard-pressed to recite the members of the Cabinet."
"Unnecessary," Faith said, almost smiling. "He is involved, at least to the degree of being the source of some of the intimidation we've experienced."
Naomi's eyes widened. "What do you mean? Why would he be involved?"
"It must be something he was connected to because he has a definite personal interest, based on his behavior thus far. I was hoping that you could explain that, Dr. McGee."
"I'm sorry, Captain. I wish I could," Sam said. "But my orders came only through Admiral Jackson and, unfortunately, he died, years ago. He never told me where the orders originated...and I asked more than once."
"All right. That will have to stand, for now. Second, the charges against you are going to be insubordination and mass murder."
"That's outrageous!" Naomi burst out. "Sam would never!"
"I didn't say that I agreed with the charges, ma'am," Faith said. "I'm telling you what they are so that I can ask a question."
"I'm sorry. Go on."
Faith looked at Sam. "Dr. McGee, is there a reason why mass murder would be one of the charges?"
"Yes," Sam said, hating that he could still bring up memories of that time in the jungle so clearly.
"But you had nothing to do with them?"
"That's correct. In fact, when the deaths occurred, I was temporarily blinded by some kind of explosive device. I still have a few blind spots in my peripheral vision. There's no way I could have done it, even if I had wanted to...which I didn't. My entire team died. I almost died. None of us were in any shape to commit murder."
"All right. I'll proceed with that in mind. Third, I don't think you realize just how many people are behind you right now."
Sam was surprised by the statement. There was no more emotion in that than there had been in the previous statements, but the content was so different.
"Excuse me?" he asked. "How many people even know about it?"
"Not many, but those who do are on your side."
"Like who?" Naomi asked.
"Retired Admiral A J Chegwidden, formerly the head of JAG. Major General Cresswell, the current head of JAG. Retired Captain Harmon Rabb, former JAG lawyer. Captain Bud Roberts and his wife, Harriet. None of them know all the details, but they're all people who, from what they do know, are committed to helping you in whatever way they can. For some, this will merely be moral support, but I have been surprised by the aid and offers of aid I've already received. You are not in this alone, Dr. McGee. I am doing my best and that is being augmented by others who will also do their best."
"I...I don't know what to say," Sam said. "David Joseph Schwartz said that 'Success depends on the support of other people. The only hurdle between you and what you want to be is the support of other people.' I don't know if this will lead to success, but all these people...pulling for me... I don't know how say what I feel."
"Thank you," Naomi said, simply.
"You're welcome," Faith said. While it wasn't particularly warm, Sam could see that it was genuinely meant and he appreciated it.
"How dangerous will it be for these people?" Sam asked. "Too many are already in danger."
"I doubt there will be much danger at all. Some are not even in the area and others are intentionally keeping out of the way, for safety's sake. Those of us who are actively involved are ready for what that might entail. And, to some degree, the more who know, the safer we are. It's hard to silence a large number of people."
"Are you saying that I should go public with this?"
"No. Probably not because, with the Top Secret nature of the mission, you could easily be charged with treason and they could use that just as easily as anything else to get you out of the way. No, I think you're doing the right thing in keeping that secret. I know as much as I can without being read in...and a little more than I probably should, but I can see that there may be very important people who stand to lose by this coming out. We'll just have to keep on this way, and I think the charges may be coming soon."
Abruptly, Faith stood.
"I won't take any more of your time. Have a good evening, Dr. McGee, Mrs. McGee. I'll contact you when I have more questions, but if you have any, you may call me anytime."
Naomi stood as well and put out her hand.
"Thank you for what you're doing, Captain."
"My pleasure, ma'am. This is the right thing to do, and I'm not breaking any laws by doing it. That makes things much easier."
Then, she genuinely smiled for the first time and left.
"She's very interesting, isn't she," Sam said.
"Very," Naomi agreed. "I'm glad she's on our side."
"So am I."
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
It was a strange silence that dominated the hotel room as they bedded down for the night. In fact, Tony couldn't take it and turned on the TV while the others got ready for bed. He kept the volume low, but he just didn't want to deal with the strained silence. It wasn't that no one said anything. It was Tim. He had said almost nothing, and he really hadn't said anything that he didn't have to say.
But Tony didn't really say anything, either. He just pulled out the sofa bed and, when the lights went out, he turned off the TV and tried to relax and go to sleep. It had been a long day and he was tired. It was just that everything had changed so quickly and he wasn't sure exactly how to deal with it. Tim was now with them, just like they'd hoped, but he wasn't acting like himself.
After about an hour, all was still in the room.
...until Tony heard something. He opened his eyes and looked over. It appeared that Tim was under the covers with that laptop, working on something. Tony could just see the faint glow of the laptop screen through the covers.
He got up and started toward the bed, but then, he saw Gibbs sit up as well and shake his head.
Not wanting to reveal to Tim that they were both awake, he just widened his eyes in a silent question. Gibbs shrugged and lay back down. Tony walked back to the sofa bed and did the same. Then, he watched the lump under the covers as Tim worked.