1812 local time
Saudi desert near the Jordan border
Well of Aman
Mac sat down on the burning sand and leaned back against the low stone wall of the well. The rain had stopped soon after sunrise and now all the moisture had miraculously, and rapidly, evaporated in the mid-day sun leaving nothing but unrelenting heat in its wake. She had been at the well for several hours and had only met one person, and it had been a child at that. She was relatively sure that these people would require at least one trip to the well each day living in such a climate. Of course with the previous night's rain, they might have managed to catch all the water they required for the day.
Deciding to wait it out, Mac shifted her shoulders beneath her gown and fought her desire to rip off the suffocating veil. She could deal with the discomfort if it meant she would be able to see Stormy again.
After what seemed like an impossibly long time, the sun began to dip closer to the horizon and Mac cursed softly to herself. She felt completely useless, just sitting around waiting for someone to happen by. Marines were trained to take action, to confront the foe head on, not to be patient. Just as she was preparing to wander back toward the marine encampment where Harm waited for her, she spied several dark forms moving across the sand in her direction.
The group of women slowed their pace when they saw the stranger at the well. Nomads were not uncommon in the desert but this woman wasn't a nomad, her clothing was wrong, her veil not quite right, not to mention she wore almost no jewelry. She could be one of the nomads' outcasts, but her clothing looked too expensive for that.
One woman gestured for the rest to remain where they were and she continued along the path to the well. Cautiously she approached the stranger, eyeing her suspiciously. Calling out a greeting, she was surprised by the woman's Farsi response, flawless Farsi that would have fooled her had she not detected the slightest hint of an American accent.
"You're here for her, are you not?"
Mac's breath caught at the woman's English response. She wasn't Gypsy Crow, but she obviously knew who she was, surely she knew where she was as well. Struggling to maintain her composure, Mac nodded silently.
"She said you would be here once you knew where she was. She was correct." The Arabian woman studied Mac with hooded eyes. "She has never given up the hope that she would be rescued. Even after…"
"After?" Mac questioned. "After what?"
"You are not the first to come for her but I hope you will be the last."
"I'm
not the first…" Mac's voice trailed off as she continued to stare at the
woman. "You know where she is, don't you? You talk to her."
"She taught me her language and I taught her mine… although," she
narrowed her eyes at Mac and cocked her head, drawing out her comment,
"she already knew quite a bit of Farsi. She told me that she had learned
it from a friend; I did not believe her. Humph, it would seem she was being
truthful."
"I need to know where she is. Please, I only want to get her home, I don't
want to hurt anyone," Mac's plea was as soft as the evening breeze, her
hands clasped tightly together.
"I…" the woman's voice wavered. What the American was suggesting had
been tried before and had been met with fatal consequences; she wanted no hand
in either woman's death and she suspected that any further rescue attempt would
destroy her friend's chance for survival among those who held her. But her
friend was dying anyway, she reminded herself; she had not been brought up to
live the restrictive lifestyle she had come to find herself in. She couldn't
always hold her tongue or control her actions… Be it by her own deepening
depression or at the hands of Riyadh, she wouldn't survive much longer.
Mac stared at her, gripping her hands together to keep herself from attacking
the woman and physically wringing the information out of her. She was so close
she couldn't, she wouldn't, walk away empty handed, she refused to leave
without some new bit of information even if she had to inflict a little marine
terror to get it.
Sighing deeply, she looked up into the American's dark eyes. "I tell you
this because she is my friend and I fear for her health. She requires help that
I cannot give her." Turning around, she gestured to the west where the sun
was almost completely hidden behind the shifting mounds of sand. "There is
a compound three kilometers in that direction, five buildings in all. There is
a small storage structure against the southern wall, the shed is locked at
night, that is where she is kept." She turned back around and watched the
emotion build in Mac's eyes. "Be careful, Riyadh has held her captive for
a very long time, and he's not a novice to torture... or terror. She has
endured much suffering and may not be the same person you remember."
"I'll be careful," Mac promised.
"Riyadh and his men are well armed, they will not tolerate a
disturbance."
"I'll be as quiet as a mouse. I just want to bring her home."
Heaving another sigh, she closed her eyes for a moment. In carefully chosen
English, she explained the layout of the complex, the placement of the guards,
even what Gypsy Crow was likely to be wearing. Several minutes later she
stopped her speech and prepared to leave.
"I need to get a message to her." Mac refused to look away from this
woman who was her only link to Gypsy Crow; the fear that she would permanently
disappear over the dunes tugged too strongly at her concern. "She needs to
know that her message got through to me, that I'm here."
The woman nodded thoughtfully. "That I will do. I can deliver messages but
no more than that, I have children to think of, to protect."
"Thank you." Mac blinked her eyes against a sudden gust of gritty
wind. She hadn't thought far enough ahead to prepare a message. Suddenly she remembered a story Gypsy Crow
had told her one lonely night in Bosnia and she knew what to say. "Tell
her this: Coyote has the last laugh."
The Arabian woman shook her head. "The messages the two of you come up
with… It's as if you're speaking in a code only you understand."
Mac smiled and clasped the woman's hand, slipping a small object into her fist.
"We are."
She looked down at the chain and locket Mac had placed in her hand, studying
the design before looking back to the serious American. "It was hers…
before?"
"Yes, it was."
The woman heaved a heavy sigh. "Coyote has the last laugh?"
"Always."
She shook her head again in confusion and returned to the group of women who
were still waiting for her among the dunes. Mac watched until the woman was
again with her companions before she fled into the deepening shadows of the
pre-moon night.
Harm was waiting for Mac when she entered the encampment. His lurking shadow
startled her as he loomed up out of the shadows of the supply tent and reached
out to snag her arm when she passed by, her mind too preoccupied with other
thoughts to notice the concerned naval officer.
"Damn it, Harm!" she hissed through clenched teeth, pulling slightly
out of his grip.
"Come on, Coyote. They've got a cot set up for you, and I saved you some
dinner."
Mac grinned up at him then recalled her earlier conversation. "She's here,
Harm." She tugged the veil off her head and disentangled the wire from her
gown. "Whoever that was, she just confirmed it. I can't wait, I need to go
after her tonight, right now."
Harm gently placed his hands on her shoulders, peering into her eyes.
"What you need to do is eat and get some sleep. Once you're rested, then we'll
go after her."
"Harm…"
"Mac, at least pretend to come up with a plan before you go charging
across the desert," Harm pleaded trying to catch her eyes with his own.
Mac's eyes literally sparked with anger in the darkness. "Like you did
when we were traipsing across Russia looking for your father?" she spat out the words, shrinking back from
the warmth of his touch.
"Mac." He would have continued had she remained to listen, instead he
watched her retreating form as she wove among the tents toward the tent where
she had stowed her things. "Oh, Mac…" His whispered appeal was torn
from his lips by the suddenly rising wind. Shielding his eyes from the flying
sand, he struck out after his stubborn partner, someone had to watch her six
and the corps was remaining obstinately out of the entire situation, after all
they had already buried Colonel Stormy Caldwell, they didn't need to go looking
for her.
She was intently staring at the bowl of soup she had found by her flight bag
when Harm extricated himself from the gusting sandstorm. She remained motionless, not acknowledging
his presence even when he knelt down in front of her. The tent was blessedly
empty, anyone who had originally occupied it had opted to find quarters
elsewhere when they learned of the two JAG lawyers who were taking up residence
and Harm was grateful. It should make talking to Mac a bit easier if they
didn't have an audience.
"Okay, Mac, I'm listening."
"You just don't understand."
"Then make me understand. I want to know, no, I need to know
why you're so intent on getting to this woman that you're willing to disregard
your own safety. How is it that she can have such a strong hold over you? It's
been, what… just how many years has it been since you last saw her?"
Careful to allow Mac enough distance that she didn't feel threatened, Harm made
himself comfortable on the floor of the tent. It was going to be a long night
he could tell, and it was only just beginning.
"She was the first person to show me that it was possible to create a
friendship where there were no expectations. She gave me her trust and support
unconditionally. Even when I treated her badly, she wouldn't turn away from me.
I didn't mention it before but at first I hated her, I couldn't bear to see her
face she irritated me so much. And it wasn't as if I could avoid her, we had
cots next to one another. She was the
first thing I saw each morning and the last thing I saw every night."
Mac's brow wrinkled slightly and she briskly rubbed her hands across her face
to ease the tension she could feel building there.
"We had been stationed in Bosnia for what seemed a lifetime to me,
although it was probably more like three weeks when our team was taken by
surprise while we were patrolling. Six of us were held for four hours before
our abductors slipped up and we were able to retaliate and escape," Mac's
voice trailed off. Shaking her head she continued her tale, "While we were
still at their mercy Stormy kept drawing their attention away from me. She
ended up getting hit so many times for her efforts that she spent the next week
with the camp medics. I asked her later why she did it and she told me that
there was something in my eyes that told her I'd been through enough, that I didn't
need to suffer anymore." A sad smile creased her lips at the memory of
Stormy trying to get the medics to leave her alone long enough that she could
answer Mac's questions.
"So you feel that you owe her…" Harm started to say.
"I do owe her, Harm. After that I finally opened up and let her become my
friend. She was the person who showed me that just because I had a rotten
childhood didn't mean I had to have a rotten life." Mac cast pleading eyes at her partner.
"I can't let her have a rotten life, Harm. She deserves better than
that."
"I'm convinced but you still need to get some sleep before you try to do
anything. Besides, this sandstorm is going to make sure you don't go anywhere
for a while. Why don't you lie down and I'll start on a plan of extrication for
your Gypsy Crow. Once you wake up I'll explain it to you." Harm reached
out a tentative hand and brushed the hair back from her face, cupping her cheek
in his hand.
"Okay, but only because of the sandstorm, otherwise I'd be headed toward
this Riyadh complex by now."
Harm shoved Mac toward the cot. "Get some sleep, Jarhead. You're going to
need it tomorrow."
Mac lay on the cot, wakeful and nervous. It had been hours since Harm had shoved her toward the cot, and just a few minutes since he had gone to sleep himself. What she had told Harm about Gypsy Crow being her first real friend had been the truth. She had met her just after her failed relationship with John Farrow and had been so wary of trusting anyone that it was nothing short of miraculous that the other woman hadn't given up early on, labeling the emotionally disturbed Marine as a hopeless cause. But no matter what Mac had done during those first few weeks, Stormy had always been there, hovering, annoying, and just as determined as ever. Three more weeks into their tour of duty, Stormy had gained a nickname and Mac had gained a friend.
She turned to watch the steady rise and fall of Harm's chest in the dim interior of the tent. She could hear the gusting wind as it continued to hurl sand against the canvas and plastic of the tent, piling up alternate dunes no doubt and, with any luck, not burying the encampment too deeply.
She closed her eyes, determined to gain some sleep before morning came. Harm was right, she'd be of no use to Gypsy Crow if she didn't rest and give her body time to recuperate from the stress she was dealing with.
Mac's eyes flew open. She had heard a noise just outside the tent flap; barely perceptible above the droning of the wind, it had been enough to rouse her from a troubled sleep. She rose and quickly pulled on the civvies she had left at the foot of the bed. Regs be damned, she was uncomfortable enough in her nightclothes that she wasn't struggling with a uniform this late at night, and the gown and veil could just wait until the sun was up. Stealing slowly across the tent, she paused at the zippered opening, waiting to hear more. The sound was repeated. Easing through the tent flap and out into the blowing wind she peeked back into the gloom, her fingers furiously buttoning the denim shirt she'd pulled on over her t-shirt. Harm shifted on his cot, muttering softly in his sleep. She followed the direction the noise seemed to be coming from, satisfied that she had in fact not disturbed her partner.
The moon shone down on the military encampment, illuminating her path as she searched for the origin of the noise. The perimeter guards surely would have noticed if an outsider had entered the camp, the only other options were one of the people in the camp or wildlife was the perpetrator of the sound. She continued her search of the area, checking between tents and peering into the storage areas, but she couldn't find anything that might be making the soft noise, she couldn't even determine what the sound was.
Suddenly she was pelted with something. She raised a hand to touch her head where the object had struck her, curious and confused. Before she could turn around to investigate the source, she was inundated with flying objects. Stones and rocks flew at her in rapid succession and she had to throw her arms up across her face and neck to avoid serious injury. Opening her mouth to call out, she was silenced by a strike to her temple, the force behind it sufficient enough to cause stars to dance across her vision and drop her into an unconscious sleep. She crumpled to the ground, her firearm still tucked securely into the waistband of her jeans.
0700 local time
Marine camp along Jordan/Saudi border
Mac and Harm's temporary quarters
Harm rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around the tent. Mac was gone, her bed unmade and her gown still draped across the ammunitions chest. He shook his head to relieve the fuzzy feeling that clung to his conscious and stared at Mac's cot. Something was definitely wrong, his obsessive-compulsive partner would never leave her things in such disarray. Perhaps there had been an early morning message from the Arabian woman who was in contact with Mac's friend, that would explain such a departure from regulations.
Rapidly pulling on his uniform, he stepped outside the tent to seek out his partner. She surprised him by not turning up in the mess among the marine's who were quickly downing their breakfasts, nor was she anywhere else in the compound of tents. No one had seen Colonel MacKenzie since the previous evening when she'd returned from her day at the well.
Harm was reluctant to disturb the encampment's CO, after all they were on extremely unofficial business and had been granted a stay purely due to Mac's status as a marine colonel. What help they'd been given was done on personal time and only voluntarily. Although they'd been given words of encouragement on the quest to locate Colonel Caldwell, their mission was openly viewed as a wild goose chase performed by officers who had gone somewhat insane.
Surely she wouldn't have headed out on her own. She was smarter than that, even when her emotions were in play. She wouldn't have risked wandering away from the camp in her western clothes, advertising her nationality wasn't exactly the wisest move so far from an embassy or permanent base of operations. This wasn't her first time in the Middle East, and it wouldn't be her last if her linguistic talents were any indication, she knew what the dangers were. And yet, where could she be hiding, it wasn't as if there were all that many places for her to go.
