2005 local time
Jordan-Saudi border
residential compound
The handful of marines swarmed through the entry, guns at the ready, prepared for anything. Harm moved among the soldiers, watching the area for any sign of his partner. They had taken control of the complex with surprising ease. Riyadh had gotten cocky and lax in his precautionary measures, allowing the small band to gain entrance in fewer than ten minutes. They had been unsuccessful in locating either one of their foundling marines however.
"Commander? This woman asked to speak to you," a young marine escorted an Arabic woman into the courtyard, bowing his head slightly to her as he turned to leave.
"How can I help you, Ma'am?" Harm was too preoccupied with his concern about Mac to pay the woman more than a passing glance; his mind was still reeling with the notion that Mac had somehow been moved to another location.
"You're here about the pretty American?"
Harm's head jerked up in surprise. "What makes you think that?"
"She came looking for Altair, wanting to save her from Riyadh. But Altair ended up saving her. They fled, perhaps two or three hours ago. I don't know where they were going, just away." Suleima took a deep breath. "Sir, you must find them, your friend was hurt. I don't know how badly. And Altair, she hasn't been well for some time now."
"Ma'am," Harm began, "who is Altair?" He had followed Mac on her quest to save her friend without ever believing the woman was still alive. He was unsure how to deal with the possibility that this miraculous woman might actually still be living.
"I believe she is known to you as Colonel Stormy Caldwell?"
Harm's jaw dropped and he slowly exhaled, shock and concern both registering in his eyes. All this time he had gone along with Mac's plan just to placate her, and to find out that the woman in question had actually survived this long… "Where might they have gone to lay low? Surely this Altair of yours would know of someplace they could hide for a while."
"Sir, the only place Altair was ever allowed to go was the well. She will be as lost in the desert as your friend."
0930 local time
Saudi desert
wind tunnel of a sandstone outcropping
Gypsy Crow jerked awake, cold chills coursing through her body and a scream caught in her throat. Looking around the wind carved cavern with frenzied eyes, she calmed noticeably when she spotted Mac standing at the cave's entrance. Wrinkling her nose against the material of her veil in an unconscious gesture of irritation she remembered that she was free of Riyadh, she could finally remove the blasted thing without fear of repercussions.
Finding the caves had been sheer luck the previous night. Without them they would have ended up stretched out in the sand waiting for scavengers to lay claim to their corpses. They had both been so exhausted that they'd fallen asleep almost as soon as they entered the cavern, all thoughts of lookouts and safety precautions lost to illness, injury, and absolute fatigue.
Mac's forehead was still splotched with dried blood, but her color was good and she was standing, a wonderfully positive sign. Desperate to get a better look at her friend, Gypsy Crow tore the veil free of her head and ran trembling fingers through the braid she'd let Suleima fashion for her that morning, sending lank dark hair falling past her shoulders. Pushing herself to her feet, she crossed the sandstone floor.
"Mac?" her voice was whisper soft but drew the other marine's attention as surely as a cannon blast would.
"Gyps? Hey, are you alright?" Mac had to suppress her distress at her first real glimpse of the woman's condition. She was gaunt-thin and her skin looked as fragile as parchment and as pale as cream. The enviable figure and coloring were lost to distant memories. Mac was unsure whether her friend should be walking on her own until she remembered how she'd been half carried from the complex the night before by the same woman. She grinned, pointing out the entrance of the cave. "I don't suppose you have any idea where we are."
"Mac, I've rarely been farther than the well and I've never been behind the complex. We should probably wait until tonight and try to circle back to the encampment." Stormy looked past Mac at the harsh landscape. "That is, if we can figure out which way to go." Pausing for a moment, Gypsy Crow spoke up again, "Why did you do it, Mac? Why come out here after so long?"
"Semper Fi," was her only response.
"Semper Fi." Gypsy Crow shook her head, the smile melting from her lips, her voice nothing more than a harsh whisper cloaked in festering misery.
"Gyps, can I ask you something?" Mac turned from the blindingly bright desert sand to face her companion, an unspoken question furrowing her brow. Her marine training told her to put her questions on the back burner until they were out of imminent danger, but if they were going to be stuck sitting in the cave all day they were going to have to talk about something.
Eyeing her nervously, Gypsy Crow sat back down and leaned against the cave wall. "How is it that I managed to survive an explosion that killed the rest of my recon team?" she offered. "How about why did I allow myself to be taken hostage by an Iraqi-Saudi anti-American terrorist organization? Why did I not escape before when we were able to get away so easily last night? Or better yet, how could I kill my own husband when he came to rescue me from Riyadh's hold?"
Mac was so startled by the venom that fairly spewed from Gypsy Crow's mouth and the self-loathing that seeped into her eyes that it took a moment for her words to register. Understanding dawned clear, leaving bitter regret in its wake.
"Andrew…" Mac couldn't finish her thought for the barrage of questions that assailed her.
"It was about a year ago," she murmured, letting her tones sink with the heavy suffocatingly motionless air. "Andrew had been sent some intelligence reports that insinuated a known American hostage situation. At least I think he did, I've had to piece together what happened from what I've been able to overhear and what little he said to me at the time. The first I knew of him in Saudi was the day I saw him in Riyadh's holding. He was bound and had been beaten pretty severely but I could still tell it was him." Stormy closed her eyes at the memory, her voice punctuating each of the words she had spoken: `could-still-tell-it-was-him'. "I was so shocked to see him at all that I froze. I had assumed he thought I was dead with the rest of my team. Riyadh had told me that a body had been identified as mine and was taken back for burial at Arlington. It was a big joke to him, the American's burying an Arab terrorist in Arlington with full military honors."
"Riyadh had Andrew tied to a post in the courtyard where we were preparing dinner. I don't know how, but he recognized me almost immediately. He looked so relieved to see me, to know that I was alive, even when he was obviously not going to be able to complete his objective. I stayed out there all day; I didn't care what Riyadh would do to me for disobeying the rules of the house. I was terrified of what he was planning to do to Andrew the next morning. I had seen him torture enough people who had crossed paths with him to know what was to come."
She took a deep shuddering breath. "Suleima helped me seduce the night watchmen and slip them an herb that she said would effectively keep them indisposed for the evening. All went according to plan until I had cut Andrew down from his bindings. I had underestimated his injuries, he could barely walk and I was so weak at the time that I could hardly support the weight of his arm across my shoulders. We made it as far as the wall before we were discovered."
"The next thing I knew, the guards had drawn their firearms. Mac, they weren't going to kill him straight away, Riyadh wanted to torture him as a warning to the Corps. He wanted to draw out his death as long as possible and I couldn't let him do that. Regardless of the time I'd been away, Andrew was my husband; the one I loved above all others. I had no choice. I had a small knife tucked into the pocket of my gown. I had intended to use it to assist us in our escape from the compound. Instead it assisted in his escape from this life. He died in my arms, telling me he loved me."
Mac had to look away from the overwhelming pain in Gypsy Crow's eyes. "You didn't kill him, Gyps. Riyadh killed him the day he stole you away from him. You didn't see him at your funeral; Andrew was lost without you. He relied on you to ground him, even when the two of you were stationed apart. I had heard that he kept taking suicide missions, kept returning from them angry that he was still living. Then I just didn't hear anything else, I guess that I assumed he had died, I'm so sorry."
"You've nothing to be sorry for. You're not the one that killed him, Mac, I am…"
1128 local time
Jordan-Saudi border
Marine encampment
Harm was pacing in front of the supply tent waiting for the surveillance helo to report in. They'd searched as much of the sandy plain as they could before sunrise and would continue again under the cover of darkness. Since a positive visual identification had been made, thanks to one of Riyadh's wives, of the previously thought to be deceased Colonel Stormy Caldwell, the marines were heading up the search. Nothing like an officer returning from the dead to get a search and rescue team in action.
He drew a hand across his brow, swiping at the beaded moisture there. He considered contacting JAG again but put the notion off until he could report that he'd recovered the colonel, possibly both colonels. He felt ridiculous waiting around for someone else to take action. That wasn't how Mac helped him when he was in trouble, she would be out in the middle of the desert searching every square inch of desolate landscape looking for him if it were he who was missing. He knew that if their positions were switched, Mac would throw on a veil and take off into the desert. And he knew he had to do the same, only without the veil.
The helo landed a few minutes later with no new relays. It was too risky to cross into foreign air space when Saudi had it's own aircraft armed and ready for takeoff, just waiting for an excuse to do so. The USMC was determined not to give them that excuse. The desert was quiet; they would simply have to wait until nightfall. No one noticed the navy commander slip past the tents and lose himself among the dunes, a knapsack of provisions drawn over his shoulders and his uniform exchanged for the clothing of the Bedouin.
