OVER
THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
APPROX. 300 MILES ESE OF NORFOLK
The flight had been smooth so far, the only sign of the bad weather near them the occasional illumination of nearby clouds as lightning flashed from the bottoms of the clouds. Harm was relatively relaxed – or as relaxed as one ever got while flying a forty million dollar aircraft – while Skates communicated with City Desk back on the Patrick Henry.
"Navy jet 241," the petty officer working the radio on the Patrick Henry said, his voice interrupted by periodic bursts of static, "I'm starting to lose you. Suggest you shift to Oceana Center."
"Roger," Skates replied. "Thanks for the help, City Desk."
"Have a good trip," City Desk answered before signing off. Static filled the airwaves and Skates was about to switch the radio over to Oceana when a yellow light appeared on her panel.
She dutifully reported, "We've got a low level oxygen light, Commander. We're going to have to take it down to ten thousand."
"Roger that," Harm replied calmly, as if low level oxygen lights were perfectly routine. As far as in flight problems went, it was relatively minor. They would simply drop down to an altitude where they wouldn't have to rely on the Tomcat's oxygen system. Although they would burn more fuel at a lower altitude, they still had plenty to get them to Norfolk, and with the bad weather miles away, their ride should remain pretty smooth.
As Harm began to descend through the clouds, Skates switched radio frequencies and raised Oceana Center. "Oceana Center, Navy 241 on 221.0," she said. "How do you read?"
"Navy 241, Oceana Center," a controller at the flight control center in Norfolk replied. "Loud and clear. Say position and altitude."
"Navy 241 approximately 275 miles east southeast of Center at ten thousand," Skates announced. She went on to inform them of the minor problems they'd run into during flight. "Be advised IFF and TACAN are intermittent. INS is inop. We intend to land at Norfolk."
"Be advised, Navy 241," Center replied, "we have some weather moving in. Forecast indicates we may have to suspend flight operations soon."
If Skates was bothered by the news, she didn't let on when she said, "Understood, Center. Keep us advised."
In the front seat, Harm was listening impassively to the chatter between Skates and Center while his mind began considering landing alternatives. The area didn't lack for military airfields – there was Dover Air Force Base a little further north, plus Pax River or Andrews Air Force Base inland, closer to DC. Even flying at a lower altitude than usual, they should have plenty of fuel to reach any of those places should the weather force a deviation from Norfolk.
While Harm was busy turning over the possibilities in his mind, Skates was busy with routine conversation with Center, which was telling her to broadcast their identification. She flipped a switch on her radio. "Navy 241, squawking 3214 and ident," Skates announced, her radio LCD display showing CH11 and 3214.
"No joy yet, Navy 241," Center replied. "Say heading. Advise when one fifty DME from Oceana."
"Roger," Skates said. "Heading 335. Will remain on this frequency." She glanced down at her radar screen. Damn, she thought. Oceana's not the only ones expecting some weather. "Harm, we've got a storm cell ahead at 15 miles."
While she hailed Oceana again to request that they deviate their flight path to go around the cell, Harm allowed himself a brief moment to curse the weather forecasters aboard the carrier, the same ones who'd sworn that their flight path would take them nowhere near the storm. He knew how to fly in bad weather and the F-14 was more than capable of handling it – as he'd once pointed out to Mac, they were designed to be able to withstand hurricane conditions.
But knowing intellectually that he and the jet could handle the weather was one thing. It was quite another to actually fly through a storm while trying not remember another storm, another dark night – one that had ended with one man dead and another on the verge of leaving the Navy.
He pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on flying his plane, following Skates' request to turn left thirty degrees to go around the storm. "Coming left thirty degrees," Harm reported, the plane's left wing dipping down slightly as he banked to the left.
Skates frowned as she spied another cell coming up on their new path. "We've got another one at twenty miles," she told him. "In one minute, you'll need to come back right ten degrees."
"Roger that," Harm said, mentally counting down the minute in his head. Their zigzag maneuvering brought to mind another concern. "Skates, recalculate fuel upon arrival at destination."
Skates kept an eye on her radar screen while she calculated their fuel in her head. As if they didn't have enough to worry about flying at a low altitude, now they had to fly all over the ocean just to avoid the storms that weren't even supposed to be there in the first place. "Four thousand pounds," she reported, managing to mask her apprehension.
That would be cutting it very close, Harm realized. Perhaps too close. "Roger that," he said impassively, his voice not betraying how bothered he was by her report. "Keep me honest and let's try to get back on course as soon as possible."
Skates took a deep breath, understanding the unspoken message. They didn't have the fuel margin to fly all over the place trying to get to Norfolk. She glanced at her screen again, hardly comforted by what she saw. "Looks like we're going to have to run the gauntlet," she said, doing some more calculations in her head. If they could land in Norfolk, they should be okay. But if weather forced Norfolk to suspend flight operations, Skates wasn't sure they'd have the fuel to make an alternate landing site. She idly wondered what a commercial airport might say if they requested permission to land. That might be their only alternative. Otherwise, they'd be hard pressed to find a clear area large enough to land a Tomcat.
Suddenly, the Tomcat lurched, rolling onto its right side and nearly inverting before Harm was able to steady it, bringing it back upright. Skates gasped loudly, her gloved hands tightening into fists, her mind flashing on her crash several years earlier. "You just do that?" she asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.
"Negative," Harm replied, forcing his own breathing to remain steady.
"What happened?" Skates continued, quickly becoming frightened, a hint of that creeping into her tone. Planes didn't just suddenly invert on their own.
"Don't know," he answered, his eyes wide. Something tightened in the pit of his stomach and scenes of his crash flashed through his mind. Involuntarily, his hand tightened around his stick as another light, this one red, appeared on the panel. Suddenly, his attitude was all business as he forced the negative thoughts from his mind once again. "I've got a red flight. Flight system filter. Disengaging altitude control."
Skates forced another breath into her lungs at his statement. They'd nearly inverted just seconds earlier and now he was going to hold the plane level on his own? "It's bumpy out here, Harm," she pointed out. "You sure you want to fly her on your own?"
"No choice," he reminded her, although he shared her concerns. He flipped the switch to turn off the altitude control, the plane beginning to wobble as soon as it was off. He fought the stick, struggling to hold it steady at ten thousand. He knew that they had to get down and soon, but under the best of circumstances, they were still forty-five minutes from Norfolk. They couldn't afford to waste any more time out here. "Skates, get me the most direct route to Norfolk."
Skates' fright was growing as she looked at the radar again, the screen now almost completely filled with storm cells. Once they were on the ground, she intended to have some words with the weather forecasters who'd said they were safe to fly – after she let Robert hold her for a while. "I'm looking at the mother of all storm cells, Harm," she said quickly.
Harm caught the growing fear in her voice and forced himself to remain calm. If he could project a cool exterior, maybe Skates would feel more confident. "Well, we can't hop it," he pointed out. Their oxygen problem precluded that, even if he could control the plane enough to take it back up above the clouds. "We're low on oxygen."
Skates was a little calmer when she told him, "We'll have to go around it before we can go back to 335 and Norfolk."
Good, she sounded less uneasy. "How long?" he asked.
"Groundspeed, five hundred knots," she reported, "estimate sixteen minutes on our present course."
This pushed their flight time to Norfolk to over an hour. Harm realized that they were fast running out of options. Then it got worse, another light coming on. "Lost PC1," he reported.
"Turn off the roll, pitch and yaw stabilization systems," she said, her voice rising. Okay, Beth, she told herself. Breathe. This is Harm, the best pilot you've flown with. He can get us out of this.
But his next words and the tone of his voice did little to inspire her confidence. "Skates," he said, his voice louder as well, his words coming in a rush, "get us back on a direct track to Norfolk."
"Can't go straight through," she said, even as she wished that she could give him the report he wanted. "Change heading to 305. That way we'll skirt the cell."
"Check with Oceana Center," he ordered.
"Oceana Center, Navy 241," she said. "We are experiencing serious flight control problems."
"Roger that, 241," Center replied. "Are you declaring an emergency?"
"Not at this time, Center," he said, something he'd once told Mac coming to mind.
Punching out is the last thing a pilot ever wants to do.
As long as he was able to control the plane, he was determined to keep it in the air and make it to Norfolk. Then he and Skates could drive back to Washington and maybe someday this would be a story they'd tell their children.
"Roger that," Center replied. "We copy. Negative radar contact. State position and altitude."
Wonderful, Skates thought. On top of everything else, they don't know where we are and I don't either. "Position unknown," she reported, more calmly than she felt. "Approximately 200 nautical east southeast of Norfolk. Altitude ten thousand."
"Roger. Can you return to the carrier?"
Skates almost snorted. "You're closer, Center," she said firmly, her tone letting them know that option was absolutely out of the question. They didn't have the fuel.
"What are your intentions?" Center asked.
"To continue inbound to Norfolk," she replied, confident in Harm's ability to get them there. At least, as long as flight operations weren't shut down. "What is your weather, Center?"
"Ceiling five thousand, visibility two miles," they reported back. "The weather is getting worse here, but we know you're coming. We'll try to stay open as long as possible. We'll see you when you get here."
"Roger that, Center," she said. "I'll hold you to that. Out." She flipped the radio switch to raise the Patrick Henry, static coming from the speakers. "City Desk, this is 241. We've lost PC1 and are experiencing flight control system problems. Over."
-----
USS
PATRICK HENRY
APPROX 500 MILES ESE OF NORFOLK
"Roger," the petty officer replied, glancing over his shoulder at the officer of the watch, who was hovering over his shoulder. The radio crackled with static. "What is your position?"
"Estimate our position at three eight three zero …." Skates voice broke off as static filled the air.
"241, do you copy?" City Desk called. "241, do you copy?"
The officer of the watch looked down at the radar screen as she ordered, "Try the transponder again."
The petty officer flipped a switch, he and the commander staring at the radar screen full of storms, no sign of Navy 241. He looked back at her, his tone grim, "No IFF signal, Ma'am. They're off the scope."
The commander immediately picked up the intercom and paged Captain Ingles, while the petty officer attempted to come up with a good estimate of 241's position. Within a couple of minutes, Ingles was there, pulling her aside. "Where are they?" he demanded.
"Past two hundred fifty miles, Sir," she replied. "We've lost radar contact and IFF signal."
"How'd this happen?" Ingles asked, his voice hard. He'd cleared them to take off, but only after he'd been assured that the bad weather would not be a concern. Ultimately, it was his responsibility that they were out there at all. And he was a man who took his responsibilities very seriously.
"Storm moved faster than forecast, Sir," she said. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he was far from satisfied with that answer, but it was the best she could offer him at the moment.
He sighed. There would be time later to have a discussion with the weather forecasters. Right now, he had a bird to find. "Thank you, Commander," he said. "That will be all."
"Aye, aye, Sir," she said smartly, turning on her heel to return to her duties.
Ingles picked up the microphone for the intercom and called for the Air Boss. "Boss, this is the Captain," he said. "Assign air crews for search and rescue. Prepare to launch a Seahawk and a Viking on my signal." He hung the microphone back up and stared out the forward windows at the worsening storm, the rain pounding against the windows, mentally saying a prayer for the two officers lost out in the middle of it.
-----
SOMEWHERE
OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
APPROXIMATELY 200 MILES ESE OF NORFOLK
Over the ocean, miles from the nearest solid ground, the fact that they'd lost contact with the carrier was the least of their concerns, even if they could have known that they weren't transmitting an IFF signal at all. Harm was fighting to keep the jet in the air while Skates' eyes were glued to the radar screen. "We've got nothing but storm cells around us," Skates reported.
"We're losing PC2," Harm said, his eyes on his panel, where another light was blinking at him. "Recheck Oceana weather."
Skates switched the radio back to Oceana, but instead of the comforting voice of the radio controller at Center, she got a cold, mechanical recording. "This is Oceana metro. Reporting ceiling and visibility zero," the recording intoned.
She uttered a soft 'Damn' under her breath. If their flight had been bad before, it had just gone to hell. "Field's closed," she told Harm, even though he'd heard the same recording she just had.
"Check Pax River," Harm ordered, referring to the next closest field, but when she flipped the radio switch, they got an almost identical recording.
"Closed," she said. She began calculating in her head. Andrews and Dover, the next available landing sites, were about the same distance away. They'd be critical on fuel with either choice, but heading for Dover, they'd have no choice but to turn north and fly right through the storms. There was no way to go around, not with their fuel level. Andrews had just become their best bet, assuming it was open. She switched the radio channel again, resisting the urge to cheer when she got Washington Center instead of a recording. "Washington Center, this is Navy 241, approximately 270 miles east southeast of Andrews at ten thousand. We are experiencing serious flight control problems heading for Norfolk. Norfolk, Pax River are closed. Requesting deviation to Andrews."
"Deviation approved," Center replied. "Advise when 150 miles out."
"Roger," Skates replied. "Harm …."
The plane shuddered as it was stuck by lightning, Harm momentarily losing control. They inverted before he managed to fight the stick and turn the plane back upright. Then the lights went out in the cockpit, both Harm and Skates pulling out their flashlights so they could read their instruments. "Generators are out," Skates reported.
"Reset."
Skates pressed a button on her panel, but nothing happened. "Can't," she said, shaking her head.
Harm studied his panel. They'd risen in altitude slightly, their altimeter reading thirteen thousand. But a difference of three thousand feet from where they should be was nothing compared to all their other problems. "We've lost the electronics," he said. "Switch to emergency IFF."
Skates did so, reporting, "Squawking seven seven hundred. We've gone to four hundred knots."
"We're going to have to fly straight through," Harm told her.
"Harm," Skates countered, the fear creeping back into her voice, "that will put us in the middle of the biggest thunder bumper in the whole damn world."
"I'm flying it on trim as it is right now, Skates," he reminded her, his tone calmer than hers. He recognized that she was moving rapidly towards terrified and hoped that he could calm her again. "I don't know how much longer I can keep her in the air and now we've got to fly further than we were."
Come on, Skates, she admonished herself. You've got a job to do. Harm can't do this by himself. "Check the wet compass to get our heading," she said.
Harm lifted his flashlight, shining the light on the compass, the needle far from steady. "Best bet," he reported, "north northwest."
"Come left twenty degrees," Skates instructed, "350 knots, ten thousand feet." Harm followed her directions, turning them to the left to try to get them pointed back in the direction they were supposed to be going, or as close to it as she could estimate.
-----
USS PATRICK HENRY
The petty officer manning the radio breathed a sigh of relief when a blip appeared on his screen from 241's emergency IFF, but it was tempered by the knowledge that they were surrounded by storms. "We have an emergency IFF signal, Ma'am," he reported.
She immediately picked up the intercom and radioed Ingles. "Bridge, combat," she announced, "we have an emergency signal three hundred miles northwest, heading three four five."
Ingles acknowledged the news impassively. "Roger that, Commander," he replied. "Keep me informed of any change in status."
On the bridge, Ingles turned to the navigation officer. "Come right to course three four five," he ordered. "All engines ahead two-thirds."
The navigation officer immediately turned to his petty officer and repeated the order. "Right standard rudder," he said. "Come right to course three four five. All engines ahead two-thirds."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the petty officer replied, executing the course change to carry them closer to 241's last reported position.
The captain picked up the intercom again, calling air operations. "Air ops," he said, "notify FAA and the Coast Guard that we're commencing search and rescue operations and get the Air Boss and Paddles to meet me in CIC."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the officer on duty in air ops replied. Ingles hung the microphone up and strode off the bridge heading towards CIC.
-----
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
Harm realized that he was losing control of the plane and that their chances of making Andrews were virtually zero. It was time to consider alternatives. "Skates, what's the nearest point of land?"
"Cape Fear," she replied immediately, having already gone over the possibilities in her mind. It had helped distract her. "Estimate one hundred twenty miles due east."
"We're at two seventy five indicated air speed," Harm reported.
"Twenty five minutes flying time," Skates informed him after quickly calculating it in her head.
It was still too far, Harm realized. He had to admit that they'd finally run out of options. Mac's face floated into his thoughts as he made his decision. He had faith that they'd make it. Skates had a fiancé waiting back in Washington for her, and he…. well, he might not quite have Mac, but things were definitely looking better on that score than they had just hours before. "We're going to have to punch out," he told her calmly.
"We're at eight thousand," she reported. "When do we go?"
"At five thousand," he replied.
Skates broadcast a distress call over all channels, her voice shaky. "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Navy 241, one hundred twenty miles east of Cape Fear."
She adjusted her harness and called out to Harm, "Lock shoulder harness."
"Locked."
"Visor down," she continued.
"Visor down."
"Mask on," she said, locking her own mask into place on her helmet.
"Mask on," Harm echoed, positioning his mask.
"Lower seat." She dropped her seat into position while Harm did the same.
"Check," he replied.
"Passing seven," she reported. Just two thousand more feet. A matter of seconds in a Tomcat. When she spoke again, the reality of their situation was evident in her frightened tone. "Harm, I'm not a strong swimmer." About the only thing that was mildly comforting to her was that they had zero chance of crashing into the deck of a carrier. No chance of fire, no chance of being caught in the ship's screws.
"Just remember your survival training," he said calmly.
"Harm, we're passing six," she told him, her voice still shaky. "Command ejection rear seat." She pulled the level to give her control over their ejection as she tried to tell herself that Harm was counting on her as much as she was counting on him.
"Skates, we're going to get through this okay," he said reassuringly. "I'll see you down there. You have my word on it."
Skates managed a small smile behind her mask. "You haven't let me down yet," she said, remembering again her crash and his rescue of her.
For a brief instant, Harm was reminded of Mac and promises.
Don't make a promise you can't keep.
I haven't yet.
He'd made a promise to Mac as well, one to return. Originally, it had been a promise that he'd return for her wedding, but once that was over, it had turned into a promise to return to her. And that was one promise that he'd move heaven and earth to keep.
The plane shuddering beneath them, not responding to his control, Harm realized that they weren't going to make it to five thousand. "I've lost her, Skates," he called back to her. "Eject us now."
"Position yourself," she instructed, crossing her arms over her chest while Harm did the same. "Good luck, Harm." She reached over and pulled the ejection handle, the canopy blowing, her seat following seconds later.
"Damn it," Harm swore, his seat still firmly in place in the cockpit. "Eject." He reached down under the front of the seat and pulled the manual ejection handle, his seat finally firing. Seconds later, his chute opened, slowing his descent as the Tomcat dove into the ocean at over two hundred knots, shattering into pieces upon impact with the water.
-----
USS PATRICK HENRY
Ingles was conferring with the officer of the watch, the Air Boss and Paddles in CIC, standing in front of a large electronic map of the ocean and East Coast of the United States. The officer of the watch was motioning towards the map. "This is their last known location," she reported. "They were at ten thousand feet."
"All right," Ingles said, "describe an arc around here of fifty miles. That's where we'll start our search. Boss, notify the Coast Guard, FAA, and AIRLANT. I'm the on-scene commander." He was responsible for them being out there. It would be his responsibility to bring them home.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Air Boss replied. He turned to Paddles, who had been silent so far. "I want you to spearhead this in a Viking."
"Roger, Boss," Paddles replied, not waiting to be dismissed before turning to leave. He had things to do and not a lot of time to do them. He needed to be up in the air now. In a situation like this, every second counted.
The Air Boss turned back to Ingles, who ordered, "As soon as they're ready, I want Paddles and the Seahawk in the air."
"Aye, aye, Sir," he replied, turning on his heel to leave.
Ingles stared out the window again, watching the rain pound against the glass. He picked up the intercom microphone and announced, "Captain Pike to the Captain's Ready Room."
He left CIC, mentally preparing himself for the toughest duty, bar none, that any commander would ever have to perform and the one that every one prayed they'd never be called upon to do.
-----
Once in his ready room, Ingles allowed himself a private moment in which the impassivity he wore like a mask slipped and he let his emotions show in his manner, his expression. Waiting for the CAG, he slowly paced the room. Twelve steps to the far wall, twelve back. And while he paced, he considered the two officers whose lives were depending on what he did this night.
He'd had his run-ins with both of them over the mishap which had led to Skates' court-martial. He'd been so sure he'd been doing the right thing, bringing charges against her. A pilot and RIO could have lost their lives that night. But although he would never admit it, even he'd been impressed by Skates' testimony, when she'd offered to resign. It had reminded him of a story he'd once heard of a CAG facing court-martial who'd testified that when the day came when he felt he could no longer serve the Navy he loved, they wouldn't have to ask for his resignation because he would tender it himself without hesitation. Skates had eventually been acquitted and had returned to duty on the Patrick Henry. Many captains, despite her acquittal, might have transferred her off their ship, but he'd given her another chance, his silent way of saying that he may have been wrong. And she'd made the most of it. He was truly sorry that they were going to lose her to shore duty when she got married.
During the court-martial, Harm had been Skates' lawyer, so he'd been the enemy in Ingles' eyes. It didn't matter that he'd spent six months flying off the Patrick Henry previously, earning his second Distinguished Flying Cross. All that mattered was that the pilot-turned-lawyer-turned-pilot-turned-lawyer was a very prickly thorn in his side. Later, he'd admitted to himself that if their positions had been reversed, he probably would have behaved the same way Harm had. He'd just been doing his job. He was tenacious, whether in the courtroom or in the air. He'd shown that earlier today. He might have started out a bit shaky – although it appeared Paddles had been just a little late with the wave off – but he'd shaken it off to nail his next four landing attempts, posting the highest scores of all the pilots flying their quals.
He stopped in mid-step as Captain Pike stepped into the Ready Room. Ingles was gratified to note that he was carrying a couple of folders with him, which he presumed held contact information for Harm and Skates. He sat down at the table, motioning to Pike to take a seat as well.
"We've lost contact with 241," Ingles said without preamble. "They dropped down to ten thousand because of a low oxygen light and ran right into that storm out there. They suffered at least one lightning strike and subsequent systems failures, according to controllers at Norfolk. We think they've gone down a little more than halfway between here and Norfolk. We lost radio contact, then a few minutes later picked up an emergency IFF signal, then lost that, too. The last voice contact with 241 was reported by Washington Center. It was a mayday, right around the time we lost the emergency IFF."
"Rabb's a good pilot," Pike said. "If anyone could have held that bird long enough for them to eject, it's him."
Ingles nodded slowly. "I know," he said. "We're getting ready to launch a Seahawk and a Viking piloted by Paddles towards where we think they went down."
Pike handed over the folders he'd brought with him over to Ingles. "I suspected what is going on when you called for SAR," he explained. "I knew Hammer and Skates were the only ones still in the air at this point, so I went ahead and pulled these."
Ingles sighed heavily as he opened Skates' folder, perusing her emergency contact information. "Lieutenant Commander Robert Drake," he read. "Her fiancé?"
"Yes," Pike replied. "They're getting married in five weeks."
"Damn," Ingles whispered. Anyone who ever made command rank prayed that he or she would never have to utter or write the words 'We regret to inform you ….' Those words gave even the most battle-hardened veteran pause. He picked up the phone and requested a ship to shore line from communications. In less than a minute, the line was ringing as the connection was made. He glanced at his watch, which he kept set to the time in Norfolk, the Patrick Henry's home base. The joke between him and his wife was that she wanted him to always know the time where she was, so he didn't try to call home too early or too late.
It was just past 2330 hours on the east coast, so he wasn't ready to give up even after the phone rang several times. Since it was late and he was probably expecting his fiancée to arrive in the morning, the man was likely in bed. Finally, the phone was picked up after the fifth ring. "'lo?" the sleepy voice asked.
"Lieutenant Commander Robert Drake?" Ingles asked. In his quarters at the Washington Naval Yard, Robert Drake sat straight up in bed, suddenly wide awake. He'd been in the Navy long enough to recognize the voice of someone in command when he heard it and hearing such a voice in the middle of the night was never a good thing.
"Yes, Sir," he replied, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder. He climbed out of bed and went to his closet, pulling out a neatly hung summer white uniform.
"This is Captain Tobias Ingles from the Patrick Henry," Ingles said. Robert froze, the hanger he held slipping from his hand, his uniform landing in a puddle of fabric on the floor. He'd expected the call to be from someone on base, reporting that there was some kind of accident or incident requiring him to speak to the media in his capacity as the base public affairs officer. He'd never imagined that the call would be about Beth. She should have been sound asleep in her bunk on the ship, resting up before taking a helo to Washington in the morning. "Lieutenant Hawkes was on her way to Norfolk when contact was lost with the Tomcat in which she was flying approximately 200 miles east southeast of Norfolk. We're launching search and rescue teams as we speak."
"What was Beth doing in a Tomcat?" Robert asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He glanced through his curtains, watching the rain fall outside the window. He loved the rain – it was something he and Beth had in common. They loved taking walks in the rain. Now she was out in it, fighting for her life. "She was supposed to be taking a helo back in the morning."
"One of our pilots was flying to Norfolk then driving on to Washington tonight," Ingles replied. "Lieutenant Hawkes was given permission to fly with him rather than wait until morning to leave. They dropped down in altitude because of a low oxygen light and ran into a storm that had moved directly into their flight path faster than expected. Commander Rabb tried to keep the Tomcat in the air, but they suffered multiple systems failures and at least one lighting strike from what we've been able to find out from Oceana Center."
"Commander Rabb was the pilot?" Robert asked. He'd heard Beth speak often of the man, who almost sounded like he could walk on water from her description. If he were the jealous type, he might have a problem with her close friendship and obvious admiration of the man. But she'd introduced the two after her court-martial and Robert knew that if the man was as good in the air as he'd demonstrated he was in the courtroom, then she stood a fighting chance. But that confidence was tempered by the knowledge that Beth was not that good a swimmer. Previously, he'd teased her about that, a sailor not being a proficient swimmer. Suddenly, it was not funny at all.
"Yes, he was," Ingles confirmed. "She's in good hands out there."
"I concur," he replied softly. "From what Beth's told me, he's the best she's seen." He bent down and picked up his white uniform, hanging it back in the closet, making sure it was hung neatly, just to keep his hands busy. He then pulled out another hanger, this one holding a khaki uniform. "Sir, I would like to come out to the Henry. I'd like to be there when Beth is rescued."
"Commander, nothing's coming out to this ship tonight," Ingles pointed out. "We've already lost one aircraft to this storm. The only vehicles going anywhere will be the search and rescue craft."
"Sir, I need …." Robert began.
"However," Ingles continued, as if Robert hadn't spoken, "there is a helo that flies out here from Norfolk every morning. Obviously, if the weather is still bad, the flight will be cancelled. But if it flies, there should be room for a passenger." Maybe not quite standard operating procedure, but Commander Drake was Navy. He would know to stay out of the way of the ship's crew while they did their jobs. And maybe Ingles felt he owed Skates this small consideration.
"I'll leave for Norfolk as soon as I can throw some things in a bag," he said quickly. "Thank you, Sir."
"If there's any news before you fly out, we'll contact the terminal at the airfield in Norfolk," Ingles assured him.
"Thank you, Sir," he said gratefully. "I …. um, I appreciate this. Just …. do everything you can, Captain."
"We are doing everything to rescue them," Ingles stressed.
"I know," Robert whispered. "Thank you again, Sir." He clicked off the phone, not caring if the captain might find that rude, letting the handset slip from his hand to fall to the floor. Clutching his uniform in his hands, he sank down on the edge of the bed, his eyes falling on a picture of Beth sitting on his night stand. He reached over and picked it up, his eyes moving over her smiling face. It had been taken during their last leave together, when they'd spent a few days up at Martha's Vineyard. That had been the weekend they'd finally set a date for their wedding.
A single tear slipped down his cheek as he whispered in prayer, "God, just bring her home safe. Please just keep her safe and bring her home."
-----
CHEGWIDDEN
RESIDENCE
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
AJ was wide awake and sitting up in bed before the phone had finished ringing the first time. It was a skill honed during over thirty years in the Navy. When the phone rang in the middle of the night, there wasn't time to slowly wake up, to allow whatever news was being imparted by the person on the other end to sink in. So he'd learned to awaken in an instant. A person speaking to him after waking him up in the depths of the night would swear he'd been wide awake already when the phone rang. He picked up the phone on the second ring. "Admiral Chegwidden," he said.
"Admiral, this is Captain Ingles from the Patrick Henry," Ingles said. A.J.'s breath caught in his throat as he realized what he was about to hear, knowing there was only one reason why the other man would be calling now. He closed his eyes as the other man continued, "Commander Rabb and Lieutenant Hawkes were flying a Tomcat to Norfolk when they experienced flight control problems and they flew into a storm that had moved faster than forecast. Contact was lost with them about 200 miles east southeast of Norfolk. We've launched SAR towards their last reported position."
"Understood," A.J. said, pushing back the bed covers with his free hand, already planning what he needed to do. "I'll head into JAG. You can contact me there when you have news. I assume you'll handle contacting the Commander's family?"
"Actually, the Commander's emergency contact information lists only you and Colonel Mackenzie," Ingles said. "I don't have information for any members of his family."
"Colonel Mackenzie?" AJ muses, wondering why she would be down as an emergency contact. Suddenly, he remembered. Harm had put her down as a contact just before he'd gone to Russia the first time, before AJ had made the decision to send Mac with him. He must have never changed it. He didn't envy Ingles the job of telling Mac that her best friend was missing, although a part of him considered suggesting that he contact her, but he knew that Ingles would consider it his duty to do so. It was only lack of information preventing the captain from calling the Burnetts or Harm's grandmother. "That's okay, I remember. I believe we have contact information for the Commander's parents and grandmother in his personnel folder at JAG."
"Admiral, the weather is nasty out here," Ingles informed him, his voice tinged with regret. He wanted to make sure AJ was fully aware of just how dire the situation was. He figured the ex-SEAL would not want it sugar-coated for his benefit. "I may have to pull the SAR team if it doesn't let up."
"Understood," AJ said, intellectually knowing that Ingles had to take into account the safety of the men and women tasked with trying to find Harm and Skates. It didn't mean he had to like it. "Keep me informed."
"I will, Admiral," Ingles replied. Without another word, Ingles disconnected. AJ stared at the phone for a long moment, pondering how to proceed. He'd never thought he'd face a situation like this again, having to inform family, friends and co-workers that someone close to them was missing. He thought he'd seen the last of that when he'd left the SEALs, then left Surface Warfare for JAG. Being a lawyer had to be about as close as you could get to a safe occupational specialty in the military – unless your name happened to be Rabb or Mackenzie.
He smiled grimly as he remembered the last time he'd faced a situation similar to this, when Harm and Mac had been reported dead after crashing a MiG-29 into a lake in Siberia. Of course, that time he'd known that there had been more to the story and he'd moved heaven and earth to find them. Then, there had been something he could do. Now, there were no bad guys lying through their teeth, no hope that this was just some sick joke. Harm and his RIO really were lost in the middle of an angry, dark, storm-tossed sea.
Colonel, the Commander is too damn pig-headed to leave this world.
God. How is Mac going to react, he wondered Right now, Captain Ingles was probably talking to her, telling her that her best friend was in danger. Tomorrow – no, today, he corrected himself, glancing at his alarm clock – should have been the happiest day of her life. And now …. he shook his head. He'd stopped long ago trying to figure out that tangled web and it hardly mattered now. All that mattered was that he be there for his people as they waited and prayed for one of their own. It was an unspoken law of command – never get too close to your subordinates. But somehow during the last five years, the people at JAG had managed to become like a family, with him as its head and, although the gruff Admiral would never admit it aloud, he wouldn't have it any other way.
Sighing, he clicked on the phone and hit speed dial four, wondering how to tell two people who'd already endured more than their share of tragedy during the last few months the news about a man who was probably like a brother to them. Then maybe when that was done, he could figure out how to start telling everyone else.
-----
MAC'S APARTMENT
Mac jerked awake as a loud banging invaded her sleep filled consciousness. She ran a hand through her hair, then rubbed the sleep from her eyes, praying that it wasn't Mic. She hadn't been able to get a hold of him yet and with every hour that passed, bringing the wedding closer, the knot in the pit of her stomach grew larger. She'd wanted to get it over with, to feel the weight lift from her shoulders. But not now.
Filled with apprehension, she grabbed her robe from the closet and pulled it on, knotting the belt around her waist as she walked to the door. She glanced through the peephole, gasping with surprise when she saw who was on the other side. With a wide smile, she threw the door open.
"Harm!" she exclaimed, his mouth coming down on hers before she could say more. His arms went around her, holding her tight against him as he moved her back towards the bedroom. "I thought you were going to talk to Renee first." She managed to stutter between dazzling kisses which were igniting a fire that was spreading its liquid warmth throughout her body.
"I couldn't stay away," he whispered, his mouth leaving hers to press light kisses along her jaw. "I …." His voice trailed off as his lips moved lower down her neck and over her chest.
"I'm glad," she replied, moving her hands between them to tug down the zipper of his flight suit, the fabric parting to reveal the white t-shirt he wore underneath. She ran her hands over him, her fingers finding and circling around his nipples, working them into hard peaks. "I thought we'd need space, but I wouldn't have been able to stay away either."
His hands weren't idle either, pulling on the tie at her waist, her robe falling open. He looked down and smiled when he recognized the nightgown she was wearing. He trailed a finger along the top edge of the bodice, her body tingling from his light touch. "You know how many fantasies I've had about you in this nightgown?" he muses.
She smiled slyly, letting her robe fall from her shoulders, turning around slowly as he looked his fill, reveling in his admiring gaze. When she finished her revolution, her hands went to his shoulders, pushing the top of his flight suit off. "You'll have to fill me in sometime," she told him in a husky whisper. "I want to hear all about your fantasies."
"Later," he countered, sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. He stood again long enough to remove his flight suit and the rest of his clothes. Mac started to lift her gown over her head, but Harm put a hand on her arm to stop her. "Leave it."
"Those must have been some fantasies," she teased as he sat back down on the edge of the bed, pulling her into his lap, pushing the skirt of her gown out of the way, bringing their bodies in intimate contact. She pressed against him, delighting in his harsh groan.
"It's better …. than I remember," she gasped, tossing her head back as they came together. He leaned forward, the tip of his tongue tracing a path down her throat. "Oh, Harm …. "
Harm cupped the back of her head, lifting her up to meet his gaze. "God, Sarah," he whispered, his tone tortured, "I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before, but I love you …."
-----
"I love you, too, Harm," Mac murmured in her sleep, her head tossing back and forth on the pillow, caught up in the explicit dream she was having. "I tried so hard to convince myself that I didn't, that I loved Mic instead, but I can't do it anymore."
Commander Mackenzie strode the deck of the Somers with firm, measured steps, nothing of his thoughts showing in his expression. Nearly the entire crew was gathered on the deck, watching the proceedings with fearful eyes. But for the grace of God, any one of them could have been up there, a rope around his neck, about to be hung as a mutineer. Those who had heard whispers and had secretly applauded the proposed action thanked Heaven that they hadn't gone further and offered their support. Those who staunchly supported the captain knew that an example had to be made of these men lest others try the same thing. A few fair minded sailors wished that the accused had been held until they docked, where Naval authorities could handle their punishment, but they didn't dare speak out or it might be their necks in a noose.
Mackenzie stopped in front of each man, forgiving them their transgressions as he personally pulled a black hood over each man's head. First, the son of the Secretary of War, the mastermind – if such a word could be applied to the nervous Spencer – of the plot to take over the ship. Then Seaman Jacobs, a conscript who rumor said wanted nothing more than to get off the Somers through whatever means. He was about to get his wish, although in a manner that he'd probably never considered. Finally, Chief Burnett, a veteran Navy man for whom the evidence was mostly circumstantial. But it was his involvement in the mutiny which bothered the captain the most. He was the highest ranking enlisted man on the boat, a sailor to whom just about every enlisted man looked up. If his involvement had been more overt, Mackenzie knew he wouldn't have stood a chance of putting down the mutiny. While Burnett might have been only peripherally involved, in a way his death was the most necessary to send a message to the rest of the crew.
Mackenzie's cold eyes swept over the mutineers one final time before he lifted his arm, prepared to give the signal to the men manning the rope which would snuff out three lives. His eyes remaining on the condemned men, he brought his arm down, ordering, "Pull!"
With grunts and groans, the sailors pulled the rope, lifting the three men off the deck, legs kicking as they fought. Jacobs even lifted his hands, clawing at the rope tightening around his throat. Mackenzie watched impassively as the three men kicked and jerked, then one by one their bodies spasmed, and then all was still ….
-----
"Harm!" Mac screamed, her eyes snapping open, gasping for breath as Harm must have done in her dream. No, not Harm, she told herself. Just someone who looked like him. Right, she chided herself. Someone who looked amazingly like Harm being put to death by a tyrannical Naval commander who could have been Mic's twin?
Suddenly, Mac started laughing, realizing how ridiculous the dream was. Mic wasn't like that. He would not be happy to have the wedding called off and it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he would blame Harm to some degree. But Mic wasn't a murderer.
It was simply stress, she decided. Mic hadn't called, so she still had the specter of the wedding hanging over her head. She was facing an unknown future, having given up the guarantee of a home and family with Mic for the uncertainty of trying to build a relationship with Harm. She no longer drank her way to oblivion to escape her life, so her mind was searching for other ways to hide from all the pain she knew today would bring.
With a shaky laugh, she rolled onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force herself to go back to sleep. She figured the time and guessed that Harm would be landing in Norfolk about now. Recalling her earlier dream, she smiled. Maybe dreams could come true, she told herself. Maybe she'd wake up in a few hours to find Harm on her doorstep.
Smiling at the thought, she tried to focus her mind on the first dream, but her train of thought was broken by the ringing of the phone. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to mentally prepare herself to tell Mic her decision. She let the phone ring two more times before she picked it up, knowing that there was no way to fully prepare for what she had to say.
"Hello?" she said nervously.
"Colonel Mackenzie, this is Captain Ingles," Ingles said, causing Mac to freeze. She almost wished it had been Mic, knowing that there was only one reason why the captain of the Patrick Henry would be calling her in the middle of the night.
"What happened to Harm?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady, her fingers tightening around the phone. She would not lose it, she told herself. She had to be strong.
"Contact was lost with Commander Rabb's Tomcat about two hundred miles east southeast of Norfolk," he told her. "We've launched a Seahawk and Viking as part of a search and rescue operation."
"What happened?" she asked. Russia flashed in her mind. At least when they'd had to punch out, they'd managed to come down on solid ground rather than in the lake. But Harm was out over the ocean, miles away from land. "Why did he go down?"
"From what we've found out from Oceana Center, they had an oxygen problem and were forced to descend to ten thousand," he explained. "They flew right into a number of thunderstorms and suffered more systems failures."
"I thought the weather was supposed to be clear in their flight path?" she demanded. She'd been worried about Harm, tired from his flight, driving from Norfolk to Washington. It had never occurred to her to worry about the flight itself.
"The weather forecast was wrong," he said simply.
Mac laughed bitterly. "That's usually supposed to be a joke, saying that the weather forecasters got it wrong," she retorted. She uttered a few colorful oaths in Farsi under her breath.
"Colonel, we are doing everything we can to find Commander Rabb and Lieutenant Hawkes," he tried to assure her.
She took a deep breath to calm herself, realizing that she was close to losing it. Harm will get through this, she said to herself, repeating it like a mantra. If she said it enough times, maybe she'd convince herself enough to hold it together until he was found. "Captain, if they went down in bad weather, what about search and rescue?" she asked. "Are they going to have problems because of the weather?"
Ingles hesitated for a moment, before deciding that the Marine he was talking to would not want him to soften the truth. "The weather is a concern," he told her. "We have a low ceiling and twenty foot swells, but we will stay out there as long as we can keep the rescue craft in the air. No one here is giving up on Rabb and Hawkes."
Forcing back tears, Mac said, "Thank you for being straight with me, Sir." Why now? She finally had a chance with Harm and now this. She stared down at the bedspread, tracing random patterns on top of it with a finger while she struggled to figure out what to say next. It came to her and she steeled herself for an argument. She had to tell Harm …. He just had to know. "Captain, I'd like to come out to the Patrick Henry."
Her eyes widened in surprise when, instead of the fight she'd been expecting, she got his agreement. "Lieutenant Hawkes' fiancé made the same request when I called him a few minutes ago," he revealed. "Nothing is certain because of the weather, but there is a helo scheduled from Norfolk in the morning. If it goes, a seat on the flight is yours."
She nodded before realizing that Ingles couldn't see the gesture. "Thank you, Sir," she said gratefully. "I'll throw a few things in a bag and leave for Norfolk within the hour."
"If there is any news, I will contact the terminal at Norfolk and leave a message for you and Commander Drake," he told her. "Colonel, we will find them."
He sounded so confident that Mac wished she could borrow some of that for herself. Not that she doubted Harm's survival skills. Far from it. They'd been through enough life and death situations together that she had no doubts about that, at least the Marine in her didn't. The woman in her, however, was terrified and wouldn't rest easy until she could see him alive and well, until she could hold him in her arms. "Thank you, Captain," she said softly before clicking off the phone.
She set the phone back on the nightstand. She wanted to shake, needed to scream about the unfairness of it all, desired to give free reign to the tears she was currently holding at bay. But she couldn't. There was too much to do. Forcing back her emotions, she jumped from the bed and grabbed her overnight bag, throwing things in it automatically, knowing how and what to pack through years of practice.
While she packed, she considered who to contact. She wanted to call Chloe, hear her youthful optimism that everything would be fine. Maybe Bud and Harriet could remind her again of all the dire situations that Harm had faced before and had come through just fine. But she was afraid that any one of them might try to talk her out of going to the Patrick Henry and she wasn't about to be dissuaded. She didn't really want to talk to him right now, but she knew she needed to call Mic. He had to be home by now and she owed it to him to not let any more time pass before he was told of her decision.
With a heavy sigh, she stopped her packing and picked up the phone, dialing Mic's number. In his apartment, he lay sprawled face down across his bed, where he'd thrown himself after Alan and Bud had driven him home, too drunk to be bothered by the ringing phone.
When Mac got the answering machine, she hung up without leaving a message, pushing thoughts of Mic from her mind. How or when he would find out had just become the least of her worries. What did a wedding, a cancelled one at that, matter when Harm was out on the ocean somewhere, fighting for his life?
She returned to her packing, stripping off her nightgown and folding it, laying it on top before zipping her bag up.
Leave the lingerie at home this time.
"Not this time," she said aloud, managing a half-hearted smile at the memory. Maybe it was crazy, but that nightgown, the one she'd worn in Russia, carried with it some very fond memories. If nothing else, it could remind her while she waited for news.
Quickly, she dressed in her uniform and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to bring some semblance of order to it, glancing at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. God, look at me, she thought. Harm's missing and I'm worried about how I look. A single tear slipped down her cheek and she brushed it away.
She turned away from the mirror and went to her nightstand, opening the drawer and withdrawing Harm's letter and his wings. Clutching the wings in her hand, she promised herself that as soon as she saw him, she'd return his wings. Harm had shown her that flying wasn't more important than her by giving them to her, so she'd pin them back on his uniform to show that she wasn't threatened by his need to fly.
Oddly calmed by the thought, she carried her bag, the letter and wings to the living room. She set the bag on the couch, stashing the letter in a side pocket of her bag, keeping the wings with her. She went over to her desk and booted up her laptop so she could send a message to the Admiral. Technically, she was on leave for the next two weeks, but she needed to tell him something, especially if he ended up getting caught up in the fallout from what she was about to do.
While she waited for the computer to come up, she retrieved Harm's flight jacket from the closet and pulled it on. Even though she'd had it for two days, she could still detect a faint whiff of his aftershave. She wrapped her arms around herself, imagining that it was his arms around her, holding her tight, his scent invading her senses. She wondered if she closed her eyes, if she would see him standing there.
Finally, she heard the musical tones that signaled that Windows was coming up. Sitting down at her desk, she forced herself not to fidget while Windows finished loading. Once it was up, she opened her e-mail program and composed a message to AJ.
To:
chegwiddenajaghq.navy.mil
From:
mackenziesjaghq.navy.mil
Subject: FYI
Admiral,
I'm sure you've already heard about Harm's crash. Captain Ingles called me – I guess Harm never took me off his emergency contact list. I asked that I be allowed to go out to the carrier and he agreed that Skates' fiancé and I could come out on the morning helo, provided the weather clears. I need to be there when they find Harm. I'm sorry to tell you like this, but honestly I didn't want to take the chance that you would try to talk me out of this. I have to do this.
I know that this will cause a lot of problems for some people and there is a lot of stuff going on that no one knows about yet and this is not the time to get into all that. I did try to contact Mic, but he's either still not home or not answering his phone. If he asks questions – and I'm sure he will – you can tell him whatever you feel you need to. I know that I will have to deal with him eventually, but I can't right now. Right now, my primary concern is Harm.
She read over the message. It felt incomplete, but she wasn't sure what else to say. She hated dumping her problems with Mic in her friends' laps, but she didn't have a choice. With a heavy sigh, she signed off on the message and sent it, her e-mail program set to automatically dial her internet service, in this case the remote access to the JAG server. Once the message was sent, she powered off her laptop and leaned back in her chair, deep in thought, trying to figure out if there was anything else she had to do before leaving for Norfolk.
She practically jumped out of her chair and went over to the bookcase, pulling off the shelf the photo album which had so fascinated Chloe two days earlier. She would have several hours' wait ahead of her in Norfolk, maybe more if the weather didn't clear. She would look through the album, remember everything she and Harm had shared, and remind herself that Harm was first and foremost a survivor. And he would survive this. She refused to believe anything different.
-----
To be continued…
