WHILE MORTALS SLEEP 3
Disclaimer: Characters and information from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario/Belisarius Productions/ Paramount/ CBS. This story is strictly not-for-profit and is just a way of sharing the fun and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters and incidents are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent anyone living or dead, so any resemblance is purely coincidental. Any idiocies herein are entirely my own.
Author's Note: The scene two title alludes to Yeats's "The Rose of Battle"
Chapter Three: Rumor of Angels
Scene One: The First Word
The upper deck of the Jade Mountain
The Arabian Sea
A few miles outside the Sea Hawk battle group cordon
Morning, 16 December
Gray waves swell and collapse under a sky still smeared with the blood-mark of early light. The C-2 Greyhound's ascent from the carrier deck is more rapid than he expected, but slow enough. As it comes into range it is still under the 12,000 foot ceiling for a hit from a shoulder-fired missile. The Wasp lifts the Stinger to his shoulder and sights. His breath tightens in his chest as he estimates the distance. The Greyhound's trajectory is bringing her well within the five-mile limit. He checks the sight. Now. He feels power flow through his arm to the trigger, exploding with a kick that jolts him, despite his firm stance. As the flash of light arcs toward its target, he fires again. Two bars of light streak upward, like rapid cursors blinking against the screen of sky.
Scene Two: The Little Cry
Aboard the C-2 Greyhound COD
En route from the Sea Hawk to Airbase Alpha
Morning, 16 December
Gray saw the flash of light before the first shock wave ran through the cabin. He'd been taking some aerial views of the battle group when he saw the freighter tagging along the edge, like somebody's little brother. Then, he saw a flash of something that he first thought might be a distress flare.
A shudder ran through the plane and he heard Colonel Sarah call out something that sounded like, "Every body down! We've been hit!" As he grabbed his ankles, Gray was aware that Mac was still upright, making sure that everyone around her--particularly the civilian doctors--got into the safest position. Mac's one tough Marine. Rabb's words came back to him as the plane lurched, then rolled a little to the left. From the moment they'd boarded the COD, Gray had seen a change in her. She was all business, as focused on the mission ahead as if it had been combat, a matter of life or death instead of an errand of mercy. And now, he thought, it just might become a matter of life or death.
An orange glow briefly lit the cabin. Then the smoke—acrid, heavy, blinding.
In a crisis, training takes over, Mac thought as she felt her body going through the motions it had learned, her voice speaking clearly and calmly from some command center established years ago and kept in place by discipline. The habit of service, the habit of sacrifice. Semper Fi. When Giovanna and Nikos were in position, bent over, but leaning together, their bodies shielding Vanni's from whatever was to come, Mac moved into crash stance.
Mac's one tough Marine. She didn't feel tough. Icy rivulets of fear were coursing from some adrenalin-fired panic center in her brain to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. She tried to focus on Harm's voice, the warmth and confidence in the way he'd said it. Even when she didn't believe in herself, he believed in her. Mac's one tough Marine. As she bent down, Mac savored the memory of his voice. And prayed the heart's little cry. Please don't let that be the last of us. Please, please, please.
Scene Three: Tidings
USS Sea Hawk
Legal Office One
Morning, 16 December
Coates put down the shipcom receiver and turned to find Commander Rabb staring out over the jumble of manila folders that covered the narrow worktable. "Sir?"
"Yes, Coates?" The Commander squared his shoulders and breathed deeply.
"It's the Captain, Sir. You are wanted on the bridge, Sir. There's been…an incident."
Her voice quavered a little. "It's the COD, Sir. It's been hit by missiles fired from a MANPAD on some freighter, Sir."
"With me, Coates." Rabb had grabbed his cover and was out the hatch, with Coates racing to keep up with him.
Scene Four: A Wing and a Prayer
Bridge of the USS Sea Hawk
Morning, 16 December
"A direct hit, Sir?"
"I am afraid so, Commander. By at least one of the missiles."
"And the COD, Sir?"
"The pilot's attempting an emergency landing. She's lost an engine and has some damage to the rear of the fuselage. But she's keeping her in the air."
"If any one can bring her in, its Angel." Coates's voice was steady now. Remembering where she was, she added a hasty, "Sir."
"Angel?" The Commander's voice was tight, his jaw clenched. Evidently the tension was affecting his hearing.
"Pilot of the COD, Commander," the Captain volunteered, "Lt. Angie San Gabriel. She's one of our best."
Scanning the eastern horizon through the glass front of the bridge, Harm found the plume of smoke from the Greyhound, a charcoal smudge against a gray paper sky. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to be still. The worst of it was the feeling of utter helplessness. At least when you're in the cockpit, you've got a chance at control. At least when you're in it together, there's a chance to make it work. Hang in there, Marine. You'll make it through this. Her face flashed vividly before him, her dark eyes brimming with tears. You're going to be okay, Mac. Oh God, see her through this. Keep her safe.
Scene Five: The Sound of Your Voice
USS Sea Hawk
Legal Office One
Two Hours Later
Harm tried to concentrate on the folder in front of him, but it was no use. Coates had been right about Angel. She'd managed to land the COD at an airfield in Muscat, more or less in one piece. But then there'd been trouble with the Sea Hawk's radiocom—odd electrical problems on the bridge, evidently. No news of casualties.
No news of the freighter yet, either--the battle-group's whole multimillion-dollar cutting edge computer-based STARcom recon coordination system was choking and stalling like a Piper Cub in a grade B movie.
"Sir?" Coates was handing him a receiver. "For you, Sir. Patched through from Oman."
Harm grabbed the phone. "Commander Rabb here."
There was a crackle and hiss of static, then, "Harm?"
The honey and salt of her voice washed over him in a wave of joy.
"Mac! You okay?"
"Yeah, Squid. We're all fine. A little smoky and more than a little shaken up. A few bruises here and there. Gray's developing a beautiful shiner."
"Good for him." Harm wanted to laugh--sheer, giddy, my-world's back-in-place belly laughter. But the connection was shaky and he had things to say. He settled for a chuckle. "Mac?"
"Yeah?"
"It's really good to hear your voice. You gave us all—you gave me—one hell of a scare, there, Ninja Girl." He heard a faint chuckle through the static. And what sounded like a gulping noise.
"I don't know what's wrong with me, Sailor. I suddenly have this overpowering urge to laugh till my sides split. Relief, I guess." The voice deepened a little. He could see her lowering her chin and raising her eyes as if to meet his. "But that's not what I want to…I just called to let you know…the truth is, Harm…dammit, I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice."
Harm opened his mouth and no sound came out. Now who's choking and stalling? The static buzzed through the pause. "Mac…I'm…missing you already. And, me, too… it's so good just to hear your voice." He took a deep breath, "Any chance you'll abort this mission now?"
"No way, Squid. Takes more than a little crash-landing to deter the U.S. Marines."
"I was afraid of that." The static was louder. "Mac, when you get back, we—uh—need to talk."
"Something wrong, Harm?" He felt the concern in her voice. If she were beside him, she'd touch his arm gently.
"No, Mac. Something's finally right. Complicated, but right."
"Harm," despite the crackling of the connection, he could hear her sigh. "You're talking in riddles."
"Not all that hard to decipher, Sarah."
The office lights flickered and the line went dead. As the Commander put the receiver back in its cradle, Coates studied his face. She'd never heard him call the Colonel "Sarah." But his face was unreadable.
Scene Six: From Every Angle
USS Sea Hawk
Legal Office One
Afternoon of 16 December
"Hey, Coates, maybe there's an angle we haven't considered." Harm and the Petty Officer sat across from one another, with papers from the Jameson inquiry spread out on the table between them. "Anything you can tell me about this rash of thefts on the Sea Hawk?"
Coates stiffened. Looking up from the file in her hand, she glared at the Commander, her jaw set. "I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. Why would I—"
"Whoa, Coates, whoa." Harm shook his head and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't mean to imply you had anything to do with it."
Coates blushed. "Sorry, Sir. I guess I'm still not quite used to being trusted."
"Well, we do trust you, Coates. Mac's—Colonel Mackenzie's been singing your praises from her first day back on the Sea Hawk. Hell, she's on the Admiral's case about getting you transferred to JAG Headquarters." Harm smiled at her and handed her a file. "Now, let's get on with this case."
As they considered possible connections between the Jameson murder and the unexplained thefts, the lines of inquiry kept leading them back to the Visiting Concessions area and the merchants.
"You know, Sir, they were scheduled to leave this afternoon, but they are still marooned on board. No COD's on or off while we're on high alert over that missile attack. If they are involved, Sir, either this incident has trapped them here, or its part of a plan to keep them aboard."
"Why would they want to stay? And why murder Jameson in the first place?"
"Beats me, Sir. But Jameson was in charge of the STARcom's test run. And the stuff that's gone missing all has some connection to electronics."
"A kid's game, Coates?"
"You can use them to construct real weapons guidance systems, Sir."
Rabb frowned. "Then, if one of the merchants murdered Jameson and stole these materials, you think maybe he's here to sabotage the Sea Hawk?"
"Or the whole STARcom system. It would be quite a coup, Sir. And worth a lot in some quarters."
"I bet the folks who are stocking up on old Stingers would just love to parley a few shoulder-fired missile shots into a crippling blow to the Sea Hawk—or this battle group."
"How those weapons got on the black market in the first place is what I'd like to know, Sir."
"Webb could tell you."
"Webb?"
"It's a long story. The condensed version is that back in the '80's the CIA gave a thousand Stingers to Mujahedeen freedom fighters bucking the Soviets in Afghanistan. Now you can buy them on the black market—for a price."
"That sure beats all, Commander." Coates leaned back in her chair. "You know, Sir, there's another thing. It seems like the Sea Hawk's been having more than her share of electrical problems. The radiocom this morning, for instance. And I've been having a devil of a time with the legal database, Sir. It's like something is eating holes in my programs."
"Could a visitor actually hack into the Sea Hawk's computer network?"
"We're not talking hacker, Sir. If someone's found a way in, we're looking for a cracker."
"A cracker?"
"Hackers just get in to have a look around. Sort of voyeurs on the information highway. Crackers are destroying angel wannabes. They'll crash the system if they can."
Scene Seven: Angels and Icons
Qandahar, Afghanistan
Evening, 16 December
Officers' Commons
Gray Caldwell seated at a table, made entries in his logbook with swift, sure strokes of his fountain pen:
"Despite the delays, I've managed some good pictures to wire out from Qandahar:
1. Madonna and Child with Angel on the Runway at Muscat: The battered C2 Greyhound in the background. Dr. Giovanna Alba, kneeling on the tarmac with Vanni in her arms, looking down at him with that look painters have been trying to capture for two thousand years. And the kid, with his curly hair and grimy face, smiling up at Col. Sarah and reaching out a chubby hand to grab the piece of chocolate bar she's handing him.
2. Flight into Egypt (Via Afghanistan): Col. Sarah helping Dr. Nikos Zabetakis and Dr. Giovanna get Vanni settled into his seat in the cabin of the prop-jet to Qandahar. Caught the Colonel just as she made a gesture that—frozen by the camera—looks like she's sheltering them somehow, in a wide embrace.
3. No Room in the Inn: None of us except Vanni had eaten anything since dawn, so we had a makeshift tea in the shell of a building near the airfield while we waited for transport into Qandahar. Several good shots here:
Nikos, Gio, and Vanni warming their hands by the fire; Col. Sarah stirring up some freeze-dried macaroni and cheese in a little metal cup;c. a ragged group of village kids standing in the shattered doorway--hanging around hoping for leftovers, or a chance to stand by the fire before it dies.
4. Icon of Mercy: Col. Sarah, with a tiny street urchin on her lap. Caught just as the child lifted her face to gaze adoringly at the Colonel."
Gray paused, looking up to take in the group assembled around the heater in the Officers' Commons: Nikos, Giovanna, and the other doctors, a couple of British officers, and a few Marines, including the Colonel. Chatting away as if it were any ordinary day.
We were tired, shaken, hungry, he remembered. It was a relief to mess about starting a fire, boiling water, and breaking into the rations. Vanni was delighted, zooming around our legs till his mother corralled him to share her tea. We were sitting there on the ground, laughing and talking, when the Colonel grew very quiet.
She was looking at the children in the doorway—four of them. They'd been watching our every move with solemn faces. The oldest was a girl of about twelve, with a little girl younger than Vanni in her arms. Made me think of Ferruzzi's "Madonna of the Streets"—the one where the models were street children—a girl and her brother. The two others were boys, about six and four perhaps, but it's hard to tell. The children here are, for the most part, malnourished and small for their age.
The Colonel called out something to them in some Arabic language. Farsi maybe. The children apparently understood and the oldest returned Col. Sarah's greeting. Sarah said something else and gestured toward the fire. The children moved forward slowly, like deer emerging from the safety of a thicket. They are wise to be wary. They've never known anything but war.
I had my camera ready and got several good shots as Sarah set down her cup, stood, and talked with them. Then, she took the smallest child in her arms. I got that photo. And the best shot of all, Sarah feeding her pasta to that ragged baby while the others gobbled granola bars that came from her pack. The picture is perfect—the way she's cradling the child, the food smeared around the little mouth, the way the child looks up at this angel in the funny war clothes.
Scene Eight: The Blank Page
Evening of December 16
Aboard the Jade Mountain
Somewhere near the Northern African Coast
The Wasp watched as the Americans boarded the Jade Mountain to begin their search, the faintest of smiles pulling at the corners of his mouth. They swarmed aboard like a little contingent of roaches, their movements quick and abrupt. He'd been questioned, but of course, he'd known nothing. "Most sorry, gentlemen, but I am afraid that I can not help you." He only regretted that he could not be there when they found the box of carpets. He could imagine their elation, the excited shouts. They would unroll every last carpet. They were doing so right now. It would take them some time.
But, in the end, they would come up empty-handed. The nearest U.S. ship had been, of course, the Blue Ridge. Unfortunately indisposed. The Jade Mountain had slipped away most easily. Of course, it had been only a matter of time before the Navy tracked her and found her. Enough time. The Wasp smiled again, imagining the Stinger sinking, sinking, into the black depths of an ocean that would never give up all of her secrets.
Scene Nine: Angels Also Testify
A corridor leading to the Brig
USS Sea Hawk
2 a.m. December 17th
Mr. Barak al-Barak moved quietly and quickly through the humming ship. While the corridors of a carrier like the Sea Hawk are never completely deserted, in the night watches the human traffic lessens. Enough for his purposes. And if he did encounter curiosity, he could always claim to be lost. A visitor to the ship, you see. Not good with all these stenciled numbers and letters meant to guide one through the labyrinth of this ocean bird. This corridor was deserted. At the next turn, he would find the guard outside Mustafa's door. The guard would not even hear him coming until it was too late.
Barak al-Barak prided himself on the grace and smoothness of his movements. He was a master of the quiet necessary to invisibility in a crowded thoroughfare or a deserted hallway. That was another gift. Best of all, though, the gift of his large, bland presence which disturbed no one. He had a name no one remembered, a face like many others. Especially to these Americans, to whom all foreigners look alike.
Barak al-Barak smiled, flexing the length of wire in his hand. One must have many ways to do the deed. This was one thing he had learned from the American cop shows—a consistent em-oh could be one's undoing.
As he had anticipated, the guard did not hear him until it was too late. The wire slipped easily over the Marine's head and around his neck, as it was fated. Barak al-Barak had strong arms, also. A single powerful jerk and the guard crumpled to the floor. The keys were attached to the guard's belt with a little clip. Not so difficult to detach, even for plump fingers.
Soon, he and Mustafa were making the return journey to the visitor's quarters.
"And the Cipher's little machine is in place?"
"So he says, Mustafa."
"A very clever man, our Cipher."
"Clever, indeed, Mustafa. But a zealot."
"It will not hurt us to have a true believer in our midst."
"That, my friend, is—as they say in America—a matter of opinion."
"He has given you trouble?"
"Not at all. But he babbles when we are alone. Talks to the computers. Not just with his hands on the keyboard. He talks to them under his breath, as if they were alive."
"Talk cannot hurt us, Barak."
"He believes his work is holy, Mustafa. Sometimes I think he has convinced himself that he is one of the angels of the holy Koran itself."
Mustafa smiled. "Well, let him be. Perhaps he is an angel of this new world that we are creating. The angels also testify, my friend. And every angel, like our young friend, is a key to an endless ocean of knowledge. The Cipher's knowledge can cripple the Sea Hawk. That is all we need to know."
Scene Ten: In a Dream
Visiting Officer's Quarters
Qandahar
2:30 a.m.
Mac writhed on the narrow iron cot, the rough blanket tangled around her waist. The wire mesh that held the mattress creaked and groaned. In her dream she heard the calling of some great bird, coming from far off. Then she realized that she was on the flight deck of a carrier, and that the bird's cry was close, but muffled by the noise of wind and engines and landing gear. She saw the shadow first, falling across the deck, then looked up to glimpse a great winged creature, wheeling to starboard. The creature had the face of a vulture and the body of a man. In its arms, a human form. Suddenly the dark angel released its prey and the human form was falling. The body hit the deck with a dull thud. From where she stood, Mac could see the Navy uniform, the unnatural angle of every limb. The face was turned away from her. But she recognized the line of his shoulder, the shape of his ear, the color of his hair. Her heart lurched into her throat and she could not scream.