While Mortals Sleep

by linmarie

Finished...As Christmas approaches, hidden dangers bring Harm and Mac face to face with their own brand of wondering love.

4. While Mortals Sleep

While Mortals Sleep 4

Disclaimer: Characters and information from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario/Belisaurius 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 are entirely my own.

Warning: Scene Six contains material I find disturbing—the violent effects of collateral damage on children. The scene is not for young readers or for those who don't want the real world intruding on romance and adventure.

Chapter 4: While Mortals Sleep

Scene One: Dark Streets

Afghanistan

A village on the road west from Qandahar

Late Afternoon

17 December

Under a sky the color of tarnished pewter, a crowd of villagers gathers round the back of a truck painted to blend in with the mountain desert landscape. Two Marines in the open doorway at the back of the truck hand small bundles to three Marines on the ground. One of the three is Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, having the time of her life playing Santa Claus to shivering children who greet the bundles of mittens, scarves, and sweaters with shy smiles and squeals of glee.

A photographer in dusty cargo pants and a coffee-colored anorak moves from place to place at the edges of the crowd, snapping one shot after another.

This is the fifth village of the day. It is nearly dark when the last child receives her package and the crowd begins to disperse.

"Looks like they've found us a place to bunk for the night," Gray said, carefully placing a lens back in his bag and zipping it shut.

Mac smiled at him, "Why do I have the feeling that tonight's lodgings are going to make the Officer's Quarters in Qandahar look like the Ritz?"

"Maybe you're clairvoyant."

"It wouldn't take a medium to guess there's no Hilton in this pile of rubble." The village was, in fact, a patchwork of shell-pocked walls, piles of stone and crumbled concrete, hastily constructed mud brick shanties, and jury-rigged tents. They set up camp in the remaining half of what had once been a two-room school. It had four walls and a roof, relatively solid. The windows and window-frames, if there had ever been any, were gone. By some miracle, the chimney still drew, so they got a good fire going, with a minimum of smoke. The walls kept out some of the cutting wind that had blown steadily all day.

As she finger-combed her hair, Mac could feel gritty dust against her scalp. The dust was everywhere, eddying in little wisps by the roadside, slithering across the packed earth of the roadways, settling on their skin and stinging their eyes. A man's country, Harm had called it. All that open land, the rugged hills, and so much sky--he'd loved it. And she had, too. With Harm at her side it had seemed like another incarnation of the desert around her own Red Rock Mesa, though the colors and shapes of the landscape were new. There'd been no time to look for fossils, but she bet there were plenty here. Maybe as many fossils as there were landmines and warlords and Al-Qaida sympathizers. But now, with Harm off on the Sea Hawk, the country only felt vast and empty. And cold. Mac shivered, rubbed her hands together, and pulled her gloves back on.

Then Gray was at her side, handing her a cup of steaming coffee. "Mmm, thanks," Mac murmured, warming her gloved hands on the sides of the metal mug and bending her face over its warmth. He motioned her to a place nearer the fire, where he'd set out their sleeping bags side by side, folded over in half to make seats. Gunny Nevchak was feeding the fire and making dinner—boiling the water for their packets of freeze-dried stew. The others were playing gin rummy with a pack of dog-eared cards.

Mac hugged her knees and stared into the fire. The blaze made her face hot, but her back was cold. Uncomfortable, but it was worth it, to see the looks on those kids' faces. The shy gratitude of the mothers, too. If she was cold, they were colder. And she just had to be here a few days. They had to last out the winter. And wave after wave of war. She rested her chin on her knees and suddenly felt an overwhelming tide of tiredness. Her eyelids were lead curtains—she could hardly hold them open.

Gray watched the Colonel. She was so close that he could slide his arm around her if wanted to. And he wanted to. But he could guess how she'd react here, in front of these other Marines. She'd be every inch an affronted officer, he imagined. And, he sighed to himself, an angry woman. There was no denying it. As far as he could see, they were fast becoming great friends. But she'd made the lines very clear. No, he couldn't help her carry her bags. No, she could climb up into the truck by herself, thank you. No, please, I'd really rather you call me Mac. Colonel Sarah sounds so…so silly.

Over the stew they'd laid their plans for the next day's stops. The Colonel had been the first to roll out her sleeping bag and climb into it. When Gray couldn't resist making a little joke about moving the bags closer to share a little body heat, she'd practically snarled at him. It was the first time he'd seen her ruffled. I evidently struck a nerve, he thought.

Rolling on her side, with her back to Gray, Mac unzipped her pack and pulled out the little snapshot in its shatterproof holder. It was barely visible in the fire's glow, but she could just make out Harm's smile. She touched it with the tip of her index finger. Wish you were here, she thought. I really do. She fell asleep remembering Harm's arms around her, the solid warmth of his torso as she slid her arms inside his jacket, the countless candles of the stars twinkling over them with such a friendly light. Remembering the sensation of his breath on her cheek as they talked quietly together and how she'd wanted to lean over and kiss him. And in her dreams, she did.

Mac was awakened by a rustling noise that her trained instincts told her was not one of the sleepers. The fire had died down to a dull glow and the Marine on watch—Evans, she thought—had fallen asleep, sitting by the fire with his chin sunk on his chest, his hand still on his rifle, its barrel propped against the wall. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw a lone figure silhouetted in the space between the fire and the doorway.

It was a bearded man in the loose trousers and compact turban of this region. He carried a rifle of some sort and had it at the ready. Mac willed herself to keep her breathing even and slow as he moved toward the semicircle of sleeping bags. Quietly, quietly, she eased down the zipper of her own bag. Gray was on the end nearest the intruder, snoring with a sound somewhere between a mutt's growl and a cold Humvee engine. Thank God for that sound—it would cover any noise she made as she readied herself to move.

The intruder stepped noiselessly to within a yard of Gray's sleeping form, then he paused. Lifting the rifle, he aimed directly at Gray's head. Mac inhaled deeply, then sprang over Gray, tackling the intruder's waist and shouldering his rifle arm upward. The rifle's report deafened her for a second. Then there was a clamor of shouting and motion. The intruder was struggling under her and she had both hands on his rifle—one on the barrel, the other prying his fingers from the trigger. Then Nevchak was with her and together they got control of the weapon and its owner.

Scene Two: Searching the Shadows

The Bridge of the USS Sea Hawk

Evening, 17 December

"Any ideas, Commander Rabb? Our search has turned up nothing so far. And the man has to be on this ship. No transport on or off since the COD incident."

"No, Captain. If anyone knows this ship, you do. Keep your men on it. He's bound to turn up. Everyone else's whereabouts accounted for, Sir?"

"We're working on it, Commander. But, as you know, we've got several thousand people on this ship. And we've been hampered by these damned electrical problems—internal communications, generator supply systems, databases all screwed up. The coms are up, then down. The lights are on, then off. Now in this sector, now that. And we're having to keep tabs on where we've searched and where we haven't on clipboards, for Pete's sake."

"Yeah, we've had some problems of our own in legal, Sir. But it seems to me like the real suspect pool is actually pretty small. What about the visitors?"

"All accounted for—including the merchants and the other men from the Scheherazade."

"With your permission, Captain, I'd like to schedule interviews with all the visitors."

"Go right ahead, Commander."

Scene Three: The Eyes of Love

MSF Children's Clinic

Village of Asterah, Afghanistan

Evening, 18th December

Asterah was the seventh—and last—village of the day. Despite last night's interrupted sleep, the Marines and their guest photographer had been up and on the trail before daylight. After miles of bumpy roads, biting winds, and choking dust, it was good to call it a day. Best of all, Mac thought, is having friends at the end of the road. After all they'd been through together, Mac felt like she'd known Giovanna all her life. She and Nikos invited Mac to spend the night with them, while the men in her group stayed at the home of the village chief. And, to be honest, Mac sighed, it will be a relief to have a little break from Gray.

They'd given Mac a tour of the clinic and she'd been amazed at what they'd accomplished in just two days. Though they still had unpacking to do, and some supplies were apparently wandering the roads between Qandahar and Asterah, they were already seeing patients. As word of their work spread, they expected women to bring their children from villages as far as seventy miles away. Many would arrive on foot. Their building was spartan—volunteers from the peacekeeping forces had reconstructed it from the damaged remains of what had been a tailor's workshop and living quarters and an adjacent teashop. It had no central heating, electricity, or running water, but it did have a sturdy roof and thick walls. They had hired men and women from the village to fetch water and wood, to tend the fire, and to help with the patient interviews.

Now, it was lovely to sit by the fire with Giovanna. They kept their voices low because Vanni was sleeping beside them on his small cot near the fireside and Nikos was working on clinic records by the light of an oil lamp.

"We hope to have a kerosene generator by the end of next week. Then we will really be a high-tech operation." Giovanna chuckled softly.

"You two—three—are just amazing. You are all so brave—"

"Or maybe foolish," broke in Giovanna, "Yes, I think that is more it. We have the wise foolishness of love. When you love fully and deeply—whether it is a man, a child, a world in need—you do not stop to count the cost."

"You just rush in?"

"Precisely. But, on the other hand, I think that really, despite the American proverb, it is the angels, not the fools, who rush in. It is the fools who fear to tread. The fools are always feeling themselves for damage, counting the cost. Meanwhile life just slips away from them."

Mac leaned forward, her elbow on her knee, her fist under her chin, staring into the fire. "I really envy you, Giovanna. You have it all—good work, a good man, a child…" She chuckled softly.

"And that makes you laugh?"

"No, it's just… I told a friend once that all I wanted in life was a good job, a good man, and lots and lots of comfortable shoes. Out here, the shoes seem kind of silly." Mac straightened and smiled at Giovanna.

"But very, very necessary on these rough roads." Giovanna laughed quietly, a whispery, warm sound that made Mac want to hug her.

"That friend of yours," Giovanna's eyes, as they met Mac's, were twinkling, "was it perhaps your Commander Rabb?"

Mac could swear she felt herself blushing. Probably just the heat from the fire. She sighed, "Yes, it was Harm. But he's not 'my' Commander. We're partners, good friends…"

Giovanna laughed again. "Oh, Sarah, you can not fool me."

Mac shook her head, "It's true."

"You forget, dear Sarah, that I have seen you two together. Your eyes…"

"What about our eyes?"

"It is true that you see each other clearly, as friends. I think you are honest with each other, see one another's flaws, set one another straight. I have heard that in your talk. It is good to have such a friend. Nikos and I, we are such friends, too. But the eyes of the lover touch you, evoke a response. You and your commander have also the eyes of lovers, speaking to one another, touching one another at every turn."

"I…am in love with him, Giovanna." Mac sighed. "And I know he cares about me. But it's not like that…his eyes touch me because I love him, and the kind looks he gives his friends mean more to me than they should. I am his friend, maybe his best friend, but…"

"No, Sarah, I think that you are mistaken. Your eyes touch him. He responds. In plain sight, though he is careful to hide."

"You're seeing things that aren't there, Giovanna. The other day, after that close call with the MANPAD, I called him. He was glad I was okay, but then he started talking about the case."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. He said we had to talk when I got back. When I asked him what was wrong he said something about things being right, but complicated."

"You are certain he was talking about the case?"

"I think so. Yes."

"And did you ask him, to be sure?"

"I couldn't. We got cut off. I accused him of talking in riddles and then, the last thing he said to me was 'It's not so hard to decipher, Sarah.'"

Giovanna laughed again. "He called you Sarah? Oh, my dear, I think that you are reading this riddle very much the wrong way round. "

Scene Four: The Wheel Turns

Visitor Housing, Officer's Quarters

USS Sea Hawk

Late evening, 18 December

Barak sat on the rack, his plump hands resting on his knees. Mustafa sat on the metal desk chair. The Cipher paced back and forth between them with quick, tense steps.

"Patience, my friend. All goes well," Barak cooed. "No one has given Mustafa even a second glance." He was proud of his handiwork. With a few swipes of a razor, a few flicks of the tweezers, he had stripped Mustafa of his moustache and pared his bushy brows to a thin arch. Now, dressed in the uniform of a junior officer--stolen, of course--he could be hidden in plain sight. It had been easy enough to instruct him in the salute. And now, with the tech security clearance badge, all became possible. The ship was just big enough, they were keeping enough in the shadows, no one had questioned him.

Of course, Barak had been questioned. By that irritating Commander Rabb. So suspiciously. A dog with his hackles up. Barak chuckled. Ah yes, an infidel, a dog. He imagined the pleasure of breaking Rabb's neck. One last flight--off the fantail, perhaps?

Barak chuckled aloud. Mustafa's clipped words broke into his amusement.

"This machine of yours, why is it working so slowly?"

"It is a very small machine, made only of numbers," The Cipher said. "This is a very large ship, its information systems constructed of many strings of code. They have backups, little loops in the trail I must find and eliminate. I slip the little machine in, with some aid from Americans like Jameson—so stupid they do not even know they are helping. My little machine, it talks to the Sea Hawk, little by little. It turns all to nothing. It teaches the Sea Hawk to think only in an endless string of zeroes. This takes time."

"If the Americans are so stupid, why kill Jameson? It creates too much stir, too soon."

It was Barak's turn to speak. "We tried to avoid this, Mustafa. But it was the only way to get the key. Once aboard, we discovered that the STARcom's failsafe mechanism is a sort of double, contained in a special mainframe. If the STARcom dies, its twin comes to life. Jameson had the key. Soon the Cipher will talk to the twin, insert one of the little machines of code. The Sea Hawk will be helpless in our hands."

Scene Five: A Gift from the East

Women's Self-Help Craft Co-Operative

Asterah, Afghanistan

Morning of December 19

It's odd, Mac thought, he's the most important person in my life and I don't have a gift for him yet. I've got something for everyone else—even for Gray. But not for Harm. What do you get for the guy who has everything you want?

She sighed. She'd considered everything from sheet music to stereo equipment, and nothing seemed right. As she looked over the woven mats, patchwork vests, beads, baskets, and little carved boxes made from salvaged wood, her heart sank. It had seemed like such a good idea when Giovanna suggested it. Something hand-made, something one-of-a-kind. And something that would help these women and their families. She'd bought a bracelet for Chloe and some placemats for Harriet, a journal notebook with pages of handmade paper for Gray and a woven bag for herself. After all, she needed something to use to carry back these treasures.

She turned back to Maliha's table to look once more at her mosaic pieces. They were made from bits of glass, slivers of metal, chips of stone and fragments of other materials salvaged from the rubble left by years of bombings. Mac had bought one of Maliha's paper weights for the Admiral. They really were beautiful things, the tiny bits of color cleverly fitted to form swirling abstract designs that suggested sky and sea and gardens without making any forbidden images. Mac was touched by the way Maliha turned the hurt and ruin of her world into something lovely.

This time, a piece she had not noticed before caught her eye—a picture frame, medium-sized, not too large to carry back in the bag she'd just bought. Along the bottom and up three-quarters of one side a design of greens with swirls of red suggested a rose garden, along the top, bits of blue glass and white porcelain suggested a starry sky. Along the remaining side bits of blue and green alternated to form waves running outward, into eternity. It was itself a vision of a world whose colors were true and bold, but peaceful. It could hold any picture he cared to make.

As she tucked the frame, carefully wrapped in the placemats, into her bag, Mac smiled to herself. At least he won't get two of these. And it will remind him of this man's country that he loved. And maybe, just maybe, it will remind him, too, of the rose garden where we met and that night in country under the stars.

Scene Six: Collateral Damage

The Road to Qandahar

Late morning, 19 December

Despite the gift shopping, it had still been relatively early when they left Asterah for the direct run back to Qandahar. Their road took them through several villages where they had distributed gifts. But this time, the truck held only five Marines and one photographer. They did not plan to stop.

It was Mac's turn to ride in the cab. Evans was driving, and Gray, as usual, had the window seat and was snapping photos as they rode. A few miles west of Qandahar they drove past an undulating pile of rubble that had been a village long known as an Al-Qaida stronghold. After the bombings and fire, most of the villagers had fled to the hills. The few who remained lived in tents thrown up at the eastern edge of the ruins.

Just beyond the tent city, they passed another rubble pile. It was impossible to tell what it had been. As they drew alongside, Mac saw several small boys scrambling up an incline of rubble to join a slightly larger boy who was digging at its crest.

"Dangerous business, scavenging," said Evan.

"It' s a dangerous country, all round," Mac sighed. "No place for children."

They'd gone less than a quarter of a mile further when they heard the blast behind them.

"Oh, God, no! Those children!" Mac shouted. "Turn this thing around, Evans."

"Yes Ma'am." Evans braked and slowly eased the truck back and around. Then he floored it.

Evans and Mac were first on the scene. A new crater had blossomed in the rubble. It was reddening with the blood from what was left of the bodies of the two boys who had been closest to the sleeping cluster bomb when it detonated. Though he knew it was hopeless, Evans scrambled up to the lip of the crater. What he found there was flesh and blood, but hardly recognizable as human.

Mac dropped to her knees several yards back, carefully examining the small boy who lay very still on the heap of stones and brick. His face was bleeding profusely, but a quick check revealed that though these wounds would scar his face forever if he lived, they did not present a threat to his life. But the force of the explosion had made projectiles of stone and brick and concrete. One of these had torn off his right hand. Blood spurted from the stump in a small, grotesque fountain of red. Mac felt the warm, thick droplets spraying her face as she pulled off her belt and formed a torniquet at the first pressure point above the wound. Then, murmuring in Farsi, "You are fine, you are all right, you are fine. Stay with us…" Mac drew out her knife, opened her jacket and began cutting strips of cloth from her shirt. She bound the lower arm wound tightly, then tended to the deep gashes on the boy's chest and legs.

"Nevchak!" Mac called. "Call for the medevac helo from Qandahar. Tell them we've got—" she surveyed the scene, noting that Evans was bent over one child while Gray and another of the Marines still worked on the boy who had been furthest out. "Three wounded. Just that. Three wounded. Status on the wounds, if they ask. Nothing more."

"Yes ma'am!" Nevchak raced to the truck.

Dammit, Mac thought, damn it all to hell. This is one we can't palm off on Al-Qaida or the Soviets. Our bombs did this. And, by God, our medics are going to deal with it. She laid her hand gently against the boy's dark hair, at the crown of his head, where she knew he was not wounded. "You are going to be okay little soldier," she crooned in Farsi, "My brave one, you are going to be just fine."

The medics had not questioned Mac's order, but set right to work. Only when the helo was rising slowly, slowly into the eastern sky, did Mac feel her own tears. She trembled and her stomach was cramping violently. As Gray put a comforting arm around her, she leaned against him, grateful for support. Then she pulled away, murmuring, "I think…I am going…to be…sick" and doubled over. Gray held her steady as she vomited, again and again. Then, he wiped her face clean with a handkerchief moistened with water from his canteen and poured water over her blood-caked hands. For once in his life he was not thinking about pictures. But Mac, leaning her head against Gray's shoulder, was hanging on to the comfort of Harm's voice. Mac's one tough Marine. Not all that hard to decipher, Sarah.