Burning Bridges

by Warviben

Mac's past comes back to haunt her and Harm.

BURNING BRIDGES

by ScoobieD

Summary: Mac's past comes back to haunt her and Harm.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the premise.  They belong to DPB, et al.

Any and all feedback is welcome at dcamp@wheelerandarey.com.

____________________________________________________________________

Somewhere in the sky over Arizona . . .

Harm had been grumbling continuously about the Admiral's sermon to them for the eight hours and twenty-three minutes since they'd left him.  Mac was on the verge of telling him to shut up when he asked her, "Why aren't you upset about this?"

"Because, quite frankly, I don't think he was talking to me.  I just happened to be standing next to you and got caught in the storm," she told him without looking up from her magazine.

Mac missed Harm's look of outrageous indignation.  "Why would he blame me for every budget shortfall?"

Admiral Chegwidden was working on the annual budget, and his normally gruff personality had become downright mean, as it did every year at this time.  They'd endured a fourteen-minute lecture after receiving this, their newest assignment, concerning past indiscretions and the Admiral's expectation that neither of them would ever bring a case in over budget for the rest of their military careers.  Then they'd been dispatched, via civilian airline, to Yuma to investigate an Admiral's son charged with disobeying an order.  Unfortunately, the best they could do with the time they had to work with was a flight to Phoenix.

"I don't know, Harm," Mac said absently.  "Maybe it's because you seem to have a knack for doing things the hard way and blowing things up or crashing them in the process."  Her mouth twitched up in amusement.

"I'm not even gonna justify that with a response," Harm huffed.  He was quiet for a moment, then began again.  "So now we have to suffer in coach for eleven hours because there were no transports available and then drive four hours in the middle of the night to Yuma."

"Cheer up, Harm.  He could have made us drive all the way out here."

"Oh, that helps," Harm noted sarcastically.

Mac sighed.  "I have an idea.  I'll drive.  You sleep.  Somebody gets cranky when they don't get enough sleep."

* * * * *

Accepting her suggestion with very little argument, Harm stretched out as much as he could on the back seat of the rental car.  Mac drove into the night, zipping along at a good speed, putting the miles behind her as quickly as she could.

A song came on the radio which Mac liked very much.  "Harm?" she asked into the darkness.  When she got no response, she chanced turning the volume up and sang along quietly to Moon Dance.

The miles seemed to melt away as Mac flipped through the channels.  She sang background for The Belmonts on "Come On, Little Angel", trotted out her best country twang for "Goodbye, Earl", sat on the dock of the bay with Otis Redding, crooned along with "Alone Again (Naturally)", and bopped to "That's the Way (uh huh uh huh) I Like It".  She used the steering wheel as a drum to back up The Cars on "Just What I Needed", she sang both parts in "I've Got You, Babe", and was practicing her bass on "Bird Dog" when her cell phone rang.  Mac quickly turned the radio volume down and snatched her phone up before it could wake Harm.  "Colonel Mackenzie," she said quietly.

"Ma'am, it's Bud."

"Bud!  What are you doing up?  It's 0138 back there."

"I couldn't sleep," Bud said.  "And then I figured out why.  I meant to call you earlier, but I had a meeting with the Admiral about the Barry case, and then a deposition in the Webber court martial, and then I just forgot.  I apologize, ma'am."

"What are you apologizing for, Lieutenant?"

"Sorry, ma'am.  Your Uncle Matt called earlier today."

"He did?  Is something wrong?"  Mac asked, concerned.

"No, no.  He wanted you to know that he's sold the house in Yuma."

"Did he say why?" Mac asked, surprised at the news.

"No, ma'am, he didn't.  But the reason he was calling was that the new owner was cleaning the house out and found a box of personal things in the basement.  Your uncle said it was a box of things your mother asked him to store twenty-five years ago.  He'd forgotten it was there.  He has no idea what's in the box, but he thought you might like to have it.  Isn't it a happy coincidence that you're heading there?  It's almost like fate."

Mac was thinking furiously.  A box of personal items her mother had left twenty-five years ago.  What could be in it? she wondered.  Twenty-five years ago, Mac would have been eight, which was when her father had transferred temporarily to Korea.  Her mother must have left the box with Uncle Matt at the time of their move.

"Colonel?" Bud asked.  "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here," she said absently.

"I thought since you were out there already, I'd let you know.  The new owner was going to dispose of the box if someone didn't come for it right away.  Do you need directions?"

"No.  I know the way."

"Let me give you the guy's number."

"Just let me get something to write with."  Without taking her eyes from the road, Mac groped in her bag for a pen and a scrap of paper.  She jotted down the name and number Bud gave her and thanked him for calling.  After she hung up, she no longer felt like singing.  In fact, she turned the radio off completely and mused in the dark silence about what that box might contain.

* * * * *

When they finally arrived at their destination, Harm awoke groggily and stretched gingerly after getting out of the car.  "What time is it?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"0257," Mac told him as she opened the trunk.  She was strangely keyed up considering she'd been awake all night – well, most of it anyway.  It was still pitch black out as they were led to the BOQ and shown to their respective rooms.   From Harm's sleepy looks, Mac could tell he'd have no problem falling back into sleep.  She knew she, on the other hand, wouldn't sleep at all.  Driving long distances always left her wire, and with the added agitation about "the box", she knew even trying to sleep would be pointless.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When they met later that morning for breakfast, as planned, Harm noticed the circles under Mac's eyes.  "Did you get *any* sleep last night?"

Mac didn't look at him, busying herself with buttering her toast.  "Didn't seem to be much point in it," she said, shrugging.  After unpacking, she had tried to look at the new case file, but had been far too distracted.  She'd laid on the bed for a time, counting ceiling tiles.  When that failed to soothe her, she'd jumped out of bed and done some calisthenics.  Jumping jacks and sit-ups usually made her feel better, but not this time.  Finally, when 0500 arrived, she went for a brisk jog around the base.  After she'd showered, she called the man who had bought her uncle's house and then come to meet Harm.

"Well now I feel bad," Harm said, sounding as though he actually meant it.  "I should have driven some last night.  Why didn't you wake me?"

"One of us might as well be rested," she said off-handedly.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sensing something more than mere tiredness.

"I'm fine.  But I do have a favor to ask of you.  Could you handle the interview alone this morning?"  They were scheduled to meet with their new client first thing.

"I could," Harm said, watching her closely.  "But I'd like to know why you won't be there."

"I have something I need to do."  Now her coffee required her full attention.

"Mac, you drove all night so we could make this meeting.  Now you're backing out?  What's more important?"

"Nothing.  It's just something I have to do."

"Does this have anything to do with the phone call you got last night?"

Mac looked up at him, then quickly looked away.  "Did the phone wake you?"

"No," Harm said.  "I'd been awake for a while."

Damn!  Mac thought, and she could feel color rising in her cheeks.  He'd heard her singing.  There was a reason she did that only when she was alone or thought no one else could hear.  She couldn't carry a tune if it had a handle on it.  Now she really couldn't look at him, and she decided to just ignore him.

"You're not going to answer my question?" he pressed.

She gathered the last shreds of her dignity and looked up at him.  "Look, I have something personal I need to do, okay?  Could you just handle the damn interview without me, please?"

"Okay," he agreed, aware she wouldn't be pushed any further into revealing her reasons.  "I'll do it.  But you're gonna owe me one."

* * * * *

Mac had made the long drive out to her uncle's (former) home and back in under two hours.  She'd been back on the base for another hour.  Still she sat, just staring at the box, unable for some reason to open it.  It was an innocent enough looking box which, in its former life, had held copy paper.  It was taped at all seams, and it said only "Mackenzie".  It hadn't feel full when Mac had lifted it, and it's contents had shifted freely inside.  She knew she was being foolish.  If she wasn't going to open it, she should have left it to be disposed of.  Since she'd gone to all the trouble of getting it, she might as well open it.

Logical, right?  The problem was, Mac wasn't very logical about her past.  There were monsters from her childhood which might be hiding in that box.  She'd run hard and far away from those monsters, and she didn't want to let them out again.  She eyed the box warily, wondering if they could somehow get out even if she *didn't* actually open the box.  She had herself so worked up, she actually jumped when someone knocked on the door.

Glad to move away from the box, Mac got up and opened the door.

"You're back," Harm said.

"Hi," she said, feeling guilty about shirking her duties.  "How did the meeting go?'

Harm squeezed by Mac and walked into her room.  "I don't think there's any doubt he did it.  He could claim he misunderstood his orders, but I don't think that would fly very high or very far.  Our best bet is to concentrate on extenuation and mitigation.  He's a good kid.  We've got a lot to work with.  How did your errand go?"

Mac's eyes darted involuntarily to the box on the desk.  "Fine," she said vaguely.

Harm followed her gaze to the box.  He looked back at her and noticed the wary way she was eying the box.  "What's in the box?" he asked.

She looked at him, warring with herself over how much to tell him.  She looked down at her feet and said, "I don't know."

"Well, it's got your name on it," Harm said, watching her.  "You blew off a client meeting for it.  Why don't you open it?"

Mac shrugged and looked at the box.  "I'm afraid to," she admitted.

"What is it?" Harm asked, looking at the box with new interest.  Anything that could scare Mac had to be interesting.

"It's a box," she said and paused.

"I can see that!"

Her look told him to shut up for a minute.  "It's a box," she said again, "that my mother left with Uncle Matt twenty-five years ago."

"Oh.  So what do you *think* is in there?" Harm asked, calculating how old Mac would have been then.

"I have no idea."

"And you're afraid to find out?"

Mac cleared her throat and turned her back on the box.  "Don't we have some witnesses to interview or something?"

"Yes, actually, we do.  The box will still be here when you get back though, Mac.  There's only one way to know what's in there.  Putting it off won't help."

"Can we just go?"

"All right," Harm agreed.  Damn stubborn Marine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later, Mac and Harm were back at her door.  "We've got a couple more people to talk to tomorrow, then I think we can wrap this up."

"Okay," Mac agreed absently.  She looked apprehensively at her door.

"You want to get something to eat?"

"I"m not hungry."

"Have you eaten at all today?" Harm pressed.

"Uh, sure."  She'd had breakfast.

"Would you like me to stay and . . . help?" he offered.

She smiled at him, a smile that almost reached her eyes, but not quite.  "Thanks.  But I need to do this myself."

* * * * *

Mac sat staring at the box for a time before she took a deep breath, marshaling her courage, and cut the tape.

She first lifted out a photo album.  She flipped slowly through the pages, seeing herself as an infant, a toddler, and finally a preschooler.  There were pictures of her mother and father, too.  Funny, Mac thought.  If a stranger were to look at these pictures, he might think this a happy, loving little family.  The camera hadn't caught the bruises and emotional scars left by her father's drunken rages.  Despite that, Mac was glad to have these pictures.  She hadn't any pictures of herself as a child.  Normal people had baby pictures, and this made her a little more normal.

She next lifted out a folder containing drawings she'd done.  Her mother had labeled each with the date.  By age seven, she'd progressed to drawing houses that actually looked like houses and people that looked sort of like people.  So I wasn't meant to be an artist, Mac thought wryly.

Under the folder was a tiny white christening dress.  Mac recognized the dress from a photo of herself at one month old.  The dress was yellowed, and Mac wondered if it was salvageable or if it was even worth trying to save.  It had probably been purchased at the past equivalent of Wal Mart and wasn't worth much.  She set it aside, deciding to take it to the dry cleaners when she got back home and at least ask if it was worth cleaning.

The last thing in the box was a few papers tied together with a ribbon.  Mac untied the ribbon slowly.  On top was her second grade report card, followed by first grade, then kindergarten.  She looked at these early transcripts of her scholastic aptitude.  Her second grade teacher had been Mrs. Labrie.  She remembered her as a rather severe, thin woman who seemed incredibly old to a seven-year old.  She was probably in her fifties, Mac mused.  She'd received all "S's" on her report card, with the exception of one "O" in "Works Well Alone" and one "N" in "Participates in Group Activities".  After the second quarter, Mrs. Labrie wrote, "Sarah is a very quiet little girl.  She needs to join in more."

"Pppffft," Mac said.  She'd remained a quiet student until her teen-aged years, only coming out of her shell with the inducement of alcohol.  Wonder what Mrs. Labrie would have thought about that?

Mac set those aside and picked up her baptismal certificate.  It was nice to know she'd been cleansed of sin at one point in her life.  She wondered if it was possible to ever be that way again, but decided that was just wishful thinking.

The last two pieces of paper were copies of her birth certificate.  Sarah Elizabeth Mackenzie, born March 3, 1968 (ed. note: I made this date up), 8 pounds, 2 ounces, 21 1/4 inches, mother Deanne O'Hara Mackenzie, father Joseph Mackenzie.

"Well, that's it," Mac thought.  Nothing all that bad.  She felt a little silly about her fear of the box's contents.  She laughed a little at herself and began to pack up.

As she was bout to put the documents into the box, Mac dropped them.  She picked them up off the floor, and something on the second birth certificate caught her eye.  She stared at it, wondering in the back of her mind if it was possible for blood to actually freeze in your veins.  The typed words seemed to jump off the page at her.  Nicole Marie Mackenzie.  Born March 3, 1968.  4 pounds, 6 ounces.  18 1/4 inches long.  Time of birth was seven minutes later than the time listed on Baby Sarah's birth certificate.

Mac felt as though the room was spinning, and she sat down hurriedly on the bed.  It couldn't be.  It couldn't be.  It couldn't be.  If she said it enough times, she could make this all go away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Harm returned from diner, he went immediately to Mac's room.  He knocked several times before he finally decided she wasn't just ignoring and that she really wasn't there.

He wondered where she might have gone.  He had their rental car, so she was probably somewhere on base.  He sighed and headed out to look for her.

He looked everywhere.  The motor pool hadn't checked a vehicle out to her, so she had to be within walking (or running) distance.  He checked the administrative offices, the officers' club, the mess hall.  He drove around aimlessly, hoping to spot her by chance.  After an hour and a half, he finally found her in a place he'd hardly expected – the base gym.  She was alone there, running up and down the court dribbling a basketball, making layups at both ends.  She looked exhausted, yet he couldn't help but notice how graceful and smooth she was.  He hadn't known she'd played basketball, but it was obvious by her level of skill that she had a more than passing acquaintance with the game.

After a time, she noticed him there and stopped, holding the ball to her side, breathing heavily.  He walked up to her and immediately saw the deep fatigue in her eyes.  He saw something else there, too, but he couldn't identify it.

"What?" she demanded.

"I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Well, now you found me," she said, wiping sweat from her upper lip with the neck of her t-shirt.

"You look tired," he noted.

"You wanna talk, or you wanna play?" she challenged.

He stared hard at her, but he saw nothing in her eyes now but the challenge. Before he could answer, she threw the ball at his chest, hard.  He caught it in reflex, then raised his eyebrows at her.  "All right," he said.  "We'll play."

He tossed the ball back to her, then unzipped his jacket and took it off.  She bounced the ball angrily against the floor while she waited.

He turned around.  "You know, whatever it is, it's not the ball's fault."

Mac did *not* want to talk right now.  If she didn't find a way to release the anger and confusion she was feeling, she thought she might explode.  She threw the ball at him again, this time aiming for his head.

Again, Harm caught the ball reflexively.  What was wrong with her?  He stared at her again, his eyes asking that very question.  She only stared back, her eyes steely in the yellow fluorescent light.  Okay.  She wanted it rough.  He could play that way.

They played for forty minutes, and when they were through, they were both exhausted.  After drinking from the water fountain, Harm slumped wearily to the floor against the wall.  He wasn't looking forward to counting his bruises tomorrow.  Mac had seemed to be all elbows and knees while they'd played, seemingly propelled by some inner rage that blurred her sense of decency and fair play.  More than once, she'd deliberately fouled him, and just as often, he'd fought to keep his own temper in check.  He *was* bigger than she was, after all and he could have seriously damaged her if he'd so chosen.  He wasn't willing to do that, however much she provoked him.  She'd overcome his height advantage with a grit and tenacity that must have made her a force to play against.

"I didn't know you played," he said between gulps for air.

She slid down to sit beside him.  "Starting varsity as a freshman," she said without a trace of pride.  "But that was before I decided that partying was more fun that basketball practice."  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

"Did you open the box?" he asked, guessing what was responsible for her mood.

Without opening her eyes, she said, "Yes."

"Wanna talk about it?"

She opened her eyes now and looked down at the basketball in her lap. "No.  I can't.  Not yet.  There's too much I don't understand.  There's only one person who can help me."

"Who's that?"

She looked at him, her eyes hold nothing now but pain and exhaustion.  "My mother."

"I wasn't aware you knew where your mother was."

"I don't," she said, looking away.  "When I saw her last, at my father's funeral, we never got around to exchanging addresses."

Harm sat silently, sensing there was more to come.  He was right.

"I called Clay this afternoon," she continued.  "My mother *did* tell me she was receiving social security disability benefits.  I thought maybe he could get me an address."

"Did he say he would?"'

"He's gonna call me tomorrow."

"And if he gets you an address?" Harm questioned.

"Then I'm gonna go to her and see her one last time, and she'd better have some answers for me."

Harm looked at her.  "Mac, don't burn that bridge," he advised.  "You may want to re-cross it some day."

"I'm not gonna burn that bridge, Harm."

"Good," he said, glad she was being reasonable. 

She went on as though he hadn't spoken.  "I'm gonna dynamite it into a million pieces."

Harm sighed.  "Come on, Little Angel," he said, climbing to his feet.

Mac winced, recognizing the title of one of the songs she'd sung in her impromptu concert.  "Are you ever going to let me live that down?" she asked.

"Um . . ."   He paused, as though actually considering.  "Nope," he said with a grin.  "I think I'll remember that for the rest of my life."  He extended a hand to her to assist her up.

Mac made a small noise of disgust and got to her feet under her own power.  Harm laughed at her show of pride, which earned him a solid slap on the arm.

"Ow!  Take it easy on me, would you?  I feel like a punching bag!"

"What's the matter?" she teased.  "You getting old?"

"Yes, and it's past my bedtime."

"Well, if you can manage to stay awake a little longer, I'd like to look at your interview notes."

Harm though about teasing her about her sudden interest in their case, then thought better of it.  "Mac, you really need to get some sleep."

"I will.  But I want to look at your notes first.  I need a shower.  Why don't I meet you in your quarters in twenty minutes." Mac walked away, leaving him no chance to argue.

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, Mac knocked on Harm's door, and he opened it to admit her.  She passed by him closely enough so that he could smell the scent of the soap she'd used.  For some reason, that smell did something to his senses, and he forgot for a moment why she was there.

"Your notes?" Mac prompted.

"Oh.  Yeah.  They're over here."  He went to his desk and began rummaging through the papers there.  While he searched, Mac sat down on his bed.  She yawned once, a yawn so huge it brought tears to her eyes.

"I think our client deserves a break.  He's a real nice kid, clean service record.  I think we argue he made a mistake, but he's taking responsibility for it.  Let me know what you think after you read this stuff."

He turned around to find Mac sound asleep on his pillow.  He smiled at her, put the papers back on his desk, and covered her with an extra blanket.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harm waited as late as he could before waking Mac.  He shook her gently by the shoulder, prepared to jump back if need be.  He'd never woken a sleeping Marine, and he wasn't sure it was such a safe thing to do.

Despite his concerns, Mac only opened her eyes.  "Harm," she said sleepily.  "How did you get in my room?"

"I'm not," he said, smiling.  "You're in mine."

Mac sat up and looked around.  He was right.  "How did I get here?"

"You fell asleep here last night.  I didn't want to wake you, so . . ."

"I'm sorry.  I kicked you out of your own bed.  Did you sleep in my room?" She stretched and yawned.

"I was going to.  But your key must be in your pocket.  I didn't think rummaging around in your pockets while you were sleeping would have been very good for my health.  It was all I could do to work up the nerve to take off your shoes."

Mac reached into her pocket and pulled out her room key.  "So where did you sleep?"

"I threw a blanket on the floor."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"Don't worry about it. Not the first time I've slept on the floor.  We may have a bigger problem, though."

At her questioning look, he said, "General Lacey sent his yeoman over to tell me he wanted to see us at 0900.  If the petty officer tells him he saw you sleeping in my bed, we may have some explaining to do."

Mac's eyes widened in alarm.  After a moment, she said, "Well, it was completely innocent.  We'll just tell him the truth if he asks."

* * * * *

He did, but not before telling them that charges against their client were being dropped in favor of non-judicial punishment.  They explained to the General how Mac had ended up in Harm's bed.  General Lacey hadn't gotten two stars without learning to recognize the truth when he heard it, and he let them off with a stern warning about maintaining proper decorum.  They both breathed a huge sigh of relief after leaving the General's office.

"I'll see about getting us a flight home.  Maybe we can catch a transport going back," Harm said as they approached Mac's door.  Mac saw the note taped to her door before Harm did.  She took the note and opened it.  It read:

"0910 - Clayton Webb

13211 West Sycamore

Yuma"

"After all this time and all that's happened, she's come back here," Mac whispered.

"Your mother?" Harm asked.

"Yeah," she said, not taking her eyes from the note.  "She's here in Yuma."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to see her.  I'll have to call the Admiral and ask him for some time.  It makes sense to do it while I'm out here already."  So I can't back out.

"Look, the Admiral doesn't know we're finished here.  I'll just wait around for you, and we can go back together."

"No!" Mac said quickly.  She realized how harsh that sounded, and she softened it with a smile.  "I appreciate that.  But I don't know how long I'll be.  You go on back.  I'll see you soon."  She didn't know what she'd learn from speaking with her mother, but whatever it was, she sensed she'd need time to deal with it before talking to anyone.  Even Harm.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mac sat in her rented Taurus and stared at the nondescript little house.  Several of the posts on the porch railing were missing, the yard was badly overgrown to weeds, and an old tire lay in the middle of what should have been the lawn.  The house looked as though it had been in desperate need of a paint job during the Carter Administration.  Could her mother really be living in this place?  she wondered.  The only nice thing about it was the number 13211 stenciled on the mailbox.  "Mailman can't bring the check if he doesn't know where you live," she thought cynically.

"Might as well get this over with," she muttered aloud.  She got out of the car and picked her way up the litter-strewn walk.  Testing the steps carefully to be sure they'd hold her eight, she mounted the stairs, took a deep breach, and knocked on the door.

After several seconds, she knocked again.  "Maybe she's not here," Mac thought with a glimmer of hope, "and I can say, 'oh, well, I tried'."

That little ember was extinguished when she heard a familiar voice say, "Keep your shirt on!  I'm coming!"

"What is it?" she asked as she pulled the door open, and Mac found herself face to face with her estranged mother again.  She hadn't changed in the years since she'd seen her last.

Deanne Mackenzie was obviously surprised by her visitor. She dropped the book she was carrying, and her hand went to her mouth to cover the fact that it had fallen open in astonishment.  Her eyes were wide, and she seemed stunned into silence.

Mac bent to pick up the book and handed it to her mother.  "Hello, Mother."

Deanne finally found her voice.  "Sarah?!  My God, Child!  You surprised five years off my life!  It's so wonderful to see you!  Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, please.  We need to talk."

Deanne moved aside to let her daughter pass.  "Is something wrong?" she asked as she closed the door.  "Are you sick?"

"No, I'm fine," Mac said, stopping in the living room.  Despite what she'd expected from outside appearances, the inside of the house was neat and clean.

"It isn't much, I know," Deanne said apologetically.  "I can't get out to do yard work any more."

Mac hated that tone of voice.  "Why are you apologizing to me, Mom?  How you live is your business."  Mac regretted her harsh tone instantly.  "How are you, Mom?"

"I'm all right, I guess.  I get by anyway.  I'm awfully happy to see you."

Mac doubted she would be for much longer.  "Mom, Uncle Matt sold his house."

"Did he?" Her tone left little doubt about her lack of interest in that subject.

"Yes, he did.  The new owner found a box in the cellar.  It was labeled 'Mackenzie'."  Suddenly, Deanne looked interested – and wary.  "Uncle Matt said you'd left the box there twenty-five years ago.  He thought I might want it." When her mother didn't speak, she went on.  "I'm sure you remember it.  It had my baby pictures in it and some early report cards."  Mac paused a moment.  "It also had this in it."  She held Nicole's birth certificate out so that her mother could see it, but when Deanne reached out a hand to take it, Mac snatched it back.  "What haven't you told me?"

Deanne sat down heavily.  "This is all in the past.  I never thought I'd have to go through this again."

"Well, it's my past, too.  I think you owe me an explanation.  I've never asked you for anything, but I'm asking for this.  Did I have a twin sister?"                                                         

"You probably still do, darlin'," her mother said, and once again, Mac's world began to spin.  She sat down and put her head in her hands, willing the feeling to stop so she could listen to her mother.

"When I found out I was pregnant, I didn't know whether to be thrilled or scared to death," Deanne began.  "Your father got worse as he got older, but he was already a mean drunk, even back then.  He seemed happy when I told him, but with your father, happiness was something that came and went with the tide of the liquor bottle."

"Can we make this *not* totally about my father, please," Mac requested testily.

"Sorry, darlin', but it's *all* about your father. I can't help that.  When I found out I was having twins, I was afraid to tell him that, too, but he seemed okay with it.  He even went out and bought two of the cutest little cradles you've ever seen.  'Course, he smashed one of 'em up a couple months later.

"And then you both were born.  You came first.  You were so beautiful and perfect.  I couldn't stop looking at you.  And then your sister was born.  She was beautiful, too, but *so* small.  She weighed three pounds less than you did, but she made up for it by being three times louder.

"You were such a good baby.  Never fussy, you slept good, you ate good.  But your sister!  I swear from the time we brought you home from the hospital, that child never stopped wailing.  She didn't want to eat, she wouldn't sleep.  Felt like I was up twenty-four hours a day tending to one or the other of you. Mostly her.

"After three weeks, your father said he couldn't take it any more.  We drove around Yuma until we found an empty church.  He made me take both of you inside.  I was supposed to leave you both there, but I couldn't do it.  I left her, but I brought you back out with me.  We argued about keeping you.  I won when I told him that we'd never be able to explain it to everyone who knew I was pregnant or to the neighbors who'd heard a baby crying.  We didn't have any close friends.  Your father wouldn't allow that.  I told him I'd left the noisy one.  He agreed to let me keep you."

"The noisy one?!"  Mac repeated in disgust.  "Her name was Nicole."

"I know.  But I stopped saying her name the day I left her in that church.  "I know what you must think of me, but I was afraid your father would end up killing her, or you, or me, or all of us.  After we left her, things quieted down considerably.  We settled into a routine.  And just because I never said her name doesn't mean I stopped thinking about her."

Mac rubbed her temples, trying to soothe a sudden headache.  "Do you have any idea what happened to her?"

"No."

"And no one ever discovered what you'd done?"

"No.  I switched pediatricians, threw out all the pictures I had of her or the two of you together, and we moved.  No one knew."

"What church did you leave her in?" Mac asked tiredly.

"I don't know the name.  It was a Catholic church on the east side of Yuma."

Mac stood up.  "Thanks for your time.  I appreciate your being honest with me."

With some difficulty, Deanne stood as well.  "That's it?  That's all you came here for?"

"What else is there?"

Mac saw the disappointment in Deanne's eyes at her words, but she had little sympathy left for her mother.  "I thought maybe you'd come to see me."

"I'm sorry, Mom, but when I look at you or think about you, I become less of a person.  I become a fifteen-year old kid looking in the bottom of a bottle for the reason her mother left her.  That's not your fault.  It's mine.  But it's not a feeling I like, and as far as I can tell, there's only one way to prevent it."

"Are you ever going to forgive me?" Deanne asked tearfully.

"I already have, Mom.  But you have nothing to offer me, and there's only one thing I can offer you."  Mac reached into her pocket and pulled out five twenty dollar bills.  She extended them towards her mother.

"I don't want your money, darlin'," Deanne said, although she reached out and took it just the same.  "I want my daughter."

"Which one?" Mac asked, making Deanne flinch.  "I'm gonna find Nicole.  When I do, I'll tell you about you.  Whether or not she wants to meet you is up to her.  Goodbye, Mother." They both heard the finality in her tone.

When Mac got back to her car, she sat for a moment, collecting herself.  She wasn't sure how to feel.  Sad?  Angry?  Abandoned all over again?  All of the above?  She didn't know.  She didn't even know if she should feel sorry for Nicole or jealous of her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Mac got back to her hotel room, she called the Admiral, once again asking for additional time.  She wasn't sure he'd go for it, but she pled the best case she could.  In the end, he'd grudgingly agreed to allow her two extra days.  Mac thanked him as profusely as she thought appropriate and hung up.  She then dialed Harm's number.  She knew he wouldn't be home yet, and she actually preferred it that way.  She left him a message telling him she had some information to track down and that she'd be home in a couple of days.  She didn't tell him where she was staying.

She then consulted the local yellow pages and found the newspaper listings.  The Yuma Sentinel – she remembered that from her childhood.  It was a good bet they were around when she was born.  She called them.  Sure enough, they'd been publishing in Yuma since 1934.  They had an archive of microfilmed files that anyone was welcome to look at.

She was led to the storage room and was glad to see she had the place to herself.  She thumbed through reel upon reel of tape until she found the month and year of her birth.  She threaded the tape through the machine and began searching through the white on black words for any news a baby had been left in a local church.

There it was!  She almost missed it.  It was but a brief paragraph in the Local News section sandwiched between a story about a dog which had woken its family, saving them all from a house fire, and a notice that the library was having a used book sale.

The headline read, "Baby found in local church".  The brief article said only, "Father Bill LaPlante was surprised to discover what appeared to be a newborn baby left at the Church of the Blessed Mary on Friday.  The child was reportedly alive and has been taken into the custody of Child Protective Services.  Authorities are investigating how the child came to be in the church."

That was it.  One measly three-sentence paragraph about her poor, tiny baby sister being abandoned to total strangers in a lonely, empty church.  Feeling angry now, Mac pushed the print button.  She checked the archives for another two months, but not further mention was made of her sister.

Mac's next stop was the closest office of the Department of Economic Security, under whose auspices Child Protective Services operated.  After making it quite clear that she wasn't leaving until she spoke with someone in authority, and after waiting thirty-eight minutes and forty-three seconds, she was finally led to the office of the manager.

"Ms. Mackenzie," the tall attractive woman said, extending her hand.  "I'm Linda Jacobson.  How may we help you?"

Mac shook her hand.  "I appreciate your seeing me.  I'm looking for some information.  First general information, then some not so general information."

"Please, sit down," the other woman invited.  "I'll do what I can."

"Thank you," Mac said as she sat down.  "Can you tell me what your normal procedure would be if someone were to find a baby that had apparently been abandoned?"

A new look of watchfulness was in Ms. Jacobson's eyes now.  "Have you found such a baby?"

"No, ma'am."

"Have you perhaps left your baby somewhere?"

"No."  Mac felt as though the other woman was about two seconds away from calling the police and reporting her for child neglect and endangerment.  "I'm a lawyer in the Marines.  I'm stationed in the office of the Judge Advocate General for the US Navy.  If you'd like, I can give you his number.  He's seen my practically every day for the last six years and can vouch for the fact that I haven't been pregnant, at least in that time."

Ms. Jacobson visibly relaxed.  "That won't be necessary.  But can you tell me what this is all about?"

"I will.  I promise.  And don't worry.  I'm not going to sue you."  Mac tried out her best smile of reassurance.

"All right.  In a situation such as you have described, the child would be taken into our custody and placed with a foster family while attempts were made to find the parents."

"And if the parents were not found?"

"If the parents were not found, after a suitable time, the child would be placed for adoption."

That was what Mac had assumed would happen.  Now that it had been confirmed, she wasn't sure if they'd be willing to help her.

"Now could you tell me what this is all about?" Ms. Jacobson asked.

Mac unfolded the newspaper article she'd printed and handed it across the desk.  It only took a moment to read.

"My sister," Mac explained.  "My twin sister."

"Your parents left this infant in the church?"

"Yes.  I didn't even know I had a sister until very recently.  My mother confirmed that she left her in the church.  She says my father made her do it.  I have her birth certificate."

"So what is it that you want us to do?" Ms. Jacobson asked.  "The statute of limitations has long expired on a child endangerment charge."

"I don't know where my sister ended up, Ms. Jacobson, but my parents probably did her a favor," Mac said.  "No.  What I want is to find my sister."

"Adoption records are sealed," Ms. Jacobson said automatically.

"I'm not asking you to tell me who adopted her.  What I'd like to do is write a letter to her parents and have you forward it.  If her parents don't want her to contact me, that'll be their choice, and I'll live with it.  All I'm asking you to do is to let her know I exist."

Ms. Jacobson studied her for a moment.  "Let me see if I can find the file first of all.  It's been a long time, and files have a way of getting lost.  You wait right here.  This may take a while."

"Thank you," Mac said gratefully.

"Don't thank me.  I haven't done anything yet."

Forty-three minutes later, Ms. Jacobson returned, and Mac's heart soared when she saw a file in her hands.

"You found it?!" she asked, willing herself to stay calm.

"Yes.  It's comforting to know that the system sometimes works like it's supposed to."  Ms. Jacobson sat down behind her desk.  "You do realize that given the age of his address, there's every chance the letter will be returned?"

"I know," Mac said.  "But I have to try."

"My suggestion is that you direct any response they wish to make to this agency.  If and when they contact me, I'll contact you.  You don't know these people, and they don't know you.  It's best to be cautious."

"All right," Mac said, willing to agree to almost anything.

Ms. Jacobson handed a pad of paper and a pen to Mac.  "Write your letter."

"Thank you," Mac said, taking them with shaking hands.

She paused for a moment, unsure how to start, then put pen to paper.

"My name is Sarah Mackenzie.  I recently learned that my twin sister was given up by my parents shortly after her birth.  Although your identity has not been revealed to me, I have been informed that you are my sister's adoptive parents.  I would very much like to meet my sister, but I do understand if you want to let the past stay in the past.  I would like to hear from you or my sister, and if you would like to respond, please correspond with Linda Jacobson of this agency.  She will get in touch with me, and perhaps we can arrange a meeting.  I look forward to hearing from you."

Feeling as though she hadn't been early eloquent enough, Mac folded the letter and handed it to Ms. Jacobson.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Three days later . . .

Mac returned to work, determined not to let her preoccupation interfere with her work.  She had no idea how long it would take to hear something.  There was always the possibility, of course, that she'd never hear anything at all.  She wasn't quite prepared to deal with that yet.

She'd been working at her desk for over an hour when harm came into her office.  "You're back."

"Yeah," she said, smiling up at him.

"How did things go?  Did you find the answers you were looking for?"

"Some," she said, nodding.  "But not all.  The answers created more questions."

"Answers will do that," he said, speaking from experience.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."  Off his look, she said, "I'm not shutting you out, Harm.  I just want all of the facts before I say anything.  I promise you as soon as I know everything, you'll know everything.  Cross my heart," she said, doing so.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to catch up on."

* * * * *

It had been three weeks, and Mac had heard nothing.  After a week, she'd called Linda Jacobson and was informed that her letter had indeed been mailed, on the very day she'd written it, but that no response had been received.  She'd been able to push her impatience down far enough to allow herself to function, but it was becoming more and more difficult.  She knew that very soon, she'd have to come to terms with the fact that she may never know what happened to her sister.

When she got home on Friday afternoon and looked at her mail, it almost didn't register that one of the envelopes contained the State of Arizona seal by the return address.  Mac dropped the rest of her mail when she realized what she was holding.  She sat on the couch and stared at the envelope, almost afraid to open it.  She realized her hands were shaking, and she said aloud to herself, "This is silly.  Just open it."

Her hands still shaking, she slid a finger under the seal and broke it.  Her phone rang, but she hardly noticed.  The machine would pick it up.

She withdrew a single sheet of paper, unfolded it, and began to read the neat handwriting.

"Dear Ms. Mackenzie:

We received your letter from Child Protective Services and, as you can well imagine, we were very surprised to learn that our daughter had a twin.  I'm very sorry to have to inform you that we lost our daughter tragically six years ago.  I know that if she had known of your existence, she would have wanted very much to meet you.  We still miss her terribly, and I think that meeting you would help us to finally put her death behind us.  If you're still interested in meeting us, please give me a call.  I'm very glad that you wrote."

As she read, a sense of the injustice of the whole situation began to grow inside her.  She'd just learned she had a sister, she'd been able to track her down, and now she was learning that her sister was dead.  Her feelings of outrage died abruptly, however, when she reached the end of the letter, to be replaced with a bone-chilling sense similar to claustrophobia.  The letter was signed "Bill Schonke".

After minutes had passed, Mac wasn't sure she had yet absorbed this latest bit of shocking news.  Diane Schonke, Harm's former lover, who'd been murdered at much too young an age, had been her sister.  "My sister Diane," Mac said, trying the words out loud.  "My twin sister Diane was murdered six years ago."  She didn't realize she was crying until a tear fell on the letter she was holding.

It was a long time before Mac got herself together enough to call the number Bill Schonke had printed under his name.

"Hello," a male voice answered.

"Mr. Schonke?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Schonke, my name is Sarah Mackenzie.  I just got your letter."

It was a moment before she got a response, and Mac suddenly realized just how difficult this must be for them, too.

Finally, Mr. Schonke said, "I'm really glad you called.  My wife and I . . . we'd like very much to meet you."

"I'm so sorry for all of this, Mr. Schonke."

"Please.  Call me Bill," he interrupted.

"I'm sorry for barging into your lives like this.  I'm sorry for dredging up painful memories.  And most of all, I'm so very sorry for your loss and that I won't ever meet my sister."

"Well, why don't you come to visit us, and we'll let you get to know her through us.  We'd like to get to know you as well."

"I'd like that very much," Mac said.  "But I must tell you something.  I'm a lawyer in the Marine Corps stationed at JAG headquarters in Falls Church, Virginia.  I work very closely with Harmon Rabb."

From the sharp intake of breath, Mac knew this news was as startling as she'd expected it to be.  "It sure is a small world, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Mac agreed.  "I know what happened to Diane.  And I think I should warn you – Harm has told me how much I look like Diane.  That now makes sense, but I hope it isn't too difficult for you."

"It won't be easy," Bill admitted. "But I wouldn't pass up an opportunity to meet Diane's twin for anything.  Should we come to you, or would you like to come to us?"

"Where are you?" Mac asked.  She hadn't recognized the area code when she'd dialed the number.

"We live in the mid-west, but we summer in Maine.  Cape Elizabeth to be more precise.  That's why it took so long for us to respond to you.  Our mail is forwarded out to us once a week."

"The coast sounds lovely," Mac said.  "Why don't I fly up there?  Is this weekend too soon?"

"This weekend is perfect.  You'll fly into Portland.  I'll pick you up at the airport.  At least I'll be able to identify you," he said, joking feebly.  "You can stay here with us.  Just call me back after you've made your travel arrangements."

"I will. And Mr. Schonke – I'm very glad you wrote to me."

"So am I, dear.  So am I."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sunday afternoon found Mac knocking on Harm's door. 

"Where have you been?" he demanded after he opened the door.  "I've been trying to reach you all weekend!"  He'd been worried, and that worry came out now as anger.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His anger vanished when he looked in her eyes.  He saw so much there: despair, fatigue, grief, numbness.  She looked as though she'd been crying a lot, although not recently.

"Hey," he said softly.  "You look terrible."  He wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her troubles away.  What the hell? he thought to himself and pulled her into his embrace.

Though she was surprised, Mac allowed herself to be held.  She drew strength from his proximity and his touch, and when she pulled away, she felt a little better.  "What was that all about?"

Harm closed the door, then shrugged.  "You looked like you needed a hug."

"I did," she admitted.  "Thanks."

"My pleasure.  So what's up?"

"I've got my answers.  We need to talk."

* * * * *

After they had settled onto the couch, Mac with tea and Harm with mineral water, Mac began her story.

"It all began with the box.  You remember the box?"  When he nodded, she went on.  "As I told you, it was a box my mother had left with Uncle Matt when my father was transferred to Korea.  I hadn't known it existed until I got that call.  I wasn't even sure I wanted it.  I was scared of what I might find in there, you know?"  Harm smiled encouragingly and nodded.

"When I finally got up the nerve to look inside, I found a bunch of stuff from my childhood – photos albums, reports cards, drawings I'd done, even the dress I was christened in.  I didn't have any baby pictures of myself before."

"Well, that's nice.  That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Yes, it actually is.  It makes me feel a little more normal," she said.

"Can I see them sometime?  Your baby pictures, I mean."

Mac smiled shyly.  "Sure.  If you want."

"Was there a picture that upset you?" Harm asked, prodding gently for the source of her recent distress.

"No.  It wasn't a picture.  It was something else I found in the box."  She paused for a moment.  "I found my birth certificate."

"And you're six years older than you thought you were?" he joked.

She smiled indulgently.  "No.  Harm, I had a twin sister.  She was born seven minutes after I was and weighed almost half what I did."

Harm's smiled disappeared.  "Wow.  A twin sister.  What happened to her?  Did she . . . did she die?"

"I didn't know.  There was no death certificate.  There were no pictures of her.  That's why I needed to talk to my mother.  No, she didn't die.  When we were three weeks old, my parents left her in a church in Yuma.  My mother was supposed to leave us both, but she only left Nicole.  That was her name – Nicole Marie Mackenzie.  My mother said she couldn't bear to leave me.  But Nicole – Nicole cried a lot.  She was very small.  Maybe she was sick.  I don't know.  But they left her in that church, and they never looked back."  The contempt Mac felt for her parents was obvious in her tone.

Now Harm understood why she'd needed time.  "Did you find her?" he asked gently.

"I did."  She didn't want to get to the most difficult part just yet, so she stalled.  "I went to Child Protective Services.  They, of course, wouldn't tell me where Nicole had gone or who had adopted her, but I talked them into delivering a letter for me to Nicole's adoptive parents.  I wrote that I wanted to meet my sister, but that I respected their privacy and would stay away if that's what they wanted.  Then I waited for a response."

"And you got one?" Harm guessed.  "That's where you went this weekend?  To meet your sister?"  He wished she would have at least told him what she was doing so he wouldn't have worried about her for two days.

Mac put her head down and began to cry.  Harm put his arm around her and hugged her tightly.  "Hey," he said softly.  "It can't be *that* bad."

Mac looked up at him, her cheeks wet.  "Yes, it can," she corrected, sniffing.  How did she tell him?  This news was bound to hit him hard.

"Tell me," he ordered gently.

Mac pulled away from him.  She couldn't hurt him while she was touching him.   She wiped her tears away brusquely.  "Harm, my sister . . .  Diane was my twin sister."  She's said those words over and over to herself on the plane ride home, but they still sounded strange to her ears.

Harm sat perfectly still, wondering if he'd heard her correctly.  It couldn't be true – could it?  It explained so much, yet it begat so many more questions.

Mac could tell this news had affected him exactly as she'd suspected it would and as deeply as it had affected her.  She wished he would say something, but he only sat staring.

"I went to meet her parents," she said softly.  "They have this really incredible place up in Maine.  They call it a cabin, but my entire apartment would fit in their living room."  She felt as though she were babbling, but she couldn't seem to stop.  Harm's silence was disconcerting, and she wanted him to say something - anything.  "Did you ever see it?"

Harm winced, but didn't answer, and Mac instantly regretted her question.  Harm and Diane had planned a trip to her parents' place in Maine for the weekend she'd been murdered.  Harm had told her that.

"They're really great people," she pressed on.  "They told me all about her when she was young and about what she was like as a teenager.  They had tons of pictures and even some home movies, and they shared lots of stories.  I feel like I know her.  And they wanted to know all about me.  I told them enough about my childhood so they'd realize how much better off Diane was with them."

Harm still hadn't moved.

"Harm?" she prompted gently.

He started.  "I . . .," he voice broke, and he cleared it to start over.  "I didn't know she was adopted."

"She didn't know," Mac explained. "They always meant to tell her, but they kept putting it off, and then it was too late."

"Yeah, well, I know all about that," Harm said quietly.

Mac had debated with herself whether to tell Harm what she'd learned.  She knew this news would dredge up painful memories for him, and she'd do almost anything to spare him that.  But she had promised to tell him everything once she knew it all.  And truthfully, she had to share this with someone or she would have gone insane.  Despite all that, she now regretted telling him.

"I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have told you," Mac said quietly.  "I've brought back all those old painful memories.  Now when you look at me, you'll be seeing her again."  When they'd first met, and she'd learned a little about Diane and about how much she resembled her, Mac had felt for a long time as though Harm was never looking at *her*, but at the ghost of someone he'd loved and lost.  That feeling faded after a time, but it had resurfaced after Diane's murderer had been killed himself, bringing that chapter in Harm's life to a gruesome conclusion.  It had taken weeks after that night for her to believe that Harm was seeing her, Sarah Mackenzie, and not Diane when he looked at her.  Now it would happen all over again.  Would he ever see her for *her*?  "I should go now.  You have a lot to think about."

She began to rise, but Harm shot out a hand and put it on her arm, holding her in place.  "Don't," was all he said.

She sat back against the couch and waited.

After a time, Harm asked, "Do you ever wonder why things happen the way they do?"

Mac nodded.  She'd been wondering that a lot of late.  She realized Harm wasn't looking at her, and she verbalized her response.  "Yes."

"For instance," Harm said, turning to face her.  "Do you wonder why, after all these years, you learned you had a twin sister, only to discover that she's been dead for years and you'll never get to meet her?"

Mac felt tears forming in her eyes at his blunt assessment of her situation, tears she'd felt lurking continually since she'd learned about the sister she'd been twice denied.  "Yes," she said again.  She blinked, and a tear slid out of both eyes.

"Me, too," Harm said.  He leaned closer to her and took her hand.  "I wondered why Diane had to die just when we were getting serious about our future.  I wondered why you looked so much like her.  I wondered why my plane went down on the night before your wedding.  You know what I think?"

She shook her head in the negative, more tears following the first two.  With his free hand, Harm reached up and brushed them gently away.

"I think that everything that's happened to me in my life has led me to this night, to this moment, to you.  Fate has done it's part, and now it's up to me to do the rest."

"What are you saying?" she asked, the intensity of his gaze freezing her in place.

"I'm saying I don't intend to screw it up this time.  Remember that night in Norfolk?"

That was a night she was likely to never forget.  Her fear of what Harm might do and her haste to reach him before he threw everything away, Holbarth's grisly death, the kiss.  She only nodded.

"When I kissed you, you thought I was kissing Diane.  And I guess I was partly, but I was also kissing you because I couldn't find the words to tell you what I was feeling.  And I certainly was kissing you that night on the Admiral's porch.  I wanted you so badly, and I knew I was losing you.  I was desperate, but I couldn't tell you, and I let my emotions get away from me.  I apologized, but I wasn't sorry."

"Neither was I," Mac whispered, unable to look away.  "I was only sorry you felt the need to apologize.  And that you didn't drag me off the porch, force me into your car, and drive away with me."

"I considered it for about two seconds."  He leaned in and kissed her lips gently, briefly.  "The way I feel about you right now has nothing to do with Diane.  Do you doubt that?"

She shook her head.  They kissed again, and this kiss made the one on the porch look like a peck on the cheek between friends.  When they finally parted, breathless and decidedly warmer, the air seemed charged with electricity.

"Would you like to stay here with me tonight?" Harm asked, his mouth next to her ear, his breath and his invitation sending shivers to her toes.

"It's too soon, Harm," she said, with much regret, but with the knowledge that it was both too soon to jump in with both feet and too late to think that one night of bliss could replace the conversation they needed to have.

"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?" he asked, trailing kisses down her neck.

She arched her neck to allow him better access.  "You can try, Harm.  But don't forget I'm a Marine.  Once I make up my mind, I don't often change it.  It'll take a mighty convincing argument."

"I can be very persuasive," Harm bragged, nosing his way down between her breasts.

Mac inhaled sharply, then put her hands on both sides of Harm's head and pushed him back.  "That's been declared a No Fly Zone, Commander."  She knew if she allowed him to infiltrate that terrain, she would be powerless to prevent future advances.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, but respected her wishes.  "Will these rules of engagement change as battle conditions warrant?" he asked.

"All good generals alter their battle plans as combat conditions change."

Now both eyebrows went up.  "Combat?  This could be interesting."

"This will be a lot of different things at a lot of different times, Harm.  But I think interesting is the one thing you can always count on."

THE END

(Ed. note: Okay.  Now I have some explaining to do.   I *know* that Harm is older than Mac by 4 or so years, and I've always assumed that he and Diane graduated from the Academy together.  But actually, do we really know that?  This is what Harm said in Deathwatch: "We met at the Academy.  After graduation I went to flight school and Diane to crypto."  This could be interpreted in more than one way.  Do I believe that Harm and Diane graduated together?  Yes, I do.  Does it work in this story?  No, it doesn't.  It was either make Diane younger or make Mac older.  I opted for the former, and I'm hiding behind "literary license".  This is why I try not to jump all over the real writers when they make a perceived mistake.  Sometimes you forget, and sometimes, darnit, you just *want* it to be that way.  Luckily, as a fanfic writer, I don't have millions of people reading this.  Just wanted you all to know I didn't totally disregard reality.  I considered it, then rejected it.