Disclaimers in part I.
0015 Zulu/1915 Local
Mac's Apartment, Georgetown
"Okay, okay, I know I'm a little late," Harm began as soon as Mac opened the door. "But the food is hot."
"How did you manage that?" she asked, knowing that he usually arrived late with take-out that needed a spin in her microwave to be edible.
He grinned sheepishly. "I forgot to call ahead, so I had to order when I arrived."
Sarah Mackenzie laughed. "Which meant that the food was still hot when you left the restaurant instead of heat lamp lukewarm like it usually is." She enjoyed the flush that came to her sailor's cheeks at the truthful accusation. "Well, get in here and let's eat while it's still fresh. Starving Marine here."
"What's new?" Harm stepped inside her apartment and leaned down to place a quick kiss on her cheek before he took off his leather bomber jacket and headed into the kitchen. He noticed that she hadn't followed. "Mac, you okay?" he asked without turning from the task of opening the containers of food.
In fact, she was rubbing her cheek thoughtfully and looking at his back. "Who are you," she started in a stage voice loaded with fear, "and what have you done with my Harmon Rabb, Jr.?"
That made him swivel around to face her with a smirk firmly in place. "Surprised you, didn't I?" He had been working on that since she left his office earlier.
"Uh, yeah," she affirmed, moving into the kitchen. "Pleasantly so. I may have to retaliate."
"That sounds like fun."
"It will be." She took two open cartons from him and went into her dining area, where she had set the table with linen napkins and two of the four place settings of Wedgwood she possessed. The goblets were Waterford Crystal and the silver had been her grandmother's, brought over from Persia. All of it had been a gift from her Uncle Matt when she graduated from law school. She lit the tall tapers and dialed down the rheostat before she went back to the kitchen.
She nudged him as she slipped by. "Water or juice, Harm?"
"Both, I think, if that's okay. What are the juice options?"
Mac opened her refrigerator. "Orange-Pine-Banana or Strawberry Lemon-Lime."
"Lemon-Lime, please." He took the last of the food out.
She busied herself filling a nice pitcher with ice water, then pulled out the two remaining goblets in her set and poured two glasses of juice. It wasn't wine for obvious reasons, but the liquid had the color of a fruity blush vintage. That thought made her smile.
Harm's next words made her smile more. "Wow, Mac. This is nice," his voice came from the table. His statement grew in volume as he came back into the kitchen. "You have really beautiful formal dishes and silver. I don't think I've ever seen them before."
"You haven't," she replied, motioning for him to take the pitcher while she picked up the goblets. "I don't get them out except for special occasions. I haven't used them for a while," she explained, leading him back to the table.
Harm ignored the impulse to ask if the last special occasion had been with Mic Brumby. Tonight was not a time to open up old wounds. He set down the pitcher, then took the goblets from her and set them in place. And much to her obvious surprise, he pulled her chair out and handed her into it, placing a kiss on her knuckles before he went around to his own chair. "So, this is a special occasion?" He tucked the napkin onto his lap.
This time, she flushed. "Well, I figured that we'd celebrate your first case as a judge. And maybe that we're getting better about telling each other the truth about our feelings."
He raised his juice glass to toast; they served themselves and ate in easy silence for a few minutes before he had the courage to ask her the same question she had asked him earlier in the day. "Are you okay with this assignment – you and Sturgis, I mean?"
Mac looked across the table at her partner. "Yes and no," answered she after a long moment. "No because you know I'd always rather have your six to watch. I know you so well that I can pretty much assume in any situation how and where you'll get yourself in trouble. I don't know Sturgis that well – nor, frankly, do I want to because one stressful sailor is enough for this Marine. Yes because I know that Sturgis is the best person for this assignment and because he knows that you will personally cause him bodily harm if something happens to me. But mostly yes because we're not in a place in our relationship where we could play husband and wife without causing major problems for us."
Harm hadn't thought about that; he knew as soon as she said it that she was right, as usual. "I don't want any more major problems. I want us to work on us without more complications."
"One day at a time, Harm. We'll get where we're supposed to go one day at a time."
At the end of the very pleasant evening, the two officers stood just inside Mac's apartment door. Harm had his jacket on but neither seemed anxious to end the conversation or the night.
"It's 2256, Harm," Mac noted, disappointment and reality mixing in her tone. "And God knows I could sit here with you all night, but we have staff call at 0730. Don't you think you and I both need to sleep between now and then?" She yawned; as she stretched, her pullover sweater rode up just a little to reveal a narrow expanse of her firm abdomen.
"That was cruel, Mac," Harm whined in his best little boy voice, mimicking AJ Roberts.
"Really?" She closed the distance between them and put her arms around him. "I'm sorry, Harm."
He didn't answer for a moment; instead, he put his arms around her and pulled her tightly to his body, relishing the contact. "A guy could get used to this," he murmured into her hair.
Mac's words tickled at his chest where her head lay on his clavicle. "So could a gal."
They stood like that for nearly five minutes. Without conscious effort, they matched their breathing, listening to the intimate mechanics of two hearts learning to beat as one. But it had to end, because they did have to work in the morning and because it wasn't time yet for anything more.
"Harm, honey, you really have to leave now because if you don't, I won't let you."
"I could live with that," he replied before he realized what Mac had said. "Did you just call me 'honey'?"
She turned her head up to look into his eyes. "Did I say that aloud? My goodness." She wondered if he knew how tempted she was to capture his lips with her and beg him to stay.
"Retaliation?" He wondered if she knew how much he wanted to kiss her, to stay the night.
"Maybe." She forced herself to push away from him before all her will power dissolved. "Sweet dreams, Harmon Rabb, Jr." She opened the door and noticed his look of disappointment.
He cleared his voice. "They will be, Sarah Mackenzie." He took the two steps necessary to make it outside her door, then turned.
Mac smiled. She couldn't let it end on that note, so she moved to him in a swift step and balanced on tiptoe to brush his lips with hers. It was a statement of intent. "Goodnight, Flyboy," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Ninja Girl. Until tomorrow." And he was gone.
Sarah Mackenzie watched him until he disappeared through the stairway door, fingering her lips where they tingled from the brief, charged touch.
From his SUV a moment later, Harmon Rabb, Jr., watched the lights go off in her living room and on in her bedroom, wishing he could be there with her to show her just exactly what it meant that she had called him "honey".
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1905 Zulu/1205 Local
First Baptist Church, Alexandria Virginia – 24 November 2002
"Reverend Turner, that was just magnificent," said a stately older woman as she held out her hand to the retired chaplain. "We are so grateful you could be here these last few weeks while Pastor Thomas was ill."
"It was my pleasure, Mrs. Lambeth," Isaiah Turner replied, pressing her hand between his own. "It was nice to have the same congregation to preach to for several Sundays, especially as we've lived with the last pastoral parts of Matthew." He let go of her ring-laden hand.
Mrs. Lambeth nodded. "You have certainly challenged us with Matthew's texts. I never knew Jesus could be so…stern."
"Ma'am, I think Jesus had the same problem most preachers do today."
"What's that?" She adjusted her fur coat and began to toy with one of her diamond stud earrings.
Isaiah smiled to take some of the sting out of his words. "Hard-headed congregations," he answered.
The woman laughed and turned around to go back into the sanctuary. "I just realized that I need to sign up to help serve Thanksgiving dinner," she said over her shoulder.
"Haven't lost the touch, have you, Dad?"
"Sturgis! I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you sitting in the congregation." The older Turner threw his arm around his son. "What brings you out to church?"
Sturgis let the implied criticism slide; the days when being the Chaplain's son set high expectations were long gone and he knew that his father would never understand his disillusionment with organized Christianity. "I was hoping I could take you to lunch so we could talk about what you asked me the other day."
The minister nodded and said with a smile, "Absolutely, son. Give me about 20 minutes."
Sturgis watched his father say good-bye to the rest of his temporary flock, marveling as always that the man who raised him could be so consistently loving to every single person who came through the line. Only with the wisdom of age could Sturgis see that his father had been like that with all the Turner children, as well – as each individual child needed to have that love expressed. He knew now that he had been extraordinarily lucky growing up, even if while he was in the midst of it his family life felt like prison.
Harm Rabb and Jack Keeter had laughed when, during fourth-class summer at Annapolis, Sturgis had uttered the almighty words of Martin Luther King, Jr.: "Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty, I'm free at last!" But it had felt that way to the 18-year old, baffling the Californian whose father was MIA and the Nebraskan who was raised by his grandparents after his parents died in a car accident. By the time he graduated, he had begun to understand just how well his parents had done with him and his brothers and sisters; as he reached his late 30's, he hoped only to have the chance to do as well by his own children some day.
"You look like you're a million miles away, Sturgis." The Reverend Captain Isaiah Turner smiled at his oldest son with great affection.
"Just thinking about how lucky I am to be your son."
The smile on the minister's face grew wider. "And I am a lucky man to have you for a son. Not to lose that sentiment in reality, but I'm ready if you are."
Sturgis followed his father home, then the two went together to the Officer's Club at the Washington Navy Yard where they were able to catch the tail end of the Sunday brunch menu.
"I'm sorry I couldn't talk earlier, Dad," the active officer began as his father cut into the Caesar salad he loved so much. "I had to clear it with the Admiral first."
"Undercover work?" the chaplain guessed around his first mouthful.
Sturgis nodded for emphasis, saying, "Yes, sir. And you're looking at one half of the team."
"You and Commander Rabb?"
Commander Turner flushed, noticeable only to his father. "Um, no, sir, Colonel Mackenzie and myself. As a married couple who practice Islam."
The minister looked at his son thoughtfully as he ate several forkfuls of his salad in silence. "Are you okay with it?" he asked finally, not knowing that Harm and Mac had asked each other that question days before.
"Which part?"
"All of it."
Deciding that his father knew him entirely too well, Sturgis blew out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding before he began. "Well, as far as the Islam part, I can live with it to a point. I'm really glad you made us take Hebrew lessons from Rabbi Frankel, though, because otherwise I'd be lost in the Arabic. It will be very hard to defend Islam against Christianity with conviction, though. That part may give me away if I have to go toe-to-toe with anyone theologically."
"Do you know the arguments?"
"Inside and out," he affirmed. "Mac spent yesterday drilling it into me."
Isaiah chuckled, envisioning the passionate Marine making her point. "Okay, so pretend it's a mock trial. You once had to argue the losing side in Brown vs. the School of Education, right?"
"Yeah." That had been a painful high school experience, even though his closing arguments had won his forensics team first place at states in the Texas mock trial competition. "That will help, thanks. But I'm not sure there's much you can do about the other part."
"Harm's obsession with Mac's safety?" The elder Turner had paid a great deal of amused attention to his son's recitations of his co-workers' antics over the year or so of his current assignment.
"In one, Dad. Thank God I'm dating Bobbi or I'm quite sure he'd be dreaming the absolute worst instead of only the seventh or eighth circle of Hell."
"Have they said anything to – okay, never mind. I'm sure I'd have been among the first to know because they're going to be at the altar before they ever actually say the words at the rate they're going."
Sturgis groaned. "I hope not. I can't take that."
Chuckling again, the retired man moved his salad plate away as his made-to-order omelet appeared over his shoulder, placed by an unobtrusive server. "So what's the game plan?"
The JAG lawyer spent the next twenty minutes outlining the investigation and the undercover assignment for his father, who added several helpful ideas and listed four possible pitfalls as the details became clear. When he'd finished his unofficial briefing, Sturgis sat back in his chair – surprised to see that along the way he had managed to eat his Eggs Benedict – and looked at his father with a half smile. "I just hope we can flush this guy out – assuming he's guilty of something more than blatant stupidity – quickly. I'm not sure if I can pretend to be a Marine for that long without having permanent damage to my psyche."
"And I seriously doubt that Lt. Col. Mackenzie can last too long playing the chafed, subservient Muslim wife, even though I think that's one of the best way to push his buttons. Better would probably mean a burqha, which unless I miss my guess the colonel wouldn't wear if her life depended on it."
"She has," Sturgis corrected his father, thinking back to the assignment Harm and Mac had in Saudi Arabia before the whole Afghanistan thing interrupted life at JAG so terribly. "And she wouldn't again without a massive fight. I didn't even suggest it."
When the other man didn't reply right away, Sturgis looked closely at his father, a bit of alarm evident in his face. "Dad?"
"Sorry, Sturgis. I just had another thought."
"What?"
"Maybe there's a way Commander Rabb could be of use in this investigation after all – assuming that he's available."
"Not until he finishes his first assignment on the bench, but I'm listening."
Chaplain Turner explained his idea, which his son had to admit was excellent. "I know it won't be easy for Harm," Isaiah finished, "but if you're stuck, it might be the key."
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1430 Zulu/0930 Local
JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, Virginia – 25 November 2002
"That's not fair, Mac," Harm whined to her as the partners made their way from the conference room to their respective offices. "You get tomorrow off gratis and I'm stuck here with this God-awful case to adjudicate."
"Sorry, your honor," she teased, turning her head away from any audience in the bullpen to stick her tongue out at him.
He waited until they were standing in her office doorway before he leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Stick it out again, Colonel, and we'll share it."
For his comment, he got a blushing Marine and a solid whack in the chest with a very heavy case file. But she didn't say, "Red light, Commander," and after the 16 hours time they'd spent together this weekend, he was feeling very hopeful about their relationship. If only she weren't going away…Or if only he were going instead of Sturgis. But no, the Admiral had seen fit to let him sit the bench for a case so his duty was here at home. "At least it's not baseball," he muttered to himself as he walked the thirty feet to his own office.
"Sir?" Lt. Singer stood waiting for him.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" Harm asked with barely concealed annoyance.
"What's not baseball?"
Surprised that her tone was less harsh than normal, he allowed himself a small sigh before he answered her in a much more civil tone. "The practice of law, Ms. Singer. What can I do for you?" He could only hope it was related to the case and not to Sergei or the baby.
"Sir, I'd like to ask for an Article 32 hearing. I just received the prosecution's witness list and initial depositions and I don't believe that Lt. Roberts has enough to prove a need for a Court Martial, sir."
"Have you spoken with your clients about this?" On Saturday, her clients had been pushing to go directly to Court Martial – unusual but not unheard of, particularly when no civil authority has jurisdiction, because double jeopardy is as ingrained in the UCMJ as in the Bill of Rights.
"Yes, sir. I've shown them the wisdom of not going to trial at all if we can avoid it."
Harm looked at the young woman for a long moment, not quite sure what her motives were. She was always gung-ho to prove herself in court against senior lawyers; she never settled a suit she was defending and she only offered plea bargains that were significantly advantageous to the prosecution.
"I will review the package and let you know by lunchtime, Lt. Singer."
"Thank you, Commander."
"You're welcome. Dismissed."
Harm settled at his desk with a heavy sigh and began to read through the motion. Prima facie, Bud had a strong case – any civilian grand jury in the country would hand down an indictment with the evidence available. Twenty minutes later, Harm realized something was very wrong about Singer's position. Article 32 hearings were just a bit more like real trials than grand juries; Harm admitted to himself that after oral arguments, he might have to drop the charges and specifications against the two aviators and let them go based on lack of convincing evidence in an Article 32 proceeding.
The Uniform Code of Military Justice follows the Constitution in its breakdown of trial proceedings. Like a civilian criminal grand jury, Article 32 hearings have no double jeopardy attached; later additional evidence could result in the charges and specifications being reissued. But, as in civilian criminal court, if during the court martial proper a motion were made for dismissal or summary judgment on grounds that the prosecution had failed to prove its case, then the judge could rule in favor of the motion and the accused would be free from the threat of double jeopardy. To Harm, reading through Singer's motion and supporting exhibits, it seemed that the better legal option was to go to trial and aim for a finding of insufficient evidence – especially if the DNA evidence that wasn't yet available was inconclusive when it did arrive.
His only hope was that the Admiral would see the same thing and so advise his co-counsel, but Harm's hands were tied. Unless Singer came back to him and revoked her request, he had to allow the Article 32 hearing. Unfortunately, it would prolong the case if he did find that the case warranted trial, meaning the best he could hope for was 10 days on the bench from Article 32 on Monday to verdict on Friday a full week later. Nearly two weeks during which Mac would be in someone else's care.
"Suck it up, Sailor," he commanded himself out loud. "She's been away before and been just fine."
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1740 Zulu/1240 Local
Prime Subs, Falls Church, Virginia
"You're not eating?" Harm looked at his partner, disbelief in his eyes. "You feeling okay?"
Mac and Sturgis exchanged an exasperated look across the table before the Naval officer replied for the two of them. "Practice, Harm. We'll have five days of Ramadan left when we get to Pearl and we need to at least have some conditioning for the fast or we'll blow our covers in 24 hours."
The aviator shook his head and reached for his veggie supreme sub as the cook lifted it over the high counter above the table the three occupied. "I think you're torturing yourselves coming to watch me eat like this."
Mac smiled and swatted his arm. "If I recall, you really didn't give me much choice and Sturgis and I already had plans for the hour to stay together to avoid temptation."
"Yeah, 'Get thee behind us, Satan,'" Sturgis added, looking anywhere but at his friend's sandwich. It was an indication of how hungry he was that even a plain lettuce, tomato, green pepper, and onion sub with salt, pepper, and mustard sounded good to the man who usually ate a 6-ounce portion of meat for lunch. That he almost never ate anything except salad at dinner when alone was a secret he kept from Harm lest the other man decide that other facets of his personality deserved more attention than his Mac-like eating habits.
"Nah, I kind of like this," Harm teased. "The carnivores watching longingly as the herbivore devours a perfectly healthy meal." He took a big bite and hammed up the enjoyment, closing his eyes as if in ecstasy and making suggestive sounds as he rolled his head around.
"You're not an herbivore, Harm." Mac waited for him to open his eyes so she could spear him with a deathly glare only partially in jest. "You're an omnibore."
Sturgis spluttered for a second before laughter erupted from him; Harm joined in a moment later when he got her pun.
"Yeah, well if I'm boring, how come you like hanging out with me so much?"
"Because watching paint dry is too taxing."
She always has a come back, Harm thought, watching his friend from Academy days try without much success to control his laughter. I wonder what she would say to "Will you marry me?"
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1950 Zulu/0950 Local
Marine Corps Base Hawaii – 26 November 2002
"Col. Richards, I have to say that I'm disappointed that your request for transfer was approved over my objections," Col. Eugene Waters said, nodding to the chair across from his desk. "Although I do believe you will do exceedingly well at your new post in the Pentagon."
"Thank you, sir," the departing officer replied. "I was not aware that you had objected."
"Not formally. I simply said that I think you're the best XO I could get in the Marine Corps and I'd be very unhappy to lose you. One never really knows who or what might come in to replace you."
Colonel Richards shifted in his seat; one of the reasons he wanted out was what his commanding officer had left unsaid in his comment. "I'm sure that my replacement will be equally excellent."
"You sell yourself short, John. And the new man for S-2 looks to be another" he used a derogatory term. "That will make 7 commissioned officers, then there's Goldstein and his 6 buddies to worry about, too. Anyway, when do you report?"
He'd gone and said it, which was a bit surprising. Richards filed the comment along with all the others he'd heard in his 13 months serving under the colonel. "Monday. We already had the tickets for today for Chicago to see Louise's parents over the weekend, so we've just changed the round trip to a leg to DC on Friday. Our stuff and our cars will be there in about three weeks but because they want me fast, they're paying for a reasonable hotel within walking distance of a Metro stop."
"The kids?"
"Felicia is already on the mainland in boarding school; Louise's sister is married to a frocked Air Force colonel who just got assigned to Hickam Field, so Jack and Louis will stay here with them until Christmas break."
"That worked out well." Col. Waters sat back, wondering for just a moment if there was something more to this sudden transfer.
"We got lucky. Up until yesterday, the boys were going on to DC with us. Now they'll be coming back to Hawaii with their favorite aunt and uncle." That, Col. Richards thought, was a lie worth telling; Shelley and Jim had known for three months that they were moving to Hickam over Thanksgiving and that providential fact had precipitated his own request for transfer. "I have to say I'm thrilled to be going into Joint Operations."
Waters smiled, at ease again with the situation. "You'll be good at it," he allowed. "You have a better understanding than most of the real roles of each service." He stood.
"I ought to," the outgoing XO said with a broad smile as he, too, stood. "There's enough adulteration of this Marine's family with other services that no matter where we spend the holidays, we're talking military history and strategy."
"As long as it's always the Marine who take Iwo Jima. Semper Fi, Col. Richards."
"Semper Fi, Col. Waters." The two shook hands and the interview was over.
Colonel John Richards stopped in the head to wash his hands and made a decision about the first military office he would visit upon landing in Washington.
