Disclaimers in part I.
2135 Zulu/1135 Local
Headquarters, Third Marine Regiment, Marine Corps Base Hawaii
Sturgis thanked God profusely that he had been in theater earlier in the year when he discovered that his first official analysis was due on Colonel Waters' desk at noon on his second day in the job. True to his word, the Commandant of the Marine Corps had issued a movement alert for Third Regiment; he had also made sure to include every piece of data he could find related to ongoing al-Qaeda activity as well as a historical précis of the past year. Sturgis knew much more than a regimental intelligence officer ought to about a certain dirty nuke fired off an Iranian submarine; thankfully, the media hadn't gotten to interview any of the officers involved or none of them would be here doing this job right now. He knew very little, however, about the way that a Marine Regiment needed to process intelligence; his ace in the hole was currently an ace for someone else in La Jolla, California.
Time to put his innate teaching skills to work. He called the three other officers and six most senior enlisted men – and that they were all men disturbed him greatly, but he could do nothing about that – into the conference area and explained to them that he wanted to see just how good they were. "Show me your stuff, men."
Sturgis was a quick learner as well as a superb teacher. What he contributed to the others' base knowledge of strategy, learned over seven years at a sonar console near the end of the Cold War and honed by four years of courtroom experience, he got back fourfold in tactical knowledge from his staff in the next 45 minutes. He violated the prime directive of lawyering to do so: never ask a question to which you don't already know the answer. But he was ready at the end of their session to do the briefing at lunch. He hoped.
"Major Yassin, you are late," Colonel Waters announced when Sturgis entered the main conference room to see all the other staff gathered.
"Sir, I apologize; our departmental clock must be a minute slow." He was actually still two minutes early.
"No excuses, Yassin. Fix it." No one moved at the commanding officer's arctic tone.
"Aye, sir." He sat down and waited for the official meeting to begin. First, however, he had to suffer through ten minutes of tasteless jokes and banter about the country in and people of which they would soon be deployed that he recorded duly in his head for later dictation. When the "entertainment" was over, the colonel gave him the floor. "We will apparently be going in to the Kandahar region to deal with possible incursions from Pakistan in the event of an all-out war with Iraq." Sturgis went on for ten minutes, summarizing the most harrowing 37 hours of his life in two brief sentences along the way as he laid out the current strategic and tactical situation in their soon-to-be territory of responsibility.
To his staff went the credit that not even Colonel Waters could find anything wrong with the brief; Sturgis relaxed a little and listened to similar briefings from the other department heads as the afternoon wore on.
"Okay, people," Colonel Waters said at long last. "Along with this news came a heads up that we'll have a new XO reporting in sometime on Thursday. I don't have any information on him yet, so don't ask. We will have another all-staff meet and greet that night at the O-Club at which you are all expected. Major Yassin, stay, the rest of you are dismissed."
The men rose together and replied, "Aye, sir!"
Waters didn't even wait for the others to leave before he pounced on the new intelligence officer. "I understand that Thursday is some kind of holiday for you people."
Sturgis blanched, not anticipating the personal attack. "Yes, sir, it is," he acknowledged after a moment. "It's the end of Ramadan, starting at sundown and going on through Friday."
"There's a big party involved?"
"Usually, sir."
Waters smiled with a hint of malice. "I guess you'll be missing the party, then, between the all-call meet and greet and the overnight watch."
"Sir?" He wasn't on the schedule until Friday night.
The commanding officer shrugged, reading his mind. "I changed my mind and the schedule. You and Captain Goldstein have been switched."
Blatant religious persecution, Colonel? Just how many of us do you think you have cowed? "Sir, Captain Goldstein has children who will be celebrating the last night of Hanukkah on Friday. I don't care about my own observance so much, but switch the captain back to Saturday night, please sir."
"Major, are you questioning my judgment? I am not in the habit of making allowances for religious celebrations because war doesn't make such allowances."
"Who has the duty on 24 and 25 December, sir?"
"Captain Rodriguez on Christmas Eve and Captain Jimenez on Christmas Day."
Sturgis struggled to keep his displeasure from showing. Both men were Roman Catholics and each had large families; moreover, Rodriguez was a first generation Mexican-American who, Sturgis had discovered in casual conversation, was working with the chaplains office to set up traditional posadas for the Pearl Harbor/MCBH community and who had thrown himself into the planning of the midnight mass with the lay team leaders. Jimenez had requested leave a long time ago, Sturgis knew, and been denied "because too many people are already out" – except that a half hours' worth of discreet questioning of two people had provided proof that Jimenez was actually the first to submit his leave request form. All this offended the naval officer, whose request for leave that for that week had been approved without question on his first day on staff.
"I don't hear you stepping up to take duty for either of them, Major," Waters taunted.
"No, sir, as you know, I have a family obligation on the mainland during that week."
"It wouldn't do you any good anyway. By the way, you're expected at morning PT at 0615 with Third Battalion. You're dismissed."
Commander Turner mused on his was back to his own office. War doesn't make allowances for religious celebrations. Damn. The colonel even had a reasonable explanation for his behavior.
Something else struck him as he settled in to close up for the day. What if Waters was already planning to make a move on Mac? And how would Harm react to that on his first day undercover?
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0200 Zulu/1800 Local
Frank and Trish Burnett's Home, La Jolla, California
"Harm! Mac! Dinner's ready," the lady of the house called to the two officers who had occupied the table on her deck since just after 2 p.m., working past sun down in the cooling sea air thanks to the bright lights so necessary for late night entertaining in the summer.
"Thanks, Mom. We'll be in in a minute." Harm didn't even need to raise his voice to be heard.
Patricia Rabb Burnett watched her son and the woman she hoped would soon be her daughter-in-law as they packed up their materials, working in quiet harmony and seeming to her as though they were one person with four hands instead of two individuals with two very different hearts and minds. AJ Chegwidden's phone call on Sunday afternoon had been about exactly that. I want them to have a chance, Trish, the admiral had said. If ever two people needed each other to survive, it's your son and Sarah Mackenzie. And even had Harm not telegraphed that in every phone call – unspoken but obvious to a loving mother – the moment the two lawyers appeared on the front porch, laughing, windblown, and holding hands without even realizing it, Trish would have known that Sarah Mackenzie is the oxygen her son needs to live.
"It smells heavenly, Trish," Mac commented as she walked under Harm's arm through the sliding screen door.
"Thank you, dear," she replied. "It's stuffed peppers."
Harm made a face and started to remark, but Trish cut him off. "Don't worry, sweetheart, there are two with no beef."
That brought a relaxed smile to the face that was so like his father's as he reached out to pull Trish into a hug. "Thanks, Mom."
"You're welcome, honey."
Mac burst into giggles and Harm tightened his hold on his mother.
"What?"
"It's a long story, Trish. We'll tell you someday, I promise," Mac assured her through her laughter.
A deep male voice interrupted the scene. "You must be Sarah, and I hope whatever it is, you'll tell me, too."
Mac looked up at Harm's stepfather and decided that she liked him immensely just because of the smile that lit his face as he surveyed the scene in his kitchen. "Yes, Mr. Burnett," said she in answer to both questions.
Frank raised his eyebrow at her, then turned to look at Trish in her son's arms. He winked at the two. "We have two traditions in this house. One is that we use first names or relationships, not titles – so no more Mr. Burnett. And the second is that we like to welcome our special guests with hugs if that's permitted." His voice dropped a little bit at the end, as though he weren't quite sure what reaction he would receive from the beautiful Marine who had captured his stepson's heart so thoroughly.
Mac took the two steps necessary to close the distance between herself and Frank, opening her arms to him. "Yes, Frank," she amended.
He enveloped her briefly, placing a kiss on her cheek before he leaned down to whisper, "Thank you, Sarah," in her ear. "You're the one who fixed Harm and me."
"You're welcome," she whispered back before he let her go.
"Harm, I don't suppose you'd let your mother go so I can say hello, would you?"
Harm looked down at his mother. "Oh, I suppose," he complied with a smile, expecting Frank to take her. Instead, Frank reached out to shake his hand.
"I say hello to her everyday," Frank explained at the confused look on Harm's face. "You, not so often and certainly not often enough."
"We'll work on that, Frank. And maybe you could come to D.C. more often, too – when I'm in town," Mac pleaded.
With that, the four laughed and set about the business of putting dinner on the table. Trish Burnett was a good cook; the quiet meal moved swiftly to a talkative dessert before Mac realized that she and Harm needed to get back to work. She pulled him to his feet and dragged him back to the deck, retrieving her briefcase from the stand near the sliding door on the way.
"Mac," Harm whined as she pushed him lightly into a chair at the table, "Can't we just start fresh tomorrow?"
She thought about it for seven seconds. "Tell me everything you remember and then I'll decide if it's enough for the day." She had already decided to make it short; better still if he could recite it now without review.
Harm nodded his acceptance of her deal. "Lieutenant Michael James Rutter, United States Marine Corps." He went on, giving his new social security number, his date and place of birth, and his parents' names. "University of Minnesota ROTC, 1989; completed Officer's Basic Course September 1989, the Military Police Academy in June 1990, and deployed immediately to the security detail at King Khalid Military City in Saudi Arabia. During Desert Storm, I was assigned to a front line unit as POW processing officer, serving in that position at ground command headquarters, as well, from the conclusion of hostilities until all POWs were fully repatriated in April 1991. I returned to KKMC and remained until the end of August, 1992. As a captain, I completed Instructors School and taught for 2 years on staff at the Military Police Academy, then proceeded to a two-year deployment with the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit, Special Operations Capable, during which I commanded a company of Marines charged with the security of the U.S. Embassy in Monrovia, Liberia during the war. Returning stateside in early 1997, I received my majority. My first O-4 billet was as Operations officer for the 7th Fleet Security and Weapons Control Detachment in Yokosuka, Japan, an 18-month assignment that I voluntarily extended six months due to the death of my replacement prior to his arrival. At the end of that tour in March 1999, I went to NMITC at Dam Neck for the Intelligence Command School. One of my instructors was Captain Ibrahim Yassin. I went from school to serve as a staff Intelligence Officer for the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit at Camp Pendleton, California. I spent 11 months in Afghanistan from October 2001-September 2002 with the 15th, where I helped with the CIA investigation into stolen nuclear materials and helped to hunt Kabir before the unit rotated stateside. I was frocked as a Lieutenant Colonel effective 5 December 2002 and assigned without notice to Third Marine Regiment, MCB Hawaii, as Executive Officer. I am not married, nor have I ever been, and I have no children. I have outstanding fitreps but several of my previous commanding officers have noted their concerns about certain attitudes I have occasionally expressed, particularly during my overseas assignments in Saudi Arabia and Japan."
"Hobbies?"
"I enjoy open mike nights at clubs near the bases I've been assigned to and am known as a reasonably talented country western singer and guitarist." He glared at her. "You put that in, didn't you?"
Mac raised her hand as if taking an oath. "Harm, honestly, I despise most country music. I only listen to it to annoy you." Which was true; the reason her stereo at the office sat behind her desk was so she could switch stations and modes quickly if she heard him coming. "But given how much you complain about my choice of music publicly, it's a good bet Admiral Chegwidden is behind it."
Still dubious, he nodded hesitantly, hoping that he wouldn't have to show that talent for the duration.
She read his worry. "Relax. As long as you know Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer, you're fine through Christmas."
"What?" Harm sat up in his chair, not sure he'd heard his partner correctly.
Mac's eyebrows met in the center of her forehead when she narrowed her eyes at him. "You know, Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer*, the country hit of Christmas." At his continuing blank stare, she groaned and began to sing the chorus in her somewhat shaky alto. 'Grandma got run over by a reindeer, coming home from our house Christmas Eve. You may think there's no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.'"
Harm literally fell out of his chair laughing, making enough noise to bring his mother and stepfather running to the deck as Mac continued to sing the ridiculous song.
"Harm! Are you okay?" Trish burst out, seeing her 6'4" son sprawled on the wood planking rubbing the back of his head.
"I will be when she stops singing," he growled, but with continuing laughter.
Frank took that opportunity to join in on the last line of the second verse, and Trish sang the choruses with Mac and Frank until the song was complete, leaving a gasping Harm still on the floor in tears from laughing so hard.
"I can't believe you've never heard that song before," his stepfather said, reaching out to help him up.
"I've lived a sheltered life," he joked, coming to his full height. He moved behind Mac's chair and leaned over her to wrap his arms around her shoulders. "I hate to tell you this, Colonel, but after that, there is no way I'll be able to remember anything else you try to stuff into my head tonight."
She turned her head to kiss his cheek. "Okay, you win, Commander. You did well, anyway. But there will be no lounging around in bed tomorrow morning. We're out here at work by 0800."
He returned the kiss. "Yes, ma'am. Anybody up for Trivial Pursuit?"
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0620 Zulu/2020 Local
Officers' Quarters, Marine Corps Base Hawaii
Sturgis powered up the JAG laptop that gave him access to the intranet in Falls Church, hoping that Mac had remembered to e-mail him the file on Harm's cover identity before she and Harm stopped working for the day. He wanted to know what role Harm would play in the investigation, of course, but more importantly he was hoping that she had thrown in some more of her "How to be a Marine" advice. Harm would have a definite advantage there; by osmosis, he had become far more of a Marine working with Mac for six years than many of the younger officers with whom Sturgis had thus far interacted. And, of course, there were Marines on aircraft carriers, but not on submarines, so even before Mac, Harm had been exposed to the Marine mentality.
A few minutes later, the reassuring whine of modems synching told Sturgis that he was in; sure enough, there were two e-mails from Harriet concerning Harm, three from Mac (one with a fairly large Word document attached and two with "How To" in the subject line), one from Bud seeking advice on a case, and one from the admiral requesting an update on day two. There were also three notes from official military addresses that he didn't recognize.
He disposed of the notes from Bud and Admiral Chegwidden efficiently, then read through the two from Harriet with amusement. Lt. Sims had a way with assembling the driest information that made it easy to read and retain – humor was an effective teaching tool, as any good pedagogue could tell you. How else could he possibly remember that Colonel Rutter was a not an Annapolis alumnus like the man portraying him than "Michael James Rutter is a great UMINN being"? He'd have to remember that for her next fitrep.
Moving on to Mac's notes, he read "Rutter's" file with interest, catching the supposed crossed path almost immediately. He also devoured the personal history that Harriet, the admiral, and Mac had assembled, noting with wry interest that Azaki Yassin and then-Major Rutter had been involved in a passionate affair to which Ibrahim Yassin appeared oblivious. And he approved of the rationale expressed for that turn of events, seeing the logic of once again goading Colonel Waters as much as possible. Harm would be around to watch Mac's six, so there should be no additional danger as long as everyone stayed alert.
Mac's "How To" notes brought more laughter.
Dear Alec, she wrote to yank his chain in the first one, By now you've settled in and hopefully that cover sits more naturally on your head – we won't get into the wrongness of the Navy Way on that score. If everything went as planned, you got confirmation of your ops orders for deployment today and along with it the intel for analysis. I hope you took my advice and let your staff teach you tactics while you taught them strategy, 'fin. She had taken of late to calling him "Dolphin" because, as she informed him, "Squid" was reserved for someone else. Tomorrow, you can expect to need to draft a formal written evaluation and an intelligence asset deployment plan for the field. Hopefully, you've got advice from at least one of the -2 officers I've served with to help you out on that. Don't worry; I told them that you're doing an investigation on a bad exercise and you need to evaluate the intel. Call us on my cell Wednesday evening when it's safe to talk. And when I get back, we're going to talk about the Imam's observations. If you can babysit together, Sturgis, you belong together. Semper Fi, Dolphin. Mac.
He had wondered when Mac would go after him and Bobbi, but he set that aside to finish business.
Mac's second note was shorter and less comforting. Yo, Dolphin! You'd better be ready for PT soon. I'll bet Colonel Waters will send you out with the battalion with the best overall PFT rating in the regiment. Don't kill yourself; remember that there are allowances made for those observing religious rituals and that is documented in your jacket, so there's nothing Waters or anyone else can do to you until Friday morning for being a less than optimum Marine officer. And you can bet that's exactly what Waters will expect, probably fully maxed scores across the board. Learn the obstacle course well and pray that no one else in the entire regiment swims as well as you do. You're doing the Few proud, Sailor. Semper Fi. Mac.
Just this morning at the office coffee pot, the Personnel officer had told him that his first scheduled PT was Monday with First Battalion, which was, he was told, SOP. Then Colonel Waters dropped his little bombshell after lunch – and with a start and a little math Sturgis realized that the Eastern Standard Time sent-stamp on Mac's e-mail matched the exact moment Waters had ordered him to stay behind. The woman was just downright spooky, something he had disbelieved firsthand during the murder investigation of a nuclear weapons expert, but had since come to understand after hearing from several different people how she had found Harm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
Ooh rah, Mac, Sturgis wrote back, Your psychic abilities really scare the hell out of me. I have PT tomorrow with Third Battalion, which has the best PFT rating not only in the regiment but the entire Pacific theater, thank you very much. You may come home to a hurting husband. Don't let Harm see that, by the way – he'll immediately take it the wrong way. I have duty Thursday night and there's another meet and greet for the new XO then, too. I'm pretty sure Waters is looking to make a move on Azaki sooner rather than later; you and Harm need to figure out how she feels about her former paramour before you get here and act accordingly from the first moment. I suppose we should also decide the relationship between Yassin and Rutter before then, too. Were we rivals, friends, acquaintances, colleagues? If we're sticking with the idea that Rutter is a bit of a racist, I'd go with rivals. I'll just summon all those times I've gotten my head handed to me on a plate in the courtroom and think about one night stands. Plan on hearing from me between 2100 and 2200 Pacific Time tomorrow. Blue and gold rules, Mac. Sturgis.
He sighed. The line about one night stands could have been a low blow to Harm, but the other man had acknowledged the nature of his short-lived relationship with Congresswoman Latham long ago. Now, Sturgis had a chance with her, one he thought was worth taking. So before he moved on to read the notes from the men he assumed were answering Mac's plea for intel reports, he wrote a quick note to Bobbi. It made him feel a little better, but he realized as he clicked "send" that he missed the politician a lot more than he anticipated. Oh, joy. I just might be falling in love.
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*Words and Music by Randy Brooks; copyright 1979 by KRIS PUBLISHING, INC.
