The legalities and other niceties are in Chapter 1.

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25 March 2003

I am not in the slightest bit surprised that Harm is late this morning.  I would bet good money that he didn't sleep well at all last night.  When he reports to my office on his arrival, the dark circles under his eyes give him away.  I think he's expecting to get his ass handed to him on a plate because he gets that deer in the headlight look when I ask him to come to lunch with me, but he's well-enough trained to say "yes" anyway.

It's a little better in the office this morning after Rabb's confirmation that Mackenzie arrived safely in Qatar.  Rabb and Turner manage to come to an acceptable plea bargain for what was promising to be a three-week long trial and Coates has found a judge from the New Orleans Naval District who will be available to cover Mac's docket starting tomorrow.

I'm thus in a better mood than I think the commander anticipates when we sit down to lunch.  "Harm," I say gently as the waiter delivers our salads, "how bad were your nightmares last night?"

"Sir?"  He looks at me and I am struck by the turmoil reflected in his blue-green eyes.

I've clearly caught him off guard.  "Son, I've been around a long time, and I've seen a lot of partnerships and friendships in my time, but whatever this thing is between you and Mac defies understanding.  I had a bad dream about her last night – I can only guess that the reason you were late is that you slept less than I did."  To give him time to collect himself, I start on my salad, watching the younger man from under my eyebrows.

 "No, sir, I didn't," he admits.  "It didn't help that I fell asleep with ZNN on, and that Stuart what's-his-name kept intruding with color commentary on what was happening to Mac in my head."

"Dunstan.  You know, Harm, that I wish I hadn't had to acquiesce to the order for her services, right?  I don't like having my best staff officers in a war zone.  Any of them, but especially the ones I consider my best friends and family."

"I know, Admiral," he allows.  "But you at least had the illusion of a choice.  I didn't.  She just left."

"Not by her choice."  That should hit home; when he left to fly, I had to pick up the pieces of a shattered Marine who wouldn't admit she was even a little crackled. 

Harm's eyes flare just a little before he sighs softly.  "I know that, too, sir.  She's doing her duty with her usual Marine Corps Semper Fi and I can hear her saying 'Marines don't duck, they cover,' whenever I close my eyes and let my mind drift just a little.  But I'd be a lot more sanguine if I were with her."

I am just finished with my salad.  The only appropriate posture I can think of for what I have to say next is to prop my elbows on the table around the bowl and then to drop my head into my hands.  "Commander Rabb, do you have any idea how many years of my life I left in the months of March, April, and May last year?  I had three of my best officers and friends in a war zone and sent a fourth on a mission straight out of Tom Clancy.  One of those four came back missing a piece of his leg – though thankfully, it seems, not his soul.  I don't have enough years left to have two officers in a war zone this year."  Now I can look up at him, hopefully with some confidence.  "I almost convinced them to let me go with her, though."

He chokes on the last bite of his salad at that.  The surprise washes across his face, but I won't let him interrupt me.  "I said 'almost', Harm.  Everyone else in the chain of command agreed, but it seems our new SecNav isn't very happy about my untimely exit from your Tomcat last month."  I won't mention the pending results of Commander Linsey's recent witch-hunt, which I personally think is the real reason for the denial of my request.

"On that score, sir, the new SecNav and I agree wholeheartedly," he says with a smile, knowing that this is one of the few things he can actually hold over my head for the rest of our lives with reasonable impunity.  I never thought I'd be in the same boat as Tom Boone in the "Rabb has something on me" regard.  "Thank you for trying, at least."

Our entrees arrive; we spend a few quiet minutes eating (and at least for my part, enjoying my veal Marsala immensely) before I return to serious business.  "Harm, as your friend and as someone who cares very much for Mac myself, I can both sympathize and empathize with your predicament.  But as your commanding officer, I can really only give you about three inches of rope for the entire two weeks or so we expect her to be away.  We won't count this morning."

I can see in his eyes that he knows it's a very generous offer.  "Thank you, sir.  I'll do my best not to use any of that rope."

I have to smile; he looks like a kid who's just been told he won't have to sit through detention.  "I'll do my best to give you a half-inch warning before you need it."

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I resist the urge to call Harm at the conclusion of Stuart Dunstan's profile of Mac.  Meredith calls me a chicken before we spend half an hour saying good night.

Seeing Mac on television is not, however, enough to allow me an easy time falling asleep; I am well familiar with the demons of "what if" that I know will haunt me until she's back safe – more intimately so than I ever thought I would be at this stage in my career.  When one is the commanding officer of a SEAL team, there is always the possibility that someone will be coming home in less than optimal condition – or in a body bag.  Once I became a JAG officer, the dangers inherent in a military career faded from my consciousness somewhat, only to come roaring back on more than one occasion with Rabb and Mackenzie on my staff. 

But the worst are the "what ifs" that still haunt me from time to time about Bud: what if Jen hadn't been there to force the issue with the medics?  What if the damned pilots hadn't bombed the school in the first place?  What if I'd persuaded Bud to go to Rota or Naples instead of taking sea duty?

I pray as I finally feel my mind letting go that those are the worst "what ifs" I will ever have to face.