The legalities and other niceties are in Chapter 1.

=====

27 March 2003

"Rabb didn't kill anyone today, although I watched him pace the length of the building like a caged tiger more than I watched him doing any real work," I say to Meredith as we watch ZNN's evening coverage, hoping for an update from Dunstan.  She's snuggled against my chest as we sit on the couch; Dammit is curled up on my other side, snoring softly.  I'd be content to stay like this forever if only we weren't waiting for good news.

"Do you think he got any sleep last night?" my beloved asks with a stifled yawn, and I remember yet again that Mac is her friend just as much as she's mine.

"Not as much as he needed, certainly.  The man looks positively haggard."

She smiles and reaches up to smooth an imaginary strand of hair back behind my ear.  "As bad as you did when they brought you in on that stretcher last month?"

I smile at her and grasp her palm to kiss it.  "Maybe worse.  He's the one left behind.  I think it's easier being the one lost."

That wasn't supposed to come out of my mouth.  I don't know what I expect her reaction to be once I realize what I said, but I'm still surprised to see a wry smile on her lips.  "You're right."

"I love you."

I don't know if ZNN ever showed a report from Dunstan.

=====

28 March 2003

It's clear to me from the moment I walk into the office that we haven't heard from Colonel Mackenzie now since noontime on Wednesday.  Even Sturgis Turner, who is the most unflappable man I know, is edgy – which says something about the mood Harmon Rabb is in when he storms into the office at an astoundingly early hour.

Anytime before 0800 is astoundingly early for Harmon Rabb, even 0758.

I don't have the heart to chastise him for slamming his office door in Petty Officer Coates' face.  Jen's expression when she turns back to the bullpen is one of compassion and understanding rather than the indignation to which she is surely entitled.

Eggshells have nothing on the atmosphere here throughout the day.  No one interacts more than absolutely necessary for fear of offending another; Tiner hasn't bothered me once today for anything other than incoming phone calls, which is nothing short of stunning.

The day is winding down when, as I am returning to my office from our library, Harriet flags me down and points to the screen.  "They just said they're going to have a live feed from Stuart Dunstan, sir."

The whole office stops dead.  Apparently, even Bud, Sturgis, and Harm heard Harriet's announcement from behind their closed doors as each head appears one by one around the portals, looking like something out of a Three Stooges movie.

My urge to laugh flees when the ZNN theme music comes up on the TV over our heads.  Harm comes to stand beside me, leaning on the open drawer of the file cabinet next to Harriet's desk for support.

+++

"I'm Stuart Dunstan, embedded with the Second Marine Intelligence Battalion, reporting live from  somewhere in Iraq.  Night has fallen with frightening quiet here in the desert and the Marines at this post, commanded by Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie, sit on pins and needles waiting for the bombs to fall in the distance."

The camera pans off behind Dunstan to show Mac and several men dug down into their makeshift shelters.  Mac is in profile, an elegant white shadow against the dark corrugated tin walls, and she is speaking with great animation to the men beside her; they laugh and give low "high fives" to her as the camera comes back to follow the reporter to her.

"Mac, what can you tell us about the events of the day?"

Mac smiles and her eyes twinkle through the camera with something meant for only one man in the world. 

+++

Harm grins the goofiest smile I've ever seen on his face.  If it gets any bigger, he'll disappear into it.

+++

"Well, Stuart, today was a blessedly quiet day.  A lot of the men did laun – "

+++

Harm pales as the video feed disappears completely and the audio feed is overwritten with the sounds of explosions very close by.

+++

Under the echoing blasts, Mac's voice comes through in bursts.  "…cover!  Valencia, get…dio…too close!  Hend…rect range ASAP!"

And then one final blast knocks the whole system out.

+++

Before any of us can react, Rabb throws his entire body against the filing cabinet, slamming the drawer closed with such force that the whole thing teeters up on its back end before it falls to the side, nearly knocking Harriet out of her chair when it crashes to the floor between her desk and the half-wall behind her chair.

I know what's going on, and I know that Harm is standing gape-mouthed in stupefied shock at what he's just done, but I can't let this pass.  "Commander Rabb, you are dismissed.  You have two and a half inches of that rope left.  Do not let me find that you need any of it over the weekend."

"Aye, sir," he manages, and I see the tears lurking in his eyes, probably a bewildering combination of terror, anger, and sadness from which he will spend the rest of the night reeling.  He nods and, for the first time I can remember, doesn't come to attention in acknowledgement before he retreats to his office to leave for the day.

We maintain a heavy, necessary silence until Rabb shuffles out of his office to the elevator, where Turner meets him.  They talk briefly, but whatever Sturgis offers, Harm declines with a shrug and a smile that is far too solemn and dour.

Mac had better be okay.  If she's not, I'm watching the shell a man who will commit suicide, probably slowly in a bottle of alcohol.

=====

29 March 2003

I think Meredith suggests that we go to pay a visit to Harm because she can't stand to see me worrying about him because he is – and we are – worried about Mac.  It is just now 1630, about 24 hours since the ZNN broadcast went off the air.

He looks awful when he opens his door, but I don't smell any alcohol, nor do I see any evidence of excessive drinking.  This is a good sign, if one can call sleep interrupted by night terrors rather than an alcohol-induced haze "good."

Meredith would have made an excellent mother.  Before either Harm or I can say a word, she has stepped through the door and enveloped his tall frame in her arms.  Much to my surprise, I see tears in Harm's blue eyes, although only one falls before he gains a modicum of control.

"Thanks for coming," he says, releasing my soon-to-be fiancée and reaching for my hand.

"I wish we hadn't had to," I say honestly, gripping the proffered hand.  "Still nothing?"

I was so hoping that in the hour since we called he might have seen or heard something – even bad news – that would assure us that Mac is alive.  But the dark turmoil in his eyes as he shakes his head tells me that he is still in the horrible world of his fear-driven nightmares and I find myself having to look away to blink back tears of my own. 

I have been here before.  The first time, both of them had been reported killed in a plane crash in Russia; even though I never really believed in the deepest part of my soul that they were dead, I felt the emptiness of not knowing for sure.  I took leave and went after them myself because I couldn't do anything else.  The second time, just two short years ago, I did think Harm was dead, but even as I gave up hope, I saw Mac's faith in action.  The eight hours of not knowing before the SAR crew finally pulled Harm out of the Atlantic and reported him alive – barely, but alive – nearly killed me.  I'm still not sure how I kept her from commandeering a helo and flying out to the carrier to see him for herself, Mic Brumby and the postponed wedding notwithstanding, since I was microseconds from doing so myself.

The third time, not even a year ago, I nearly crawled up the tenuous link of a satellite phone to be there with Mac and Harm as they kept vigil for Bud.  If something has happened to Mac, I will not sit here in Washington while doctors fight to save her life in some battlefield medical tent.  Nor will I make Harm stay here if she's in trouble.  At this point, I really don't give a damn about the SECNAV or any rules or regulations.  I'll fake a reason for us to go if I have to.

We've settled on Harm's couch and he and Meredith are making small talk about flying when I rejoin the conversation.  She's managed to distract him from his misery by asking about his exploits in the air; we could be here for hours, which might not be a bad thing.

The way he tells her about his…unique…rescue of his wingman over Bosnia has her doubled over laughing.  I think it's his gestures as he's trying to describe how he used the fuel boom of his F-14 to push another plane out of the danger zone that gets me going, and some of those motions take my mind in ways it really shouldn't go unless Meredith and I are alone at one of our homes.

I hadn't really noticed that Harm is actually an excellent raconteur.  As he goes on to tell other stories, he holds us both spellbound, even though I've heard at least the skeletons of many of these tales before.  Nearly two hours pass before he gets to the two most recent scary moments – flying with the pilot who had killed his best friend to hide his vertigo and, last but not least of his achievements, letting a dirty nuke chase him across the Arabian Sea until it ran out of fuel.

His telling of that escapade, which ended on a high note that immediately afterward turned sour with news of Bud's injury, brings us back to more somber ground.

My beloved reaches out to squeeze the commander's arm.  "Thank you, Harm."

"For what?"  His confusion is muted, probably because he's already thinking about Mac again.

"For keeping me entertained and my mind occupied for a couple of hours."

He looks at his watch and tries to smile.  "I didn't realize…"

"It was good for us all, Harm," I assure him.  "You look like you need to try to sleep, Commander."  Although maybe dinner first would help; maybe I should confer with my companion for a moment.

This time he does smile, but it's wry and doesn't touch his eyes.  "I'll take it under advisement, sir."

Meredith looks up at me with a question in her eyes; I nod – it's the question I was just prepared to ask her.  "Harm, can we take you to dinner?"

He ponders this for a moment, then stands and stretches.  "I appreciate the offer, but I think it's all downhill from here.  And I really don't want…"

Of course.  He doesn't want to be away from the phone or his e-mail, or maybe even the doorbell – just in case.

"Okay," she nods, understanding.  "Call me if you need anything."

I push myself up and reach down to help Meredith to her feet.  "Call me, Harm.  That's where she'll be."

Two sets of eyes open wide at that statement; his are inscrutable but I'd bet under other circumstances he'd be laughing at me.  Hers, on the other hand, are bright and openly amorous at the underlying meaning of my statement.

"Thank you, AJ."  It's the first time today he's dropped the formality despite my attempts earlier.  Even as I'm musing about the relative ease with which Mac drops the rank compared to Harm, I realize that Harm and Mac have the same problem with Bud but not so much with Harriet.  It must be a woman's ability to shift gears and roles so easily that allows Mac and Harriet to use given names so easily when the situation calls for it.

"You're welcome, Harm."

On the way to dinner a little while later, Meredith starts to laugh and reprises some of the more interesting motions of the fuel boom story.

We never make it to the restaurant, but the leftover Italian at 2030 is quite delightful.