Author's note: If you are a Saint Harmon reader or a Mac apologist now is the time to stop reading. The ride gets a little rough from here.

August 10, 2001, 2030 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD

'Of all of the gin joints in all the world,' Harm mentally paraphrased the classic line in Casablanca, 'why does Skates have to be in this one right now?' Obviously no suitable answer was available.

Skates and Hammer were closer than most husbands and wives. Thrown together strictly by chance early in their careers they just 'clicked.' It was obvious to everyone who flew with them, or commanded them for that matter. There were no secrets between them, nor were there any hidden agendas. In the air they worked as one person. Away from the airplane they were as different as daylight and dark, but they were still one.

That was great most of the time, but right now wasn't one of those moments. In fact Harm absently wished a falling satellite would crash into the club or an earthquake would split the ground open so one of them could just vanish because that was all that would stop the conversation that was about to take place.

"I don't suppose," Harm ventured, "we can tell war stories, entertain the entire club, just drink ourselves into oblivion and have certain parts of this evening go away can we?"

Skates whistled for the alcohol relocation engineer while making a circling motion with her finger over the empties sitting on the bar and another round appeared like a magic trick.

She picked her margarita up and held it toward Harm. No thought was required to mirror the gesture. The long neck of the San Miguel bottle and the squat container of cactus juice clinked. "Absent companions" was the toast.

"You know, I thought you and Mac had it 'going on' this time. Shit, I mean it's been how many years? When I saw you the other day it sounded like good things were happening. You're not the girl in every port kind of sailor, so what's up Doc?"

The only way to avoid a long-winded discussion was probably to go immediately on the offensive. "Oh for Christ's sake Skates," he blustered. "A kiss in a bar isn't anything. In fact I blew through the Super Hornet transition program this week and finished my quals today, so a wetting down was in order, and I don't think a kiss from your instructor at the end of the day is exactly a seismic event."

"Ah, come on Hammer, try to peddle that bullshit to someone else. I'm not buying that part of the Brooklyn Bridge. A wetting down kiss is like a slap on the back, a handshake, or a hug. It's just something that you do during the tall tale telling and hand flying, so we can dismiss that weak ass explanation.

"And don't even start down the barroom grab ass road. No matter how you try that story it's not going to work. A: That's not your style; B: If it was your style I got to tell you I'd be pissed, really pissed."

Involuntarily Harm's brow furrowed when he tried to process that section of Skates' speech.

The conversation was getting heated. "Why would I be pissed? You need to think about that for a second smart guy. You and I have been drunk and disorderly in establishments around the world, and you've never grabbed me in a bar for any reason other than to keep me from falling on my ass. What kind of goddamn message do you think that sends to my cleverly disguised feminine side?"

By now Skates was up in Harm's face with the index finger of her left hand shoved under his sternum for emphasis. You couldn't have slipped the ham from a ballpark sandwich between the two. Even the jaded bar tender was hooked watching.

There wasn't anything else left to do. He kissed her. She kissed him. It took a long time to come up for air.

"No! We're not going to do this. We've been here before," Skates managed to get out while struggling for a breath. "Now, what's going on?"

With a deep breath Harm started on a long story about personal and professional love, loss, and frustration. It took a long time and a lot of beer and tequila. At some point along the trail the same random, prophetic thought crossed both minds: "God, tomorrow is going to be a bad day."

August 11, 2001, 0715 Local, At sea with the 3rd MEU

Mac found LCDR Roberts in the wardroom nursing a second cup of coffee, and she quickly discovered that last night's conversation hadn't been forgotten. Her warm greeting was met with a very chilly, formal "Good morning ma'am."

Before she could think of anything that would possibly warm the conversation he gathered his breakfast gear and shoved the chair back. "If you will excuse me ma'am, I need to get my briefing materials together for this morning's conference." With that he was gone.

August 11, 0805 Local, At sea with the 3rd MEU

After Gen. Buckner's introduction Bud walked to the conference room podium touching the switch to dim the room's lights before triggering the first slide of his presentation. When the title slide came up he started.

"Ladies and gentlemen this morning's briefing is classified TOP SECRET. I am sure everyone here understands the implications of that classification, and the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) and other federal statutes establish severe penalties for improper disclosure of any of the materials we are about to cover.

"As we proceed I am sure a number of questions will come up. I will not answer some of them. Please do not draw any unwarranted conclusions from that refusal. In some cases there are simply no answers. In other cases you may assume that you do not have a 'need to know.'"

With that preamble the Third Marine Expeditionary Unit's journey into coping with the vague, shadowy world of transnational terrorism was started."

August 11, 2001, 1115 Local, At sea with the 3rd MEU

Gen. Buckner moved to the podium when Bud relinquished his post at the head of the room. "Good briefing Commander. Thank you. Now, ladies and gentlemen we have some new insight into how the changes in our various threat scenarios have been developed and we have a good deal more knowledge about how we will need to respond.

"The orders group will meet in the vault at 1400. Enjoy your lunch; it will be a busy afternoon. Dismissed!"

The room came to attention then started filing out.

"Commander Roberts, a word if you please."

"Yes, sir."

"Bud, pleasantries aside, that was a good briefing. I wish you had been able to be more detailed in some instances, but we've got a lot more to work with now. I also have some good news for you: there's a spot on the 1600 shuttle to the Stennis where you've got a 1730 meeting with the battle group commander and the BG's intel guy. I am also reliably informed that you are set for the 0900 COD to Bahrain and on to the states.

"It's been a pleasure. When you want to get away from pushing paper around I'm sure the BG commander can find a slot for you. And, in the event the Navy doesn't see your potential, I am sure the Corps can use you. Good luck and God speed Roberts."

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

Without so much as a nod in Mac's direction Bud gathered his briefing materials, picked up the Power Point disc and walked out of the room.

August 11, 2001, 1220 Local, At sea with the 3rd MEU

Mac was standing on the quarterdeck looking over the hazy Persian Gulf when Bud walked up behind her. "Excuse me ma'am," he opened saluting when she turned. The salute was returned and a difficult silence settled on the scene for a moment or two.

"Is there anything for the Admiral or Capt. Rabb before I go ma'am?" The frost in that question was a little chilling.

"No. Nothing for either the Admiral or Harm, but I have something for you. Bud, I am sorry that I jumped you last night. It was inexcusable. This floating around with the weapon half cocked all of the time is really getting to me.

"We don't know shit about what's going on with most of the players. Webb's conviction that something big is in the wind doesn't help at all.

"Bud, I'm really sorry."

If Mac was looking for any dispensation for her sins from Bud Roberts it wasn't coming right now.

"With respect ma'am I can see how difficult it is being caught between wind and water here, but that doesn't get us past the idea that you, at least for that moment, thought that I had been either duped or that I hadn't considered all of the information that I had access too before making a decision.

"I'll tell Harriett you said 'hi.' Now, if you will excuse me." He walked away leaving Mac to stare out to sea again.

August 11, 2001, 0715 Local, Fairfield Inn, Three Notch Rd., Lexington Park, MD

'God, the hot water feels good,' Harm thought as the shower cascaded over him. The steam, hot water, and handful of Advil had done wonders over the last 20 minutes. With any luck, he thought absently, 'I'll survive to live another day. If some nut on the drive back up state route 235 to Washington doesn't kill me that is.'

The shower curtain's rattling rudely interrupted his reverie. A slap on the ass along with the exhortation to move brought him back to earth.

"I don't know what's worse. Your thrashing around getting out of bed was bad, but the idea that you're running through the hotel's entire supply of hot water standing here day dreaming was completely, totally unacceptable. Now, get out of the shower or at least move your ass and let me get some hot water."

"Okay, okay, it's all yours, but for Pete's sake try to remember you are ashore. 'Hollywood showers' are okay." With that Harm beat a hasty retreat from the bathroom finding a pair of swat pants along the way.

He was deeply involved in the Saturday Washington Post when the bathroom door opened.

Elizabeth Hawkes stepped through the door wrapping a towel that was far too small for the task around her. It was a waste of effort. "Oh fuck it!" She dropped the towel kicking it back into the bathroom before walking across the room and flopping onto the bed. She pulled the sheet up and rolled over to be next to Harm.

"Well, Harm, it would appear that we've done it again." There were touches of whimsy and sadness in her voice. "We've got to stop this." He simply gathered her into his arms stroking her damp hair. "Elizabeth, don't talk and don't even think for a couple of minutes. The entire world can stay on hold for a little while longer."

Skates and Hammer, the pair that in a tough spot could beat three of a kind, were just Harm and Elizabeth for a few minutes. But for those few moments there were no demons, no relentless push to succeed, no risk. The demons would be back soon enough.

"We're pathetic. Harm, we're just fucking pathetic. How many times have we turned our lives into a country western song? What's the damned line? It goes something like this: Let's just get drunk and screw. Shit! That's pitiful." By now the tears were coming.

"Goddamnit I swore that I wouldn't do this again, but here I am, here we are, again. I don't even want to think about what this means."

There wasn't anything else to do, so they just held each other. Right here, right now there were totally safe from the world around them. After a little bit Harm slipped slightly away and looked into the slightly red, damp eyes. "I'm sorry Liz. I'm so sorry. It's my fault." The apology was cut short by a female hand clamped over the mouth.

"Bullshit. Why do you want to take the blame? There's no blame to take. We've been here before. I've started it. You've started it. Hell, last night I'm not sure what started it.

"I do know this: You've got to get your personal life together. And, while you are at it, you need to watch your six politically. There are some long knives floating around with your name engraved on them, according to the rumor mill.

"And, for the last time, you need to put the damn devils on your shoulders away and look forward. You've got a future to think about. Everything else is just prologue. Get moving."

For a couple of long seconds Harm drank in the amazing woman next to him. "You want to know something?" The shaking female head wasn't enough to stop him. "You're really beautiful when you get on your philosophical high horse."

Before he could do anything to stop it Liz flipped the sheet off and scrambled laughing onto Harm pinning him to the bed. "Philosophical high horse," she laughed. "You're so full of crap." With both hands she mussed his hair before her hands came to rest on his shoulders.

A really wicked grin lit her face.

"Since we've already strayed from the 'straight and narrow' what time is check out in this fire trap?"

Noon was a long time away, but the time was put to good use.

TBC