A/N: Finally, some angst! Please forgive my blatant disregard for real-world geography. I make no promises as to my own ability to tell how many miles from any one point any particular thing is located on any map, up to and including Mac and Andie.

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Desert, Middle East (Coordinates Unknown)

Mac

            I roll over and groan, wishing fervently that I'd managed to knock myself out when I hit the ground. Meph is lying about fifteen feet away. I crawl over to her, keeping an eye out for any enemy activity. It becomes quickly apparent that there's nothing out here but the two of us and some cacti.

            "Meph?" I shake her shoulder and she mutters something rude in French.

            "I think they got all the snipers," she says after a moment, using my outstretched hand to pull herself into a sitting position.

            "What makes you say that?"

            She gestures around us. "One, it's quiet. Two, no one's shot us yet."

            "Not after we fell off the SOV, anyway."

            She shrugs. "Did you take them all in the jacket?" she asks, studying the enormous amount of blood on her own BDUs.

            "All three. I can barely feel my ribs."

            "Hey, they're still there, that's what counts." I take a moment to roll my eyes as she rises to her feet. "Ow. I'm getting too old for this. We need to switch the outer layers and find another cover."

            "Russians?" We've used that one before. For some reason, people who don't mind blowing away Americans are reluctant to shoot Russian peacekeepers. Personally, I think it has something to do with communism, although that may be just a red herring.

            "Sounds good," she agrees, unzipping her jacket and turning it inside out. This motion has the unfortunate effect of staining her t-shirt with the fake blood that's all over her jacket, but it reverses to a non-descript brown military-style coat; just what a Russian peacekeeper might be wearing while traveling through the desert. I reverse mine as well, wincing when the blood smears across my shirt. We'll be wearing them zipped shut, of course, so it won't matter. Bulletproof coats don't do you a lot of good if you wear them open. These sides of the jackets also don't have any stunt packs in them, so if we're shot again we won't look like we're hit. It'll be impossible to travel unnoticed with bloody clothes, though, so I don't complain.

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Two Days Later

Judge Advocate General Headquarters

Chegwidden

            "You're sure?"

            I ask the question out of desperation; I know Webb would never have called this office – called me – to tell me something like this unless there was no chance he could be wrong.

            "They videotape their missions, AJ," his voice replies over the line, tinny with static and distance. "I just got out of the debriefing with the team. I saw the tape. There were two casualties, and Mac was one of them." A pause. "AJ…I'm sorry."

            "So am I," I tell him, feeling myself start to become numb. This hurts, really hurts, but I have duties to see to before I can let myself feel the pain of losing an officer under my command. I need to inform the rest of the office, and the SecNav…and Rabb.

            Hanging up with Webb, I press the intercom button on my phone that will connect me with Tiner.

            "Yes, sir?"

            "Tiner," I say, and if my voice is a little shaky, he doesn't remark on it. He's been well trained. "Get me Rabb."

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Judge Advocate General Headquarters

Harm

            The admiral stands stiffly, gazing out the window. I snap to attention in front of his desk, eyes firmly forward, waiting to hear whatever lecture I've earned this time.

            "At ease," he says, still facing the window, and a chill runs down my spine. There's something about his voice, his stance, that screams at me to back away. Something is wrong. Something is desperately wrong.

            He turns toward me, and I nearly lose my footing when his eyes meet mine. They are twin pools of sorrow and loss, and I know what's happened before he says a word.

            "Mac?"

            He takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm sorry, Harm."

            No. I can't believe it. I won't. "Sir, is there –"

            The look he gives me, one of unadulterated pity, stops me in my verbal tracks. In his eyes, I can see the truth. "She's dead."

            For a moment the visual contact between us is almost palpable, and then he turns away, back to the window. I realize distantly that I'm shaking. It seems unreal. Everything about this is unreal. I actually pinch myself, certain I'll wake up in my messy apartment near Union Station. She can't be gone.

            "Her unit was attacked outside of Kabul. There were two casualties and one injured. The major was among the dead." He clears his throat, continuing with difficulty. "The details have been classified, but the SecNav has informed me that she will be receiving the Distinguished Service Medal for her heroism."

            "Posthumously." I make no move to stop the tears coursing down my face. It might as well be someone else's face. I can't feel it. I can't feel anything. I've never been so numb in my life. Not after losing Diane, not after my ramp strike. Not after finding the truth about my father. Never.

            He finally looks at me again, and I pretend not to notice his offer of a tissue. My partner, my marine, my Sarah is dead. There aren't enough tissues or enough tears in the world to compensate for that.

            "I'm so sorry, son."

            I shake my head, knowing on some level that he's trying to help, but I can't accept his help. If I do, she's really gone. She can't be really gone. Someone's wrong, something's been misconstrued. It's a misunderstanding. It can't be her. It can't be her.

            The admiral clears his throat, and I realize I said that bit last out loud.

            "I have something for you." He hands me an envelope, the big interoffice ones we use to send packets of information around to the other JAG offices. Instead of a listing of twenty or thirty officers it's been sent to, the front of this envelope only has one name on it. Mine. I know the handwriting as well as I know my own.

            "She left it for you in case she didn't come back." I stare at the bland yellow envelope, an object I've taken for granted for years. A way to ferry information back and forth. This particular ferry is one way. I'm the last stop.

            He reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder and I pull back. I can't accept sympathy from him. I can't accept it from anyone. Sympathy will make this real.

            "Mac left me in charge of her affairs," he tells me. I'm not surprised. I know Mac sees the admiral as the father she never had. Saw him as the father she never had. Please, no, she can't be gone. "I'll be organizing the service in Arlington. I need to go and inform the rest of the staff. Feel free to stay in here as long as you like. Gather your thoughts." This time I let him rest his hand on my shoulder for a moment. What does it matter? Maybe it'll make him feel better. Nothing's going to make me feel better. With a last nod to me, he steps out the door, leaving me with my regrets, my sorrow, and my envelope.

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Judge Advocate General Headquarters

Chegwidden

            I step into the main part of the office, my heart heavy with sorrow. This is the worst part of my job. Mac was such a bright young woman, so full of promise. There truly is no fairness in the world. If there were, she would still be alive and Rabb would have told her he loved her long before this, before it was too late. We all knew how he felt; everyone except her. Now she never will.

            Shaking my head at the cruel impartiality of the universe and the armed forces, I ask Tiner to gather the staff as quickly as possible, and then walk over to stand in front of the door to Mac's office to wait for them to assemble. The lights are off, and I know if I tried the door it would be locked. Inside, her desk is covered with case files and depositions, briefs and affidavits. I never understood how such a squared-away marine could have such a messy workspace. Another pang strikes me when I realize someone's going to have to clean out that office, go through her things and remove any trace of Sarah Mackenzie from JAG Ops. Someone else will take her place. The thought tears at me.

            My people are all gathered, with the exception of Rabb and the woman they're gathered to hear about, and they're unnaturally quiet. They know something's wrong. I look out over their faces, worry and concern on each and every one, and wish with all I have that I didn't have to break this news to them. I do, though. I'm the admiral. It's my duty.

            "Attention on deck!" I snap, and they all respond immediately. Good officers, all of them. Well trained. My people. Minus one sassy marine. God, I'm going to miss her.

            "As some of you may know, Major Sarah Mackenzie was assigned on temporary duty as a legal advisor to a combat unit in the middle east." This part never gets any easier. "I was informed at 0900 today that her unit was involved in a combat situation. I am very sorry to tell you that the major was killed in the line of duty." Their faces reflect shock, anger, sorrow. Ensign Sims is crying quietly, as is my yeoman. They all loved her.

            "In recognition of her exemplary heroism and courage under fire, Major Mackenzie will be awarded the Distinguished Service Medal posthumously. The service will be held in conjunction with the funeral, at Arlington National Cemetery on Friday at 1500 hours. This office will close at 1300, to afford all of you the opportunity to attend." I have to clear my throat to speak around the lump that's formed there. "Sarah Mackenzie was a damn fine officer, an excellent lawyer, and a good friend to all of us. I know I speak for everyone present when I say she will be missed dearly." I give them all a last once-over, noting that there isn't a dry eye in the house. I wish Mac could be around to see this. She spent all of the years she was here fighting to win the respect of her fellow officers, and to the day she died I'm not sure if she ever knew just how respected, how loved, she truly was. I only wish she could have known.

            "Dismissed."

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Meanwhile…

Desert, Middle East (Coordinates Unknown)

Mac

            I rack a round into the chamber and wish we'd been able to find better weaponry than what we had with us after we fell off the train. After a few days wandering the desert, though, I suppose even our sniper rifles are a blessing. We haven't found anything to shoot, which is a good thing, but the towns we've found have been very small and not able to help us beyond providing the basic food and water, which we've traded for money and various other things we had tucked away in our pockets. In Bosnia it became a habit of ours to carry hard candy and little trinkets for the kids we ran across, and without discussing it we did the same thing this time. We've traded some of it, but I've looked the other way a few times while she gave some away to children in the towns where the families didn't have water or food to trade. We're headed to Kalik now, a mid-sized village a few more miles from here. There should be some sort of military or peacekeeping garrison there, and Andie will sweet-talk them into giving us a ride out to Chitral, where the closest CIA installation is located.

            I'm still not sure why we're looking for the local CIA presence, and I hate to think how insufferable Webb will be if his people end up rescuing us. It's much more likely, however, that they'll tell us we're not worth the chance of blowing their cover and turn us back out into the sand. That's if they don't kill us first, ensuring that our loose lips can't sink any ships. Andie, on the other hand, is painfully optimistic. I think that because she's still technically one of them, she thinks they'll automatically help us. I'm going to hate it if I have to be the one to explain to her that the spooks aren't great about paying their due.

            "Hanging in there, Cleo?" She asks the question in Russian, since we agreed that speaking English isn't a great idea out here and she doesn't speak Farsi. Her accent would be hideous anyway. Her first language is French, her second German. She massacres any Arabic language she attempts, as we found out in Bosnia three years ago.

            "I'm just peachy, Meph," I reply. "I love the desert. Like a big beach, but no seagulls. Or water." This is blatant sarcasm, and even she picks up on it.

            "Excuse me for asking," she says, but she's smiling. For the first time, I wonder how much of her own optimism is sarcasm in disguise. "Not much further. The village is right up ahead."

            I give the massive expanse of sand in front of us a long-suffering look, and she laughs. "I wish Onstar were here. He could give you the exact mileage. I'd guess no more than fifty, though. We made good progress."

            "Yeah, a week of my life spent traipsing through the land that air conditioning forgot." I pause. "Make that one more weeks of my life. I'd forgotten about the first forty-six."

            "I miss those days," she says. My eyebrows shoot up toward my hairline.

            "You miss Bosnia? I promise you, Andrea Monroe, you're the only one."

            She laughs again. I wish I had the energy to laugh.

            "Things were simpler then." She sighs. "Our team was simpler then. We were together so long..."

            I give her a warning look. "You know better than to get attached to an I-Force team."

            "I know, I know. But we were such a good team. You, me, Onstar, Scotty..."

            "Terry, Frost, Toto, and Lance." I smile at the first memory that springs to mind; the eight of us trying to sleep in our two jeeps in the middle of the desert the night Toto found the scorpion in his boot. I've never laughed so hard in my life. "We were a good team."

            "The best. Now it's me and seven new kids as the Sevens. None of the camaraderie, none of the trust. I feel like a camp counselor instead of a team coordinator. It's hard sometimes. And they rotate the FNKs so often I barely know their first names. I haven't been on a named team since Bosnia." She gives me an appraising look. "You don't want to come back full-time, do you?"

            "Not on a dare," I tell her. "You were right about JAG. Once I gave it a shot, I really did start to like it."

            "I knew you would. How's that hot Navy pilot?"

            I blush, and immediately I have her undivided attention. "I knew there was something there. The way you used to talk about him...are the two of you –"

            "No!" I sigh. "I wish. He never would, though."

            She throws a companionable arm around my shoulders, pushing her rifle to the other side.

            "Wanna talk about it?"

            "Yeah."

            Suddenly, all the remaining distance between us is gone and I'm pouring my heart out like our last three years apart were three days. Andie was the first good female friend I ever had and it really hurt when we were split up, despite what I told her about not getting attached. Our easy relationship was a silver lining in the middle of my personal crises that year: going from law school to Bosnia, missing John and hating myself for it, wishing for someone to care about me. Andie and I are more alike than anyone gives us credit for, and we understand each other.