A/N: I stole a line from MASH. I couldn't help myself. See if you can spot it. :)
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Desert, Middle East (Coordinates Unknown)
Mac
I've almost finished telling Andie everything that's happened since the last time we spoke, right after Uncle Matt's trial. All of the things Harm and I have been through together, Dalton, Coster, and my feelings for my partner. Her lips press together when I talk about Palmer, and I wonder if they know each other. Technically, she works for the DSD. When I reach the events of the past month, with Chris's return and subsequent death and my Article 32 and Admiral's Mast, she goes very quiet. I watch her for some sign of the universal disgust the rest of my friends treated me with when they found out, but she only squeezes my shoulders and forgives me with an easy smile.
"Looks like you won the 'worst month' contest. When we get back, I owe you an ice cream."
I reach over to give her a tight hug, grateful beyond words and knowing she'll never understand why. It's just not in her nature to judge me like that. She's been judged too many times herself. She smiles back at me, ruffling my hair playfully, and I feel better about life in general than I have in months, despite the fact that we're still in the middle of the desert.
"Hot fudge sundae?"
"Of course."
"Nuts?"
"Sure."
"Whipped cream?"
"Why not?"
I pause for dramatic effect. "Two scoops?"
She sighs. "Only if you'll sit the debriefing with me."
I consider that offer for a moment. I'm not a big fan of I-Force debriefings. However, a session with Control and Command, assuming they're still who they were when I last served in I-Force, is going to be much more pleasant than a few hours in the admiral's office, which is what I'll get if this isn't classified past his clearance, which it won't be unless I agree to sit the debriefing. I know how tricky Meph is; she can be an absolutely merciless when she thinks it's necessary. It's how she earned her nickname.
"As much as I hesitate to make a deal with the devil, I suppose it's the lesser of two evils," I reply finally, and she chuckles. "You're on, Mephistopheles."
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Arlington National Cemetery
Harm
I stand rigidly at attention in my winter uniform, cold from the inside out. Mac's Uncle Matt is here, out of Leavenworth long enough to attend the funeral and standing on my right. Her mother, who I'm sure it took Webb days to track down, sits on his other side. All of our friends, co-workers, and associates are here. I recognize at least six former defendants she helped to prove innocent, and the mother and father of one enlisted woman whose murderer she put behind bars. Bobbi Latham, Webb himself, Sydney Walden. Mom and Frank, who are sitting towards the back. They tried to talk to me earlier, but I begged off until after the service. I focus on trying to identify every person here because I can't allow myself to focus on the words Chaplain Turner is reading. My old buddy Sturgis Turner is somewhere behind me; I think the chaplain called him when he heard Mac was my partner. I appreciate what they're trying to do, but I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to say.
Chaplain Turner finally finishes and steps back, and the marines step forward with the folded flag for Mac's mother. I want to cry, but I can't. I don't have the energy, and I know it won't change anything. All the tears in the world won't bring her back.
The first bang of the 21 gun salute catches me off guard, and I jump. Mac would have teased me mercilessly. 'Marines don't jump under fire, flyboy.' 'Marines don't duck. They take cover, but they never duck.' Her words echo in my head, and still the tears won't come.
When the service is over, they move to award the medal. Damn the medal. If she'd been a little less heroic, a little less courageous, maybe she'd still be alive. In my heart, I know that isn't right. If she'd been less of a hero, she wouldn't have been the marine I knew and loved. Still, I would give anything now to have her back.
The SecNav moves to present the medal to Mac's mother, and she shakes her head. Her hands are still clutched around the flag. Nelson moves to Colonel O'Hara, who shakes his head as well. The SecNav is obviously confused. O'Hara takes pity on him, reaching out to grab...my shoulder?
"If Sarah can't be with us to accept this, sir, I think it ought to go to her partner. He knew, better than any of us could have, to what lengths her bravery and courage went."
I flash back on Russia, outside the train depot. 'You've gone further with me than anyone I've known. I'll never forget that.' I'm crying now, even though I swore I wouldn't. I can remember with such clarity the look on her face when I said that. There were so many other times, too. They didn't always seem significant, but looking back I know how much she really did for me.
The SecNav hands me a little box, sympathy etched on his features. I guess for Mac's sake even Nelson can lay aside old grudges for a day. My fingers clench on the cool wood, and I nod curtly to him. I don't salute; the box is in my right hand, and I'm not letting go of it. It's all I have.
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Desert, Middle East (Coordinates Unknown)
Mac
The sound of an engine gives us both pause, and we turn to see a jeep approaching in the distance. Andie produces a pair of collapsible binoculars and peers at the vehicle through them.
"British markings," she says finally. "One guy in a lieutenant's uniform. Boy, how much would your superiors have to hate you to stick you out here by yourself?"
"I don't know," I reply, watching as the jeep gets closer and closer to us. "But if he's British, he's got an obligation to help peacekeepers in distress."
"Even Russian ones like us," she agrees, and we share a smile. We might be getting back to civilization sooner than I thought.
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The next day
Judge Advocate General Headquarters
Harm
Webb pops the tape into the VCR in the admiral's office.
"I'd like to go on record saying I don't think this is a great idea."
"You're on the record, Clay. Press the damn button."
The admiral sounds mad. I wonder again if this is a good idea. I think it might destroy me to see her killed, but I need the closure. I have to be sure she's really gone, or I'm going to wonder for the rest of my life. I wondered with my father; I have to know about Mac.
On the screen, the fuzzy image is resolving into the face of a pretty girl; probably twenty-six or so, a blonde with big green eyes. The kind of girl I would have gone after before I fell for my partner. Even as I think of her, Sarah appears on the screen, coming up to throw both arms around the other girl from behind. They're both laughing, and I etch the memory of her smile into my mind.
"This is after the mission briefing," Webb explains. "That's Agent Monroe. She was the other casualty." He says the word like it burns his mouth, and I have a moment to wonder about Webb and Monroe before the audio on the tape comes in.
"-back in the desert with this group," Mac is saying.
The blonde laughs again. "We missed you, too."
Mac wrinkles her nose at the girl's BDUs. "You're not wearing that, are you, Andie? That looks terrible. You wore that the last time we went to the front."
There's laughter all around the room they're in, and the camera pans out to show a group of seven people waving cheerfully at the camera. The man holding the camera turns to the mirror behind him, and now we can see all eight of them. Team 7, billed as the Interdepartmental Task Force's best and brightest. Two sailors, three soldiers, a jetjock, and a CIA agent. And one loan from the USMC, who I know isn't going to come back with them.
"Is the tape working?"
The man gives her a thumbs-up by way of the mirror, and Monroe nods. "Right. Turn it off and let's get out of here."
The picture goes momentarily dark and is replaced with footage of the desert. They're moving at a fast clip, and the camera pans to show the vehicle the cameraman's riding in. It looks bigger than an 18-wheeler, and I wonder again just what they were doing out there when he starts to talk.
"Big lot of nothing," he mutters. "Join the Army. Meet a bunch of crazy covert operatives and go play in a sandbox."
"Oh, stop bitching," says the jetjock, who's sitting next to him. "It could be worse. You could be Mackenzie."
I stiffen at the foreshadowing, but the cameraman merely chuckles.
"Poor sap," the jetjock continues. "Stuck on roof patrol with 'Suzy Sunshine, secret agent.'"
"Hey, the two of them get along," the camera guy replies. The constant change of view tells me he's sitting somewhere with 360 degree mobility; he's taking footage of the surrounding area, probably looking for trouble. "I heard they know each other from cold ops a few years ago. It's the rest of us Monroe drives crazy."
"Cold ops. She's too damn happy," the zoomie says. "Got that whole Pollyanna thing going on. I don't know how she ended up as a covert op, let alone a cold op."
"Hey, I'm not complaining. She's a knockout."
"You know she reviews these tapes after missions."
"Jeez, Air Force, she knows I think she's hot. I'm married, not dead. Wonder if she knows you think she's Pollyanna, though."
"She must, Army," he replies. "She's happy, not dead."
Their laughter is interrupted by the sound of weapons fire, and I can hear a clatter as they both pull out their weapons. The camera guy finds the trouble instantly; there are snipers off to the right side of the vehicle. Mac is returning fire, lying flat against the roof of the vehicle, and Monroe is moving to do the same when she's taken out.
Blood splatters against the camera lens and Webb flinches. On screen, Mac shouts and makes a wild grab for Monroe's hand, trying to keep her from falling off the roof. She connects, but the added weight pulls her up to her knees, giving the snipers the target they're looking for. She's hit three times that I count, jerking backward with each shot, and the momentum carries them both off the roof of the vehicle and onto the sand below. The camera is unattended now, both men returning fire.
"Gil, get that camera around to them!"
The order comes from further away than the other voices, and the weapons fire reduces as Gil grabs the camera, wiping a sleeve across the lens and zooming the focus in on Mac and Monroe. They're both lying in the sand, covered in blood. Mac's hand is still stretched out to Monroe, who has her long-scope rifle clenched reflexively against her chest. Neither one is moving and it's obvious they're not going to start. Gil moans unintelligibly.
"Two black arrows," he calls back, and there's creative cursing from the man who was ordering him around earlier. "We can't just leave them!"
"We got the shooters, Gil. This train doesn't stop."
Now Gil's cursing, and the zoomie cuts in quietly.
"You know he's right," he tells the Army officer. "Monroe's orders. Hell or high water, Gil, we get the cargo out of here."
Gil sniffs. "Since when do I listen to her?"
"Call it a last request."
"Damn," Gil says, softly, and then the tape goes black.