A/N: Alert! Plot contrivance ahead! I take no responsibility for any nosebleeds caused by the angry brains of individuals trying too hard to understand my explanation for the survival of the Dynamic Duo…it seemed like a good idea at the time.
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IDTF Satellite Installation, Germany
Mac
A week, six CIA agents, and a few hundred frequent flyer miles later, Andie and I are back on semi-American soil. The I-Force satellite station is technically part of the embassy, so it's considered American. I for one would really rather be back on American soil that is part of the continental US, but Andie insisted on a stretching break between flights, so she and I are hanging out on the air strip while our pilot goes in to the building to grab a soda before he flies us to the airport in Paris, from which we're proceeding to Dulles, where we should arrive in about six hours. We traded out our ruined BDUs and kevlar jackets for clean clothes a few minutes ago and grabbed quick showers in the women's quarters here. I feel almost human again, although I think I could drink about fifteen gallons of water without any trouble, and I won't need to tan again for the rest of my natural life.
"Hey, Monroe," a male voice calls from the direction of the building. Andie and I both turn toward it and she smiles broadly, waving at the approaching figure.
"What are you doing out here, Bradford?" she asks when he's in hearing range. The tall man grins ruefully.
"Visiting you?" he guesses. She puts her hands on her hips and gives him an exasperated look, and he rolls his eyes. "I'm taking over at Port Said. I'm flying out in a few hours."
"Hey, congratulations, Bradford," she says, looking genuinely happy for him. "Major Sarah Mackenzie, meet Allen Bradford. He and I went through I-Force basic together. The major and I just got back from the sandbox."
"I've heard about you, Major," Bradford says, offering me a hand and an engaging smile. "You were part of Team 7 back when it was the I-capades. People still talk about the work you guys did in Bosnia."
"Then you know Agent Monroe did most of it," I reply, shaking the proffered hand. "It was a good system; she kicked the ass and the rest of us took the names."
He laughs loudly, clapping Andie on the shoulder. "I'm sure she did. She can be a real demon." He winks at me as Andie rolls her eyes in resignation. "Headed home, huh? Mission over?"
"Over and out," Andie agrees. "I'm not sure how the rest of the team fared, though. The two of us ended up taking the scenic route home."
He raises an eyebrow. "Do C and C know you're here?" He shakes his head almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. "Nevermind. They know every time one of us so much as breathes near the Germany installation. Of course they know you're here."
"I really expected a message waiting for me when I got here," she admits. "'Dear Agent Monroe: Took you long enough. All our love, C and C.'"
He chuckles again. "You're a firecracker, Monroe. I'm gonna miss you in Port Said."
"Hey, it's out in BFE. Literally. If I keep screwing up easy missions, I'm sure I'll be assigned out there eventually to scrub your floors or something."
"And everyone knows no one scrubs floors like Andrea Monroe," he agrees, squeezing her shoulder before releasing it. "I've got a secure line with me. Do you want to call in and ask how the mission ended?"
She contemplates it for a moment, then shakes her head. "Nah. If it was blown, there's nothing I can do now. Besides, then there would have been a message waiting here for me warning me not to go home because C and C would have been out for my blood. No message, so it must have gone all right." She glances over at me. "If you don't mind, though, the major's been out of touch with her office for almost two weeks. I think she might like to call home and check in."
I'm ready to protest – I don't want to be any trouble or tie up his phone line – but he hands me the phone before I can open my mouth. "Knock yourself out," he invites. "It's hotter out than I thought it would be, considering it's technically not summer right now. I'm gonna run back in and get a soda before my plane leaves for Egypt."
"Say hi to our pilot if you see him," she says wryly, and he chuckles as he heads back toward the building.
Ignoring their side conversation, I take Bradford's cell phone and punch in ten numbers as familiar to me as my own name. As the call rings through, I can't suppress a smile. I'm ready to go home.
"JAG Headquarters, Petty Officer Tiner speaking."
"Tiner, it's Major Mackenzie. Put me through to the admiral?"
There's silence on the line, and then Tiner practically snarls at me.
"That's not funny, you sick son of a bitch."
There's a loud click, and I'm left staring in disbelief at the phone in my hand. Andie eyes me warily.
"Did he sound...upset?"
I shrug, bewildered. "I don't know what I did. I've never heard Tiner speak to anyone like that."
She shakes her head, eyes widening, and from the look on her face someone's career is about to be over.
"Did you wonder why they didn't send a unit after us?"
I give her a puzzled look. "You ordered them not to. Very forcefully."
"Yes, and I thought they were finally following my orders. But there's no precedent for that assumption. They've never followed my orders before. You military people love to flaunt your ability to not listen to my kind, since technically I don't outrank anyone. What's the only other reason they wouldn't have sent a team?"
I think for a moment, and then it hits me. "They think we're really dead," I gasp, horrified. A multitude of thoughts run through my mind, but foremost is that if the admiral believes I'm dead, he'll give Harm that letter. He wasn't ever supposed to get that letter; not if I had to come back and face what it said.
"Meph, they can't think we're dead. They all knew about the jackets." A suspicion strikes me, and I turn to give her an incredulous look. "You didn't tell them about the jackets."
"It's classified, and they aren't a named team so they don't have I-Force authorization. If we had briefed them about the jackets, they would have known what they were really wearing was top secret, and we couldn't take that risk."
"We were using these things in Bosnia! How are they still classified?" The jackets really are a marvelous invention; they're a layer of regular camouflage fabric, then a layer of stunt packs with fake blood in them that shatter if you hit them hard enough. Under it all is an invention of the DOD's, a new form of kevlar that only has to be about a tenth of the normal thickness to be completely effective, even against hollow points and anti-armor bullets. They don't stop grenades or missiles, but that's about all they don't stop. On top of that, the blood is enough to convince anyone that they've killed you long enough for you to recover and take a few shots at them. Unless your standing orders are to play dead so no one finds out what you're really wearing. Sounds like standing orders I've heard recently, actually, now that I think about it.
"They're in the final month of testing. You may have noticed they've improved in quality since the last time you used one," she replies dryly. She's right; I can actually feel my chest. Last time I was numb for a week.
"But if you didn't tell the Sevens, you must have known they'd think we were dead."
"Yeah, they would," she agreed. "But the mission tapes are reviewed by Command and Control. They would have corrected the misunderstanding and sent a named team in after us."
I frown, thinking about that for a minute.
"Why?" I ask finally.
"Why what?" She looks amused. "We might not be the Marine Corps, Sarah, but we don't ditch our people in the desert. Not permanently, anyway."
"C and C had no way of being certain we were alive. These jackets have failed before. If they'd sent in a team to find us, or even told Team 7 what happened, they'd blow the cover on our classified body armor. They probably assumed that if we were alive, we would be competent enough to rescue ourselves. Which we were."
From the look on her face, that never occurred to her. I swear, some of her plans are as poorly thought out as Webb's – they sound good at the onset, but there's always some major flaw.
"Andie, is there anyone else that knows about the jackets who might see the tape? Webb?"
She shakes her head. "He doesn't know," she says finally. "He might suspect I'm not dead, because I'm betting C and C haven't requested a replacement for me from the CIA yet, but he can't do anything about it. If C and C say we're dead, we're dead until we turn up for debriefing."
Something else occurs to me. "You said they're in the final month of testing. How are they going to unveil them?"
She looks at me for a long moment before she figures out where I'm going. "No way. They wouldn't...would they?"
"A real live trial, where the jackets are proven to convince friend and enemy alike of a confirmed kill, and then the dead operatives come back. Sounds like a hell of a selling point to me."
"You think this was a setup?" She sounds furious. I can sympathize, but I don't think that's what happened here.
"I doubt it. Our mission was too important to remove the two senior operatives for shock value. Still, once they got the opportunity it was probably too good to pass up."
Andie is practically vibrating with fury. "I'll give them a good opportunity," she snaps, and then falls silent. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, but I wait until she speaks again to ask her what she's thinking.
"Sarah, give me that phone."
"What is it?" I inquire, handing it to her without protest. She scowls, punching in a string of numbers.
"One of the primary buys for these jackets is supposed to be from the CIA. If anyone was allowed to see that footage, they were. And I can think of one CIA agent who might have let exactly what happened leak to JAG."
"Webb," I breathe. "I knew he had to be involved with this."
She gives me a dour look and waits impatiently for her call to ring through.
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Judge Advocate General Headquarters
Harm
Someone knocks on the door to my office. I ignore the knock, hoping they'll go away, but the door swings open anyway. Sturgis Turner is standing on the other side.
"Got a minute, Harm?"
I give him a long look, then sigh. "What can I do for you, Sturgis?"
"You can take me out to lunch."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling. This is the Sturgis Turner I remember. "I've got a hearing in twenty."
"So we'll eat fast. Come on, Rabb."
We wind up going down the block to a little deli that brings back bittersweet memories of numerous lunch breaks with my partner, arguing over cases or collaborating on strategies for a defense or prosecution. Since she died, I've come to realize how much of my life centered around her. Everything I do, everywhere I go, holds some memory of Sarah Mackenzie. It's torture.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm still doing here, Harm?"
It suddenly occurs to me that he's been in town since the funeral.
"Shouldn't you have shipped back out?"
He leans back in his chair, giving me a long look. "I've changed my designator," he says finally.
"To what?"
"I've just finished law school."
I take a moment to process that. "Hey, good for you, Sturgis. You didn't tell me. Are you taking a posting in DC?"
He doesn't say anything, and then I realize which posting he must be taking.
"They asked you to replace her."
"I don't want to replace anybody, Harm. Somebody has to pick up the caseload. JAG needs a new lawyer, and I took the job."
I want to argue, but I know it's true. I don't have to like it, though, and I'm all set to be belligerent about it when a little voice in my head reminds me that he didn't have to pull me aside and talk to me. He could have just shown up at staff call. He's showing me a courtesy, and I can't in good conscience return that with obnoxiousness, no matter how clear I want to make it that nobody can take Mac's place.
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IDTF Satellite Installation, Germany
Mac
Andie is hissing something into the receiver in French, and I realize that she must not want me to be able to follow the conversation or she'd be speaking English. That's not a good sign. I need to find out what's happening, and I'll be more likely to get it out of Webb than Andie.
"Give that to me!" I snap in my best drill instructor voice, and she hands me the phone reflexively. "Webb?"
His relief is palpable, even through the phone line. "Mac."
"Tell me this is your fault."
He clears his throat. "It's no one's fault, Major. The CIA recovered the IDTF footage of the two of you being shot off that train."
"We were wearing kevlar!"
"You looked dead."
"We're not!"
"I can tell," he replies dryly. "Put Monroe back on, will you?"
"The hell I will," I snarl, really getting into my rant. "You told everyone we were dead!"
"Well, we thought you were. IDTF wasn't talking. We thought your people deserved to know what happened."
Suddenly I can see a more urgent course of action than just reaming Webb out for something he really isn't responsible for.
"You have to go to JAG. You have to tell them the truth. In person, Clay. They didn't believe me over the phone, they sure as hell aren't going to believe you."
"What?"
"Just go, Webb."
"The admiral's going to break my nose again."
"I'll break more than that if your ass isn't already headed for the door."
He gives a gusty sigh. "Before or after I speak to Team 7?"
I think about that. "After," I decide finally. I-Capades or not, they were our team out there and they have the right to be the first to know the truth. "Then you can pick us up at Dulles and finish explaining yourself to Monroe's satisfaction."
"Then we'll never leave Dulles," he informs me dryly. "When are you coming in?"
I give him the flight information our pilot gave us concerning the flight that will bring us from Paris to Dulles. He copies it down, promises to be on time, and hangs up on me before I can let Andie loose on him again.
"You'll get your turn," I console her, handing her the now-silent phone. "In person, at the airport."
She sighs, but she's smiling. "Well, I don't really want to make a scene."
"Liar," Bradford says from right behind her. "And your pilot says he's ready whenever you are." She turns to him, handing him his phone and shaking her head.
"Sorry we've got to run. I wish we had a little more time to catch up."
"Rain check," he offers easily. "You, me, two scrub brushes and the floors of Port Said."
"Deal," she chuckles, shaking his hand as the two of us head for our plane.
"He seems nice," I tell her, and she nods.
"One of the few decent guys in the business," she informs me. "You ready to go home?"
"Oh, yeah," I say, contemplative. "But is home ready for us?"
She doesn't reply.