Disclaimer: Don't own JAG

Part nine

There was a long line in front of the check-in counters at the airport. Everything went very slow. People impatiently looking at their watches, hoping that their plane wouldn't leave without them. The terminal crawled with police officers, watching every person in the lines carefully. The first person in the line for flight AA387 leaving 12.45 am for Santiago, Chile, was a dark-haired slightly overweight man with a lazy eye, probably in his late forties. He wore a business suit, and appeared stressed. It almost seemed like he was running from something. A police officer looked at him, and then looked down at the row of pictures he had of this Palmer guy they were searching for, and quickly ruled him out. This guy was too small, and his head had a different shape. On to the next one.

"Have a nice flight, Mr. Anderson," the woman behind the counter gave the ticket back to the man, who grabbed it and hastily headed towards the gate. He had been standing there without wincing the whole time the police officer compared him to the pictures, and had to make an effort not to look too relieved when the officer moved on to the next one in the line. The disguise was good enough; he had had so little time to prepare it that he feared that it wouldn't work. But it was amazing how make-up could make the shape of the head look different, and how small he could seem if he just walked in a specific manner. And the lazy eye, it was something he had wanted to try out for a long time, just for fun. Making disguises had almost become a routine. The last years he had more often been someone else than he had been himself, and it had started to consume him. He know it had to end, if it didn't he probably would go over the edge. The real Clark Palmer had to get out more. It would probably be too risky to use his own name, but being himself with a fake name was the second best option, he had to take it.

A couple of minutes after Palmer went to the gate; the police officers and agents got a message over their communication system to abort the mission and return home. The airport returned to normal.

- - - - - - - - -

It was Tuesday morning. Harm had been unconscious since Tiner had visited him last night. Mac had been sitting by his side all night hoping that he would wake up again. She had tried to stay awake, but had fallen asleep, with her head on Harm's chest, some time during the night.  Harm suddenly started moaning.

"Oh, God my head is killing me," he mumbled. He slowly opened his eyes and gazed around the room. Where was he? It looked very much like a hospital room, but he had no recollection of getting there. And why was his head hurting so much? He wanted to touch his head with his hand, but the hand didn't move. He tried the other hand, but it wouldn't move either. Now he really started to get scared. Then he spotted Mac sleeping with her head on his chest, and the panic started to fade away, until he realized something. Why didn't he feel her head lying there? He felt himself succumb to the panic that spread across his mind. He started hyperventilating. The sudden changes in his breath rate made an alarm on one of the machines go off, and Mac was abruptly swept out of her dreams.

A doctor came rushing into the room just seconds after the alarm went off. Mac, not yet really awake, wasn't sure what was going on.

Harm was terrified and breathing like a mad man. "Why can't I move, what's wrong with me," he asked frantically, his eyes desperate.

"This will make you feel better," the doctor gave him something to calm down. A panic attack like this could only make things worse again, and it was better to talk with him when he was calm. Mac, the usually strong marine, couldn't help herself; she started to cry when she saw the fear and torment in Harm's eyes. She had never seen him like this, so terrified.

The mild sedative the doctor gave Harm kicked in after a few minutes, and Harm's breath and heart rate returned to normal a little later.  But his eyes still were filled with fear.

"What's wrong with me," he whispered again, almost crying.

"You are at the hospital Mr. Rabb, and I'm Dr. Porter, one of the doctors who have been attending you. Do you know why you're here," the doctor asked him.

"I can remember lying on the floor in my apartment, and there was another person there," Harm tried to remember something more, but his memory of what had happened was just a black hole. It was so frustrating!

"All the circumstances why, are not clear, but you where shot, two bullets hit your head, the police is suspecting a certain Clark Palmer for doing it. You have been in a coma the last week, we're glad that you are with us again," Dr. Porter said kindly.

He continued. "The CAT-scan showed possible brain damage. I will check your reflexes, this will hopefully give us a little more knowledge of your problems; I will start with your feet, and if you feel something, tell me." The doctor checked the reflexes in Harm's arms and legs by pressing on certain places in palms and under his feet. It only took a moment.

Harm didn't say a word while the doctor checked him out. Both Mac and Harm were painfully aware of that this couldn't be good news. Harm looked the doctor in the eyes, just awaiting the devastating news he feared would come.

- - - - - - - - -

Webb was walking back and forth in his office. If the carpet had been of lower quality, a path probably would have formed. He stopped and nervously played with a pencil before he slammed his fist into the wall. The boss simply couldn't do this to him, talking some bullshit about not having enough resources to turn the world upside-down trying to find a guy just wanted for an attempted murder. And that there were higher profiled cases. That was pure crap. For Webb there were no higher profiled cases. Finding Palmer and making him pay was the one case that it was worth working on. He would find Palmer if it was the last thing he did in this world, with or without his bosses permission. It was getting more and more like an obsession. But alone it would be an impossible task. He had to get together a small team, some people he could trust. 

Why had it become so important to him to get Palmer, Webb wasn't quite sure. It just felt like the right thing to do. He hadn't been that close to Harm. They were friends, not very close friends, but friends although. And friends was not what Webb had too many of. Both his work and personality made it difficult to get friends, and to keep them. He never showed anyone that he enjoyed having them around, rather the opposite. One usually had to know him quite well to get underneath his protective shell, and not find him offensive. Harm was one of those that he felt he really knew, and that really knew him. He had just always been there the last years. Ok, they often met because of work, but Webb knew that they would keep in touch even if they didn't have anything to do with each other at work.

He suddenly snapped out of his thoughts. No time to be wasted. He had to act quickly before the few leads they had, got cold. The first team member was already pointed out. He would join the team if he wanted or not. Webb knew he had power over this guy, and that he would do whatever it takes to please his superior.

"Benson, get in here," Webb yelled through the intercom.

- - - - - - - - -

At flight AA397 a cartoon was on. Palmer laughed out loud every time the big pink bunny made some kind of mishap when it tried to win over the tortoise. He loved cartoons. As a boy he wasn't allowed to watch TV at all. He had been making up for it ever since. 

"Mister, aren't you a little old to watch cartoons," a little girl, maybe six years old, crawled up on the empty seat next to him. "My brother says he is too old to watch cartoons, he is twelve," she continued. She looked at him, smiling.

"You're never too old to watch cartoons. As long as you enjoy it, it's no reason not to watch it. Your brother doesn't know what he is missing," Palmer smiled back. This little girl was so sweet, so innocent. Not knowing anything about this cruel world.

"My name is Maxine, what's yours?"

"I'm Clark," he answered laughing, not realizing that he gave her his real name.

Maxine immediately continued. "Do you want a cookie, they're very good". She held up a little box filled with cookies.

"Oh, chocolate chips, my favorite, they look very good. I'll try one," with that she picked up a cookie and handed it to him.

"Um, yummy, the best cookie I've ever tasted," Palmer rubbed his stomach, slightly overdoing it, like one often do when dealing with children.

A woman came from the back. "I said you should stay on your seat, while I was in the bathroom, Maxine. You can't just take off like this," she gave Maxine a strict look.

"But, Mummy, I couldn't see the cartoon because of the tall man, so…"

The woman cut her off, she turned to Palmer. "I'm so sorry Mr..?"

"Anderson, Edwin Anderson," Palmer intervened.

"Maxine is so nosy, I hope she hasn't caused you any trouble," the mother said in an apologetic tone.

"Not at all, she is a delightful kid."

"The cartoon is over now, so say good bye to the nice man," Maxine's mother took her hand and dragged her along before she could say anything.

- - - - -

Not everyone enjoyed the cartoon.

"Finally, the cartoon is over, and the chitchat in the row in front of us has ended to, maybe it finally will be possible to get some sleep now," an elderly woman in the row behind Palmer said to her husband, who just nodded at her words. They had heard the whole conversation between Palmer and Maxine.

Palmer also used the quiet moment to get some sleep. It was just half an hour before the plane would arrive at the Arturo Merino Benitez International Airport in Santiago, and he had a long journey in front of him.

A little while later the elderly woman, not yet asleep, whispered to her husband; "kind of strange, don't you think. When the man talked to the girl, he called himself Clark, but to the mother he said Edwin."

"Try to sleep, Marge, it is probably just a middle name or something," her husband said with a yawn. Minutes later they were both asleep.

- - - - - - - - -

Dr. Porter still wasn't comfortable in situations like this. He loved to be a doctor, but to give patients bad news, was something he could be without. He never seemed to get used to it, like the other doctors did. And here the news wasn't very good. He just had to jump into it.

 "Well," he hesitated. "I'm afraid what I'm going to say is not uplifting. You have no reflexes in your feet and your left arm.  In your right arm there is a weak reflex, but that can improve." For a few seconds the room was dead silent, and then he went on. "When there are no reflexes it usually means permanent paralysis, but there is always exceptions, you know." He tried to cheer up the situation.

Mac and Harm first looked at the doctor, then at each other, with expressions impossible to interpret. No words were said for a while. They had to digest the information. This couldn't be true. Their lives would be changed for ever.

For Harm there was one thing that was important now. Keeping fit and exercising had always been a big part of his life. He didn't know if he could handle being stuck in a wheelchair.

"Will I ever walk again?" Harm looked at the doctor, pleading.

"I wish I could give you good news, but I can't. It really doesn't look good," Dr. Porter answered. God, he hated this.

Harm just lay there, saying nothing. He silently started crying. Was this how the rest of his life would be? A vegetable, constantly dependent on other people. 

"Why didn't Palmer finish the job this time, like he usually does," he sobbed silently, as more and more tears rolled down his cheeks.

He felt a hand stroking his hair, and a soft kiss on his forehead.

Mac looked him in the eyes. "Don't you dare thinking like that. We are getting through this, together."