1349 ZULU (0849 EST, Monday)
JAG HQ
FALLS CHURCH, VA
I tap my pencil on my legal pad, attempting to pen a few notes on the Sorenson matter while simultaneously passing the time before staff call. Oh, and trying to keep my head on work and not on Mac, but, as it's not working very well, I decided not to include it in my list of accomplishments this morning.
Admitting defeat, I sigh, and toss my pen and pad onto my desk and lean back in my chair. I mull over the events of this past weekend, the most prominent of which, was the pajama party at Hotel Rabb. If it hadn't been for Sergei…
If it hadn't been for Sergei sleeping on the couch I think Bud and Harriet could exact revenge on Mac and I in regards to hotbunking. However, if it hadn't been for Sergei sleeping on the couch, Mac and I wouldn't even be sharing a bed. I'd most likely still be camping out on the sofa, and she'd have the bed to herself. Hmm…maybe I should thank Sergei for the opportunity he provided. At any rate, Sergei's presence was the only thing that stopped us. Things got pretty hot and heavy, and suffice to say, I'm even more determined now for Mac and I to have some time to ourselves.
Far, far away from any and all interruptions.
Every damn time we've been alone together we've been interrupted. The admiral, Sergei…we've also been at my apartment both times. Maybe we should try hers.
Hmm…should we plan a weekend maybe? Get away? Are we ready for that?
Arrgghh. Why does everything have to so difficult and complicated with us? You make simple things complicated a voice resonates in the back of my mind. She's right. What is so perplexing about going away for a weekend?
Are we ready for that though?
Mac means a lot to me. I don't want to mess things up with her just because my hormones are driving me along. Ugh. There is such a thing as over-thinking, Rabb, and I think you're delving into that sphere now. Just go with the flow. And besides, if you want to get from Point A to Point B, you have to put the car in drive, Rabb. And I want to get to Point B.
I'll just ask her what she wants to do this weekend. Maybe she has a few ideas. Maybe she wants to see a movie, or go to dinner, walk Jingo, or do her laundry or something.
Maybe she wants to carpool to Point B.
Gunny raps on my closed door and points to something towards the confer—
Crap. I'm late for staff call.
**********
There's a bounce in Harm's step and a brightness in his eyes that are privy only to a unique circumstance—being on board a carrier at sea, during war time. He's been all smiles since the admiral assigned us to the USS Seahawk--Harm's old duty station from long before I—or JAG—entered the picture. I love seeing him so happy and chatty, exuding the trademark confidence and charm of the highly skilled aviator he is, but there's a twinge of guilt and jealousy deep inside me. Jealousy, however rational or irrational it may be, for the happiness that is singly given from this one staple of Harm's life—flying—and guilt for feeling that way—and even worse, for feeling glad that, on this trip out at least, it's hardly likely Harm will be afforded the opportunity to pilot an F-14. I, of all people, know how much flying means to Harm, but after the terrifying events of last May—and given that things are finally starting to go right between us—the greater the distance between Harm and his beloved tomcat the better for my nerves.
It's selfish, but…
I just don't want to lose him to any more damn fighter jets. I just don't want to risk losing him period.
The Mic fiasco was a hard lesson to stomach—as was the Harm-lost-in-the-Atlantic fiasco. Both finally brought to light some truths I had desperately been trying to bury under every excuse known to man, ranging from "just friends" to "just a nervous, jittery bride". Things have improved a lot since my TAD assignment on the Guadalcanal. My self-worth and confidence have risen greatly; my sense of independence has also returned, as has a quiet pleasure in life and work. And the close, easy friendship I so missed sharing with Harm returned, albeit slowly at first, and has ultimately blossomed into something I scarcely allowed myself to dream of anymore.
Wow. That sounded a little Hallmark-y. Anyway, Harm is back in my life, and we're better than ever, but despite everything I have accomplished since that fateful May, Harm still remains my rock, and still remains the man I am in love with.
The big, bad, tough marine—the kickass jarhead—just doesn't think she could live without him.
I smile wistfully, staring out the helo at the vast ocean, my mind churning with wonder how Harm could survive that night in such a violent, black abyss, all to keep a promise he made to me.
A trite old saying flickers across my consciousness: If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it was and always will be yours. If it never returns, it was never yours to begin with.
Harm came back. To JAG. To me. Twice.
Both parable and revelation warm me more than anything. By that token, Harm is, and always will be, mine. I glance at Harm, who returns my look with an exuberant smile. He indicates we're just waiting for the clearance to land.
I smile warmly in response, thinking once again how the simple fact of being on an aircraft carrier—even if it's to give some law forum--produces such enthusiasm in Harm. He's in his element now.
And this time, I don't feel jealous, or guilty. Just happy for Harm.
And myself.
I've finally let go.
*********
I watch the F-14, wings spread, catapult off into the night. Another is quickly lined up, ready for the signal to launch. The night is cool and breezy, and the smell of jet fuel is prevalent in the noisy darkness. I watch another jet shoot off into the velvety blackness comprised of the air and sea and stifle a sigh.
I still miss it.
It's not that I want to chuck JAG and go back to sea duty—not that it's an option anyway. At 35, I was a skilled pilot, but even so, seven years of only carrier quals and reserve flight duty only allotted so much—and it was too late for me to make a career out of that dream. And I found out that, maybe, I had created a new dream with JAG. The CAG was right—I do love the challenge and the excitement it often presents. Not the same as doing mach two and pulling seven G's and dogfighting, but, still, it has its kicks.
And a kick-ass jarhead. I smile for a moment, thinking of my marine, before it gives way to my reflections.
It's that, even now at 38, older and wiser (I hope), I find myself itching for a piece of the action. Crazy hours, long missions--the adrenaline rush I find every time I sit in the pilot seat. Three long hours in the icy ocean didn't numb that.
I suppose it's something that will never go away.
But I've made my peace with it. I lean against the railing and watch another bird take-off. Even if I did land my six in the cockpit of an F-14, the ride would only be temporary, and the truth is, that's good enough for me. My service to my country no longer revolves around being an active-duty pilot, but on being a restricted line officer—a lawyer in the JAG corps.
"I knew I'd find you here," a voice interrupts me.
"How did you find me?" I ask, turning to face Mac.
She gives me a knowing look. "Where else would I find a former tomcat pilot?"
"In the cockpit of an F-14?" I offer, smiling.
She grins widely. "Not this trip." She sounds sympathetic, teasing, and joyful all at once.
"I can dream."
"Hmm." She smiles again, and looks out into the black night. I turn and stare with her, noticing another plane has lined up for take-off, before sneaking a glance at my partner. She looks deep in thought, but relaxed, as whatever it is that occupies her mind causes her no grief. I leave her to her thoughts, and just enjoy her company, glad she is with me and that things are so good between us.
I've been…considering…taking a more permanent step between us. I'm just not sure how such a move would be received right now. It's still pretty early in our new relationship, and even though I'm ready, she may not want to just jump into that. Maybe it's best if I don't rock the boat. Enjoy the here and now, Commander.
She pulls me away from my thoughts, and what she says about her time aboard the USS Guadalcanal amazes me.
"There was a time you hated it here," I remind her.
"Things change."
"Yes, they do," I concur. I drink in her warmth, her sunny, thoughtful expression and add, "I'm glad you're here." There is no one on this earth I would want to share this with than her.
I lock eyes with her before she averts her gaze, a shy smile gracing her features. I want to kiss her so bad, but I can't. Not here, anyway. I settle for watching her smile that brilliant, joyful, sweet smile. I can tell she's happy with my comment and that makes me happy.
Finally doing something right with that mouth of yours, Rabb.
*********
La, da, la, la, la, la.
I feel like singing.
I feel like dancing.
I feel like jumping up and down screaming and clapping and dancing and singing and spinning around so fast that I finally fall to the ground, dizzy but infinitesimally happy.
I love that man.
I, Sarah MacKenzie. Love. Harmon. Rabb. Jr.
I don't know how he does it. It's not "I love you" but it has to be close. That has to be the pilot-speak equivalent.
I bounce across my stateroom and flop on my bunk, managing to avoid clobbering my head on the upper bunk just in time.
My enjoyable experiences at sea--and particularly on carriers--have just grown exponentially.
I sigh blissfully and picture his handsome face, the honesty and tenderness evident as he tells me he's "Glad I'm here." I'd have given anything to kiss him then. I'd give anything to kiss him now.
I'd give anything to get him alone in my stateroom, for a few unaccounted and unnoticed hours.
Harmon Rabb. You never cease to amaze me. I'm so glad I told him how I felt—how things are different now. That I'm okay with certain aspects of his life that used to worry me.
I don't think I'll ever be able to fall asleep, the scene from the railing playing over and over in my head, but somehow I manage it, and of course, my dreams are filled with my tall, handsome aviator in his dress whites.