Disclaimers: don't own JAG—just borrowing characters, rather freely, I admit—especially from the past. Having a lot of fun doing it, too. Thanks, DSB. Also, new characters are introduced—which I do own. (They can be borrowed by anyone who likes them, though.)

A/N: Sorry about the mix up in the latest posting. One of these days, I'll get it "right". And my apologies for not posting sooner. This chapter took extra work AND houseguests take additional time (Memorial Day weekend/week).

A/N: Title of this chapter. For whatever reason, I've been "taken" with weather analogies. It is possible, although rare, for it to snow on the high plains in May, or even June. It is equally rare for tornadoes, even in the so-called "Tornado Alley", to strike in October—but, again, it does happen. More explanation will give the whole thing away.

Chapter 9—"Snowflakes in June/Tornados in October"

1200 Military Time (Noon Civilian Time)
HQ JAG Cafeteria
Falls Church, VA
The Monday after the party at the Roberts

Greg stood at the end of the cafeteria line, holding his tray, and looking around for a place to sit in the crowded cafeteria when he spotted the newcomers. He tried not to let his eyes pop out of place too much—the young officers were eye-catchers. He moved over to their table—they were talking up a storm and stood in front of them. They paused in their conversation and looked up at him. "Mind if I sit down?" They shook their heads and moved their personal items to make room for him. He sat down, shook out his napkin. "Name is Greg Vucovik. 'Vic' for short."

The female turned her head towards him and tilted it sideways in greeting. "Lieutenant Rebecca Fielding—but you can call me 'Bec'." She caught his eyes and he sucked in his breath. He felt like he could get lost forever in those sky-blue eyes. She waved a hand at her companion. "This is Lieutenant Christopher Shane". He turned his head and found himself staring into another pair of sky-blue eyes.

"So how long have you been at JAG?" He took a bit of the tuna casserole and made a face. How could the cafeteria spoil something so innocuous as tuna casserole? He wondered.

The almost-white blonde-haired female replied. "We got here over the weekend. We just met Captain Krennick and Commander Austin." She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess they're our mentors or something. The rest of the morning has been spent in paperwork and orientation." The young man facing her chuckled.

"Paperwork. We kill trees." They both snickered. Greg grinned.

"Where are you from, anyway?" He asked both—there was something of a twang and/or drawl in that accent of both that was hard to place. Rebecca grimaced.

"Kansas."

"The land of Oz."

"Chris, that joke is as old as the hills!" Rebecca tossed her wadded up napkin at Chris and he ducked.

"Well, it's true." He protested.

The younger lady sniffed. "I prefer 'drive-through' country." Greg was intrigued.

"Really? I've never heard the term."

The lady leaned over in his direction. "That's what they call country most people either fly over and/or drive through as quickly as possible to get to another destination."

Greg thoughtfully nodded. "That makes sense. Kansas. Who goes to Kansas?"

Both of his lunch companions nodded. "It's mostly 'who's from Kansas' that's relevant these days." The young man chewed thoughtfully on his sandwich.

"So, where in Kansas?" Greg was being conversational. He saw the grimace again appear on the lady's face.

"Kansas/Colorado border—a no-where town called Kanarado."

"Both of you?" Both of the blondes nodded. "Don't most people from that area go into the army or air force?"

A cheerful grin lit the face of the woman. "Yep. That's why we chose the Navy."

Greg chuckled. "Let me guess—you're a bit of a non-conformist." Chris chuckled.

"There's a bit more than that, actually. Both of us wanted to get as far away from the 'high, dry, and dusty great plains' as we could get." He shrugged his shoulders. "If we went into the Army or Air Force, there was always the chance we'd get stationed somewhere out there—like Ft. Riley, Kansas, or Fort Carson in Colorado Springs—and that's not that far away from home." He grinned, a lop-sided grin. "What are the odds of being stationed inland when you're in the Navy?"

Greg chewed on a bite of fruit cocktail—at least the cafeteria couldn't ruin canned fruit, yet. He nodded thoughtfully. "There is that—I don't think I've ever heard of a naval station on the high plains." He looked at both parties. "Are you related? You look so much alike. . ."

Chris grinned. "Cousins. Although, we did grow up together—we might have been siblings."

Greg saw the shiver go down the lady's backbone. "Yeah. You'd be surprised at how 'close' families are out there. Everybody knows everybody else—and/or related in some way to everybody—and their secrets. It was stifling."

"So—let me guess. You went into the service as a result of 9/11."

Chris sobered up. "Yeah, on my birthday, as a matter of fact. Just graduated from the University of Colorado law school three months before 9/11 and was trying to decide what area of law I wanted to go into when that happened. After that, there was no question as to serving—but it was a matter of which service." He shrugged again. "If you want to get away from home, there's nothing like the Navy."

"How 'bout you?" Greg turned to study the lady sitting next to him. She wasn't exactly "beautiful" in the classic sense—her jaw line was too strong, but she was striking. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back in a bun, but he could imagine what it would have looked like loose from the confines of the bun. She had long, narrow fingers and, he looked closer—freckles (!) marching across her face! They were faint, covered with lightly done makeup, but they were there. Suddenly, he was reminded of Commander Austin—except Commander Austin had more color to her. A quick check of Chris's face confirmed the presence of freckles marching across a long Roman nose, as well.

"I went to the University of Kansas Law School—but basically the same story." She cast a coy glance towards Greg—and he found himself captivated by the crystal-clear blue eyes. "Mom didn't care for my decision—but she didn't put her foot down, either." She shrugged. Chris brought them both back to reality. He glanced at his watch.

"Hey, Bec. If we're going to meet with our respective mentors, then we need to get going. I don't know if I even remember where their offices are."

Greg broke away from the gaze her ice-blue eyes had captured him in and felt an impulse to be helpful. "Who's assigned to whom?" He shrugged as he noticed Chris's sharp gaze. "I though I could tell you where their offices are. Just trying to be friendly, that's all."

"I'm assigned to Captain Krennick; she's assigned to Commander Austin."

He directed them to the appropriate offices as they got up and put their trays on the conveyor belt that would take the trays to the cafeteria kitchen. He couldn't help wondering just what Commander Roberts would make of these two newcomers with their striking, almost-albino-like looks.

He was in Commander Roberts' office going over a minor DOD case with him, trying to negotiate a plea bargain when he saw the two go by the open office door. Commander Roberts glanced at them and then came out with an expression that stuck. "Wow! Would you look at that? They almost look like snowflakes!" Within the JAG kingdom, the two from hereon out would be known as "the snowflake twins".

An hour later, the crowd gathered around the bulletin board attracted Greg's attention. He waded through the small crowd as tactfully but purposefully as he could to see what everyone was looking at. He stopped in front of a "news" clipping someone had taken from the Washington Post. He sucked in his breath as the impact of the news clipping hit him.

It contained a picture of the colonel—it must have been a formal portrait, maybe taken just for this occasion, because she was not wearing her uniform. Instead, the "heads and shoulders" picture showed only what looked to be like a beige linen-like jacket and what Greg assumed was a white silk blouse—complete with a feminine version of a tie. She was still wearing her hair in the military-style bun, but her eyes were the same as Greg remembered—luminous and glowing, as was the small, perky mouth that looked like it would promise mischief at any given moment..

The picture first caught one's attention—and then the headline/announcement. "Liaison between NATO and Congress appointed." Greg found himself riveted by the story.

"Sara C. McKenzie, formerly a judge advocate at Headquarters JAG, Washington, has been appointed by the President to fill a newly-created position as liaison between the NATO forces in Europe and the Congress. This new position will act as coordinator between Congress, specifically the House and Senate Armed Forces committees, the White House, and the military forces of NATO in Europe, especially in the requisitioning and disbursing of requested funding. This new position will be based in Belgium, at NATO Headquarters. Ms. MacKenzie, according to Congresswoman Bobbi Latham (D-Mi) and Senator DeLong (D-CA), is an excellent choice for this new position, because of the experience she gained while at JAG, Washington. She's had extensive experience in administration, having served as the JAG's Chief of Staff for a number of years, as well as field experience as both investigator and soldier. She is currently married to the Force Judge Advocate-Europe Captain Harmon Rabb Jr."

"Wow!" That was one of the newcomers, Bec, specifically. "What an opportunity!"

Greg lifted his eyebrows. "Why do you say that?" Bec gave him a reproachful glance. "Just think—interfacing with the Congress AND the White House, for starters." Greg was startled. The gleam in her eyes told him—something, but what?

"You like the idea of dealing with politicians?" There was some disbelief in his voice. The common viewpoint of politicians within the military was rather dour, matching the distain for politicians among the general public.

"Vic, think, would you!" There was an impatient jerk on her part. "I know a lot of people don't like politicians—think they're slippery as eels. Part of the reason for that misperception comes from the ethical tightrope politicians often find themselves in—in a critical vote, what do they do? Vote for how they think the majority of their constitutients think even if it goes against what they, personally, believe—or go with their own personal convictions and hope their voters, disagreeing with their positions, still respect their own stance and will reelect them?" Bec's eyebrows rose. "Most people don't realize Abraham Lincoln was the slickest politician of all of our presidents, with the possible exception of Franklin Roosevelt." She snorted. "'Honest Abe'? Are you kidding? He kept a promise only for as long as it would achieve his goals."

Greg's eyebrows knitted in thought. This was an aspect of history he hadn't heard. "And you know this how?"

"I was a history major in my undergraduate studies before going onto law school." With that, she walked away, leaving Greg lost in thought. He turned and inadvertently "walked" into her cousin, Chris. He experienced a flash of resentment at the much taller man. He must be as tall as Captain Rabb, he thought resentfully, as he backed off and offered apologies.

"Don't mind her," Chris shrugged, accepting Greg's apology in the spirit in which it was given. "History and politics are her passions." He warned his colleague. "If you ever have a chance to play Trivial Pursuit, choose her as a partner. She wins in categories history, literature, and philosophy. Very weak in math and science." There was that sunny grin again, the one that cheered everyone in the office, regardless of rank, with it's warmth and humor. He nodded towards the newspaper clipping. "A position like that is something I think Bec could really get wrapped around."

Greg snorted. "I have reason to believe that position was created just specifically for the colonel."

Chris's eyebrows rose in a question mark. "The colonel? 'Created position'?"

"Col—excuse me, Ms. MacKenzie used to work here—except she was a full 'bird' in the Marines Corps."

Chris turned back and leaned down to study the picture. "Wow! You'd never guess, would you?"

"She is a beautiful woman," Greg almost whispered. "Captain Rabb doesn't know how lucky he really is." He frowned and was thinking out loud. "I'm guessing that's part of the meetings that the Captain and the General were involved in a month or so ago."

Chris whistled. "That implied a lot of political clout coming from somewhere."

"Yeah. My impression is the colonel and the Captain have a lot of political muscle they can pull when need be." Greg felt an impulse. "Say, do you and/or Bec have anything going on this weekend?"

"No, why?"

"Want to do something, besides the usual 'housework' type of thing?" He shrugged. "I don't know if you've ever been to Washington before, but there are a lot of things to see and do."

Chris's eyebrows frowned in thought. "I don't know. I guess I'm free." He grinned that toothy grin, again reminding Greg of Captain Rabb's "flyboy" grin. "Better talk to Bec, though. She's the one who's really into a lot of this stuff."

"Okay. Will do." There was a pause. "Where are your offices/desks?"

Chris nodded. "We're both in the bullpen; however, I expect to be spending a lot of time with our mentors for the first week or so, just getting our hands on the ropes."

Greg nodded. He walked to his office, sat down, and made a note to talk to Bec before the day was over.

0900 Military Time (9:00 a.m. Civilian Time)
HQ JAG
Falls Church, VA
Four months later

After some months, Greg was starting to feel "settled" in his job and in his social life. "About time", he muttered to himself as he pulled his door shut behind him, tossing his cover on the credenza. His "Friday nights" had settled into an informal "get-together" with Captain Krennick for a couple of drinks after work, and his Saturdays were devoted to acquainting the "snowflake twins" with Washington D.C. He wasn't the only one who was feeling "settled" either—after the massive changes within, morale had sunk to a real low, with people of all types grumbling about every little thing. Now, however, people were starting to act a little happier—the greetings every morning had a "happy" chirp that had been missing for a while, and the office scuttlebutt had settled down to the normal "gossip". Therefore, it came as a complete shock when Bec stormed into his office, "spitting nails". She was very close to tears.

"Whoa!" Greg leaned back and put his hands in the air, as if to block whatever was coming his way. "What's going on?—and Good morning, to you, too, by the way."

She was pacing up and down the small space in front of his desk—hard to do since there wasn't much space to begin with. She tossed him a fierce glare.

"I just talked to Chris—or rather, tried to. He wouldn't even say 'hi'!" She threw her hands up in frustration, then abruptly stopped pacing. "Something happened—something over the weekend! He's not normally like this."

Greg leaned forward on his desk, absently picked up a pencil, and started fiddling with it. He kept his voice non-committal and even, steady. "Tell me about it."

She flopped down in her chair. "Actually, this has been coming on." She gave him what he would have called an "arched look." "He's slowly changed, becoming more withdrawn and non-communicative over the last couple of months—ever since coming to Washington!" She bit her lip, trying hard not to let the tears come. "He's never been like this before—ever." She looked at Greg, caught his eyes and held them. "Even when we were separated, like at school, he would email almost every day, we'd talk on the phone at least once a month—he would tell me about his girlfriends, about his schoolwork, about EVERYTHING! Now, he won't tell me a thing!" She wailed.

Greg asked, "How 'bout at home?" He was among the few to know they were sharing a two-bedroom apartment to cut down on expenses. Since they were "family"—albeit cousins, there was no question of impropriety or fraternization—especially since they were the same rank.

"Like I say, he's changed. He will come home and go to his room and shut the door. Or he's gone out and stays out for hours and then come home. He's just not talking."

Greg bit his lip. "Is it possible he's trying to separate himself from you emotionally?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. We were so excited when we found out we were both coming to JAG. We had such grand plans to visit all the 'tourist traps', the restraints—we were going to see and do everything there was to do here." Her head went down and Greg couldn't see her face. "That's all changed—and he won't talk to me about it!"

Greg leaned back in his chair, absently tapping the pencil against his teeth. He thought about it. During the previous two months, both of the "snowflake twins" had gone with him to the various sites he had taken them, starting with the Smithsonian Institution. Within two weeks of that, though, Bec had been the only one who had taken Greg's invitation to "play tourist guide" seriously enough. He remembered thinking at the time that was sort of unusual—but, in typical male fashion, had thought Chris absenting himself from their excursions was a way to encourage some sort of romance—a "third wheel", so to speak, being out of place. Greg had talked to Bec about the developing situation after the third "bow-out", and Bec had brushed Chris's absence off. "He'll come around." She had been so confident.

As far as Greg was concerned, the more he learned of Bec and her personality, the more he was convinced she would make a very good friend—but that was it. She was taller than he by a couple of inches which, in and of itself, put kind of a kibosh on any possible relationship between the two—silly, his rational mind scolded him, but nevertheless there. And he had remembered thinking, within two weeks of meeting Chris, Chris was the kind of man who could be everybody's friend, warm, friendly, non-judgmental—kind of a much-younger Commander Roberts—without the legendary clumsiness the older Commander Roberts no longer exhibited. Thinking more in detail, Greg discovered he missed that "campfire warmth" Chris had so willingly extended to him. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

Bec's hands were twisting a Kleenex she had brought in with her. Somewhere in Greg's mind, there was a little note of observation—that Kleenex wasn't going to survive much longer. He was startled at the tears in her eyes. "Yeah. Would you?" There was the beginning of a whine in her voice as she added, "Please?"

He nodded. "Sure." He glanced at her. "Do you think now is a good time?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Might as well try now. I'm certainly not getting through. He's holed up in Conference Room B in the law library." She warned him. "The door is locked and I can't get a response except for 'leave me alone'".

Greg frowned. This was indeed serious. If Chris wouldn't respond to a superior office, he could be in serious trouble at the start of his naval career. He got up and escorted Bec out of his office. "I'll go have a chat with him."

She brushed her hand with the now-tattered Kleenex against one eye, as if to prevent any more tears and nodded, as she made her way to her own desk in the bullpen. "Okay. Let me know what you find out, okay?"

He nodded as he started to make his way towards the Law library.

0930 Military Time (9:00 a.m. Civilian Time)

HQ JAG

Falls Church, VA

Two months later

Greg knocked at the door of the closed law library conference room. "Chris?" He paused, waiting for a response. "Are you in there?"

Much to his surprise, after 30 seconds, the door cracked open and Greg saw two blue eyes looking down at him. "Yeah. What do you want?" Greg was astonished at the roughness of the voice, almost as if the younger man had been crying and was struggling to regain his composure.

"Can I come in?"

There was another pause and then the door opened to admit Greg. Once Greg stepped through the door, it was closed, and Greg noted the quickness with which the door closed. He surveyed the taller and younger man and was shocked at what he saw. The military posture and dress code was still present—but barely. Chris's shoulders slumped, making the taller man look a couple of inches smaller. The hair was short, as required by military regs—but spikey, as in "rocker" style—but looked careless, not designed, as if it had been combed by fingers instead of a comb/brush. There were dark circles under those eyes, standing out in dark contrast to the pale complexion. The comparison was so stark, the freckles marching across that Roman nose was unnoticed. What shocked Greg was the way Chris's hands—both of them—were placed on the doorknob and was shaking violently. Chris walked away from the door and went to slouch in a chair parked in front of the table in the conference room. Greg went to sit down beside him, pulled out a companion chair, and sat to look at Chris.

"Bec tells me you're in trouble—but she doesn't' know why. Do you want to tell me?" Greg's voice oozed the compassion he felt towards his younger colleague.

Chris's hands were on the table and they were twisting themselves around each other, as if they had a life of their own and he, Chris, had no control over them. Greg thought Chris acted as though his life was spinning completely out of control and he had no idea of how to stop the spiraling.

With the typical abruptness Greg had learned to associate with the Midwesterners, Chris was blunt. "I'm being sexually harassed by—"and he stopped mid-sentence. Greg saw his eyes darting around the small room as if in panic. "A senior officer—and I don't know what to do to make it stop."

Greg stopped breathing in shock. Usually, sexual harassment charges were leveled against male officers by female officers—and since the Tailhook scandal of a few years ago, there had been very little of that kind of behavior coming to light. The Navy—and other military services—he vaguely remembered the Air Force Academy scandal that came out within the last couple of years—was in a period of transition from the "old" style and coming into a new management style, more in keeping with civilian practices and mores, but hadn't, apparently caught up with the general population yet. The Marine Corps actually was much better than the other services at that sort of thing—did the colonel have an instinct about that when she first signed up those many years ago? Greg shook his head. He had to keep his head clear for his friend—couldn't allow himself those kinds of thoughts if he were to help Chris.

"Is there any possibility you might be misinterpreting what's happening?"

Chris's eyes teared up again and he tossed a somewhat angry glance towards Greg. "Blame the victim, is that what that's about?"

Talk about defensive! From what little Greg knew about the effects of sexual harassment, that defensiveness fit the behavioral symptoms of someone undergoing that kind of workplace/home torture. Chris shook himself, got up from his chair, and started pacing up and down the small room. "I've thought about that, from every which way and angle—and perspective." Greg was reminded he was talking to an undergrad philosophy major who had gone onto law school. With the kind of understanding of perspective Chris possessed, if he said he was being sexually harassed, then there was no doubt—although Greg wondered if that kind of intuitive evidence could stand up in court. There was the promise of that warm grin that had so captivated everyone in JAG who had come into contact with the male half of the "snowflake twins"—but it was a promise that died before it could come into it's own. He shook his head. "It's sexual harassment."

Greg thought carefully before asking his next question. "Is there any way you can avoid this senior officer?"

Chris shook his head, the tears coming freely out of his eyes and marching their not-so-merry way down the fair-skinned cheeks. "She's my mentor."

Greg was literally knocked back in his chair by the revelation. He tried to remember to breath, literally. After a minute or two, he leaned forward. "How long has this been going on?"

Chris's voice was rough and ragged, as if he were trying to keep from crying. Greg's heart swelled in compassion, although he was mystified as to why Captain Krennick was the target of the charges. "Since the first week I was assigned to her. I really did think, at first, it was just mild 'flirting'—you know what I mean." Chris's eyes sought Greg's for understanding. Greg just nodded—he did that sort of thing all the time with all the females—including Bec—in the office. It was harmless fun and everybody took it that way. That kind of light flirting, as long as it didn't get out of hand, was fun and lightened everybody's workday. "But it got more intense and more serious as time went by."

"So what happened over the weekend?"

Chris sucked his breath in. "It was what happened this morning."

Greg's mind was spinning. It had been 9:00 when Bec had stormed into his office, so it had to have been early. It's funny—he hadn't paid any attention to who's car was parked in the JAG parking lot when he came in—and neither had he paid any attention as to whom came in early—it was all he could do to get to work on time, let alone worry about anybody else. So, whatever happened, had to have happened between 8:00 and 9:00. He leaned forward and rephrased his question. "So what happened this morning?"

Chris glanced at Greg. "She tried to assault me in her office."

It was one shock after another. Greg found it hard to breath again. When he finally let his breath out again, he whispered. "That's a definite career-buster!"

There was that half-smile on Chris's face. "Yeah—not to mention a crime." His hands went to his head and the long fingers ran through that white-blonde hair. "It's basically her word against mine—and who do you think people are going to believe?"

Greg thought about that. It was a lose-lose situation. If Chris were to bring charges against a senior officer without definite proof, especially an office two pay-grades above him, it would like suspicious—like he was the aggressor, not her—especially since he was male. If Chris continued being her mentee, he would be destroyed, even if the problem were only one of perception—it was what he thought was happening that was tearing him down. Greg sighed.

"One way of dealing with it would be to seek a change in mentor/mentee assignments." He cautiously said.

There was a flick of anger marching across Chris's face. "Don't you think I've thought of that? I asked the General a month ago—and there isn't another mentor available."

Wow. Greg slumped in his own chair. Then he looked at Chris. "I'll talk to my own mentor—see if we can get you out of this 'spot' you find yourself in."

There was a jerky pause on Chris's part. He looked at Greg. "Don't mention names—please. You know how the bullpen is with gossip." He looked down at his hands which had stopped twisting and then back up at Greg. "I'm surprised at how much better it feels just knowing someone else knows about it."

Which raised a question in Greg's mind. "Why didn't you tell Bec what was going on?" His voice turned gentle. "You know she's been worried about you."

"Because she's a female. Because I didn't want her to think less of Captain Krennick—role models, you know?" Chris's eyebrows rose and he glanced at Greg to see if he understood.

Greg certainly did. Most men who went into the military had a strong protective streak that came out in miscellaneous and odd little ways—and that was part of the problem with the transition period. He knew, from his close female associations, that protective streak drove women wild with frustration—and this situation was a good case in point.

He stood up, glanced at his watch. The whole conversation had taken place within a ten-minute time span, much to his surprise. He felt like it had gone on forever. He laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Come on. We both have to work to do. I'll talk to Commander Roberts about a 'hypothetical situation' and find out what options we—you have," Greg corrected himself. Emotionally, he really could not believe Captain Krennick could be guilty of this—he had found her cynical and wry attitude about life in general strangely appealing and funny—and couldn't believe she was capable of doing this. He really didn't want to associate himself too closely with Chris in this situation, especially since his ambition was every bit as active as the first day he joined JAG, and no matter what happened, anyone associated with this as-yet-unreported case could be hurt. But he had developed a real fondness for the "snowflake twins"—both of them, and it tore him up inside to see Chris looking—and feeling—so miserable. He missed the gentle warmth and accepting humor behind the smile. In short, Greg was internally conflicted. His face wore a worried frown as he made his way to Commander Roberts' office.