Three weeks later
Harmon Rabb reluctantly opened his eyes when the alarm clock went off. Of all the things he loved about serving his country, the early hours were not one of them. And the confines of the narrow U.S.S. Patrick Henry bunk bed were less and less forgiving to his back these days. At least this early morning meant he would be in the air soon. With each passing year, he wondered whether or not the next quals would be his last. Yet this time he felt calm about that possibility and surprisingly with little regret. The past fifteen months have changed him more than all of the previous years. Just when he thought his life would finally take shape of a routine and that all of the great twists and turns of fate were done with him, along came the gruesome death of Loren Singer and from there everything went... well... to shit.
He didn't like to be reminded of Paraguay and the crushing sense of loss mixed with anger that fueled him in the months that followed. His stint with the CIA, disturbing as it turned out to be, actually helped him channel most of the rage out of his system. By the time he found Mattie he calmed down, even if the bitterness remained. And the void in the shape of a Marine was always there in the back of his mind and in the aching of his soul.
Sometimes he still wondered how it all happened and realized he did not have the answer. He remembered throwing his career and contempt into Chegwidden's face the second the Admiral forbid him to fly to Mac's rescue. The agonizing hours on the plane and later wracking his brain about how to find her. The adrenaline rush as he sprinted into that shack they had taken her to, leaving men dead in his wake. And then finally her, eyes wide with terror and surprise, breaths short and shallow, mere seconds from being tortured. In spite of all the pain, he went through he never regretted his actions, because it meant she was spared, she was saved. But as it turned out she was not saved for him exclusively and before long she was kissing another man and told him that things would never work out between them. That was where all the anger and bitterness began. And lasted for months.
He wasn't angry anymore, but he also had no idea what his relationship with Mac was now. The word "friend" did not describe it, instead, it provided somewhat sarcastic undertones. They talked. They worked together. They met when mutual friends invited both of them to dinner or a family gathering. But he rarely ventured to knock on her door and if he did, it was always work-related. Her presence in his loft became so sparse he sometimes wondered if he had imagined her there. Everything about their situation made him frustrated and hurt. It was not just the image of Clayton Webb's grabby hands on her skin that made him ache though. It was the fact he no longer knew which ice-cream flavour was currently her favourite. The fact he couldn't tease her about the latest hot romance book she was reading. Or even the fact he didn't know if she was even reading those anymore. He missed rolling her eyes when he talked about his Corvette, he missed her rugged breathing behind him as they ran through the park together at weekends. Always behind him, never managing to overtake him but also never giving up. He missed the feel of her uniform under his fingers, when his hand would automatically, though not really unconsciously, press into her lower back whenever they were leaving a room at the same time. He missed her. Not seeing her for almost three months was causing a constant, dull ache in deep inside his soul. He had a feeling something was not right. More and more increasingly so. But her e-mails were still saying she was fine and there had been no phone calls. He wanted to be there for her. Especially now, when he realized that the past year was not hard on him alone. But there was only as much as he could do stuck in the middle of the Pacific.
Harm shook his head. He needed to have a clear mind and focus today. His three-months long TAD to the carrier had been stressful both in tasks, he had to perform and him missing his friends (very early on he found out that his rank and age created an impenetrable wall between him and all the new kids, and resigned himself to long and lonely evenings in his stateroom). Fortunately, it also coincided with his quals and he was looking forward to them. So no more soul-searching right now. Experience in the cockpit only counted if it was combined with vigilance and attention. He could brood over could-have-beens and deeper regrets again once his feet were back on the solid ground. Or in this case the flight deck. He threw away the blanket and got up, ready to quickly wash his face and start the day, for once forbidding himself from looking at the old and almost faded photograph of Sarah Mackenzie that had been living in his breast-pockets and books for years now.
Hours later and still in his flight suit, he sagged onto his bunk again, tired and happy. It was a peculiar combination, one he had always associated with work well done. And intoxicating feeling, really, when his body reached its limit but his mind confirmed what he was capable of. He still had it. The young jet jocks wanted to laugh at him (as usual), but ate their words later (as usual). That too was an added bonus.
"You can still beat their asses, Hammer," he said aloud, allowing himself a moment of pride.
He had barely managed to change into his uniform when there was a knock on his door.
"I apologize, sir," Legalman Peter Stoud said upon being granted entry. "I know you must be exhausted, but I thought you should know and you should know as soon as possible."
Harm's eyebrows rose questioningly.
"Yes?"
"An officer arrived on board while you were in the air. A JAG officer."
"Why? Did something happen? I wasn't up there for long enough to miss anything that would require additional JAG."
"I don't know, sir. But Lt. Commander Hartley tasked me with fetching you at the first opportunity available. Are you available, sir?"
Harm frowned. His first impulse was to say no. He was never the one to pull rank, but he did not like the thought of being summoned by a Junior Officer as if he were a misbehaving midshipman. Then again his young Legalman may have simply worded the request wrong.
"Lead the way," he sighed after a moment of contemplating, following Stoud into the labyrinth of corridors, all the way to the office. The whole time he tried, in vain, to recall the name Hartley. He had no knowledge of any JAG officer of that name.
"What did you say was this Hartley's first name, Petty Officer?" Harm asked, still hoping to kick start his memory and perhaps dole up a face in his mind.
"I didn't, sir."
"Could you tell me now?" Harm pressed on, somewhat annoyed with the witless young man. "Or is it too terrible to mention? Humprey? Humbert? Clayton?"
"Clayton is a nice name, sir."
"Shut up, petty officer. When I tell you a name is hideous, you are not allowed another opinion."
"Yes, sir."
"So? What's his name?"
"Megan," Stoud finally answered, just at he opened the designated door and Harm's gaze met a face he had not seen in almost nine years.
