Chapter 4

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It took too long, in Gibbs' estimation.

While Ziva and Tony cordoned off the storage hall to keep the ever-growing and curious crowd away, Gibbs stood in uneasy company with his thoughts. It took too long to locate hazmat suits in the Academy ("We're sure we have them somewhere, sir, it's just a matter of…") Too long, once they were found, to suit up (Gibbs and a medic) and then to reopen the storage hall's door and get in. Too long to maneuver in the bulky suits down to where Tim sat, soberly, on a crate, and get him to put the third suit on (after the medic had checked his vital signs) and then guide him outside past the now-hushed crowd.

Too long a wait for a car to be put at their hazmat-suited disposal (Gibbs didn't want anyone else exposed) so they could drive to the helipad. And then too long a wait for a medivac helicopter to become available and land there. The Academy urged Gibbs to let them put one of their own choppers and pilots at his disposal. He said no; they'd wait for the medivac. He wanted aid handy…in case they needed it.

The Chief grumbled about having to go along in the short flight to Bethesda. He didn't like helicopters. It wasn't like he or Gibbs had a choice; they, too, would have to undergo decontamination at the hospital…once it was determined what the gas was. Gibbs had tasked Tony and Ziva with having to carefully get the shells (now packed in lead containers) to Abby at NCIS. She would have the answer faster than Bethesda's lab.

He checked his watch as the chopper lifted off. Just over two hours since Tim's exposure to the gas. Too damn long. Too damn long. At least Tim didn't seem to be suffering, not yet, which was a good sign. Gibbs racked his mind, reaching for what he knew of WWI-era gases. It wasn't much. Some gases, he thought, were deadly almost immediately. Others took time. All could have horrible effects (why else would they have been used?).

The chopper touched down on Bethesda Hospital's helipad, and medical corpsmen in their own Hazmat suits met them and escorted them through a special entrance to the decontamination lab. "How're you doing, McGee?" Gibbs asked his man, who'd been silent during the flight.

"I'm okay," Tim said back. "Just a little itchy."

Gibbs put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure this is nothing. We'll be back at NCIS in no time."

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For once, Tony didn't object when Ziva said she wanted to drive the truck back to NCIS. He knew she could go faster than he could dare to drive, and most likely get them back in one piece. Tony knew he could put up with a little temporary anxiety to get an answer for Tim's affliction.

His phone rang. Abby. "Why aren't you here yet?"

"Ziva stopped for a red light."

"Tell her not to do that."

"Tell Abby we are almost there," said Ziva, swerving around slower cars.

"You've been cleared to drive right into the Evidence Garage. Hurry, guys!"

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Gibbs paced in the small outer lobby to the decontamination wing. He didn't fool himself in thinking that he and the Chief were home free just because they were had no symptoms so far, nor because there were magazines to read and a water fountain. This was not a waiting room, not a prelude to a picnic. Their clothes had been taken from them and would probably be destroyed. He and the Chief wore borrowed scrubs. The identification of the gas would determine their treatment for their slight exposure, as well as Tim's.

His phone rang. (Thankfully, it had been one of the few items of his that so far had been lightly cleansed and returned to him in a flexible plastic case, and was working.) Abby. "What'cha got, Abbs?"

"It's nasty stuff, Gibbs, but at least it's not one of the fast-acting gases. It's a sulfur. Mustard gas, the type known as HD."

"What does that mean for McGee?"

"I'm not a doctor, Gibbs, but…hold on; Ducky wants to speak to you."

"Jethro, I don't have any experience in dealing with mustard gas, but I do know that the effects depend a lot on how much exposure Timothy got. It could be minor effects, or…well, I expect the doctors there will be better equipped to answer your questions."

"Yeah. Thanks, Duck."

"Let Abby speak with the treating physician. They can speak chemistry to each other."

Geek to geek. "All right; I'll get him."

"Wait, Gibbs. Before you put the doctor on—how is Tim doing? Tell me truthfully."

"Truthfully, I don't know, Abbs. They've got him in a treatment room. I'm still in decontamination. All I know is, by the time we got in here, he was complaining of itches and sore eyes, and he had a cough."

"Gibbs, that's…not good. Usually people don't develop symptoms of mustard gas burns until about 24 hours from exposure, unless…it's a high exposure, or their skin is sensitive, like, like, Tim's is, or…"

"He'll be okay, Abby. Don't scare yourself," Gibbs said gruffly. "Let me give you the doctor."

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With the gas known, it was a simple, almost routine-seeming, measure to treat Gibbs and the Chief. They were sent to shower…long, long showers. When at last they were feeling prune-like, they were allowed to come out of the showers and change into fresh scrubs. Then, after quick check-ups with no symptoms, they were told they could go, with instructions to seek medical help immediately if symptoms developed.

Gibbs had no intention of leaving, however. He waved farewell to the Chief, who drove off with his wife, and he then went to the Decontamination wing's proper waiting room. Tony had phoned to say that he was on his way with Ziva, Abby and Ducky.

When they arrived, Abby rushed forward to give Gibbs a hug. "You're all decontammed, Gibbs?"

"I'm fine, Abbs. Minimal exposure."

"Green's not exactly your color, boss," Tony gibed, indicating the scrubs.

"No grey ones in your size, Jethro?" Ducky added until Gibbs stopped glaring and smiled slightly. It was a tense situation, they all realized. No one wanted to say what they really feared.

Soon a doctor came out and talked to them. "Hi, I'm Stella Crane. You've brought us an interesting case! I haven't seen HD burns since a stint I did in Africa on a World Health Organization study mission."

"How is McGee?" asked Ziva. "Can we see him?"

"Not for awhile yet. He's still in treatment and hasn't been settled in a room."

"What is the treatment?"

"First, once we knew what we were dealing with, we started neutralizing the exposure. Unfortunately, that's problematic since the delay in identifying the chemical meant we couldn't do anything at the start."

"There's an antidote, surely…" said Tony.

"I wish. We can only treat the burns as burns."

"He has…burns?"

"Second-degree burns, just starting to develop. Mustard gas, whether in solid, liquid, or gaseous form, is thorough. It seeps through clothing and of course has an impact on bare skin. It can also affect the eyes and the breathing system. It all depends on the amount of exposure.

"It's fortunate that the chemical wasn't phosgene or chlorine. Often soldiers in the First World War encountering HD had enough time to put some distance between it and themselves so that it just threw off their ability to fight in their assigned positions."

"McGee was trapped in the storage hall with it for 20-30 minutes," said Gibbs. Abby squeezed Tony's and Ziva's hands for comfort.

The doctor had a fleeting grimace, and then forced back an unconvincing smile. "We're doing everything we can," she said. "Normally, HD exposure isn't fatal."

"Tim McGee is an above-normal person," said Ziva. "I hope that matters for something here."

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It was many hours before they could see Tim, and even then, it was only for a brief time. They had to wear face masks to prevent giving him an infection should his blisters open.

He looked terrible, covered in gauze as he was, with an IV line in place. "I've felt better," he said, with a short laugh that led to a bout of coughing. When he couldn't stop, the nurse came in and bade them all come visit him another day.

They returned in the evening of the next day. Ducky looked grim as they walked into the hospital. "Understand that these early days can be hardest," he said, simply.

Tim was, indeed, in worse shape. More of his face was padded in gauze, and he had a tube down his throat to aid in breathing. His eyes were reddened, and he said his vision was a little blurry. But he laughed about being happy on his painkillers, and he thanked them, sincerely, for coming.

The next day he couldn't see visitors. Tim had gone blind.

"Don't be too alarmed," Ducky had said to his shocked friends after getting the news from the hospital in his daily pre-visit phone call. "It's not unexpected in mustard gas burn cases. In most cases, the vision returns."

"Ducky, I can do without the 'little optimist' act," Tony snapped. "I'm trying, but I really can't see the silver lining in this. Oh, wait—McGee can't see it either, because he's gone blind!"

"Really, Tony—"

Gibbs headslapped Tony. "Stop it. You're not helping, either."

Ducky began again, his face flushed with the anger he felt. "Yes, Tony; Timothy is lucky, in a fashion. The burn surface area of his body totals only 25%...that's only borderline critical. It could have been so much worse, given what he went through. It's a miracle it wasn't worse. He's getting excellent treatment, he went in in good health, and his spirits are good. He's a fighter. Now, of course I can't predict his outcome…but I think there's good reason for optimism."

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"Get out there and find the guy that did this!" Gibbs ordered Ziva and Tony. It was better than having them underfoot and restless in the squad room; which was marginally better than having them sit with Tim in the hospital while his burns deepened. All too often they were shooed out of his room so Tim could be tended to by the doctors. There were even periods when his pain was so great that a light coma was induced. Normally, reactions to HD weren't this bad, but…

Tim's teammates set on the case with vigor, running down leads, pushing Abby to find something on the shells (as if she needed pushing), doing everything they could think of. Within a week they had suspects in custody; two disgruntled midshipmen, on the verge of washing out. Interrogation was not gentle, but nonetheless letter-perfect. Nothing was to go wrong with this case. With satisfaction, they turned the matter over to JAG.

"Now it's up to you, Timmy," Abby said to the picture of him on one of her monitors. "You've gotta come through for us."