Chapter 12 – Tour de Vance

At 10 a.m. on a beautiful, clear morning, dozens of NCIS employees gathered in front of the HQ building; each holding onto a bicycle or standing close by one (with one person on a unicycle and two people on a tandem bicycle). Most were owned by their riders; NCIS had also arranged for a discount on weeklong rentals at a local bike shop for employees who didn't currently own a bicycle. Happy chatter filled the air, and people who worked in the Navy Yard for employers other than NCIS walked by with curious glances. This was the big day; the day of the Tour de Vance bicycle race and picnic.

The course had been laid out by Vance himself, who was all too familiar with the routes available from the Yard to Alexandria. Oronoco Bay Park in Alexandria was just over ten miles away by this route; the trip should take about an hour.

Vance, his bike parked near the rest, surveyed his people serenely. He was aware of the sight that he made—wearing an old Marines t-shirt and shorts (an outfit which was, no doubt, startling to people who'd never seen their boss in anything other than a crisp suit) —but he ignored that. He hoped to have just as much fun as they did. Part of being a boss was in showing the rank-and-file sometimes that you really were just like them.

Gibbs and his team hovered at one edge of the crowd. Gibbs had asked that the team be instead on protection detail at the park, and had expected that that was what they would get. He'd been surprised when Vance had turned down the request. "I'd rather have you four pedaling with the group. You've had a hard start to the year; you've earned it."

"Cycling? Us?"

"If you think you're up for it," Vance had said with a half-smile that might have been a tease.

"We can do it," Gibbs had said, firmly.

"Good," Vance had said, nodding, and knowing that as soon as Gibbs left his office, the agent would be questioning his team to see if they could manage bikes…and would do practice drills with them if they didn't.

Now, however, all four of the MCRT looked fit and capable. Tony balanced his bike with practiced ease as he chatted with some people; Ziva poked at her hair to keep her helmet in place, and Tim, at the far edge of the group, turned lazy figure eights on his bike.

The riders were of a wide spread of ages, although, perhaps inevitably, skewed a bit toward the younger ones. There was a fair turnout from the non-agent employees, as well. Abby Sciuto, all in black, had a sleek black bicycle. Jimmy Palmer was also there. Ducky would be on duty at the park, tending to any minor injuries there, while Jimmy would try to stay toward the middle of the bike pack, on alert for any problems along the route. Leslie, somewhat to Vance's surprise, also turned out for the race, wearing a CSI t-shirt and a Nationals baseball cap. Vance hadn't pegged Leslie as being one much for sports, but then he did practice on the firing range, so perhaps he was one of those people with depths. Layers. Whatever the current catchword was.

A shrill whistle sounded. That came from Monny Ingalls, the woman who was in charge of the race itself. "Ten minute warning, people! Make your pit stops now; we won't wait for you. Be sure you have your racing number affixed to your back and take a water bottle with you if you want one. Be sure you have a copy of the course map. Do not deviate from the course. You must check in at the two checkpoints along the way; failure to do so will disqualify you from the race. You will also be able to get water there if you need to. Is that clear?"

"Yes, drill sergeant!" most of the participants barked back, and Vance remembered now, with a smile, that Ingalls had been in the Marines. Well, it made her a good race commander.

The race launched from the Hull gate on M Street. From there, it was left onto M, and then jogged hither and thither before heading north on 4th Street SW to pick up a trail along Jefferson Drive SW. The park greenery was pleasant, and the shade of the trees welcome in the ever-warming sunshine.

The first check stop was here in the Washington Mall parkland, just short of the Washington Monument. Tables were set up, manned by three cheerful employees who sat in the shade of large umbrellas. Names were taken, race numbers and times recorded, and hands were stamped. Many cups of water were consumed.

Vance was riding toward the center of the pack, not at all concerned about winning the race. He also knew that, from a security standpoint, it was not wise for him to be out in front, anyway. The MCRT was not far from him. Sharp-eyed Gibbs was a bit in front, Tony and Tim were close on either side (one a little in front and the other a little behind), and Ziva watched the rear from a couple lengths back.

By the time that Vance reached this first checkpoint, the stream of cyclists had already started to lengthen as the fitter ones kept up a fast pace and the more occasional riders started to lag. Gulping down some water after checking in, Vance couldn't see Jimmy Palmer in the group, and figured he was holding himself back in case someone had trouble. Good man.

"What; no cookies?" Vance asked the desk employees with a wink.

"Every calorie slows you down, Director," one said back to him, smiling.

"Now, Helen; we've had this discussion before," said another one of the staffers. "Broken cookies have no calories. The calories fall out when the cookie breaks."

"So, do you have any broken cookies?" Vance played along.

"Not any more. Sad."

"Sad, indeed. I'll tell my wife that about broken cookies. She'll be glad to hear that." With a laugh, Vance got back on his bike and pedaled off.

From the Washington Monument, the route turned south, going down 15th Street SW, then along the western side of the Tidal Basin, onto Ohio Drive SW past the Jefferson Memorial. The 14th Street Bridge took them across the Potomac River, and then they were in Virginia. Next was a lovely trail ride along the bank of the river, and then a long trek along the boundary of Ronald Reagan airport.

Past the airport was the second checkpoint. By now just about everyone partook of water; some, like Tony, taking some to pour over their heads. The day had become hotter than most would have liked. "Not too much farther now," said one of the table staffers, sympathetically.

Vance gazed out across the river at Bolling Air Force Base as he phoned the first checkpoint. "Has everyone checked in?"

"We've just processing the last two, Director."

"Okay. You can close down and head for the picnic grounds."

"Roger that. From the comfort of my Honda Civic. No cycling for me!" she laughed.

"Whatever floats your boat," Vance said agreeably. "You've missed out on a delightful ride, though."

"Next year, maybe…"

Vance then called the leader of the secret detail of agents, five of them, who were stationed at strategic points along the route, and informed them of the progress. Most of the cyclists had no idea of these extra sets of eyes; there was no need to alarm the unassuming accountants and lawyers and file clerks and other mundanes who made up a fair share of the race. Maybe the extra agents were overkill, but Vance felt more secure having them there. It wasn't his personal safety that he cared about, but should any of NCIS' enemies grab an opportunity to lash out, Vance didn't want innocents in harm's way.

When the race instructions had been issued, Vance had had Leslie put in them a request for no clothing identifying participants with NCIS. You might as well paint a target on your back, he'd thought, though hadn't said it aloud. Or your neighbor's back. It was a trade-off, he knew. This was to be a fun day, a day of camaraderie. Of course the natural instinct was to show the NCIS colors. Probably most of the employees owned some NCIS gear; whether it was a t-shirt, sweatshirt, or warm-up pants. The agency was not large enough to support a wide range of styles, but it did change them every few years, simply because the demand was there. But wearing NCIS t-shirts out here, in the open, in a flock—anyone with a small amount of security training could see that that was a mistake.

"Director—" Leslie came up to him. "It's 11 o'clock. Should I call ahead to the park and tell them where we are?"

"Good idea. See to it." He watched as Leslie tried to work his cell phone while pushing off on his bike; narrowly missing the unicyclist. Vance grinned as his secretary gave up and stopped the bike to make the phone call.

"Agent DiNozzo." Vance beckoned the agent over. "How's your biking going?"

"Fine, sir. I love cycling. Good exercise."

"You want to win the race?"

"I wouldn't mind trying, sir, but—"

"Go for it. I'll be fine for this last leg. Agent David, you want to try to beat him?"

"With pleasure, Director." Ziva's eyes sparkled.

"Get going." Vance saw the two agents leap into the air and then run for their bikes.

"You two don't mind?" Vance asked Gibbs and Tim.

"They'd beat me anyway," Tim shrugged.

"I'm not here to race," Gibbs agreed. He motioned to Tim to take the lead while he himself would trail Vance.

The final third of the race would appear to be easy. The bike trail followed the Potomac River going south. No doubt the non-cyclists and families would have the grills going and the sodas and water chilled. Jackie had made sure that the rental firm got the yellow and white-striped tent up over the food area—as she had already phoned Vance to say. He was happy to leave that detail in his wife's capable hands. There were no telltale shrieks in the background when Vance called, but as long as he didn't have to fish the offspring out of the river, he was content.

Gibbs drew up next to him and motioned him over, while calling out, "McGee!" They let people pass by them.

"Palmer just phoned me," Gibbs said. "Louise Schell from Cybercrimes was sideswiped by a car. Palmer says she was knocked over, but fortunately just got scrapes and bruises."

"Dang. I thought things were going too well."

"It's bound to happen, with a group as large as this. Anyway, I phoned Parkins and asked him to have his agent closest to her put her in his car and drive her to the park."

Vance raised his brows. "So you figured out my little back-up troupe of agents watching the cyclists?"

"Wasn't born yesterday, Leon."

Once again Vance thought, Palmer's a good man. How do I tell him that?

Vance, Gibbs and Tim got back on the trail and arrived at the park about 15 minutes later. The park was pleasant and a lovely sight for some now-rubbery legs. "Where would you like us to be now, Leon?" asked Gibbs.

"At one of the picnic tables. Eat. You've done your share for now. I have other people on the perimeters." Vance had other priorities right now, such as getting a hug and a kiss from Jackie. With luck she wouldn't tell him that he was all stinky and he could kiss her after having a shower. And they say that females are the romantic gender.

A small child, a year or two younger than his Lily, came up to him and hugged his knees. "Mister? Are you the man who let us have a picnic?"

Vance crouched down to her level. "Well, yes, dear, I suppose I am, Although a lot of people worked on it."

"You're so nice, mister. Mommy has always said she's too busy to take me to a picnic, but she said we could come today. Thank you!"

"You're welcome," Vance said, smiling, and wondering which of his employees was her mother.

"Yeah! Mommy says she works for a really mean old man who cracks a whip over her and she has to work really hard and is always tired, and—"

"Ashleigh!" came an anguished cry, and the child's red-faced mother ran up and darted off with the child.

Pursing his lips, Vance slowly got up, hoping no one had witnessed the exchange. But no, there was Jackie, trying to hold in her laughter, and Leslie, beside her, about to choke on his own.

"From the mouths of babes," Jackie finally said.

"Leslie," Vance said stiffly, "do we have a whip in stock at HQ?"

"No, sir, but I can order one for you."

"Do so. And have it mounted on one of my walls."

"Consider it done, sir."

As the last of the cyclists trickled in, the lunch was declared open. There was so much food—meats, veggies, fruit, breads, salads, desserts—that one hardly knew where to begin. Adults ate and chatted; kids ate a little and then, yelling, ran off to play.

After the sacrificial slicing of several watermelons, Race Coordinator Monny Ingalls announced the winners. Gibbs, sitting with the Vances, looked particularly pleased when it was announced that Ziva had come in second. Tony was fourth, although ribbons were only given to the top three finishers. He didn't look too put out, Vance noticed.

Even some of the adults got up games to work off the calories. There was a softball game and a soccer game, and several people went for walks along the river. Some just stretched out in lawn chairs and snoozed in the shade.

At 5 o'clock, they cleaned up the site and packed up the things. The rental agency came by and picked up their tent. About half of the cyclists got back on their saddles to ride back to the Navy Yard; the other half took advantage of car rides home with their families or train rides at the nearby Metro stop.

"A marvelous day, Director," said Ducky, suddenly beside Vance. "I've heard nothing but good words from people all day about your picnic."

"Thank you. Any injuries or illnesses requiring your attention?"

"Just Louise Schell. A few plastic bandages and some aspirin, and she was fine. Her husband took her home a little while ago…something on your mind, Director?"

"No, nothing," Vance said, blocking what he really wanted to say. Ducky is not the right person to ask about Palmer. "Thank you for your help."

Vance gathered his wife and children and had one of the bodyguards drive them all home.

Saturday, June 12