A/N:- As before, many thanks to the wonderful Malia Amane for beta reading this, and pointing out how much I suck at grammar. And wow, apparently spelling too, since Word just told me I spelt "grammar" wrong the first time. Hey, I just did it again. Okay, okay, I'm getting off track here a little. In this chapter, I took a few liberties, mainly with the way information is obtained from a C-2 Greyhound, and to be honest, finding what rank of pilot would fly a certain plane is tricky too. So if I'm wrong, bear in mind that it's not that I didn't do my best, I just didn't care. It's not really all that important to the plot, beyond moving it forward.
Disclaimer:- I am Shane Brennan and I do own NCIS Los Angeles. Whoops, did that bad spelling thing again; that should say "am not" and "do not."

1st Lieutenant James McDonald was a tall, stalk-like youth, with a light dusting of yellow hair, cropped tight above angular features and bright blue eyes that probably looked better suited to a fashion catalogue than a marine uniform. His file said that he was 25, born and raised in Seattle, where he'd signed up for the Corps' OCS on his eighteenth birthday. He had a sharp mind, and a keen intellect, into the top percentile, which was why he had been granted operational oversight of whatever Operation Broken Swallow was.

McDonald rose from the chair, his entire frame rigid, as Sam and Callen made their way into the main room of the boatshed. They shook hands, introducing themselves, before offering the Lieutenant a seat.

"I'm anxious to provide any assistance to NCIS I can," McDonald began, resting his hands – fingers clasped together – on the table before him.

Callen nodded, as he took a seat opposite the marine. "Well, why don't you start by telling us everything you know about Broken Swallow."

McDonald glanced between the two agents before him. "I'm afraid I am unable to comply with that request," he said. "You do not have the necessary clearance for me to inform you of the specifics."

"How about the not-specifics?" Callen said. McDonald shook his head.

"Look," said Sam, leaning forward in his chair slightly. "The more you tell us, the better chance we have of finding out what happened to your men. You did say you'd do whatever you could."

"I am fully aware of that," replied McDonald. "But as I said, this is a highly sensitive operation. The very moment it becomes pertinent to your investigation, you will need to have your director seek permission for you to be read in. Only then can I divulge any and all information you require."

Callen shot Sam a wry look. Time to try a different approach. "Guy's whole squad goes missing en route to an operation, and he doesn't think the details of the op are pertinent?"

McDonald shrugged. "My hands are tied, Agent Callen. I'm presuming that you, Agent Hanna, understand? You have the bearing of a military man yourself."

"SEALs," Sam replied.

McDonald nodded. "Orders are orders, unfortunately."

Callen shook his head. He hadn't imagined they'd be able to pry any details from the Lieutenant, but it never hurt to try. "Can you at least tell us why you came in ahead of your squad?"

"There were some final operational minutiae that I was required to arrive early to oversee," said McDonald.

"Nothing else?"

McDonald didn't reply.

"What about Kilo Squad? Can you tell us anything about them that I can't find in their files?"

"The very model of what a marine squadron should be, Agent Callen," McDonald said, his voice swollen with pride. "They were all that I could hope to lead when I received my commission. Close knit, loyal. To the Corps, to each other. Hard working and dedicated. I only wish that I could take the credit for their exceptional operational record, but that lies solely in the hands of their Gunnery Sergeant."

Callen glanced down at the thick vanilla file, open on the table before him. "That would be Callum Quiggin?" He passed the Sergeant's picture over to McDonald.

McDonald nodded. "Kilo Squadron had a reputation for being the best before I inherited them, and it rapidly became apparent that Gunnery Sergeant Quiggin was the source of their high regard. Every man amongst them admired him as a natural leader amongst men. I often questioned why he did not seek his commission."

Sam barked a small laugh. "Some people like to work for a living," he said.

McDonald smiled in response. Callen shook his head wryly; as a Chief Petty Officer by the time of his retirement, his partner had never emerged from the ranks of enlisted, and still held to their age-old military belief that commissioned officers like McDonald wouldn't know a hard day of work if it punched them in the throat.

"What else can you tell us about Quiggin?" pressed Callen.

"I must confess I'm not sure how any of this is significant to your investigation," McDonald said.

"We don't know what's 'significant' and what isn't," said Callen. "We can't afford to leave any stone unturned, especially since you refuse to give us any details of what Broken Swallow is."

McDonald gave a small acquiescent gesture with one hand, before sighing out a deep breath. "Gunnery Sergeant Quiggin was on his second tour of Afghanistan with the Corps. He'd been eager to return; during his first rotation, he had become friendly with several of the locals, and grown sympathetic to their situation."

"Sympathetic?" echoed Callen, with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Oh, nothing like that, Agent Callen," McDonald continued. "But he felt that he, the Marine Corps, and the United States, had an obligation to the Afghani people to leave the country better off than they had found it. He was extremely vocal about this, and was successful in persuading not only the others of Kilo Squadron, but several other units within 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines. But aside from that…" McDonald trailed off. "Aside from that, he was an exemplary marine. He followed his orders to the letter."

Callen paused a moment, scrubbing the stubble on his chin. He felt convinced there was something McDonald wasn't telling him, some important sliver of information. But he knew if he pushed for it, the Lieutenant would clam up; no doubt whatever it was, it was related to Broken Swallow. Internally, he sighed. Not knowing the details of the operation… it was like trying to work a Rubik's Cube blindfolded. You knew you had something in your hands, and could manipulate it, but without being able to see the colours you had no way of knowing how close you were to solving it.

"Okay," he said. "What about the rest of the squad?"

"You know, I never pegged you as such a blatant cheat."

Kensi pulled the SRX into a parking space, only looking over at her partner when the vehicle had stopped fully. The blond haired Detective was watching her easily, a confident – and somewhat smug – grin on his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said innocently, pushing open the door and stepping out.

"Really?" drawled Deeks, also exiting and coming around the side of the silver SUV to join her. "You have no idea what I'm talking about?"

"That's pretty much what I just said," she replied, turning from him and starting to walk towards the airfield that lay in the centre of Camp Pendleton. Deeks hustled after her, falling easily into step by her side.

"So you're saying that you don't remember, not too long ago, saying that you could beat my ass at football on any day of the week?"

"Oh no," Kensi replied, her shoulder jostling against his as they made their way towards the tarmac. That was only natural; they'd both, long before they even became a couple, fallen into a subconscious habit of walking so close to each other that they had no choice but to accidentally create a physical contact. "I remember saying that. And I'm pretty sure that's what happened."

Deeks snorted a laugh. "Well, ignoring the fact that there was only one play, and nobody managed to score – though I, uh, I may have been pretty close to, uh, scoring in a totally different way if Hetty hadn't called the game off." Kensi rolled her eyes at that, trying not to grin as the memory flooded back. It seemed like nature always conspired to get the pair of them tumbling to the ground, her atop him, again and again and again. "But still, I think we should address your totally obvious cheating during that one and only play."

"Again, Deeks, I have no idea what you're talking about," she lied, intentionally bumping into him this time. Besides, he was the one who always cheated; whenever they made love, he would use his fingers to make sure she…

But her partner pulled up short, and Kensi thankfully didn't get to finish that train of thought. She paused, turning back to face him. "You don't know what I'm talking about?" he said, eyebrow raised, a cocky curl to his wolfen grin. He held up the sleeve of his T Shirt which was stretched out of shape. "I'm talking about this. You know what this means?"

"Does it mean it's time for you to update your wardrobe?" she asked, turning away again and continuing on towards the aircraft. Deeks scurried after her.

"No, it doesn't mean that. It means that you, Kensi Marie Blye, are a cheat of the worst kind," he accused.

"How does the fact that you clearly need someone to dress you make me a cheat?" she asked.

Deeks held up a hand to halt her again. "Hey, you know, I'm not saying that I'd have a problem with you dressing me, since I always enjoy the undressing part," his voiced dropped, lecherously, and Kensi fought the blush that threatened to engulf her face. "But this is from you pulling on my arm when I was trying to catch the ball."

"Right," Kensi agreed. "I stopped you from catching the ball, that's what I was supposed to do."

"But you can't do it like that," he whined.

"Says who?" she inquired with as much innocence as she could muster.

"Says the rules. It's called holding."

"So?"

"So, it's not the kind of holding I enjoy," Deeks finished, with only the slightest hint of amusement.

Kensi scrunched her face up, shaking her head even as she struggled against the huge grin that threatened to split her features in half. Deeks was such a goof. And the weird part about that was, as much as it annoyed her when they first became partners – and still did sometimes now, if she was being honest with herself – it was one of the things she loved the most about her scruffy boyfriend.

"Besides," he continued, "it's against the rules. It was touch football."

"I think it was pretty obvious that no one really cared what type of football it was," she countered.

"So you'd have no problem with me, uh, with me, you know, grabbing your ass while I was covering you?"

Kensi's lips thinned as she sucked down another smile. "No, but I think Sam might have if you had to cover him."

Deeks laughed again, richer this time. "Really?" he said. "Okay, that was a good one. Well played."

Kensi bit her bottom lip, eyes flicking briefly down to his. Before, when they'd bantered, she'd been able to prevent herself from kissing him only by sheer force of will. But these past five months, now that she'd tasted those lips on her own, it was getting to be a monumentally harder task. The week they'd spent recently, covering the phones in the office during the night, hadn't helped the situation any.

Thankfully, Deeks had a lot more resolve in these matters than she – and probably any of the others – gave him credit for. "Come on, William Perry" he said, gesturing towards the nearby airstrip with a nod of his head. "We've got a job to do."

A few brief moments later, the junior agents found themselves by the side of the C-2 Greyhound, still parked outside the hanger. A ring of members from the Provost Marshall's Office encircled the large gunmetal grey aircraft, while inside the two pilots stood silently by the nose. Kensi flashed her badge to the nearest officer, who waved her and Deeks inside the perimeter.

"Captain Weatherfield?" said Kensi, as she approached the two pilots, presenting her badge to them. "I'm Agent Blye, NCIS, this is my partner, Detective Deeks."

The grey-haired pilot's eyes narrowed as he glanced from Kensi to Deeks. "Detective?" he said, voice heavy with confusion. "I didn't know NCIS had a detective rank?"

"I'm not NCIS," Deeks replied. "LAPD."

The knowledge didn't clear the confusion from Weatherfield's face. "What does this have to do with LAPD?"

Kensi shot her partner a look out of the corner of her eye, but he waved his hand dismissively. "No, I…It's a whole thing, don't worry about it."

Kensi swallowed the sigh that was forming. Deeks insistence on remaining with LAPD was his choice, no matter her personal feelings on the matter. She just wished he'd hurry up and sign his paperwork. It wasn't going to impact their partnership or relationship, and she'd sleep easier knowing that LAPD wouldn't be able to take him away from her for an undercover assignment, or – worst still – end his liaison status completely. Oh sure, they'd still be able to see each other outside of work, but she found it comforting to know that the man she loved, the man she trusted above all others, had her back when she was out in the field. That wasn't to say she needed Deeks with her constantly; he could still grate her nerves at times, and she valued her alone time, treasured her own apartment – mess and all – and the space it offered her.

"Captain Weatherfield," she said, looking to get the conversation back on track. "We need to ask you and Lieutenant Rand some questions."

Weatherfield nodded, as did the dark-skinned co-pilot. Rand flashed Kensi what could only be described as a charming grin, white teeth shining through his open mouth. From the edge of her vision, she saw Deeks scowl at the man's reaction, and a small smile curled at the corner of her lips.

"Lieutenant Rand," she said. "Why don't you and I step over here to talk? Captain Weatherfield, my partner will have some questions for you."

"Of course, Ma'am," Rand said.

"Please," Kensi said, as sweetly as she could, placing a hand on the man's bicep. "Call me Kensi."

This time Deeks face slipped into astonishment, his mouth agape. Kensi glanced over at him, her features schooled, daring him to comment. Finally, Deeks gave a small snort, muttered an "Alright," before gesturing for Weatherfield to follow him a few meters away. Kensi watched them go, before turning back to Rand. The Lieutenant was a tall man, with a broad chest, the muscles under his shirt straining against the fabric. Rand was pretty much everything Kensi would have once been interested in; clean shaven, with a military bearing and attitude. But of course, now her taste ran to something slightly more… messy and casual.

"So, Lieutenant," said Kensi, her voice professional now that Deeks was out of ear shot. "Why don't you take it from the top?"

Rand flicked his eyes over to where Deeks was already talking to Weatherfield, before smiling and hmmming with understanding. Kensi fought the blush.

"Well," he began, voice like a baritone. "As we already stated in our debriefing, we departed the George Bush on schedule with a full contingent. We landed, and the ground crew opened the rear compartment. It was only then that they came forward to tell us that the rear of the plane was empty."

"Did you do any checks during the flight over?" Kensi asked.

"It isn't something we do. I guess this has never happened before." Rand smiled easily.

"What about the operation they were heading home for?"

Rand shrugged. "That's not the sort of thing they tell us," he admitted. "We just go where they point."

"You know the marines at all?"

Rand laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, everything's just cargo to us. Sorry."

"Okay," said Kensi, handing him her business card. "If you can think of anything else…"

A moment later, both pilots had departed, leaving the two partners alone. "You get anything?" asked Deeks.

"Nothing more than we already knew," Kensi informed him. "Or didn't know, as the case may be."

"Not even his phone number?" Deeks' voice was too calm, too collected, and Kensi tilted her head, grinning.

"Why, is someone jealous?"

"Me?" he said, voice high. "Jealous? Of him? What do I have to be jealous about?"

"I don't know," Kensi said, voice mocking. "I guess I've always had a thing for marines. Who's to say I'm not looking to upgrade?"

"Please. How can you do better than this?" Deeks asked, gesturing up and down his body.

"I could just be looking for someone who doesn't compare me to William Perry." Kensi turned away, striding towards the Greyhound so Deeks couldn't see the huge grin that split her face.

"Touché," he said. Kensi glanced over her shoulder at that, letting him see the smile this time. He beamed back at her.

Together, they climbed into the back of the aircraft, Deeks muttering about the safety of Greyhounds as he always did whenever they were aboard one. "I'm going to check out the cockpit," she informed him, droning out his complaints. "Why don't you see if you can find anything in back?"

"Ah," he said, already pulling his black gloves from his back pocket and slipping them on. "You're going to leave the actual detective work to me?"

"No, it's because even you can't possibly get into trouble back here," Kensi retorted, already heading forwards. She slipped into the cockpit, taking a seat in the pilot's chair, the leather creaking under her. She sighed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. Then she leant forward, flipping open the black box recorder on the dash in front of her. She brought up the information. The fuel usage was consistent with the flight plan that had been logged, which indicated they hadn't landed at any out of the way strips to deposit the marines; there had been no alterations in cabin pressure, meaning that no doors had been opened in flight. She sighed again.

A moment later, Deeks made his way into the cockpit, standing just behind her and resting the palm of his hand on her shoulder. Without even realising it, she raised a hand of her own, rubbing the pad of her thumb against the back of his wrist, on the bare skin just above his gloves.

"You find anything?" he asked.

"Nope," she replied. "It's like they just vanished into thin air."

"Thanks, Kens," said Callen. "Make a start on the marine's houses; see if anything shows up there." He flipped the phone off.

"Anything interesting from Romeo and Juliet?" ask Sam as he reached for the door of his black Challenger.

"Whole lot of nothing," said Callen. "Faded like smoke in the wind."

Sam let out a small laugh. "That's almost poetic," he said.

Callen shot him a look. "Just get in the car, Sam."

As Sam pulled his car out of the boatshed's parking zone, Callen's phone rang again. He glanced down at the caller ID, before answering. "What have you got, Eric?"

"Not much, unfortunately," came Eric's tiny voice through the loud speaker. "We got the footage from the George Bush. It shows the marines boarding the plane, and then it taking off a few minutes later."

"Anything on the Pendleton side?" asked Sam.

"The plane landing, and only the pilots and ground crew anywhere near it," said Eric. "We've checked both videos; there's no evidence of tampering or manipulation."

"Alright, Eric. You find anything, you keep us posted" said Callen, hanging up.

To her side, Eric ended the call to Callen. Nell had only been half listening to their conversation, her mind set on the reels and reels of data displayed before her. Pages of financial statements, pages of after-action reports, phone logs; the list of information she shifted through would have most people go cross eyed. Not Nell though; the data seemed to stream into her conscious like a flowing river, washing over her, as she sorted through it. If anyone asked, she honestly wouldn't be able to explain how she handled such large quantities of raw information, and would probably change the subject.

It wasn't that she was embarrassed by her IQ, quite the opposite. Other people got embarrassed by it. In fact, the last person she'd trusted with the actual figure had told her it made him feel like a 'slack jawed yokel'. Even Eric, who needled and pried on an almost weekly basis, would no doubt look at her differently if she…

"Hold up," she said, as her brain picked up an anomaly.

Eric scooted his chair across Ops to her side, peering over her shoulder at the screen before her. "You found something?"

"I think so," she said, highlighting the line.

"That's pretty weak."

"It's better than nothing," she informed him, already reaching for the phone. A few rings later, it was answered. "Callen?"

"Please tell me you got something, Nell." Callen's voice issued from the speaker.

"Maybe," she admitted. "I was going through the phone logs of the marine's family and friends, and I think I found something. About two hours after the plane landed in Pendleton, one of the wives received a call that lasted less than two minutes. I ran a trace on the caller ID; it's a brand new, unlisted burn phone, and that's the only outgoing call from it."

"You got a name?"

"Uh, yeah," she replied, bringing up the file. "Rachel Comiskey."

There was a brief pause on the other end. "Did you say Comescu?" said Callen, his voice cracking slightly.

"Uhm, no, I…" she began, before Callen interrupted her.

"Nell, please confirm; did you just say Comescu?"

"I said…"

"Wait," came Sam's voice, cutting in to the conversation. "Comescu? How are they involved?"

"I don't know," said Callen, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Nell, are the Comescus involved in this?"

"I thought we killed the last of them when you took down Dracul last year?"

Nell closed her eyes at their stupidity. "Listen, you two," she snapped, surprised by the harshness of her tone. Even Eric pushed his chair back a ways. "I said Comiskey. Com-is-key."

There was another long pause. "Oh," said Callen, finally.

She sighed, rubbing her temple. "I'm sending her address to your phones now."

"Thanks, Nell," said Callen. "We'll go check her out."