Note: We're about to start hearing about character histories and talking timelines. Since NCIS is a moving target, I had to pick a place on the character development timeline to start writing. I picked the moment when I started writing this story. It was sometime in the winter of Season Six, after the team was reunited following Director Shepard's death and the events which culminated in "Cloak" and "Dagger," and before the questions of Ziva's loyalty began surfacing. I don't involve Director Vance in this story, because quite frankly, I couldn't and still can't figure out what the writers have planned for him. With new character development occurring every Tuesday, I didn't want to write him one way and have canon turn him into something else. So believe it to be early in 2009, and follow the timeline accordingly.
Second note: There's a tale to come which I unashamedly stole from the novel "Supercarrier" by George C. Wilson. The novel was billed as an inside account of life aboard the aircraft carrier USS John F. Kennedy, and the story that opens the book is one of the most amazing stories of impulsive courage I've ever read. Since the story supposedly actually happened, I feel not at all bad about retelling it here. If it was a fictionalized account, then my apologies to for Mr. Wilson for the steal. It's still a fabulous story. Now, back to it...
One Less Chapter Three
by joykatleen
The first obstacle came back at the security checkpoint. Nicky balked. Those things were dangerous, he said. Emitted radiation or something. After a quiet word with Henry, the security officer agreed to use the wand and let him walk around the detectors. That was how he did it at the VA, Nicky said. When the wand beeped at his pockets, Nicky produced a handful of coins, a pair of nail cutters, a Zippo lighter with the Marine Corps seal on it – very similar to the one Gibbs carried – and a battered old Buck knife with a three-inch blade. Just in case, Nicky said, though he did not indicate in case of what. Gibbs said he would hold on to that, just in case, and Nicky was agreeable.
He didn't like the elevator, either. He didn't say anything, but Gibbs could tell. Nicky hesitated before he got on, then parked himself in the back corner and nervously tapped his fingers against the wall as it rose to the third floor. When it stopped, he pushed forward so fast that Gibbs just stepped aside and let him out.
Nicky stopped in his tracks. He seemed immediately overwhelmed. Gibbs looked at the squadroom from Nicky's point of view and thought he understood. The large open room was two stories high, with skylights running the length of it and a wall of windows overlooking the Anacostia River and Southeast Washington beyond. A set of stairs toward the back of the room led to the executive offices and the silver outer wall of MTAC, the high-security Multiple Threat Assessment Center. The main floor was filled with desks and personnel coming and going, and a low buzz of activity seemed to emanate from the walls.
"It's alright, Nicky," Gibbs said.
"Who picked the colors?" Nicky said, and Gibbs had to stifle the sudden urge to laugh. That's what had stopped him? The walls were in shades of orange, rust and tangerine, casting a citrus glow over everything.
"It was probably the cheapest paint they had. You get used to it." Gibbs led him over to their desks in the center section of the squadroom. DiNozzo and David were looking at something on DiNozzo's computer, McGee was reading a report at his own desk. They all three looked up when Gibbs rounded the corner.
"Agent DiNozzo, Officer David, Agent McGee." He indicated each of them in turn. "This is Nicky. He's a witness in our new case."
"New case?" DiNozzo asked. He stood and pulled over a chair for Nicky.
"The one you're about to get us from Metro." He took out the glove with the dog tags inside and transferred the tags to an evidence bag he pulled from his desk. Once the bag was sealed, he tossed it across to McGee, who caught it neatly.
"The body Metro picked up this morning was wearing these. Pull up his SRB."
McGee examined the tags through the plastic, then got to work looking for a service record to match the name.
"What did Metro find?" Gibbs asked of DiNozzo as he took off his coat. He unholstered then unloaded his government-issue Sig Sauer and stowed it in his right-hand desk drawer. In his long career, he'd actually needed his sidearm while inside the building a few times, but regs said all firearms had to be secured so he did it almost without thought. His second-in-command returned to his own desk and reached for his PDA. Anthony DiNozzo was in his late thirties, tall and lean, with male-model good looks and an air of confidence to match. He was casually dressed today: Khaki pants, slightly darker khaki button-down shirt, untucked. Since returning from an involuntary five-month exile to Agent Afloat status, DiNozzo had been pushing the envelope a bit in his manner of dress. Gibbs couldn't care less. Long as his work was professional, his wardrobe was irrelevant.
"Male, mid 20s, no identification, apparent cause of death was assault. Multiple head wounds, significant blood loss at the scene. They haven't started the autopsy yet."
Gibbs nodded. Their medical examiner would be pleased. DiNozzo continued.
"No sign the body was moved after death. They collected lots of forensics, but the location's popular for drug users and the homeless, so most of the samples will probably be irrelevant."
"Got him, Boss," McGee said. He stood and picked up the remote for the plasma screen monitor behind Gibbs' desk. McGee was a little taller than DiNozzo, who was himself a little taller than Gibbs. Unlike DiNozzo, Tim McGee was dressed as had become his habit in recent years: Tan sport coat, brown pants, white shirt, brown tie. No fashion plate, that one. But he didn't have to be. He was an MIT graduate, a computer maestro, and the author of a series of best-selling crime novels. True, he was a bit of a nerd, but nerds were in these days. Gibbs suspected McGee had as many women in his life as he wanted, whenever he wanted. In response to DiNozzo's constant big-brother-like tormenting, McGee had gone through a period of experimentation awhile ago. He'd tried a series of hair styles, wardrobes, and put-on attitudes that had left Gibbs a little dizzy. As his confidence in his place on the team had solidified, McGee had finally found himself and settled down. He kept his hair short and his wardrobe understated. DiNozzo still treated him like the little brother he loved to torture, but that, too, had its place and Gibbs allowed it. To a point.
McGee pointed the remote at the plasma and pushed a few buttons. A military ID photo appeared on the screen. A fresh-faced kid, brown brush cut, brown eyes, serious expression, but with a twinkle of pride in his eye that was visible even in the grainy picture.
"Francis Louis Ferrara, Petty Officer Third Class. Age 25. Assigned to the Aircraft Carrier Theodore Roosevelt. Which is currently…" he leaned down over his keyboard to look it up.
"In Norfolk, prepping for a 12-month cruise to the Persian Gulf," Gibbs supplied.
"Right," McGee said, as always more than a little surprised at the things Gibbs seemed to know. He straightened up. "He was reported UA when he didn't show up for duty this morning. Officer of the Deck says he didn't check in Sunday after a 24-hour liberty."
"Is that the man you saw, Nicky?" Gibbs asked, turning to him. Nicky stood, moved closer to the plasma. He carefully examined the ID photo, cocked his head to the side, considered.
"Yeah. Only he looked more dead when I saw him."
"Okay. DiNozzo…"
"Send the photo over to Metro, confirm ID, then go get the evidence they gathered. On it Boss."
Gibbs stared at him for a moment, to see if there was anything else. There was nothing.
"Ziva, you're with me. Nicky, you too. McGee, see what else you can dig up on our victim."
Ziva stood and Nicky followed her, Gibbs bringing up the rear as they headed to the back stairs. Until recently, the Israeli woman had clung stubbornly to her Mosaad roots: She'd acted and dressed as if she would return to the Middle East any day. But an undercover operation that had sent her back overseas last year had made her realize how much she wanted to stay in America, and since her return, she'd finally started to assimilate. She was styling her hair in a more Western fashion, and had stopped wearing khakis and wool every day. Today, it was a peasant blouse in shades of cream and hip-hugger black jeans that flattered her slim figure and long, dark hair. Rounding the corner of the landing, Gibbs caught Nicky giving an appreciative second look at her back side and crowded up behind the smaller man.
"She's out of our league, Nicky," Gibbs whispered over his shoulder. Nicky jumped a little, turning back to give Gibbs a guilty look. Gibbs smiled at him. Ziva looked back, glaring at both of them. Gibbs chuckled just a little. He hadn't been kidding. She'd been trained by Mossad – the Israeli Special Forces – as a soldier, assassin and torture master. Even with his extensive military training and hands-on experience, not to mention the five inches and 50 pounds he had on her, he wasn't sure he'd best her in a no-holds-barred fight.
They descended to the first basement, home of their team's forensics technician Abigail Sciuto. As usual, Abby had some kind of heavy metal head banger music blaring so loud Gibbs felt the impact of the sound against his chest. He walked directly through the main lab to her office in the back and flipped the volume down.
"Hey!" Abby said. She'd had her back to them, her head inside one of her machines, and the sudden loss of volume surprised her. She straightened and turned to them. "Oh, Gibbs. Didn't hear you come in."
"No kidding, Abby." The Goth woman was in rare form today, wearing a black and white plaid mini-skirt, a black t-shirt with a grinning white Jolly Roger wearing a pink hair bow on the front, wide spiked collar with dangling chains, and five-inch black platform boots that ended just below her knees and put her at Gibbs' eye level. Her hair was in high pig tails, coming out of the top of her head. The white lab coat over it all added the only touch of professionalism. She was in her early 30s, and had been working with them for more than 10 years, since just after graduating Georgia State University with a dual Masters in Forensics and Criminology. Though her chosen lifestyle made most people dismiss her as brainless, she was actually the smartest person Gibbs knew. Her forensics skills were the best he'd seen, and he was as confident in her abilities as he was in his own. If it could be found, she'd find it. If she said it was so, he could take it to the judge. He'd grown exceedingly fond of her over the years, and indulged her in many ways, not the least of which was his tolerance of her off-the-wall wardrobe and her strange way of running her lab. He'd gone to bat for her with three successive agency directors now, and he would continue to do so as long as he worked here. If his team was a family, Abby was the favorite child.
"No Caf-Pow?" Abby asked, seeing his empty hands.
"No work," Gibbs replied. He typically brought her a jug of her favorite super-caffeinated soda every time he came looking for her help. He'd discovered early on that a little bribe went a long way with her. But with the dry spell they'd been under, he figured she'd forgive him. She glared lightly at him, then turned her attention to Nicky.
"Who's your friend?" she asked with a smile. Nicky's eyes were wide under the ski mask, taking in all of Abby.
"This is Nicky. He's a witness in a case we just got. I need you and Ziva to take him shopping." Ziva looked at him sharply, but Abby's eyes lit up.
"Shopping? Awesome, Gibbs. Shopping for what?" Abby said. Gibbs pulled out his wallet and extracted a credit card.
"He'll need a change of clothes, and some new boots. Use this." He held out the card.
"Cool, Gibbs. We can go down to Saks in Georgetown." She tried to take it from his fingers, but he pinched it.
"The sport shop across from the main gate will be fine, Abby," Gibbs said.
"Aw, Gibbs, where's your sense of style? Never mind," she said quickly, and giggled. "I forgot who I was talking to."
Gibbs ignored the implied insult, let the card go, and turned back to Nicky. "This is Abby. She's our forensic scientist. She'll get you what you need, then when you get back, you can shower and change, and then we'll talk. Fair enough?"
"Okay," Nicky said. "Hi Abby."
"Hi Nicky. We're going to have so much fun."
"Don't take more than an hour. When you get back, there'll be work to do."
"Cool!" Abby said, and bounced a little on her platforms.
"Ziva, a moment?" Gibbs said, and gestured out to the hall. Ziva, still confused, followed.
"Shopping, Gibbs?" Ziva said when they were out of earshot.
"It was the deal I made him to get him to come in."
"But why me, Gibbs? Shopping?" she repeated.
"I need McGee on the computers. I need you with Abby, just in case."
Ziva nodded her sudden understanding. Of all of them, Abby had always been his favorite, treated like a precious daughter. Of course he would not want his Abby alone with an unknown.
"I understand," she said.
"Keep him out of the squadroom about an hour. He made me a deal, so I don't think he'll bolt, but if he tries, call me."
"Who is he?" Ziva asked.
"He was a Marine Lance Corporal, served and wounded in Desert Storm. Homeless now. He's got some kind of psych history, but he's taking medicine. Just keep an eye on him."
He turned to go back in the lab, then stopped. "Try to keep an eye on Abby, too. I don't want to have to mortgage my house to pay for this."
"Got it," Ziva said with a smile.
After they left, Gibbs went back to the squadroom. DiNozzo was already gone.
"What'd you find?" he asked McGee as he returned to his desk.
"Ferrara was a rising star. Enlisted right out of high school, trained as an Aviation Machinist's Mate and was assigned to Carrier Air Wing 8 aboard the Roosevelt. Twice promoted early, becoming group leader only two years in. He passed tests for Petty Officer Third, looks like in June of 2005, but before he could take the promotion, he was injured in a flight deck accident that resulted in his right foot being crushed. Surgeons tried to reconstruct it, but the damage was severe, and then he got a post-surgical infection. His leg was amputated midway between the ankle and knee. Navy Medical wanted to discharge him, but he fought it and won, thanks in part to two recommendations, one each from the Roosevelt's retiring and incumbent Captains. The incumbent asked that he be assigned as the Captain's Yeoman on his return to duty." McGee looked up. "That a good position, boss?"
Gibbs shrugged. "For some. It's a clerical position, like a civilian secretary. The Captain's Yeoman is his personal assistant. If the Captain requested him personally, he must have thought he was a better than average sailor. Usually means he's done something impressive. What do you have on the accident?"
McGee went back to his computer. "Some type of atmospheric systems failure in flight caused an F-18 crew to become confused and disoriented. The RIO was unconscious, the pilot was awake but not making much sense. Air boss talked him down, but he missed the target, came in at a bad angle and the catch cable snapped from the cross tension. The plane was loose on deck in heavy seas, rolling with the swells. Deck crew couldn't get it stopped. They'd tried throwing chocks under its wheels, but the plane's momentum kept pushing them out of the way as it rolled."
McGee paused for a second: "I'm reading directly from the incident report now. 'The out-of-control plane had already damaged six other aircraft and part of the Roosevelt's control tower and had a clear path over the side of the carrier when Airman Ferrara, having tied two sets of wheel chocks together, ran underneath the moving plane, wrapped the chocks around the starboard wing wheels and held them in place with his foot. The wheels bumped over the double set of blocks and crushed Airman Ferrara's right foot. But his actions slowed the F-18's momentum enough that the Roosevelt's deck hands were able to chock the aircraft's other wheels and get it stopped, saving the lives of the crew and preventing further damage or injury to other personnel.' Wow."
Wow indeed, Gibbs thought. That was the kind of fast thinking and willingness to sacrifice that would attract a Captain's attention. If the Super Hornet had gone over the side with the crew on board, they'd have both drowned, and the Navy would have been out 32 million dollars worth of aircraft.
"He get a commendation for it?" Gibbs asked.
"No. He was reprimanded for recklessness." Gibbs looked at him sharply, then shook his head. Of course. Only in the Navy.
"Who signed the reprimand?" Gibbs asked. McGee checked.
"His crew chief." Gibbs nodded. That would make sense. Regulations said he had to be reprimanded, but if the Captain was impressed, he wouldn't want to have it done by anyone too high up the food chain.
"What else you got?"
"He was medically cleared to start in the Yeoman's position when the Roosevelt sailed for the Gulf late in 2006, about 18 months after the accident. Finally promoted to Petty Officer Third right before they left. He settled well into his new assignment, and according to evaluations, was a natural at it. Capt. McNally, the incumbent at the time of the accident and current Ship's Captain, has filed…" McGee counted silently. "…six commendations for exceptional service in the last fourteen months. Never missed a day of duty since returning from the injury."
"And the Captain didn't report him missing?"
More keystrokes. "Nothing in our files. Roosevelt's Special Agent Afloat is David Fredrick."
Gibbs didn't know him. But the report of a sailor missing two days in Norfolk might not necessarily have reached them at headquarters in DC, even if it had been filed promptly.
"Bio?" Gibbs asked. McGee tapped his keys.
"Most recently from Los Angeles, single, no children. His parents are his next of kin. Father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. He's got a brother two years older, also in the Navy, and two younger siblings, sister seventeen, brother fourteen."
"Anything else?"
"Not really. Clean driving record, no civilian record. His older brother's a sonar chief, Petty Officer First Class, also aboard the Roosevelt."
Gibbs nodded. Since Metro hadn't made the identification, they wouldn't have contacted the family yet. Which meant the notification of Ferrara's death hadn't happened. That was first order of business.
"Contact CACO, so they can get moving on the notifications." McGee nodded, and picked up the phone. Once again, Gibbs silently sent thanks to the Powers That Be that he'd never had to do that for a living. Navy Casualty Assistance Calls Officers spent all day every day dealing with the families of sailors and Marines who'd died while in service. They were assigned the unenviable task of informing spouses, parents and children that their loved one wasn't ever coming home. Then they spent days, weeks, or months holding hands and trying to move families through the stages of grief toward acceptance. Gibbs had accompanied CACOs on those notifications exactly three times when men under his command had died, and he prayed he'd never have to do it again.
With a mental head shake, Gibbs called down to autopsy. Their medical examiner, Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard had also been underworked, spending more time out of the morgue than he usually did. Thankfully, he was in.
"Ah, Jethro. I was hoping you'd call," Ducky said when he picked up. "Young Mr. Palmer and I are getting quite bored."
At that, Gibbs had to smile. When he'd gone down there last week, it had looked like spring cleaning time. ME's assistant Jimmy Palmer had been up to his elbows in bleach and rags, and it didn't take a master reader of expression like Gibbs to see that the kid was begging for anything that would get him out of this.
"Metro caught a homicide this morning, body with no ID. We've since made him as a sailor. You'll need to go pick up him up. DiNozzo's over there clearing it now."
"Did they already start on him?" Ducky asked, a note of hope against it clear in his voice.
"Nope. He's all yours, Duck."
"Wonderful. We'll be on the way." Gibbs hung up.
When McGee was done with his call, he looked up expectantly. He knew there was a reason Gibbs hadn't told him to go to Metro with Tony.
"Our witness. I need to know everything you can find out about him," Gibbs said. "He was an active duty Marine during Desert Storm. Lance Corporal Domenic Masterson."
"Anything else?"
"Combat wounded. And he goes to the local VA for psych medication. That's all I've got."
"It's probably enough," McGee said, and went to work.
To be continued...
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