Against the Wind

Author: Sooz

Rating: R

Email: sooz9009@aol.com

Author’s Notes: This was my first JAG fanfic. I started writing it during Season 7, inspired by the attack on the Cole. Believe it or not, the submarine was part of my plot before the Season 7 finale, so this is sort of AU for everything up to then. Originally this story included some NC-17 scenes, but I decided to tone things down.



2400 Zulu (7 p.m. EST)

Fort Myer, Virginia

Late March, 2002


My locker slams behind me with a metallic boom as I swing my gym bag onto my shoulder and push through the heavy locker room door. It whooshes shut, cutting off the women's voices echoing over the hiss of the showers.


Thursday night. Home to a silent apartment, NPR on the radio, Budget Gourmet in the microwave. Packing for my weekend assignment. Early to bed. Not even poor old Jingo for company, since he's still with Chloe.


The squeak of my running shoes is loud on the polished concrete floors. At the Fort Myer athletic complex, it's a long walk up the stairs from the locker rooms when you're exhausted from a tough workout.


I welcome the comfortably tired feeling. It makes it easier to get through an evening alone when you can hit the rack by nine o'clock. Sometimes I even sleep through.


At this hour there are always lots of officers here. They arrive in uniform and leave in civvies, like me. Mostly men, a few women. The Fort Myer O Club has a terrific pool and weight room and a quarter-mile indoor track, and it's convenient to JAG headquarters in Falls Church. And of course, it beats hell out of those expensive health clubs in the city where the jerks try to pick you up. Here, the oak leaves on my collar guarantee the leering will be subtle and won't get out of line.


I've been coming here almost every evening after work for the past few months, when I'm in town. It's one of the few calm, sane routines in my life anymore. After September 11, none of our lives will ever be the same -- although for me, nothing has seemed normal since Harm crashed, and Mic left, and I ran away to the Guadalcanal to try to pull myself together. Whatever normal was, or is, my life sure as hell isn't it.


Since Harm and I agreed to a truce last fall, I haven't seen him much. Maybe that has helped, I don't know. For a long time I was so lost and hurt and angry at him, at Mic, at myself. Lately, we've been away on separate assignments much of the time. Our stints at headquarters have not overlapped very often, and when they do, we're a little wary of each other. But it seems as if some of the barriers are coming down. An uneasy truce at best, as Sturgis likes to point out. That guy is too damn perceptive.


My breath puffs out in a steamy cloud around my face as I push open the glass doors to the parking lot. It must have started snowing again after I went in -- the air is thick with fat white flakes that blur in the lights, and the cold night air feels wonderful on my overheated skin. Then, as I head down the walk, I come to a dead stop.


Harm is leaning against a light pole, arms crossed, looking down at me. In his leather flight jacket and khakis, he looks as if he just stepped off the deck of a carrier at sea. I could not be more startled if he had materialized out of thin air like Captain Kirk. "Hey," he calls with a grin, looking utterly relaxed and cheerful.


"Hey yourself." I shift the heavy bag on my shoulder. Damn the man. Come on, Mackenzie, get a grip. I give myself a little mental shake. "When did you get in?"


"Couple hours ago. The Admiral told me to report straight from Andrews and not wait to change uniforms. I just finished up with him."


"How did you know I was here?"


"Guessed. So I cruised by and saw the 'vette in the lot." His eyes are warm as his grin deepens. "Besides, I always know where you are, Marine, you know that."


"Well, I didn't know where *you* were." Harm was pulled off an important court martial ten days ago for an abrupt departure overseas, and not even scuttlebutt seems to know much about it.


Now he's shaking his head, still smiling a little. "Sorry. But I can tell you one thing -- you're going to catch cold. Don't you know you shouldn't go out in winter with wet hair? For Pete's sake, Mac, you're going to wind up with pneumonia." While he's lecturing me, he reaches out and zips up my fleece parka.


"Okay, Dad. Thanks." I blink snow off my eyelashes and can't help smiling back at him. "Have you had anything to eat yet?"


"No, you?"


"I had a date with the microwave."


He makes a face. "I've been looking forward to a decent meal for ten days. C'mon, let's go." We turn and head for the parked cars, and he casually reaches out and takes my duffel bag. Our feet crunch in the snow as we walk side by side, his presence big and solid beside me. Everything seems hushed.


I dig in my pocket for my keys. "Where do you want to go?" I ask. "I'm not exactly dressed for anything in Alexandria." Before I can stop him, Harm reaches out and takes the keys.


"You're riding with me, Mac. There's no way I'm letting you try to drive the 'vette in this weather."


Ordinarily, his calm proprietary tone would infuriate me. I'm ready to retaliate that I don't need some arrogant squid aviator to tell me when the roads are too dangerous. And the words won't come. I just stare at him, and he's watching me with that damn little amused gleam in his eyes, just waiting for me to argue. And after a moment I shake my head. "You realize you'll have to give me a ride back here to pick up my car tomorrow."


"No problem."


"I have to leave for Annapolis by 0700."


"No problem." Boy, he's really feeling stubborn about this if he's willing to get up that early. For an instant I flash on a fantasy about staying over at his place, then pull myself together.


I shrug and turn away, trying to hide my smile. If only I weren't so damn glad to see him. "Okay, flyboy. You win. This time."


"Okay," he grins, and flips the keyless entry on the Lexus.


* * *


Damn, how does she manage to look so good after a full day at the office and a hard workout?


So many women seem sort of grey and rumpled until they fix their hair and makeup, but Mac is fresh and shining. Her wet hair, combed back, outlines the shape of her proud little head, and I catch a faint, delicate fragrance of shampoo or conditioner or whatever the hell women use. She really ought to wear warmer clothes, though. At the same time the thought crosses my mind, I'm admiring the way those thin grey sweat pants cling to her hips and thighs as she climbs into my SUV.


We pull onto the highway past the Pentagon. The snow rushes to meet the headlights in a dizzy blur that reminds me of the Millennium Falcon going into hyperdrive, and I prudently ease back on the accelerator until I feel the SUV grab traction. I level it out at about 30 before I glance over at Mac. She's sitting with her arms and knees drawn up as if she's cold, and I adjust the heater.


"So what are you doing at Annapolis tomorrow?"


She turns to look at me. "Filling in for a faculty member who went on medical leave. I took over the general survey course on the UCMJ and a 300-level seminar on military legal ethics. I usually stay over on Saturday morning to see students and use the library to prepare for the following week."


My eyebrows go up. "Jeez, they must really have been impressed with that lecture you gave last spring."


Her eyes have an amused glint. "You don't have to sound so surprised."


"On the contrary, I'm impressed. And jealous. If the professors had looked like you when I was a mid, I wouldn't have minded calculus so much."


"Spare me, please, Mr. Trident Scholar, Magna cum Laude."


She must have looked up my record. For some reason, I'm absurdly flattered. "Well, I was a history major. I never would have made it through all the math without Diane." As soon as the words are out, my mouth slams shut. Rabb, you are such an ass sometimes.


But Mac, God bless her, just cocks her head and gives me a warm look. "Yeah, I'm sure. Especially since you had to pull better than a 3.25 in engineering and physics to get flight school."


I shrug, embarrassed, and change the subject. "So what do you think of the Academy, anyway?" I'm curious to know what Mac makes of the place that was, and is, such an important part of my life.


She is watching the snow in the oncoming headlights, but her eyes are distant. "I think it's extraordinary," she says after a moment, her voice soft. "I'm going to have to take back all those cracks and jokes I've made about it over the years." Once again, she has surprised the hell out of me.


I feel her eyes on me and I listen, intrigued and curious, as she continues, "I never realized before how intense it all is -- not just the academics, but the level of dedication everyone brings to it. I had no idea that honor and integrity and duty are literally part of the curriculum." Her voice gets even softer, and I have to listen intently as she says, "I understand a few things better now. And I'm extremely proud to be part of it."


"The Navy, or the Academy?"


She gives a graceful little shrug. "Maybe both." From the corner of my eye I catch a little smile. "Maybe the people who make them what they are."


Something tightens in my chest, and I turn my head to look at her. Her eyes are dark and shining in the glow of the dash lights. Then we're on the bridge approach and the slippery road and the traffic demand my concentration again. After a moment I clear my throat. "So how's the Arabic stuff going?"


She doesn't complain about being tired, but she must be. Ever since 9/11, as one of the few people with high security clearance who is fluent in Farsi, Mac has been away more than she's been at headquarters. They pulled her in at Langley for three weeks straight, doing translations and setting up a crash program to train CIA agents in Arabic dialects. Then she spent another few weeks on and off at the FBI academy at Quantico, doing the same thing, all the while keeping things running at JAG as chief of staff. Good thing she rarely sleeps, I guess -- but I worry about it anyway.


She sighs. "I spent three days at the War College last week while you were gone. Now they're talking about making it a language requirement at the Academy. I thought the Admiral was going to pop a gasket, trying to figure out how to keep things moving at JAG with both of us gone so much." She cuts a quick glance at me, obviously thinking of my recent TDY. "Can you talk about it?"


I shake my head regretfully. "Sorry, still classified. And it looks like that won't be changing any time soon. I'll be in Washington for the next ten days, but most of that will be out of the office. After that, who knows."


In the glow of the dash lights I see her looking at me with awe. "Damn. You got it, didn't you?" she whispers.


I lift an eyebrow at her. People often take one look at Mac and get no further than her looks -- it's easy to underestimate her, but it's a mistake no one ever makes twice. She didn't finish in the top one percent of her class at Duke Law for nothing.


She's looking at me as if I just threw a 60-yard pass to win the Super Bowl. "You're running the task force for the military tribunals, aren't you?" she says with certainty.


"I can neither confirm nor deny, counselor." I can't quite keep the grin out of my voice. "That operation is being run out of the Pentagon, you know that."


"And I know they are following the recommendations of experts on international military jurisdiction," she says, "which is you. God, Harm, it's a career-maker. Congratulations."


I feel a warm glow at her approval and find myself wondering how many officers in the huge bureaucracy of the JAG Corps would be so whole-heartedly glad for me. Once again, I realize how lucky I am to have Sarah Mackenzie for a friend.


"If I could discuss it, Mac, I'd say thanks," I tell her, and take the exit ramp for Georgetown. "Now how about takeout for dinner? Can we eat at your place?"


"Sure. How about the deli on the corner?"


"Nah, unless you're really up for it -- I was thinking about that new Japanese place on J Street. I'm dying for some sushi, and you can get sukiyaki or something."


"Something cooked, at least," she laughs. "None of that low tide stuff."


"Hey, sushi is very good for you," I protest. "If you'd just try it" --


"Not a chance. Especially that gooshy yellow junk with the dead seaweed."


"That is sea urchin, and it's considered a delicacy."


"Okay, Emeril. Just don't ask me to eat anything that might wave at me as I bite down. Or any of that tofu stuff."


"Soy is extremely good for you," I try to explain for the thousandth time as we pull up outside the restaurant. Mac just throws her head back and laughs merrily -- she's heard it all before. If tofu gets her to laugh like that, maybe I'll have to expand my repertoire to alfalfa sprouts and fish oil.


* * *


"Listen, finding a parking spot within a block is really lucky," I try to tell him again as we trudge up the street to my door. I'm carrying a warm, fragrant brown bag filled with our dinner, and Harm is lugging my duffel. He is complaining about how heavy it is and how far we have to walk to my door. I am enjoying it, because he's teasing about the former, and he's concerned about the latter -- not tonight, when we're together, but for other times when I have to walk from my parked car alone.


As we turn the corner, he stops in his tracks and says, "Well, now at least I know what happened to your hat." He's staring at the lopsided snowman leaning drunkenly on the snow beside my building. It's a bit dilapidated by now, but it's still wearing a stylish red fleece chapeau.


I reach out and straighten the hat, brushing away wet snowflakes. "I made this with Jimmy from downstairs yesterday," I tell him proudly. "My first snowman. I don't know who was prouder, him or me."


Harm is silent, and I look up to find him looking at me in consternation. "You never made a snowman before?" He seems perplexed, and he's so cute I want to ruffle his hair, but he probably wouldn't appreciate it.


"I grew up in the Sunbelt, you know that," I said. "And I never had a seven-year-old neighbor before, either."


"They didn't have snow in Minnesota?"


"They were more preoccupied with chilling beer in it than playing with it," I say dryly.


Harm just stares at me, those incredible green eyes wide. Suddenly, he smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand and topples backwards into the snow bank, arms flung out. As I stand there with my mouth open, he waves his long arms and legs back and forth in the snow, looking for all the world like a giant stork doing the backstroke, and I start to laugh. With a huge grin, he struggles upright and points to the outline with a flourish.


"What do you call that?" I giggle.


He cocks his head. "You've never made a snow angel, either? You are culturally deprived, Marine. That's about to change." And without warning, he picks me up and tosses me onto my back in the snow. "Flap your arms and legs, Mac," he calls loudly, not caring in the least that a few passers-by are staring.


Fascinated, I do as I'm told, then struggle to my feet and turn to look. "It worked! I made a snow angel!" I shout and fling my arms over my head like a referee signaling a touchdown. Harm is looking down at me and for a moment we just grin at each other like idiots. God, that man's smile could melt bronze.


"You're the snow angel, Mac," he says, "and your nose is running." He taps my cheek with his glove, gives me another charming leer and reaches for the duffel bag.


My snowball smacks him on the neck with a soft "plop." He straightens with a yelp and wheels on me, and I clap my mittened hands over my mouth to stifle a giggle. "I can't believe they did that," I say, praying he'll go for it. "A drive-by hit, I swear to God."


"You're a dead woman!" he laughs, reaching for a handful of snow. With a squeak of terror unworthy of a Marine, I dive for more ammunition, but Harm's missile gets me right between the shoulder blades. I fire one back that is an ignominious miss, and then he's looming over me, all six-feet-four, two hundred pounds of him, and he's grabbing me around the waist and threatening to shove a handful of snow down my neck. We're both laughing so hard we can scarcely breathe and I pull my shoulders up to my ears with an undignified shriek.


"Give up?"


"I have not yet begun to fight!"


"That's Navy, not the Corps," he says. "I win." He releases me and we both stand there, gasping for breath. After a moment Harm straightens up and wipes his nose, which is red as a cherry.


"Thanks for the introduction to winter sports, Navy," I grin.


"Anytime, Marine," he says, and picks up the sack with our supper. It's only slightly squashed. "C'mon, let's get inside before someone decides I'm a mugger and calls the cops." He holds out his hand, and I take it.


* * *


Mac flips on some lights as I head for the kitchen with our supper. "Hey, where's Jingo?" I call after her.


"He's staying with Chloe on her grandparents' farm," Mac calls from the bedroom. "Since I've been traveling so much."


I pull some plates out of the cabinet and spoon things out of cartons. My hand goes to the right drawers without hesitation and the sense of being at home slides into place with a nearly audible click. I usually cook for Mac at my place, but God knows how many takeout meals we have shared here. Not for awhile, though. Too long.


I carry the things into the dining room and set out some place mats and silverware as I hear Mac coming. "Tea okay?" I ask her, "after all, it is Japanese food" -- and then I look up.


She has dried her hair and changed into a casual velour top and pants. They are the deep garnet color of cranberries, and she looks great. How does she do that so fast?


"Tea's fine," she smiles. She takes the napkins from my hand, where I seem to have forgotten them. She's standing so close I can feel the warmth of her body and I wonder how soft her shirt would feel beneath my hands. "Harm? Is the tea okay for you?"


"Um, yeah, tea's good," I try to pull myself together. Mac smiles at me and I forget what I was going to say.


She brings cups and a couple of glasses filled with ice water, and as I hold her chair, I lean close. Damn, does she smell good.


So we eat, and talk, and laugh, and I watch the soft light play across her skin and listen to her voice, which always reminds me of smoky wine. We share scuttlebutt, and Mac brings me up to speed on the latest at the office since I've been away. When she tells me about her classes at the Academy, and how bright and challenging the students are, I watch her animated expression and wonder how those hapless midshipmen ever stay on track during class.


It's been too long since we've spent an evening together like this, just us. At last Mac looks up and shrugs, a little embarrassed. "Sorry, I got carried away."


"You didn't," I say. "And I'm glad you're enjoying the teaching so much."


"Yeah, I am," she says with a smile. "Well, maybe just the change of pace. Want some coffee?" With surprise, I look at my watch and realize it's 2200 already.


"No, thanks, I need to catch up on sleep, I think I'm still jetlagged," I tell her. "Gotta be in the office early tomorrow to get caught up."


"Well, how about some more tea before you go?"


"Sounds great," I say, and stand up to stretch. I reach for the dishes, but Mac shoos me away. "Go light the fire, will you? I'll bring the tea," she says.


So I amble over to the fireplace and twist the knob for the gas log. I installed this thing for Mac a few years ago, and it's nice if I do say so myself. It better be, since I spent the better part of a day lying on my back with a hammer drill, breaking through the concrete to run the gas line.


Mac has these little wicker armchairs that were made for midgets, so I throw myself down in my usual spot on her sofa and lean back, watching the firelight. Fortunately Mac doesn't object to shoeless feet on the coffee table, at least not my feet. She comes in with two steaming mugs and turns off all but one soft lamp, then settles down at the other end of the sofa and hands me my mug. Our fingers brush, and I see the contact spark in her eyes.


She settles back against the cushions and we relax in companionable silence for a minute. I'm just opening my mouth to tell her about my own project at Annapolis when she asks, "So when did you learn so much about snow, anyway? I thought you grew up in California. You can't tell me you made snow angels at the Academy."


I grin, but I wonder what to say. After a moment, I shrug. "About a year after my dad went MIA, mom decided to move back to Connecticut to be with her family," I say. "We moved in with my grandparents, and we lived there for the next five years." It seems a little odd that I have never told Mac this.


Mac's watching me, knowing there's more. "How was it?" she asks cautiously. Of course, she is aware that I have never mentioned my mother's parents before.


"I hated it. At first I had this idea that my dad wouldn't know where to find us when he came home, or something. And there was all this weird tension between my mom and her parents. I didn't figure out until I was older that they hadn't approved of the marriage -- the Navy didn't quite stack up as a career choice in their eyes. I just knew that I wasn't supposed to talk about any of it." I stare into the fire, remembering.


"That's lousy, Harm. It must have been hell on your mother." I look up and see Mac looking indignant.


"Yeah, I think it was. I just remember that overnight, the most powerful person in my whole world disappeared, and all they ever told me was not to cry. I think I was scared that if it could happen to Dad, it could happen to my mom, or me, or anybody. The only thing to do was to be so strong that nothing could ever touch us again." I hesitate. Where the hell did all this come from? I don't know that I've actually said any of this stuff before.


"That was a lot for a little boy," Mac says softly. I look at her, and somehow it feels right to go on.


"I knew mom was devastated," I tell her slowly, remembering. "I used to lie in bed at night, after she had turned off my light, and I'd hear her next door, crying in the bath tub." That's the worst memory, the one I can never shake.


"When you're a kid, adults seem so powerful -- it's awful when you see they're just as scared and clueless as you are," Mac says. With a little start, I realize that Mac really does get it, as few people could.


"I just couldn't protect her -- not from all of it," I remember. "And the kids at Greenwich Country Day were the worst. This was the late sixties, early seventies, and everybody hated the war, especially a bunch of elitist jerks who knew their student deferments would keep them out of it. There was no such thing as a military hero. I got in a lot of fights."


"I'll bet your grandparents loved that."


I snort. "Then when I was twelve, mom married Frank and we moved to La Jolla."


"And four years later you ran off to Laos."


"Yeah, I guess I thought if I could just find Dad that everything would be okay again, you know? I was angry at Mom, at Frank, at life -- just generally pissed off. Hell, I was sixteen. I thought I could fix it somehow."


My arm is resting along the back of the sofa, and after a moment Mac sort of slides her hand over and I take it in mine. And it feels so peaceful and right, just sitting there in the firelight for awhile longer, two friends who don't need to talk.


* * *


Saturday, 0530 hours

Annapolis, Maryland


The Severn River is barely beginning to show the pale shimmering grey of dawn. The light wind off the Chesapeake Bay is thin and cold and smells of the sea.


My running shoes make scarcely any sound as I pound along the path beside the harbor. The historic brick houses of Annapolis flash by on my left, and sailboats bob in the marina. Their rigging clangs against the spars and makes a faint metallic jingle in the morning breeze.


I have come to cherish my weekly visits to this quaint old town, particularly on the quiet mornings before any tourists are around. Yesterday was a long day. I left D.C. at 0700 to get here in plenty of time for my lecture at 0900, and it didn't end until 2030 last night after the faculty reception at the Admiral's home.


After nearly falling asleep on my sofa Thursday night, Harm showed up at my door promptly at 0600 Friday morning to run me down to Fort Myer to pick up my Corvette. He was sleepy and grumpy and had cut himself shaving, and he made a point of telling me he was allowing me drive to Annapolis alone only because the snow had stopped and the roads were clear. I gave him fresh coffee and a warm bagel from the corner deli, which I ran out to get before he arrived, and he cheered up. God, he is adorable sometimes.


My breathing is deep and measured as I cruise along, but my thoughts are far away from the jogging path. It has been a long time since Harm opened up to me the way he did the other night. Remembering all the times when I pushed, only to feel him pull away.


Frustrating, infuriating, impossible man. I wonder what he's up to this weekend. Maybe I'll give him a call before I leave.


The faculty thing last night was actually kind of fun. I'm beginning to connect a few faces and names, and I'm pleased to realize how quickly I have remembered the rhythm of an academic community, how much I enjoy the interactions with students and colleagues. Of course, it's also a military installation, and despite the fact that half the faculty are civilians, most professors I know would find it painfully conservative and regimented -- but I feel right at home, despite being here just two days a week. After my chaotic schedule of the past months, it's nice to have this to look forward to.


This morning, it feels great to get out and stretch my legs and my lungs. I need to spend a few hours in the library later, pulling references for my next few lectures and mapping out the syllabus for the coming weeks, but for now I can relax and enjoy some time to myself.


After five miles I'm breathing hard. But the cold salt air blowing my hair feels wonderful, the Academy dock is sight, and I bear down, sprinting to touch the stanchion before relaxing into a slow jog.


There's a light burning in one end of the big boathouse, and a couple of people are moving around. On impulse, I head down the concrete steps and enter the wide central breezeway, a dark tunnel open to the river on the far end. My footsteps echo with a hollow sound I walk slowly past the looming silent shapes of the crew shells poised on their racks.


At the other end there's a flight of shallow wooden steps down to a wide wooden platform across the entire back of the building -- I suppose they'd call it a dock, but it looks like a dance floor to me, swaying in the light chop of the water. A couple of gigantic midshipmen are lowering themselves gingerly into a delicate two-man shell that is bumping against the side of the platform.


I watch as they fit their shoes into the footrests and adjust their sliding seats. There are four long, slender sculls lying alongside on the dock, and one by one they fit them into the oarlocks before shoving off. They lean forward, oars poised, and then shoot across the water with no visible signal. I watch, fascinated, as the delicate little craft skims away into the sunrise, the oars dipping in perfect unison. The tips scarcely seem to touch the water, grazing it like birds' wings.


I pull the clean salt breeze deep into my lungs and let it out with a sigh. A few more rowers are moving around and I realize I'm going to be in the way, so I head back inside and wait for a moment until my eyes adjust to the dimness.


The floors and walls are dark with years of varnish and smell like the inside of a cigar box. Shelves of trophies and framed pictures line the walls, and I walk slowly along, seeing faces in handlebar mustaches and sideburns from the turn of the last century, followed by groups of stern young men lined up on the same dock I saw outside. Row on row, decade after decade, dim black and white prints changing to color for the last fifteen years or so, and I realize with a little lump in my throat how many of these boys never came home.


For no reason at all, my eye catches and holds on one photograph. Clear handwriting across the mat beneath the dusty glass reads, "Head of the Charles, Championship Eight, October 1983." Eight young men and the female coxwain stand behind their shell, which is lying on a dock with a big silver trophy poised in front. They are wearing Naval Academy shirts, holding their oars vertically, and each boy is broad shouldered and grinning proudly.


I'd know the smile on the guy on the left anywhere. It's Harm.


Something twists inside as I realize how young he was -- what, maybe nineteen? The face and the tall figure are more slender than I recall, but the shoulders are already there. I stare at his face, at once so familiar and so touchingly young. I fancy I see a maturity, a strength of character in Harm's face that is not yet present in his teammates.


"Can I help you?" A man's voice startles me from my hypnotized focus on the photograph.


"No, thanks, master chief," I smile into the lean tanned face of the tough looking man standing before me. His insignia is on his ball cap, and suddenly I realize I must look like a gawking tourist. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie," I tell him.


"Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am. We get a lot of civilians wandering in here," he says. "You interested in the pictures?"


"I -- I know someone in this one," I tell him. "Commander Rabb. We serve together in the JAG Corps."


His face splits into a friendly grin. "You know Rabb? Damn, how's he doin'? I heard he'd become a damn Jag after that Tomcat crash, goddamn shame. Not the lawyer part, of course," he adds hastily. "No offense, ma'am."


"None taken, master chief," I laugh. "I'm sure he agrees with you. And he still flies whenever they let him."


"Yeah, I heard about those two DFCs," he snorted. "Well, Rabb always did have more guts than brains."


"I'll tell him you said so," I smile.


"You tell him Master Chief Bledsoe said so," he says with a glint in his eye. "Tell Rabb to come back and see me sometime. I'll put him on the ergometer and we'll see what kind of shape he's in." He shakes his head. "Damn Rabb. One of the best I ever coached. Don't tell him that," he glares at me fiercely.


"Don't worry, his ego is still aviator-size," I promise. "Nice to meet you, Master Chief."


"And you, ma'am. You just here visiting?"


"No, I'm teaching a couple of courses for Captain Hastings."


Bledsoe scowls again, and I can't tell if he's mad or if squinting is all he can do after a lifetime on the water. "Damn Marines," he mutters. "At least they're making them better looking, ma'am." Now I catch the twinkle.


"I'll tell Hastings you said so," I answer sweetly, and wave as I leave.


* * *


"Colonel Mackenzie!"


A woman is standing at the top of the marble steps as I come out of the library into the portico. She raises her hand in a quick wave, and I walk over to join her.


"Mrs. Benson," I greet her with a smile. "Thank you again for last night. I had a lovely time."


The admiral's wife stands tall and erect, with silver hair caught in a French twist. She gives me a warm smile and extends a long slim hand. Her handshake is surprisingly firm, evidence of a lifetime of official functions.


"It's a pleasure to have you with us, Colonel," she says now. "Even if you're here only two days a week. I hear that the UCMJ survey course has never been so popular."


"Well, the fact that it's a requirement has a lot to do with it," I grin.


"I suspect it's you, my dear," she replies.


"The midshipmen don't see a lot of female officers," I point out. "And my seminar students are a terrific group. I'm having a hard time staying a step ahead."


"It must be quite a change from JAG division headquarters. It sounds like you're enjoying it, though."


"It's wonderful," I say, and realize with a sense of surprise that it's true. "I love the feeling that I'm doing something positive, instead of just trying to resolve problems."


"You're a fine litigator, I hear."


"I hope so, ma'am. It's very challenging, and I love working for Admiral Chegwidden."


"Oh yes, A.J. Please tell him hello. We haven't seen him here for Alumni Week in a while."


As we stand together in the shadow of the tall pillars, a group of officers in the quad below catches my attention. Admiral Benson, the Academy superintendent, is there, and Captain Hildebrandt, the academic dean. They are talking intently with a tall, broad shouldered commander who has his back to us, but it's a back I could pick out of any crowd, anywhere.


"Excuse me?" With a start, I realize that Helen Benson is waiting for a reply. "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear you," I apologize in confusion, but I'm still distracted. With a quick salute, the commander turns and looks straight at me. I'm so astonished I just stand there as he flashes me that dazzling grin and strides up the steps toward us. In his immaculately tailored dress blues and ribbons, he is a dominant presence even here, among men trained to command.


Mrs. Benson fixes me with a sharp stare, then follows my gaze. "Never mind, dear," she says with amusement in her voice.


Harm comes to attention before us, looking dapper and impossibly handsome. "Colonel," he greets me. "Ma'am."


Somehow I hear myself saying, "Helen Benson, may I introduce Commander Harmon Rabb? Harm, this is Mrs. Benson, Admiral Benson's wife."


He takes her extended hand. "It's nice to see you again, ma'am," he says with a courteous bow.


"Mr. Rabb," she greets him. "I didn't realize this was one of your weekends."


"It's not, ma'am," he looks down at her with a smile. "But one of my guys called. I've been away on assignment, and I thought I'd better stop by while I had the chance."


"You know each other?" I try to cover my surprise. And what "guys?" Admiral Benson has been head of the Academy for five or six years, so he and his wife couldn't remember Harm as a midshipman. Helen Benson is smiling back at him, and I feel a fleeting spasm of irritation. Is there a woman drawing breath on the planet that he can't charm?


"Commander Rabb is head of our Officer Mentoring Program," Helen tells me. "He spends a weekend or two here every month, don't you?"


"Unless I'm overseas, ma'am," Harm answers.


"You've got quite a group working on it now, isn't it up to twenty or twenty-five?"


"Mostly from my class, ma'am. We need some of the younger men."


"Oh, I don't know. I think there's something to be said for maturity," Helen smiles.


Harm puts his hand over his heart. "That's the first time anyone has ever called us mature, ma'am. Please, we have a reputation to protect. Excuse me -- yes?" A blond crewcut midshipman who doesn't look old enough to shave is hovering respectfully at Harm's elbow, and he turns away for a moment to speak to the boy.


Helen laughs pleasantly. "Speaking of maturity, I see Harvey getting impatient -- I can't keep the Admiral waiting. Colonel, it was lovely to see you and the Commander." As she turns, she fixes me with a bright glance. "So that's the man," she whispers.


At my bewildered expression, she simply shakes her elegant head. "Sarah, dear. When a woman like you is still unattached, there is invariably a reason."


With that, Helen Benson descends the marble steps to join her husband without a backward glance. I'm left staring after her rather vacantly, the thin early spring sunshine warm across my shoulders. After a moment, Harm returns the midshipman's crisp salute and turns back to me.


"Officer Mentoring Program?" I inquire, eyebrows raised.


"Mac." He's looking down at me, his eyes warm. "I started to tell you about it the other night, and we got sidetracked. I didn't know I was coming up today, or I would have mentioned it."


"You don't have to explain, Harm. But what's this program all about?"


He crosses his arms and looks out over the quad, where midshipmen in their dark uniforms are hurrying to and fro. Then he shrugs a little. "Midshipmen who request it are assigned an Academy graduate as a mentor. It's pretty informal -- you visit once a month or so, take them out to eat, listen to them. It's just a chance to talk to someone who knows the ropes, without having to worry about grades and protocol. It's kind of a safety valve, too. These kids are under a hell of a lot of pressure to excel, and sometimes you just need somebody to help put it in perspective."


"Like when they think they don't have the right stuff and go UA?" I ask, remembering Keeter.


He looks down at me with a twinkle. "Exactly like that." I feel him watching me. "Mac? What is it?"


"I had no idea you were doing anything like this, Harm. It's wonderful." With a pang, I realize just how much I've missed in the past two years.


Harm's eyes are clear and changeable as the sea, framed by those gorgeous black lashes with the faint melancholy slant at the outer corners. Now, as I finally look up, I am startled to see tenderness there. He arches an eyebrow.


"What, you think all I do on weekends is fool around with my car and my plane?"


"You left out blondes." I try to sound stern.


Now his expression is simmering with secret amusement. "You planning to bust my chops for the rest of our lives?"


"Probably."


"What, you never pictured me as a role model?"


"And which role did you have in mind? Outstanding midshipman, or overgrown juvenile delinquent who was too smart to get caught?"


"Whatever you may have inferred from Sturgis about our undergraduate career, the statute of limitations has expired."


"That's what he said, too."


"Yeah? And just what else did Commander Bigmouth tell you?"


"He didn't, damn it."


"Thank God. I wouldn't want to be the one to besmirch his otherwise exemplary record."


"Does that mean you'd squeal?"


"Absolutely."


I laugh at that, and together we start down the steps. Our shadows run before us, intertwined.


* * *


Damn, she looks great.


She walks down those wide stone steps with her usual unconscious grace, her gorgeous long legs and those trim, hard ankles flashing along in heels that bring the top of her head up to my chin. Heads turn discretely to watch her, and I feel my heart swell with unabashed male pride.


"Damn, you're the best thing to happen to this place in years," I tell her.


"Because I'm female, or because I'm a Marine?"


"Because of the way you look in that uniform." I'm on thin ice here, but I figure she won't try to hurt me in the middle of the quad. "I mean come on, Mac, a midshipman's uniform makes most of these girls look like fullbacks."


"And that's bad because?" she starts to get all ruffled up, then stops and gives me a look. "Nice try, commander. It's just too much fun to pull my chain, is that it?"


"Why would you think that, Mac?" I sidestep airily, then reverse field. "Anyway, how do you like Mrs. Benson? She's an original, isn't she?"


"Actually, she reminds me of Maddie," she says.


"Who's Maddie?"


Mac doesn't reply right away. We're walking slowly along the walk toward the chapel, and she takes her time picking her way across a line of cobblestones. It must be tricky in those pumps.


"Maddie was *my* mentor," she says at last. I know by the softness of her tone that this is important. "She was a professor of French literature at Minnesota, and she kind of took me under her wing. I used to go over to her home for tea in the afternoons, and we became friends."


After a moment, Mac continues, "I still don't know why she took such an interest, but she absolutely changed my life. She taught me how to dress, how to speak, how to behave. I mean, I was this gawky 18-year-old who had grown up chewing gum and riding motorcycles. I was trying to get my B.A. in a three-year program, and my idea of a fancy party was when the beer is served in a glass. Maddie changed all that -- I used to call her Professor Higgins, and she called me Eliza."


"She must be quite a lady."


"She used to say that a lady wasn't someone who was rich, or who had the nicest things -- a lady was someone who knew how to put people at ease in any situation. She was the most elegant person I've ever known, and she had absolutely no patience with pretensions."


I have occasionally wondered how Mac overcame her background. Her parents went three for three with abuse, alcoholism, and abandonment, and as far as I know, neither of them had any education beyond high school. Yet Mac herself has grace and poise that seem bred in the bone.


"Do you still stay in touch with Maddie?" I figure I should at least have heard of her before now. And then I remember that I just got around to telling Mac about one of the important chunks of my early life a couple of nights ago.


Mac's eyes are somber. "She died a couple of years ago." It must have happened when I was pulling sea duty with the squadron on the Patrick Henry. That was just a few months after Mac's father died and her mother showed up -- and I wasn't there for her that time, either. I feel a stab of something more complicated than guilt, and all too familiar.


"So now you're doing it for Chloe," I tell her. "I bet Maddie would like knowing that, Mac."


"I do it for me, Harm. Because I care about her."


"I'd say it's mutual," I tell her. "Now, what do you have on your dance card for this afternoon?"


"I was hoping you'd buy me lunch before I drive back to D.C."


"Sorry, I'm booked. I'm taking one of my guys for lunch, he needs to tell me why he's flunking electrical engineering. But a bunch of us are playing rugby this afternoon, the mids against the officers. Wanna come cheer for us?"


"Do I have to bring bandages?"


"Nah, we like to bleed. Can you stay for the tap afterwards?"


"Doesn't that involve large quantities of beer and lots of drunken singing? Where few women emerge unscathed?"


"If anybody tries any scathing, my money's on you, Mac."


* * *

Feeling a little like an undergraduate in my jeans and turtleneck, I find a seat on the first tier of bleachers and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my fleece-lined jacket. It's a beautiful sunny afternoon, but the breeze is cold, and clouds are beginning to blow in from the bay.


There's a small group of fans in the cheering section, mostly girlfriends and wives, I guess. Two or three older men are standing around a big plastic barrel of Gatorade, kibitzing -- they're probably senior officers, judging by their military haircuts and posture.


The players are milling around in groups of two and three, talking and taking practice kicks. The mids are wearing navy blue Academy shirts, the officers are wearing grey ones, and everybody is wearing shorts and knee socks despite the cold. It would look like a soccer game except for the brown football. I see Harm standing with a bunch of other guys, talking. He sees me and waves, and I wave back.


Rugby is a wild cross between football and soccer, where perfectly nice men turn into Mongolian hoards. They throw passes and punches, tackle and kick the ball, each other, whatever. Instead of a line of scrimmage, they all get into something called a scrum, which is really just a gigantic shoving match until somebody breaks free and starts to run or throws the ball. After that it's just pure testosterone, no holds barred. The players don't always remember to stop running and you can get trampled if you're on the sidelines. I love it.


Eventually somebody blows a whistle and they're off. It's easy to follow Harm because he's so tall, but a lot of these guys are enormous and pretty soon they're all covered with mud. Waves of players surge up and down the field, seemingly at random, and I get a secret rush out of their ferocity. I can't tell who's winning, but at one point Harm jumps high to catch a pass and is immediately crunched between two behemoths. I wince, and see Harm slug one with his elbow as he pitches the ball to a teammate. Then he's buried beneath a pile of bodies as play surges past.


After a while the officers score, and someone calls time out. I've been screaming myself hoarse, so I amble over to the beverage table behind the stands to get the biggest cup of coffee I can find.


"Hey, Mac!" Harm's calling to me from a crowd gathered around the Gatorade, and I head over. As he stands there, breathing hard, the only spot on him that's not muddy is his smile.


I peer closely and inquire, "Do I know you, sailor?" Surreptitiously I lean closer to catch the warm scent of clean male sweat.


"You ought to feel right at home, Marine," he reaches out and puts a smudge of mud on the tip of my nose, and we laugh. His hair is sticking up in spikes, he has a blue bruise on his cheekbone, and he's bleeding from a scratch on his forehead. He looks magnificent.


Harm is holding a big paper cup, and he throws his head back and chugs the whole thing. Some of the drink runs down his neck, mingling with his sweat, and I watch, mesmerized by the sight of the powerful muscles working in his throat. Finished, he crumples the cup in his fist and flips it into the trash basket.


"Let's go, guys," somebody yells, and a hoarse shout goes up from a dozen male throats as they all go trotting back onto the field.


"Kick ass," I tell him, and he grins and sketches a salute. Thoughtfully I admire his ass in those tight shorts as he runs.


I'm standing at the end of the block of bleachers, watching the field, and at first I don't pay attention to two grey-haired officers who remain at the beverage table. With all the noise of the game, you'd think their voices wouldn't carry, but some trick of echoes beneath the stands throws the sound to me.


"So who's the brunette with the chest?" I'm not listening, but the reply brings me to attention.


"That's Mackenzie, the Marine."


"Jesus, you're kidding. She's filling in for Hastings?"


"Yeah. She's a trial lawyer, chief of staff for Chegwidden."


"No kidding. "Think he's fucking her?"


"Ah, you never know with A.J. If he isn't he's crazy."


"Well, if she's a Marine, God help us in Afghanistan. Who's that she's with?"


"That's Rabb, he runs the mentoring program for us. He's a JAG too."


The answering snort of derision is drowned in a cheer from the stands. I stand there frozen, holding onto my temper with a tight leash. I recognize them now, they're both senior captains on the faculty. If I confront them, I'll win the battle but I'll lose the war. God damn it.


Shaking with fury, I climb back into the stands and pull my jacket tighter around me, crossing my arms over my breasts. Two stiff, angry tears are clinging to my eyelashes, stinging, and I brush at them angrily.


It's not me, I think desperately. They can't hurt me, it's not my fault. They're jerks and they'll always be jerks. What makes me so goddamn angry is thinking what guys like this can do to decent officers, like the Admiral and Harm, who give women an even break. I've had to take my share of grief in the service, like any woman, but I've always known I could handle it. I'm not sure I can handle it when it's directed at men I admire.


And Harm -- my God, all the crap he has probably had to take over the years, just for being my partner. Abruptly it becomes clear just how much he has protected me. And how difficult and unfair it would be if we ever did get involved. Complicated, indeed.


"Shit," I mutter to myself. "Shit."


And what about the female midshipmen here at the Academy? How much does it affect them, the hidden hostility they still encounter every day?


I take a deep breath and make myself a promise. Looks like I'll be getting involved in Harm's mentoring program, after all.


* * *


2330 Zulu (6:30 p.m. EST)

Visiting Officers Quarters (VOQ)

U.S. Naval Academy


Mac answers the knock on her door almost before I drop my hand.


"Hi," I say with what I hope is a charming grin. It's a little difficult with the cut on my lip.


She stands there, considering me. "It's alive," she finally decides.


"Jesus, Mac, give me some credit. A victorious warrior stands before you," I tell her. "Go easy on me."


The skeptical gleam in her eye is replaced by concern. "You're bleeding," she says, and lifts a gentle hand to my face.


"It's nothing," I pull my head away impatiently. "Just a scratch." She grabs my wrist and pulls me inside, and I suppress a hiss as her hand brushes my raw, scraped knuckles.


"Rabb, you are a mess," she pronounces in a matter-of-fact tone. She goes over to the dresser and quickly scoops a couple of ice cubes into a wash cloth, then dips it in a little water before turning back to me. "Sit," she commands, and I drop onto the sagging cot. For a moment I have a perfect mental picture of Mac keeping a whole family of teenagers in line, and grin to myself.


"Ow!" I try to jerk back as she presses the ice carefully against the mouse under my eye.


"Hold still, Harm. I'm going to get the first aid box from the bathroom. Don't you dare move off that bed."


"I've been waiting for you to say that," I call after her as the door swings shut. I know she heard me.


I lean my elbow on the back of the hard wooden chair and glance around. Apparently the VOQ treats women officers just as lousy as the men. Besides the bed where I'm parked, the tiny featureless room has a scarred wooden desk, a chair, a chest of drawers, and a single overhead light bulb that fills the small uncarpeted room with a harsh glare. It reminds me of every dorm room I have ever seen. Oh well, it's convenient, and the price is right.


Mac returns and rummages around in the white tin box with the red cross on top. While I was sluicing off the mud after the game, she changed into a pair of slim black pants and a thin white cashmere sweater that gives a whole new meaning to the term Sweater Girl. I just lean there, holding the ice to my face and appreciating the heart shaped curve of her ass.


She moves closer, positioning her knees on either side of my leg, and my breath catches as she lifts my right hand and sprays it with something cool. I watch as she wraps the knuckles in white gauze, her fingers light and quick. Then without any warning, she raises my hand to her lips and brushes a light kiss across my fingers. I forget what I was going to say. The amazing thing is, it really does stop hurting.


"Tell me the other guy looks worse," she murmurs, stroking my hair back from the bruise on my forehead. I am rapidly losing track of the conversation.


"Yeah," I manage.


"You beat the shit out of him?" she whispers.


"He'll be lucky to survive."


She leans closer, and a shadow of cleavage is barely visible at the neckline of her sweater. The scent rising from it is heady and sweet. I wonder what she would do if I just pressed my mouth --


"OW!"


"Oh, hold still, don't be such a baby. I was trying to see if you need stitches for this, but it's just a scratch."


"It feels like the Grand Canyon," I wince as her gentle fingers press a pad of gauze against my hairline.


"Scalp wounds bleed like crazy, but this is slowing down," she says. "Hold still now." She cradles my cheek in one cool hand while she dabs antibiotic cream carefully onto my forehead. Without thinking, I rest my hand on the curve of her hip, and I hear her breath quicken.


She's standing so close, I can feel her warmth on my face. Her lipstick is that soft shade of rose I love, and my hand tightens on her waist as I lean in --


"Not so fast, squid," she's laughing at me, her hands on my shoulders, and her eyes are bright. For one heartbeat we both hesitate, and then Mac gives a self-conscious little flip to her hair and turns away to clean up the first aid box.


"So, did you win enough on the game to buy me dinner?" she asks nonchalantly.


"Wagering for money? With underage midshipmen? Surely you're mistaken, ma'am," I reply. She picks up a jacket and slides into it, and I stand up with a groan.


"You okay?" she gives me a quick, worried glance that warms my heart. I try to straighten up without wincing.


"Nothing a handful of Advil won't cure," I tell her as I hold the door.


"You're limping," she says, and slips her hand into the crook of my elbow.


"Ah, it's okay. That knee I tore up last spring stiffens up sometimes."


She's quiet as we go downstairs and turn to walk across the campus. After a minute I look down, then stop and bend to see her face. She won't meet my eyes.


"Mac? What is it?" I cup my hand over her cheek.


Her lips tighten, and then she says, "It just brings it all back, that terrible night when I didn't know if you were going to be okay or not."


"Mac, that's ancient history" --

"I came by the hospital," she says, low and fast. "Later, after that idiotic visit when everybody was crowding in" --


"Mac" -- I stop, because she's not listening.


"That first night, I came back around ten. I told Mic I was going for a drive. You were asleep. I waited for an hour." Angrily she brushes at her eyes. "Then I tried again the next night, after work, and Renee was there. I didn't stay, I just left."


"She never mentioned it," I tell her. Goddamn Renee.


"I should have been there for you."


"And I should have talked to you."


"I didn't make it easy," she mutters, looking at the ground.


"No, you didn't."


"You don't have to agree with me so fast," she says, and a corner of her mouth kicks up.


"Jeez, I can't win," I smile at her. We stand there, and I reach out and cradle her face in both hands. "Mac, I never meant to hurt you," I say.


"I know." Her hands come up and cover mine.


"Do you still miss him?" I blurt out. Shit.


"What?" She looks genuinely bewildered, and then she understands and shakes her head. Thank God, I don't have to explain.


"No, Harm," she tells me. "At some point, I realized I don't miss him at all. How pathetic is that?"


"You gave away your ring."


"It was getting pretty heavy to carry around." Her gaze is clear and untroubled.


I feel like a hundred pounds just slid off my shoulders. Judging by Mac's expression, she does too.


We stand there in the moonlight, beneath the soaring dome of the Academy chapel, and after a minute I slide my arms around her and pull her close. Her head rests against my chest, and her arms go around my waist as she gives a little sigh.


"At least you lost the love handles," she mumbles.


"Hey, you try sitting around for six weeks with no running and no exercise," I protest. "It took me six months to get back in shape."


She gives me a final hug, then steps back, and now she's grinning. "Who says you're in shape?"


"Any time, anywhere, Marine."


We start down the walk, and she takes the hand that I conveniently make available. "So where are we going for this party, anyway?" she asks. "Am I going to get anything to eat?"


* * *


2400 Zulu (7 p.m. EST)

The Captain's Pub

Annapolis, Maryland


We pull open the inner door and find ourselves in a crowded bar filled with noise and people packed in elbow to elbow. It's one of those wonderful old places on the harbor that have looked the same for a hundred years, all dark polished wood and tin ceilings and ship models.


"Where's the party?" I call over the din.


Harm is scanning over the heads of the crowd -- sometimes it's awfully convenient to be tall. "This way," he shouts in my ear, and rests his hand in the small of my back to guide me through an archway into a room filled with tables and more people. Somebody raises a hand, and we head that way.


"Harm!" A trim tanned man with a grey crewcut is standing to greet us, grinning at Harm and shaking his hand. "Thought you weren't going to make it, buddy."


"Took awhile to apply battlefield dressings," Harm replies. "Commander Brent Hanover, Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie."


My hand is seized in a crushing grip, and I'm glad I am a Marine and know how to squeeze back. "Sarah, a pleasure," Hanover says. "You a JAG too?"


"Yes" --


"They let Brent drive a cruiser in the Med," Harm bellows in my ear and turns to shake someone else's hand. Hanover gestures to the table where he was sitting.


"Sarah, my wife Karen. That's Bill Barrett and Jana, and that's Patrick McKelvey and his wife Amy."


I nod and smile and try to keep at least first names straight as I slide into one of the heavy wooden captain's chairs. These kinds of occasions with too many strangers tend to bring out all my innate shyness, even when I'm not coping with Harm and the way he keeps knocking me off balance.


Harm gets pulled away to the next table, which also seems to be filled with people he knows. The room is so noisy it's hard to hear the person next to you, and I look around with a vague smile plastered on my face, casually avoiding eye contact.


"So, Sarah," Amy McKelvey leans forward, giving me the once-over. "How do you know Harm?" She has an avid gleam in her eye. Something tells me Harm has been a topic of conversation in this crowd before.


"We work together," I tell her. She's much younger than Patrick and extremely pregnant, maybe a second wife.


"Oh. You're at JAG too?"


"Yes, I'm chief of staff."


She's eyeing me dubiously, trying to size me up. "Oh, you're in charge of all the secretaries! That must be a big job."


I keep a straight face and say pleasantly, "No, I'm a lieutenant colonel. I'm a litigator."


"Oh." She seems confused, and I turn to the woman on my right, Karen -- Karen Hanover, that's it. She seems to be around her husband's age, with a sensible face and short, graying hair. She meets my eyes with a small twinkle.


I ask, "Are all of your husbands from the Class of '85? Do you come back for these weekends often?"


"Only when Brent's in port," Karen tells me. "That hasn't coincided with a rugby game in awhile."


Jana leans over and says archly, "Harm's never brought a girl before." She's fair and plump and her blonde hair is one of those stupid Muffy pageboy jobs that probably hasn't changed since she was in high school.


I look her in the eye and say, "I teach here on Fridays and Saturdays. We just ran into each other."


Amy leans across, squashing Karen. "Oh tell the truth, Sarah. He is totally hot. How long have you two been seeing each other?"


What is it with women? You haven't known them five minutes and they're playing twenty questions. For a moment I have a vivid mental picture of Carolyn Imes and her insinuating interrogations. I plaster a noncommittal smile on my face and wait it out.


Amy isn't easily deterred. "Do you have kids?"


Does she mean with Harm? I take a firm hold on my temper. "No, I don't." I'm about to ask when hers is due, hoping to change the subject once and for all, when Harm mercifully returns. He drops into the chair beside me and hands me a large Coke.


"So, Harm," Jana smirks, "you finally brought a girl along."


Harm's eyebrows go up a fraction. "Girl? That's funny, all I see here is a bunch of gorgeous women," he says cheerfully, and smiles at me. At ease, Marine, his eyes telegraph. Not a problem, I smile back.


"Hey, Harm," Patrick yells down the table. "The mids want to buy us a beer downstairs."


"To the victors belong the spoils," Harm grins, and slides his chair back. "If you'll excuse us, ladies?"


"What's all that about?" I ask when they're gone.


"Oh, the kids gather in the basement where they can get rowdy," Amy shrugs. "The losers always buy the winners a beer."


"So, have all of you been getting together like this for a long time?" I ask brightly.


"Oh yeah, but the people change, depending on who's stateside at the time. Bill and I get transferred every three years. We just got back to the Pentagon in November."


"At least he wasn't there in September," I say.


Karen leans in for the first time. "I know," she says quietly. "We all knew people, of course. God, I was never so glad Brent was deployed."


"It must be difficult when you have children," I say.


"Honey, you can't imagine," Jana drawls. "Bill's an aviator, and those boys show up once every six months. They knock you up, then they're gone. It's like being a single mom."


"Do you have a job, too?" I ask hesitantly. "I mean, I know being a mom is already a full time job."


Jana shakes her head. "No way, Jose. Not with three kids under twelve."


"I do," Karen says. "Our kids are teenagers, and college is coming up. I went back to work when the youngest started junior high."


"What do you do?"


"I'm a human resources manager for a company in D.C."


"It must be hard when Brent is away so much."


She gives a rueful little smile. "The hardest thing is figuring out how to be a couple again when he comes home," she says. "I mean, most of the time I'm in charge. Then for a couple of months the commander is around. He's used to telling everyone around him to jump and having them say, 'How high?'" Everyone laughs.


"How do you manage when he's reassigned?" I ask curiously. "You can't just take a job like yours with you."


"No, it's difficult," Karen says. "I'm lucky, the corporation I'm with has offices all over the world, but some duty stations aren't anywhere nearby. The last time, when Brent was reassigned from the Pacific to the Med, the kids and I stayed in California. We just moved to D.C. in January. How long have you been in Washington, Sarah?"


"Six years."


"Harm's been there a long time, too, hasn't he?"


"Yes, but it's a little different for litigators, we're based in D.C. but we travel at least half the time. Still, I guess we'll each have to take an overseas tour somewhere pretty soon if we're going to stay on the promotion track."


"It must be easier when you're not married," she says.


There's nothing to reply to that, so I just sip on my straw. When it comes to Harm and me and the implications of our military careers, I have always tried to avoid thinking about the inevitable.


"Well hey, what are a bunch of good lookin' wimmin like you doin' here all alone, sweet thang?" Bill grabs Jana and leans around to kiss her. The rest of the men pull out chairs and Patrick starts yelling for a waitress over the din.


"How was the toast?" I inquire. Harm just grins at me.


"Always good to remind them who's boss. What are we eating?" Someone hands menus around and I relax until I hear Jana's cloying southern drawl.


"So Harm, how long have you and Sarah been dating?" I catch the glance from Karen, the quick shake of the head. But Harm is unfazed.


"About five minutes, isn't it, colonel?"


"About," I say.


"Isn't that against the rules or something?" Amy asks ingenuously. "I mean, I thought you couldn't date if you're in the same command."


Patrick gives her a look. "Only if Harm were the senior officer, honey," he says with a warning note in his voice.


"But I thought couples couldn't serve together."


"That's why you're not a Marine, right baby?" He grabs her around the shoulders and gives her a big kiss, and everybody laughs.


I'm still trying to swallow that remark about being a couple when Harm catches my eye, and I feel myself flush. God damn it. Then someone, thank God, says something and the conversation takes another turn. After a minute I get myself together and tune into what Brent's saying to Harm.


" . . . haven't had leave in fourteen months, and lucky to get back for a couple of weeks to help Karen move."


"You're going back to the Hightower?"


"Yeah. You'll see, man, we're going to be fighting this thing on two fronts soon."


Harm is listening with that particular intensity he brings to everything he does, and I just watch. "Maybe three fronts," he's following up on Brent's comment. "Indonesia" --


"Hey, Hormone," Bill Barrett yells, flourishing his beer mug. "Let's drink to aviators. All the rest of 'em are just a bunch of pussies." I feel myself start to tense up, the way I always do when I'm around a drunk, but Harm simply raises his Coke and clinks it with Bill's glass.


"Hey, what's that shit, get this guy a beer" -- Bill starts to bluster, but Harm holds his hand up as the pitcher comes his way and turns back to Brent. I notice Barrett scowling as he listens.


"Aw hell," he interjects suddenly, "We could take care of this whole damn thing if they'd just get some balls for about five minutes and let us knock out those goddamn camel jockeys. We had that fucking Mullah Omar Whassisname in our damn sights, and instead of bombing the hell out of them, some pansy from the Point sends in a battalion of Rangers, and they go in there and get their asses kicked -- what a total goat fuck."


Brent is frowning, and Harm cuts a sharp glance across the table. "Not here, Bill," he tells him quietly. "Not now."


Barrett leans back, offended. "Oh, pardon me, *commander.* I forgot we had one of the JAGs from division here. The same guys who called off the air strikes last month." His face is getting red and his eyes glassy. His wife is busy shrieking with laughter at the other end of the table. So far the others aren't listening, and Bill isn't finished.


"You gave up flying again, didn't you, Harm? What, was the front seat of an F-14 just too small for a big guy like you? Not as nice as polishing your shoes on all that deep Washington carpet? Or maybe it got a little too real after that swim you took last summer?"


There's an acrid taste in my mouth and everything is a little too sharp and clear. I hear my own voice from a distance. "The people who gave him two DFCs didn't seem to think so."


Barrett's sweaty face flushes an ugly red. Without taking his pale little eyes from Harm, he sneers, "Well, well. It must be nice having your very own Marine guard watching your ass."


I'm about to come up with some ill-advised annihilating retort when I feel Harm's hand close over mine beneath the table. When he speaks, his voice is unperturbed, but the steel is there, like a sword in a scabbard.


"Bill, there are days I'd give anything to be back in a squadron. But walls have ears around here, you know? Anyway, this is supposed to be a celebration." Harm raises his glass, and Brent and Patrick follow suit. Sullenly, Bill complies. Harm turns to Patrick with some question about the Pentagon reconstruction and Brent thankfully joins in.


I take a deep breath and am glad to feel Harm give my fingers another gentle squeeze beneath the table. He's listening to his friends, not looking at me, but the reassuring connection is there, running between us like a strong current. I watch him, thinking that without uttering a word, his intelligence and humor and sheer potent force are overwhelming. I wonder how anyone could ever hope to overshadow this man.


* * *


It's a boisterous crowd, and the noise level is escalating with every pitcher of beer. I see Mac smiling and laughing with the rest, but she's only picking at her burger and I can tell she's making an effort. When Patrick starts telling some long, involved shaggy dog story, I turn to her and close my hand over her wrist. "Dance?"


She looks at me with a little flush of pleased surprise, then pushes her chair back and rises gracefully. I turn my shoulder to shield her from the nudge Jana gives Amy, and steer Mac to the crowded little dance floor by the jukebox. It's playing something slow and pretty, and I hold out my arms and she steps into them.


It always surprises me when Mac wears flat shoes -- her head comes just to my shoulder. She seems so small and fragile as I slide my hand against the small of her back and feel the sweet slender curve of her waist. For just a second I let my mind flash back to a cool spring night, the rustle of her silk dress, the smoothness of her skin . . .


It's too crowded to move much and we just stand there, rocking in time to the music. After a minute, Mac tilts her head up.


"I'm sorry I lost my temper with your friend, Harm."


"Oh, Barrett's always been a bit of a jerk, but he's okay. He hasn't made commander yet, and he has zero hope of ever getting an air group. He'll probably retire when his twenty is up, and end up flying a desk at Boeing. Besides," I grin at her, "he nearly had to take on a pissed off Marine. I was afraid you were going to go over the table after him, and I'd have to back you up."


"Marines take care of their own," she says with a glint in her eye that tells me Barrett was luckier than he knows, and my heart expands at the compliment. Somehow, knowing that she doesn't realize how it sounded makes it even better. Then I see her eyebrow go up. "Hormone?" Great. I was cherishing hopes she missed it.


"Mac, please, I used to beat up guys who called me that." She laughs, and I'm slightly relieved that she has decided to let me off the hook. Without thinking, I pull her a little closer and rest my cheek against her silky hair.


I murmur into her ear, "You know, this is the first time we've ever actually gone out. On a date, I mean."


"And how do you figure that one?" Her voice is warm and low.


"Well, we're not on assignment. It's not work related, and I don't see any of our colleagues here, for once."


"And that's a good thing?" The question is oddly tentative.


I pull back enough to see her face. "Yes," I murmur. Her eyes are full of questions she won't ask. I tighten my arms and feel her sway toward me. The tips of her breasts brush my chest, and instantly her pupils dilate until her eyes look black.


At some point we must have stopped dancing. We're standing here in the middle of the crowd, and it feels like we're all alone. Mac is staring at me with those big eyes that seem to see all the way inside me, and I feel her touch flash through my body.


"Harm." She barely whispers it, but I hear her over the music and laughter and noise.


"Come on," I say a little roughly, and turn her back toward our table.


Thank God, the party is breaking up and we don't have to make an obvious escape. I throw some bills onto the pile, Brent announces that we're all even, and then everybody is shrugging into coats and shaking hands. I hold Mac's jacket for her, smooth it across her shoulders, and put my arm around her to guide her through the crowd to the door.


Then we're out on the street, our breath smoking in the chill off the bay as we head back, and Mac slips her hand into mine. With most women I have to shorten my stride to walk side by side, but Mac matches my pace easily. Just like always. We walk in a sort of charged silence that neither one of us seems ready to break.


We're nearly back to the VOQ when she says, "You want to go running tomorrow? Oh-six hundred?"


Every sore muscle in my body protests. "Sure," I answer, "sounds good." I clear my throat. "Look, Mac, neither one of us has had a weekend off in awhile. How would you like to take a boat out tomorrow, sail down the bay? We could drive back tomorrow night."


Her eyes are shining. "You mean on a sailboat?"


"Well, yeah. I am a sailor, after all."


"I've never been on a sailboat." Suddenly she gives me one of those brilliant smiles, the first genuine "Mac" smile of the evening, and it gives me a rush of pleasure that something so simple could make her so happy.


"So, you want to try it?"


"When do we leave?" For a smile like that, I'd charter the Queen Mary.


I hear myself saying, "We can get some breakfast down by the harbor and rent the boat, and take off around nine."


"I can't wait."


I pull her to a stop outside the VOQ doorway and take her face in my hands. "I can't wait anymore either," I mutter, and I lean down and kiss her.


Like strawberries in summer sunshine . . . . I slide my hands into her hair and pull her close, closer, feeling her yielding even through our layers of clothing . . . .


Then she's leaning against me, her breath warm on my face and her eyes soft and blurry, and her hands come up and pull my head down for another kiss, harder, more intense than before. God, does she know how to kiss . . . . And somehow her mouth is open and we're tasting each other and her lips are so soft as they move against mine. I'm vaguely aware that I'm crushing her against me, and "I'm hurting you," I gasp, and try to lean back. "No," she says, low in her throat, and I feel her hands unbuttoning my coat, sliding inside, around my waist and up my back. Then her coat is open too and I'm leaning against the rough brick wall at my back, and I spread my legs and bend my knees to bring our faces level as I press her against me.


Her head drops back with a sharp intake of breath and her legs are trembling and the wall is the only thing holding us up.


After a long moment I pull her head against my shoulder, and we just stand there panting like a couple of teenagers. I am struggling for control, about one heartbeat away from crushing her up against the wall and doing it right here in this damn doorway. And then her mouth is moving over my face, soft and gentle, soothing and calming me, and I think there will never be anything as sweet as kissing Sarah Mackenzie in the moonlight.


At last we break apart and I rest my forehead against hers, eyes closed. "We can't do this here," I rasp out.


"I know," she whispers.


We lean against the wall, holding each other. After awhile Mac brushes a quick kiss on my chin and slips inside without a word, leaving me there with the cold seeping into my open jacket.


* * *


At 0515, I'm lacing up my running shoes when the tap comes on my door.


"Mac? You awake?"


I open the door and feel a corner of my mouth turn up. "Guess you couldn't sleep either."


Harm gives me a sheepish grin as he leans in my doorway, his hands shoved deep in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. He hasn't shaved yet. Clearly he didn't get any more rest than I did.


"Do you have any idea how many times I almost knocked on your door last night?" he asks. I'm startled to realize he's looking right at me, not gazing aimlessly around the way he does when he's embarrassed.


"Probably just about as many times as I did," I answer, not very coherently. Actually I lay awake for hours, keyed up and not at all sleepy, feeling my body humming with suppressed lust and my mind weirdly blank.


"Wanna go run?"


I grab my fleece jacket and follow him out. It's still dark and chilly, but the sky has that faint glimmer you get just before dawn. Without a word, we jog slowly down the street, shoulder to shoulder.


And we still haven't said more than a dozen words when we come to a halt fifty-two minutes later, back where we started on the sidewalk outside the VOQ. Harm leans over, panting, and I run the zipper up on my jacket and brush my sweaty hair off my forehead.


"Coffee in 30?" he gasps.


"Pancakes."


He grins, straightens up, and hooks his arm around my neck as he brushes a kiss on my forehead. "Wear plenty of warm clothes. It'll be cold on the water."


With that, he sprints up the steps and bangs the door. I follow and spend more time than I should in the shower, just leaning against the tiles as the water beats on me.


A couple of hours later, I am perched in the cockpit of a 30-foot sailboat as it rocks against the pier, watching Harm at work and trying to stay out of the way. A stiff breeze is blowing down the bay, with rank on rank of high grey clouds stacked like fish scales across the sky. I'm glad of the knit watch cap Harm tossed at me as I huddle into the yellow rain gear we rented along with the boat.


He's still not saying much. Harm is normally cheerful in the morning, but today he was quiet over breakfast in the busy little diner, drinking coffee and eating oatmeal while I picked at a stack of pancakes. Every now and then he'd look up and catch my eye and give me a quick smile. Once he reached out and squeezed my hand. But the silence stretched out, and every bite began to stick in my throat. I finally gave up and concentrated on coffee.


If this were any other man, we would have headed straight for the nearest Holiday Inn and spent today blissfully in bed. But for the moment, all of Harm's defenses are firmly back in place, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry or slug him.


So I just wait while he busies himself with getting underway. I sit where he tells me and hold the things he tells me to hold. Even in the depths of my frustration, I'm impressed by the competent way Harm moves around the big boat. He handles the confusing welter of rigging and equipment with easy confidence as he maneuvers us through the harbor, the small engine chugging quietly. As we clear the channel buoy, he raises the sails, and I feel the deck heel against the force of the wind as we shoulder into the first wave. Grateful for some relief from my swirling emotions, I lift my face to the salt spray and laugh with delight.


Harm is standing at the stainless steel wheel. In his ball cap and aviator shades, he looks like a skipper in the America's Cup. His grin answers my own.


"Like it?" He calls above the rush of the wind.


"I love it!" I shout back. A memory echoes in my mind, the two of us in his yellow Stearman the first time he took me flying. We scarcely knew each other back then, and I ended up trusting him with my life. Nothing in the intervening years has caused me to change my mind.


One thing I have learned though -- he cannot be pushed. So I leave him alone while I sit on the gunwale and lean out over the water, letting the roar of the wind and the fresh clean scent of the sea wash over me. Harm is holding the wheel, his long legs canted easily against the angle of the deck. Occasionally he looks up at the sails, but most of the time he's staring out over the water, totally focused, balancing the forces of the wind and the sea. It must be a little like flying. He is dependent on no one but himself, and I wonder if he feels safer that way.


Feeling vulnerable must seem scary to someone who has never allowed himself to lean.


After awhile I cautiously make my way to the narrow little steps that lead down into the cabin. "Head?" I call, pointing. Harm nods, and I climb down, holding onto the railing.


The ceiling is so low I have to duck, and Harm would need to bend double. It's dim in here, but I can make out a small galley with a hotplate and a tiny stainless steel sink. On either side of a central table, which is bolted to the floor, there are two narrow benches. I suppose they make up into bunks at night, but now they are covered with blue plaid upholstery that matches the dusty curtains over the port holes, or whatever you call the little windows. The whole place is bare and cold and smells musty, and I remember that this is a rental that probably sees hard use in the summer and gets little attention in the winter.


Whatever fantasies I may have harbored about seducing Harm at sea disappear when I see the forward cabin. There is no bunk, just some extra sails and coils of rope in a cramped triangular area in the bows.


I pick my way around with distaste and find the head, a miniscule cupboard with a sink and a chemical toilet. Everything looks a little grimy, but at least it doesn't smell.


Oh well, so much for romance. I clamber up the steps and emerge on deck to find the overcast sky lower, and the wind even stronger. Far off to our right, the hills of the Eastern Shore are a smudge on the horizon. We're plunging and rising as we meet the dark waves before they explode in spray against our bow.


"Want to take her?" Harm calls to me.


I have a horrible qualm as the wind gusts even harder, but I'm damned if I'll be scared. "You bet!" I yell, and move carefully toward the stern on the sloping deck. I stagger a little, and he catches me around the waist with an arm that feels like steel.


"Easy," he says, and guides me into position. Tentatively I grasp the wheel and feel its power come alive beneath my hands, tugging like an eager racehorse. I set my stance and try to hold the wheel steady.


I am laughing like a lunatic with excitement and I feel Harm's arm tighten. He's standing right behind me, bracing me against him, and I can't feel afraid with his big solid body holding me. I glance over my shoulder, and he's laughing with me. "Okay?" he asks. My smile must be answer enough, and he gives me a quick hug. I turn back to the wheel, and from time to time he touches it lightly, adjusting our course.


We're coming up fast on the shoreline, and suddenly the wind eases off to barely a breeze as we round a headland. Harm touches a switch and the mainsail furls down. "Hold her steady," he tells me, and climbs forward to take in the jib. After only a few minutes he's back, taking the wheel and starting the engine. We're ghosting over the smooth water of a harbor, and as I swivel around I see a marina with boats in slips and some utility shacks covered in metal, standing against the shore. A rickety wooden stair rises to a rambling clapboard building overlooking the water.


"Looks like they're open," he calls. "Want to get some lunch?"


"Yes," I agree instantly, eager for something hot. "I can't believe it's noon already. I'm starving."


"Well at least some things never change," he teases. "Okay, grab the boathook, Mac." Slowly he eases us up to the dock and cuts the engine. There are lots of empty slips in the marina this time of year, but there's still a sizeable flotilla of gorgeous, expensive private yachts tied up here. There's a strong smell of the sea and engine oil. Harm ties up to the cleats fore and aft, and I help him stow our rain gear and secure the sails and rigging.


He steps from the bobbing deck to the dock and holds out his hand for me. I plant my foot carefully on the gunwale, but my shoe slips a little as I jump and he catches me with both hands gripping my arms. The blood pounds between my thighs with a powerful jolt that shocks me.


For a moment I can't breathe, I can't even blink. When I look up, Harm is staring at me fiercely and his breathing is uneven, too. He doesn't let me go right away. He starts to brush my hair away from my face, then stops, and without a word he follows me as we walk along the swaying dock toward the stairs.


Even though he isn't touching me, it seems that I can feel every breath, every beat of his heart, every drop of blood in his body.


We reach the top of the stairs and find ourselves on a wide, sunny deck with a panoramic view of the water. In the summer I suppose they have tables out here with umbrellas. Harm leads the way toward a glass door leading inside and holds it open for me. He touches my back lightly to guide me, and the contact seems to burn right through my jacket. I have a strange, floating feeling, as if my legs belong to someone else.


I hang onto the tattered rags of my poise as he follows me across the creaking hardwood floor of a lobby filled with well-worn chintz furniture. An archway to the right opens onto a dining room lined with old-fashioned casement windows. Only two or three tables are occupied.


A sweet-faced lady with grey hair comes out from behind the reception desk to greet us, and over her shoulder I notice a hand painted sign about bed and breakfast rates. Oh God.


"We weren't sure you'd be open," Harm gives her a friendly smile.


"Yes, we're open on weekends all year round. Lots of local people like to stop in."


"Is the hotel open, too?" He asks blandly, with an intense stare from those deep set, half-veiled eyes. I have to remind myself to take a deep breath.


"Well, we don't have many overnight guests this time of year, but we keep the rooms made up. You folks thinking of staying?"


Harm lifts an eyebrow. His gaze never leaves mine -- and if it were any hotter, I'd probably go up in flames right here. "The weather is getting pretty rough. We were thinking about maybe staying over and running back early in the morning." He's waiting for me.


"It *does* look like rain," I manage to say. Something flickers in his face, and I feel the blood pulsing hard in my fingertips. "Um" -- I have to clear my throat with a little cough -- "I could really use a chance to clean up before lunch. Would our room be available now?"


The old lady beams at us. "It may be a little chilly up there, dear, but I'll have the fire lighted right away." She picks up the house phone and pushes a registration form across the desk. Harm gives me another piercing look and takes out a credit card.


* * *


A young kid lugging a carrier full of birch logs leads the way up the wide old stairs. We still haven't said a word directly to each other, and Mac is keeping her eyes down.


She retreats into the bathroom while the kid works to get the fire going, and when she comes out she still doesn't look at me. She just puts her shoes under a chair and pads over to the window in sock feet. She keeps staring out at the water with her back to the room the entire time.


The kindling finally catches, blooming up with a welcome spark of yellow flame. The kid adjusts the damper and takes the five bucks I hold out, then beats it. I shut the door behind him with a solid click.


The beautiful old room is so quiet, I can hear the wind and a few patters of rain blowing off the bay.


I haven't been at a loss about what to do with a woman in a hotel room since I was seventeen. But now, when I'm finally here with the one woman who matters, I'm starting to get nervous. Mac is being awfully quiet. God, don't let her be regretting this.


We've gone through so much together to arrive at this little haven in time. It ought to be funny I guess -- it doesn't usually take me six years to get a woman into bed. But as well as I know my Mac, this feels like stepping off into space.


But my God, I've held back for so long.


There's an unfamiliar ache in my heart as I watch her standing over there with her arms wrapped around her waist as if she's cold. Maybe she's scared, too.


I stand behind her, feeling her warmth in the cold room, and hesitantly put my hands on her slim shoulders. The nape of her neck looks so vulnerable, and gently I touch my lips to it. She trembles, just a tiny quaver. "Mac," I hear myself say, "if you don't want" --


Her hands come up to cover mine, and then she turns. Those incredible eyes search mine wonderingly. Then she takes my face in her soft hands, and something tight gives way inside me. "Harm," she says softly, "I don't think I've ever wanted anything more in my life."


And then she's in my arms and we're clinging together, helpless with relief. At last, I think, at last. I lift her off her feet and crush her against me with sudden, fierce elation.


My face is buried in her hair as I cradle her head in one hand. Gently I begin to kiss the tears away from her cheekbones, her eyelids, her mouth, tasting salt as her lips part beneath mine.


Like a cool spring in a thirsty desert, like wine glowing in firelight . . . . Kissing Sarah Mackenzie feels like the answer to every desperate prayer I've ever known. Her mouth is so soft, yet strong underneath, and we're tasting each other, drinking from each other, easing back only for a quick breath before melding together deeper than before. She makes a sort of humming sound deep in her throat as I slide my hands beneath her shirt, over her warm satiny back, holding her, feeling the strong muscles flex as she curves into me.


Desperately I try to hang onto my control. I haven't been with anyone in months, and I think it's going to be impossible to take this slowly. An overwhelming hunger surges through me, not just for a woman, but for this woman. I want her so much it hurts.


Dimly I am aware that this feels so right, so familiar, and I wonder how I ever waited so long to learn the feel of her beneath my hands, against my body. The heat between us is nearly incandescent. With both hands I grab the hem of her sweater and pull it over her head, and she raises her hands with a happy laugh like a little girl playing Skin the Cat. My sweat shirt follows hers with a yank, and then we're fused together in a searing line of flame, skin against skin, warm beneath the cool surface, our hands smoothing, gentling, touching each other with such longing, such need.


I see my own desire mirrored in her face. I have never wanted a woman like this, never.


She puts her lips to the pulse point in my neck, her breath jagged, and "Harm," she whispers, pleading.


Together we rise through circle after circle of light to the bright center of the sun . . . White wings flash across my vision and she's crying out, her head turning helplessly on the pillow and her lashes fluttering like hummingbirds' wings.


I rest against her as she cradles me with her body soft and sweet beneath mine.


* * *


Rain. Plinking and plunking in the gutters, tapping on the windows, beating a soft tattoo on the roof above my head.


Vaguely I register the comforting sound as I float up to the surface of sleep and hover there, half awake. Is there anything better than luxuriating in a cozy bed on a rainy Sunday afternoon? I sigh with contentment and burrow deeper into the down pillows, smelling a faint sweet fragrance from the logs on the hearth.


My eyes pop open and I stare vacantly at the fireplace where the ashes have burned down to red coals, casting a faint glow that reflects on the polished wood floor. There's an arm around my waist and a big hard body behind me, and I can feel gentle breathing on my neck. I'm naked, and so is the man lying against me. With an owlish blink, I come to my senses and remember. A blush starts at my face and slides all the way down to my toes.


Careful not to wake him, I ease onto my back and place my hand lightly over the long arm lying across my waist. So many men smother you beneath the weight of their embrace, but Harm is simply holding me. I take a deep breath, stretching a little, and relish the faint stickiness, the twinge of welcome soreness between my thighs.


My God. Harm. Even as my heart swells with happiness, a part of me still can't believe it -- is scared to believe it.


Shadows are gathering in the corners of the high old ceiling, and I consult my internal clock. We've been asleep for hours. It must be nearly 1600, and it's already getting dark. I lie quietly, watching the rain snake down the window panes. Linear thinking seems a little beyond my grasp at this point. I'm trying to ignore a faint voice of unease plucking at the back of my mind. Part of me is sure that Harm will wake up, take one look, and I'll glimpse horror and embarrassment before he clamps down and doesn't say a word.


So what if he roused himself afterward and pulled the big puffy comforter over us, tucking me in and taking me in his arms? I swore last summer I wouldn't keep carrying this stupid torch, I wouldn't keep humiliating myself with my pathetic, obvious crush on this man. And now it will all be so awkward, and I'll have to try to forget how his first touch made me go up like a bonfire. How I will never be able to look at him again without remembering, without wanting . . . .


I can't even sneak out of here and go home because the son of a bitch kidnapped me on his damn boat.


Somehow I manage to rein in my galloping anxiety, and sanity returns. I take a deep, calming breath and remind myself that no one has ever made Harmon Rabb do something he didn't want to do.


With a sleepy mumble, Harm's arm tightens as he rolls over and lays his head in the hollow beneath my breasts. He's not awake, not really, and I let my gaze slide over his muscular forearm, the strong bones of his wrist, the beautiful long fingers that lie against me, and my mouth goes dry. Hesitantly I curl my arm around those wide shoulders and stroke my fingertips over his scalp, sifting through his short, soft hair, relishing the feel of his weight on me, his breath warm on my skin. For this one moment, suspended in time, I can stare at the way his dark lashes lie against his cheek and feel his body against mine and remember it for a lifetime.


Harm murmurs something indistinct and nestles closer.


"You planned this," I whisper back. I figure a good offense is my best defense.


"Didnohtlwdbeopn," he mumbles against my breast, and I feel my nipples tighten.


"You didn't know the hotel would be open?" I try to sound a little indignant. Is this good or bad? There's something appealing about spontaneity, but if he planned to seduce me, it seems a bit cavalier.


No, I decide, it's just Harm -- being Harm. I'm sure if the hotel hadn't been open, he was confident he could talk them into letting us stay anyway.


"You kidnapped and seduced me," I try to sound accusing. He gives a satisfied little snore. My stomach rumbles loudly, and Harm bursts out laughing, rolling onto his back. I can't help joining in, giggling helplessly, my hand over my eyes.


After a moment his fingers close around my wrist and he pulls my hand away. Warm green eyes gleam drowsily down at me. "If you're hungry, Marine, just say so," he grins. His voice is deep with sleep. "After all, you barely ate last night and this morning, and we skipped lunch."


"I guess you just have that effect on me."


His eyebrows go up. "Wow. A compliment indeed," he teases. Leaning on one elbow, he slowly runs his warm hand down my back, then draws the comforter up around my shoulders. Suddenly I feel absurdly shy.


"Mac." I raise my eyes, reluctantly, and whatever he sees makes his gaze sharpen. His fingers brush a strand of hair out of my eyes, a moth's touch.


"Second thoughts?" He's trying to sound nonchalant. All my doubts must be in my face, he knows me too well not to see it. Well, I know him, too, and I am startled to recognize the stark vulnerability in his eyes. I am shocked to realize I could devastate Harmon Rabb with one wrong word.


He'll know in an instant if I am anything less than truthful. "No second thoughts," I whisper, my eyes not wavering from his. "But I was afraid you might have some."


He winces a little and nods. "That's fair." He takes a deep breath and looks around helplessly. He is struggling to find words, and something twists inside me. Finally, he looks me right in the eye. "Mac -- after everything that's happened, I wasn't sure you wanted to risk it again. All I can say is -- I am."


The cold little knot in my heart vanishes. Gently I reach up and lay my hand against his cheek. "Maybe we both are."


I feel his body relax, and the look in those green eyes steals my breath. Quickly I slip my arm around his neck and pull him down to me.


And his mouth is so warm, so soft as it curves against mine, as we share a smile even as I lose myself in the sweetness of his kiss, so different from anything we have shared before. Now there is no hurry, no bittersweet longing, no passion straining at the leash -- just a man kissing a woman as if it were the most important thing in his world. I lose myself in it, opening everything in my heart, serene in the sensation of being -- cherished.


The tenderness of his touch is overwhelming. Two scalding tears trace a stinging line over my temples, and he sweeps them away as he smooths my hair back. No one has ever touched me like this, no one. My heart is beating like a caged bird, he must feel it as he moves his mouth over my jawline, slipping softly beneath my ear and along my throat where the pulse beats so wildly.


Harm lifts his head a fraction. "Don't cry, baby," he whispers, his breath warm on my cheek. "Please don't cry."


"I can't help it. I can't hide anymore."


"Okay. Okay, sweetheart. It's all right." He rolls onto his back, pulling me with him, wrapped in those strong arms that I know will always be there. One big warm hand curves behind my head, stroking my hair, again and again. And I lie against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beating against mine.


* * *


I open my eyes to find Mac staring at me with a faint little smile. She's stretched out on top of me, her chin propped on her hand, and the tip of her nose is about an inch from mine. I pull her a little closer and give her a slightly cross-eyed smile in return.


"Hey," I mumble, and scrub my hand over my face. "Did I doze off?"


"Just for awhile," she says. "Harm -- do you think there's any way we could get something to eat around here?"


A laugh pops out of me before I can help it. Now I'm sure she's okay. I reach out for the phone. "Hi, this is Commander Rabb in Room -- Three? Right. Uh, we were wondering if you'll be serving dinner tonight? Really? What time? Great. Thanks." I fumble the phone back into place without looking. "You're in luck, Mac. The kitchen opens at five."


"I'd say you're the one in luck, sailor. You've got a hungry Marine here," she says with an arch smile and gives me a peck on the cheek. "I'm going to take a quick bath." With that she slips out of bed and starts picking up her clothes.


"Hey, it's cold in here without you," I try to sound pitiful.


"Well, it's freezing out here!" She's clutching her sweater and jeans to her chest and hopping from rug to rug on her bare feet. "But there's room for two in the tub," she calls over her shoulder as she hurries into the bathroom. I catch a fetching glimpse of her backside as she disappears.


Shivering, I struggle out of bed and pause to toss my clothes over a chair, grinning to myself. It's been a long time since my stuff ended up strewn around a bedroom floor. I stop to toss a fresh log on the fire and move the screen back to protect the rug.


Protection. Oh, shit.


Standing stock still with my hands on the mantel, I feel my mood evaporate like a balloon popping. I haven't forgotten to use a condom in years, and this time it didn't even occur to me. I always use one. Call me a control freak, but I could never see taking those kinds of chances or giving anyone that much power over me. It drove Renee and Jordan nuts.


Yet, this time, it never even crossed my mind. I stare into the fire, my mind blank, until I hear splashing coming from the open bathroom door. "Hey, I need a lifeguard in here!" she calls, sounding happy.


Pushing the door open wider, I stick my head in and am rewarded by the sight of that spectacular long tawny body stretched out in the water. The old porcelain tub is so wide and deep her feet don't even reach the other end. Mac lifts her head from the rim, where she was leaning back, and her eyes are sparkling. When I realize where she's looking, I feel my ears turn pink. Then she sees the look on my face.


"Harm?" she says uncertainly. Abruptly she sits up and hugs her knees to her breasts. The fear in her eyes pierces me like a blade. Sometimes I'd like to murder the person who first taught her to doubt herself. Of course, I'd have to put myself the list. God damn it.


I lower the lid on the commode and sit facing her, leaning my forearms on my knees. "Mac, I owe you an apology," I tell her.


"Why?" Now she looks really scared, and I curse myself again. Quickly I reach out for her hand, and she lets me take it between both of mine.


"It's not you. Please, sweetheart, don't look like that. It's -- look, Mac, I forgot to use a condom. I didn't even ask."


She blinks once, her expression guarded. "Harm, it's okay, I'm on the pill. I would never put you in that position." She takes a breath. "Did you think I would?"


"Mac, when it's time for it to happen, I'd rather we plan it. But I'd be thrilled, regardless." She's watching me intensely, and I'm startled to see tears well up again. Oh Christ, what have I done now?


"You mean that." She says it wonderingly.


"Of course I mean it."


"Then why are you apologizing? Oh" -- she stops, and flushes.


"They tested everything they could test before they let me out of the hospital last spring, and there hasn't been anyone since. But you couldn't have known that."


"Well, I had all the tests before I went to the Guadalcanal, and there hasn't been anyone else for me, either. Is that what you're worried about?"


"Not in a million years. But I was asking you to take a lot on faith."


"Harm." Her gaze is level. "You would never do anything to put me at risk."


"Neither would you." There's a little silence, as we both understand just how deep the trust runs between us. After all the times I've hurt her, it's something I never anticipated and had no right to expect. My eyes are stinging.


"Okay, then. Now get in here," she pulls on my hand playfully, scooting forward to make room, knowing that I'd rather be shot than talk about this anymore. I step in behind her and gingerly lower myself into the steaming water, which rises to our shoulders, and she slides back to lie against me as I wrap my arms around her and rest my cheek against her wet hair.


"Did I ever tell you that you look great naked?" I can hear the smile in her voice.


"Well, you look even better than I fantasized," I inform her. "But the cotton briefs with the little pink flowers were a let-down."


"I didn't know I was going to need the Victoria's Secret this trip."


Slowly she runs her palms down my thighs and rests her hands on my knees. I put my hands over hers. "I like you better without anything," I tell her. "This way I can spend all my time just staring at your fabulous tits."


That makes her laugh, and they jiggle, sending little ripples across the tub. She sits up and reaches for one of those tiny bottles of complimentary shampoo, and I watch her struggle to open it with wet hands. Finally I take it and twist the cap off, then pour some into my palm. I smear it between my hands and start massaging it through her hair.


"Mmmm," she leans against the pressure of my hands, letting her head fall back, eyes closed. Slowly I work up the lather, circling my fingers against her scalp, trailing my soapy hands down her long, slender neck and over the firm muscles of her back and arms. She catches my wrist and places my hand on her breast, and I feel it harden against my palm.


"If I do the rest, we'll miss dinner," I whisper.


She pouts. "Damn, that's a tough one. Nuts. Okay." Abruptly she submerges, rinsing her hair and rising up through the soapy water with a splash.


"Hey, you still have some shampoo in there," I say, and scoop water over her with my cupped hand. She tilts her head back again and I rinse her hair, carefully shielding her eyes with my other hand. Her eyebrows are like wings on her smooth forehead above the thin closed eyelids and the dark curve of her lashes. She is so beautiful, sitting there with the water sliding over. Her smooth skin is the color of honey, and I feel my body start to react, unbidden. Quickly I lean forward and kiss her forehead, upside down. "All done."


"You have great hands." She gives a theatrical sigh and stands up, the water drops sparkling on her smooth flanks.


"It's a sailor thing, Mac," I tell her, and then I grab her hips and hold her still. "Whoa --wait a minute." I push up a little on her left buttock, and sure enough, there it is. Hot damn. Carefully I kiss the tiny eagle, globe and anchor tattoo on the lower curve. "Semper Fi, Marine."


She giggles and steps lightly out of the tub. "I told you that information is classified," she says. "Now I'll have to kill you."


"I think you already tried that," I grin, heaving myself up and reaching for a towel, which I wrap around her. And for just a moment I simply hold her as she leans against me. I press my lips to her temple, smelling the sweet fragrance of soap and shampoo as we stand there, together.


* * *


Where does she put it?


Mac is attacking her second plate of crab cakes and shows no signs of slowing down. French fries, tartar sauce, cole slaw, corn bread, she goes for the whole nine yards. The nice old lady who runs the place was impressed when she reordered.


I make it a point never to get between my Marine and her dinner, especially when she's hungry. Tonight, I guess she's entitled. I have never known Mac to miss three meals in a row unless she had the flu or something.


"Appetite returning, Marine?" I inquire, trying to keep the smugness out of my voice.


"For some things," she looks at me from beneath her lashes as she takes another bite. Something about the way her lovely mouth closes around that french fry is mesmerizing, and she knows it. I shift a little in my chair.


"Dessert? Coffee?" Mrs. Tiggywinkle is hovering. There are only two other tables occupied this early on a Sunday evening, and no one seems to notice the little Tom Jones thing we have going on here.


"Coffee," I say, and look at Mac. She folds her napkin, looks up with those huge black eyes, and asks demurely, "What do you have for dessert?" I stifle a snicker.


"Homemade blueberry pie, homemade chocolate cake. Ice cream," the old lady tells her.


Mac stretches a little in anticipation. "Oooh, chocolate cake, please. With frosting?"


"Oh yes, dear." Beaming, she bustles away.


I lift an eyebrow. "Homemade, of course," I say.


"Of course."


The dining room is dim and quiet, illuminated by candlelight, and I reach out and put my hand over hers on the corner of the table, tracing her slender fingers with my thumb. Mac gives a little sigh and leans back in the comfortable chair. Her eyes are luminous in the candlelight, and something swift and sweet fills my chest.


"What?" she asks.


"Nothing. Everything. I like being able to do this." I squeeze her hand. Sarah Mackenzie has occupied my dreams, waking and sleeping, for years, yet my imagination never came close to the fiery sweetness that sparks now, each time I touch her. When her fingers curl around mine, a whiplash of desire cracks through me like heat lightning on a sultry night.


She gives a little sigh and stretches like a cat. I wonder how anyone can make blue jeans and a heavy sweater look so good. She says, "I feel like I can breathe right down to my toes."


I know exactly what she means. Like there's a fair breeze and open sky clear to the horizon in every direction. And I don't need to tell her that, because she's looking at me and she knows.


The cake arrives, and it's about the size of a barn door. She catches me staring at it in dismay. "Well, you sure won't be able to breathe after you finish that," I tease. She just laughs.


Absently I sip my coffee as Mac laps up her dessert with dainty greed. "I'm glad you're keeping your strength up," I tell her.


She looks up from her plate, and her eyes are dancing. Slowly she reaches out and swipes a big dollop of chocolate frosting, then proceeds to lick it off her finger. Slowly. I swallow and don't take my eyes from hers. She knows exactly what she's doing to me. With her fingertip, she touches a tiny bit of frosting to my lower lip.

I grasp her wrist and hold it for a moment, then quickly kiss it and lick the frosting off before I release her. Her cheeks are flushed and she takes a quick breath. Mac has always carried an air of unconscious sensuality, as if she is listening to music only she can hear. It's one of the things I find endlessly fascinating about her, the desire I sense humming just beneath her fiery spirit and intelligence. I want to spend the rest of my life discovering it.


For now, it's enough to tease, and savor our new ease with each other. Knowing we're free to touch and taste as much as we want. Anticipating what is to come.


"Speaking of strength, do you ever row anymore?" she asks me.


"How do you know about that?" I ask.


"Master Chief Bledsoe. He sends his regards, by the way."


"Bledsoe? My God, Mac, you mean he's still there, persecuting midshipmen?"


"Apparently. He wants you to come by so he can put you on some machine. Sounds kinky."


"Jesus." I roll my eyes. "I used to think he wanted to kill me -- now I know it. I'll have to stop by and say hello to the old bastard."


"So was that your sport at the Academy? I thought you boxed."


"As an upperclassman. But when I got there, all I could do was surf and sail and swim. I was too light for football, too slow for track or basketball. I was this long skinny drink of water."


"Didn't you need a sport on your record in high school to get admitted to the Academy?"


"Yeah, I made the swim team, but I wasn't very fast. Anyway, at the Academy you're supposed to go out for a team sport, and I was desperate. Then one day I was down by the harbor and started watching the crews, and I found out you don't need to be fast --you just have to be able to take pain. That I could do."


She's listening intently. "I have a hard time picturing you as a gangly kid," she says.


I shrug, remembering cold grey mornings at the boat house, struggling against the rowing machines, sweating and straining, lungs burning. Finally finding a way to use all that adolescent anger and frustration. "They always want tall guys for crew, it gives you more leverage," I tell her. "And luckily I filled out pretty quickly. Of course, you're always starving. Keeter and I used to buy a whole ham and split it, sometimes."


"I can't picture it. Well, Keeter maybe, not you." God, she has a great smile. "What about sailing? You always knew how?"


"Yeah, I used to go out with my grandfather when we lived in Connecticut. It was the only thing we ever did together that was fun. Then when we moved to La Jolla, Frank bought me a little catamaran to try to keep me out of trouble, I think. I used to race a lot. So it wasn't any big deal when we had to do the sailing requirement our plebe summer."


"Did you ever do any racing at the Academy?"


"Hell, yes, second class year I made the offshore team on the 44s. God, that was an experience. Fun, but incredibly hard. And one year I talked Keeter into going to the Bahamas with me for spring break. Only catch was, we had to crew on a charter yacht, and Keeter's scared to death of sailing. I used to have to go after him when he'd freeze taking in the spinnaker."


"How in the world did you get him? He's so big!"


"It wasn't pretty, trust me." I sign the check. "Ready?"


She stands and tugs on my hand. "Let's go outside for a minute," she says, and we let ourselves out onto the deck. It's chilly and the wind is still blowing, but the rain has stopped and the night sky is spangled with stars. We walk to the railing, looking out toward the water, and I put my arm around her.

"What time do we need to leave tomorrow?" she asks, leaning her head back against my shoulder.


"Well, we'd better shove off around four. Hour to get back, give or take, be on the road by five thirty, that way we'll miss the worst of the morning rush and have time to change and get to the office. At least the rain is over, it'll be a clear run back."


Her arm slips around my waist. "I wish we could stay for awhile," she says softly.


"I know." We both know how difficult this will be. And my new assignment will take me out of town a lot. From now on, everything will be different. "We're going to have to make some tough choices, Mac." As soon as I say it, I kick myself. Good job, Rabb, ruin what little time you have together as it is.


She's looking up at me, her eyes shining in the starlight. "I know. But we'll work it out, Harm." She shrugs ruefully. "Everybody has always wondered whether I'm sleeping with you, or the Admiral, or maybe both of you at the same time. You've had to take a lot of crap for having a woman partner. At least now, we'll deserve it."


"I was always afraid" -- I stop.


"Of what?" she asks quietly. Somehow I know it's okay to tell her.


"Eventually, one of us is going to have to take reassignment. I could never see how a relationship based on that kind of sacrifice could ever work. Whichever one of us has to make the move, we could both end up resenting it." There, it's out. Jesus, do I know how to ruin the mood or what?


But Mac, as usual, surprises me. She's nodding in agreement, and then she says thoughtfully, "You're right. Mic always threw it in my face, how much he gave up. I hated knowing I was supposed to feel grateful."


"So where does that leave us?" I don't want to know, I don't want to be having this conversation. But I promised her I'd stop running.


"Harm." Her voice is warm, confident and serene. She puts her hands on my shoulders, facing me. "It's not a sacrifice if we work it out together."


I stare down at her, and I don't understand what I'm feeling. Then it comes to me. It simply feels right -- like snagging the three-wire in 30-foot swells. I put my hands on her waist and pull her closer.


"Why did we wait so long?" I murmur against her hair. "Wait -- don't answer that. I know it was my fault."


"It was just as much mine. When I thought you didn't want me, I tried to push -- and then I ran. I'm afraid it's a habit." She looks away. Gently I put my hand against her soft cheek and turn her face to mine.


"I know. Mac, look at me." Reluctantly she lifts those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes, and I can see the courage it takes. Right then I fall even more in love with her, if that's possible. "I never wanted just an affair. That never seemed good enough for you -- for us."


"I guess I was afraid to believe that."


"Do you believe it now?"


"Yes." Her gaze is steady.


I look up at the stars and take a deep, cleansing breath, relishing the salt sea air that seems to sweep through me. "You know," I tell her, "I used to have all these reasons why this wouldn't work. I used to take 'em out every once in awhile, set 'em out in a row, shine 'em up, just to remind myself. And then last summer, I knew."


"Knew what?"


"That they weren't reasons, they were excuses. To keep you from getting too close." I take her sweet face between my hands. "And then I realized -- you already were."


Two tears slip down her cheeks, shining silver in the starlight. She slides her hands up my back as I kiss her. I plunge my hands through her hair, our mouths caress each other until we can't kiss anymore and we lean against each other, breathing hard.


"Take me upstairs, Harm," she whispers, her eyes full of wanting.

* * *


The embers glowing red on the hearth are the only light in the room.


Harm closes the door behind us and crosses to the fireplace. It's the first moment since dinner that he hasn't been touching me.


I stand quietly as he puts two more logs on the fire and stirs it with the poker until the flames leap up, bright and yellow, crackling and snapping. For a minute he stands staring at the fire, silhouetted by the flickering light. In the quiet, I can hear the moisture hissing in the logs as they heat up. And it seems, just in that moment, that I am looking through the wrong end of a telescope -- looking at someone who is small and far away, someone I have never seen before.


Without turning around, his hand goes out. Mine slides into his without hesitation, and he pulls me against him. And it's Harm, the man I know better than I know myself, who looks down at me with those extraordinary clear eyes, kind and quizzical and filled with the compassion that is so uniquely his. Slowly he traces my cheek, and just that tiny touch burns my skin. His eyebrow goes up. "You okay?"


I nod. "It's just a little scary," I tell him. "This feels like the most natural thing in the world, but part of me doesn't seem to know you at all."


The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his voice is very soft. "I know. But I'm still me. It will be okay, I promise." He looks at me curiously. "What?"


I shake my head in relief, and something spills warm inside me. "Just you." Somehow, against all the odds, Harm understands. Better yet, he didn't roll his eyes or patronize me. Maybe he knows how falling in love with your best friend can make you feel like a stranger.


So we stand with our arms around each other, my head tucked beneath his chin, rocking a little, and he waits patiently even as I feel him growing hard against me, and after awhile I work my hands up inside his shirt, sliding over the warm skin, over the hard flat planes of his back and chest, relishing the freedom to touch him where I want, as much as I want. His eyes close in pleasure, and I feel a surge of feminine power.


I slip out of my sweater and drop it somewhere, then bend over to fumble with my shoe laces. Harm takes two steps to the bed, where the covers are heaped in disarray, and gathers up the big comforter and two pillows and tosses them onto the rug in front of the fireplace.


Everything seems in slow motion, silent, drifting, and I am aware only of him.


Slowly I slide my jeans down over my hips, holding his gaze, feeling it on my body. The fire is warm on the backs of my legs. When I reach for the closure on my bra, he steps closer and lays his fingers over mine. "Wait," he says, his voice low and rough. "I want to do it."


So I wait, and catch my lower lip in my teeth as his fingers expertly release the catch and sweep the wisp of nylon over my breasts, off my shoulders. I stand very straight and still and let his gaze move over my body, his eyes deep in shadow and dark with desire. Between my legs the heavy pulse starts to beat. Slowly it spreads, and I feel the blood in my lips, in the tips of my breasts.


At last, at last, his hands come up and begin to trace a line down my neck, across my shoulders, to the hollow at the base of my throat, his fingertips moving lightly on my skin, barely grazing it, as if he were a blind man, learning me by touch alone.


My breath is all anyhow, shallow and quick. I start to say something, I don't know what. "Shhhh," he murmurs. And I hush, waiting, longing for the touch of his mouth, his body. The pulse is beating in Harm's throat, too, I can see its shadow beating steadily.


Quickly he pulls off his clothes, tossing them carelessly, and my breath is thick in my throat as I let my eyes run over his body. Now I can look, look as much as I want, drinking in the strength and size of him, the beauty of his wide shoulders and lean, long-limbed body.


Naked, he stands before me, nearly touching me but not quite. And then those marvelous hands are on me, gliding slowly down my arms, barely grazing the sides of my breasts, following the dip and curve at my waist, sliding down my thighs. My eyes start to droop, and I grasp his shoulders to steady myself while I keep looking, keep watching what he's doing to me. He is frowning, intent, and his eyes are brilliant in the flicker of the flames. As I watch, his fierce expression softens, blurs, becomes blunt with arousal. I can smell the clean male scent rising from his pores, making me a little dizzy.


I reach for him, brushing my fingers down his body, but he catches my hand, holding it. "Wait," he murmurs. "Let this be for you, just you."


Then he's kneeling in front of me, tracing the backs of my thighs with his large calloused hands, caressing the backs of my knees.


Golden wine seems to pool inside me, flowing to my toes and fingertips. I sway, vaguely aware that Harm is holding me up, and abandon myself to him.


His arms go around me and slowly he lowers me to lie on the soft comforter, a pillow beneath my head. He is so gentle with me, yet his hands know me and take control and I let him.


He is so perfectly unhurried. I feel myself floating on a slow river, where the sunlight sparkles on the water in tiny spangles and the current is swift and violent beneath the surface, and I surrender to its force as it carries me along, flowing faster, faster. The thought comes that someday this man will make me pregnant, and as I feel him gasp and tremble, it shatters me into a million stars.


After a long while I feel him shift and roll to the side, and the fire warms me where he was. My body feels replete -- heavy, relaxed and a little drowsy, but I open my eyes and look at him with something like awe.


"What, Sarah?" he says softly.


"Thank you," I whisper. I don't have to say more. The tenderness shining in his eyes tells me he needs no explanation. For some stupid reason my eyes tear up again, and he brushes them away. This wasn't just sex, it was utterly beyond anything I have ever imagined. This was lovemaking -- and it has altered me forever.


* * *


God, she's beautiful.


She's sleeping now, her long slender arms and legs tangled gracefully in the covers and the firelight sliding over her, burnishing her skin with gold, highlighting that exquisite profile, clear as a cameo. I'm getting sleepy too, but not yet. For just awhile longer, I want to watch over her.


Beautiful, brilliant, and brave. The words rise to the still surface of my mind with the clarity of truth. Her astonished joy as we made love told me everything I need to know about the handling she has received in the past. "Clumsy jerk" is the kindest thought I can spare for any of her previous lovers.


Sex has always been easy for me -- too easy, some would say. Fun, an exchange of pleasure, a way to relax. I enjoy women and their bodies. But not since Diane has it seemed important, or significant in any deeper way. Where every touch expresses emotions that have no words. I guess I had pretty much given up on that.


But with Mac -- maybe I always suspected the depth of feeling between us, like hot coals beneath a coating of white ash, was waiting only for a breath of wind to fan into flame. Now, the intensity of my emotions makes the blood pound in my body. When I touch her, I half expect to see sparks crackle beneath my hand.


No wonder I was afraid. This woman is more important to me than life.


In her soft sweet sleep she turns her head in the hollow of my shoulder.


* * *


2400 Zulu (7 p.m. EST)

North of Union Station

Three days later


Somehow I manage to unlock Harm's door without dropping anything. My triumph is brief -- as I nudge it open with my hip, the dry cleaning bags start to slither from my grasp. "Oh, crap," I mutter as I try to clamp them with my elbow while juggling my briefcase, purse, and a bag of groceries. Everything thumps and bangs and tumbles onto the floor, of course. Glorious. It's been pouring all day, my feet are wet, and I'm cold, tired, and hungry.


"Hey, are you okay? You should have called from the car, Mac, I'd have come down." Harm sticks his head around the door, but his smile disappears when he sees my bedraggled state. "Here, let me take that," he says diplomatically, relieving me of my dripping trench coat and cover.


"The damn elevator gate stuck again," I gripe as I swipe ineffectually at my wet hair. "I knew I shouldn't have tried to carry it all at one time, especially the stuff for dinner." Harm is dispersing my things -- briefcase to the desk, clothes to the closet, food to the kitchen. He returns with a clean dry towel, which he wraps around my shoulders. Amusement is simmering behind his studiously grave expression, and I can't help it -- I start giggling. His answering smile makes me feel like the sun just came out.


"So what are you treating us to?" he asks in that soft, low voice that makes my knees weak. Somehow he makes it sound like the sexiest come-on I've ever heard.


"Manicotti Florentine. Grilled veggies. Garlic bread," I answer in the same tone, placing my cold hands against his chest. He wraps one big warm hand around them and an eyebrow goes up.


"No meat in yours? You mean I'm actually having a positive effect on you after all this time?"


"You're having an effect on me, all right," I tease, and my voice comes out husky and deep. Those gorgeous eyes darken and he pulls me close. When we come up for air, I snuggle my face against his neck, relishing the faint smell of soap and clean cotton and the warmth of his big hard body. I mumble into his shirt, "Harriet actually asked me why I was looking so cheerful lately."


Harm's laugh is a low rumble in his chest. "I know. I'm just waiting for the Secretary to tell me to wipe the goofy smile off my face." Harm's been at the Pentagon most of this week, working out of the office of the Secretary of Defense.


"Is it that different from your normal goofy expression?"


"Very funny, Marine. Come on, why don't you get a hot shower while I finish up here?" I look over at the table, where he has books and papers stacked in orderly piles around his laptop.


"Jeez, looks like a Con Law final," I say. Reluctantly I extricate myself from his arms and head for the bedroom, unbuttoning my uniform as I go. "Join me?" I toss over my shoulder, with what I hope is a come-hither sultry tone.


Harm waves his hand. "Don't tempt me. I gotta finish this tonight, Mac."


"So much for romance," I sigh theatrically and disappear behind the glass louvers. I hear him snort and grin to myself. In spite of our incredibly busy schedules, we're finding time for the important things. Time to laugh and touch and taste, time to sleep and wake and make love, time to discover each other as if all this were new to both of us. I guess in some ways, it is. I don't know about Harm, but I have been walking around in a sort of daze ever since the weekend.


We have spent every night together, trading between my place and Harm's loft. I have always loved it here -- the open space and the way the way it's so serene and quiet. And he has a great shower.


I turn on the hot water as far as it will go, letting the hard spray hit me between the shoulders. My mind floats free, wishing Harm were washing my back . . . and then . . . I catch myself with my own goofy expression. Beyond every other wonderful thing about him, who would have guessed Harmon Rabb is such a piece of work in the sack?


So few men have a clue what really pleases a woman. They're so focused on their own performance, their own pleasure.


But with Harm -- oh, with Harm it is something else entirely. He is that rarest of all male creatures, a man who honestly likes women and enjoys giving pleasure as well as receiving. It makes me cringe, now, to remember that long-ago gossip session at McMurphys, when we were all pushing poor Jordan to talk about him. As I remember her smug smile, her arch hints, I discover that you don't like someone any better just because they're dead.


I lean against the cool grey tiles and hug my arms around my breasts, letting the water pour over me. It blends with the sudden, unexpected tears on my face. Men have wanted me, one way or another, since I was fourteen, but I never knew it could be like this. Maybe because he wants *me,* Sarah -- not for how I look but for who I am. Sometimes, especially when I'm tired, it all seems too good to be true -- to good to last for long. Impatiently I shake off the grey thoughts and turn beneath the hot spray.


After a long while I decide I'm thawed out sufficiently. Besides, I'm starving. I wrap myself in one of Harm's fluffy bath sheets and wander back into the bedroom, where my duffel bag waits, neatly packed. As I rummage around in it, I wonder absently why Harm looked so startled the first time I came out of the shower. He was leaning against the headboard, the sheet pulled up over his lap, and when I came out wrapped in a towel like this, his eyes got big as saucers. Something else did too, I recall with a private grin.


It seems like too much trouble to get dressed again, so I slip into a short satin nightie that barely covers the essentials, then cover it with a soft fleece robe, loosely belted. I top off my ensemble with a glamorous pair of thick woolen socks. This place is hard to heat. Checking on my things for tomorrow, I put shoe trees in my damp pumps and straighten my uniform on the hanger, squaring it away for tomorrow.


Wandering out to the kitchen, I put the pasta and veggies into the oven to heat up and toss a salad. I don't worry about bothering Harm -- when he's working his concentration is total. I think the stove could blow up and he wouldn't turn a hair.


My hands reach automatically for the pots and pans. I've eaten here many times over the years, but always as a guest. Strange how quickly it has come to feel like home. I run my fingertips over the shining faucets, the potted herbs on the windowsill, enjoying the smooth butcher block counter and the heavy, sharp knives. A fleeting smile crosses my face as I muse indulgently on boys and their toys. Harm's place is so much like him -- simple, not showy, but everything of the finest quality. I take a very private pleasure in handling his possessions, discovering little things I never knew about this man I have known so long and so well.


I lean my chin on my hand and simply watch him, loving the way the lamp light falls on his hair. Okay, no denying it, I am utterly, shamelessly besotted. Harmon Rabb -- at once so familiar and such an intriguing puzzle. My eyes trace the long jaw, the deep set eyes, the wide shoulders. He is older now than when we first met, of course -- still incredibly good looking, but there are a few lines around his eyes now, his hairline is a little higher, and his face and body have filled out. I let my gaze travel over him, taking in all the force and strength and humor of the man's face, and reflect that maturity sits well on him.


I watch as he taps a few more lines into his laptop and frowns, referring to a document on top of the stack. Beneath the charming façade of the devil-may-care aviator lurks a formidable intelligence that can focus like a laser beam. And nothing gets Harm so completely jazzed as a challenging assignment that would intimidate mere mortals -- unless it's a combat sortie in the front seat of an F-14. I smile to myself as I remember how I made the mistake of underestimating him, the first time we worked together. For the first five minutes or so.


He scowls at the computer screen for another minute, then hits save with a flourish. "That's got it," he announces, and begins gathering papers into his briefcase. I wander around behind his chair and start massaging his shoulders as he leans back against me with a happy groan. Slowly I slide my hands under his shirt, down over the hard, flat planes of his chest, and kiss the side of his neck.


"Damn, you smell good," he murmurs, and clasps my wrists.


"Mmm, so do you," I nibble at his ear. "Can we eat now?"


He laughs. "God, have I been keeping you from your dinner? Sorry, Mac, I lost track of time."


"What's so urgent?" Using potholders, I lift the baking dishes out of the oven. "And by the way, whatever happened to those red lobster things?"


Harm rolls his eyes. "They succumbed to a regrettable accident involving the trash compactor." He snaps his briefcase shut, packs his laptop into its travel case, and zips it closed. "Anyway, I had to finish my report before I leave." He catches my inquiring look. "Oh-five hundred flight to Gitmo."


"Nuts. How long?"


"Should be back on the red eye Sunday morning. Gets into Andrews around 0200."


"Would you mind if I come here when I get back from the Academy on Saturday?"


His grin lights up his tired face. "I was hoping. But take a cab from your place, okay? I don't like the idea of you driving that car alone in this neighborhood at night, never mind parking here." He puts a couple of place mats on the big glass table and takes the warm plates I hand across the island. I gather up silverware and napkins and slide into my chair.


Life in the military. I know better than to ask him what he has to do in Cuba, which undoubtedly has to do with the prisoners from Afghanistan. And I know better than to complain about the sudden departure. I'm just glad it's only a quick trip this time.


"Where did you get this?" Harm asks, digging into the manicotti. "It looks great." He takes a bite. "It is great."


"I stopped at that natural foods supermarket in Alexandria," I tell him. "Gee, I had no idea you could buy incense and get a massage right there in the store. I may have to go back, even if they don't sell meat."


"Just don't tell me you've signed up for acupuncture or holistic healing," he kids me. "I don't know, Mac. I'm not sure it's legal for Marines to shop there. All that mellow karma might interfere with your fighting edge."


"My fighting edge is just fine, thank you. You should have seen the bill."


I catch a glint of mischief in his eyes. "One of these days when I have time to cook again, I'll make it up to you, I promise. Meanwhile, thank you." He reaches out and puts his hand over mine for a minute.


I squeeze his fingers and rise, lifting our empty plates and stacking them in the sink. "I got fresh pineapple for dessert. Want some?"


"Thanks, I'll have it for breakfast. How about some coffee?"


"No coffee for you, mister. You have to get up at 0300 again." I stand beside his chair and smooth his hair. "You're not getting enough sleep, Harm. You look tired."


He grabs my hand and kisses it. "Plenty of sleep in the grave, baby. C'mere." And with that he pulls me into his lap and his arms go around me. "Were you wearing this the whole time?" his tone is aggrieved as he pulls my robe open to expose my abbreviated garment. "Damn, I'm slipping. I must be tired."


"What you need, sailor, is a nice back rub."


"What I need is" -- His hand slides up my thigh and beneath the satin, curving over my waist and coming to rest beneath my breast. "Colonel, I am shocked. Shocked." His eyes are dancing. "No panties?"


"Only for you, flyboy."


His thumb rubs lightly over my nipple, and I catch my breath. His hand is warm on my body as he caresses me, and his eyes are brilliant as he watches my face. I can feel myself flushing.


"What's this scar?" His voice is barely a whisper as he slips his hand from beneath my clothes and traces the fine line at the base of my throat.


For some reason I hesitate. Harm knows about my family, my father -- but as often as I tell myself I have put all that to rest, it is still an ugly part of me. I'm not sure I want to bring it back into the light of day. But whatever peace I have found with the past is thanks to this man, who is holding me and looking at me with a trace of concern.


"Mac, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," he says now.


"No, it's okay. I forget it's there most of the time, that's all." I slip my hand into his. "When I was about five, I started having trouble sleeping. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and I'd be so scared, I'd go down the hall and get into bed with my mother. I still remember how safe that made me feel. And it must have been bad, because I had to go past the archway into the dining room of our apartment, and it was so dark in there I was sure there were monsters. But I did it, night after night. She didn't say anything, but she always made sure to carry me back to my own room before morning.


"Then one time, she fell asleep and forgot. I guess I wiggled around or something, and woke up my father. He was so angry, he" -- my hand tightens convulsively around Harm's. "He threw me across the room. I hit the corner of the dresser, and it broke my collarbone, right at the base of my throat. I don't really remember much about it -- just my mother screaming, and the ambulance coming. They had to operate, apparently it chipped the bone and they were afraid it would cut one of the blood vessels in my neck. Anyway, I was fine."


"Fine." His eyes are boring into mine. And then he pulls me close and holds me, his hand stroking my hair. "God, Mac, I'm so sorry. Sweetheart, I never meant to make you remember all that."


"It's okay, Harm. It's a long time ago. And he didn't touch me again until after my mother left."


He lets his breath out in a long sigh, and I can hear the anger in it. "Harm," I tell him now, "Let it go. I have. Thanks to you."


His eyes are troubled, but he nods. "Yeah, I think you have," he says. Slowly his hand strokes my face. "But you still have trouble sleeping."


"Sometimes. But I sleep fine with you," I smile at him.


"Yeah, you do. So, you still offering that back rub?"


"As soon as I clean up the kitchen."


"Here, I'll help."


"Thanks, but there's nothing to it. Go pack." He returns my smile and gives me a quick kiss.


I slide off his lap and start loading the dishwasher. Harm heads for the bedroom, and I run the hot water in the sink.


Shit, shit, shit, I think. Nothing like hitting him with more of your sob stories. God, he must be sick of hearing all that crap. But as I snap the lid on the Tupperware, I think, no. It's part of who I am. He asked, and he deserved an answer. Thank God, he didn't sympathize. It's just part of trusting each other. It's okay.


With a lighter heart, I toss the dish towel on the rack, flip off the lights, and follow him.


Harm's sea bag is standing ready at the top of the stairs. He has stripped to his boxers and is sitting propped up against the headboard with his guitar, noodling softly on the steel strings. All the lights are off in the apartment except the small lamp on his bedside table, and he gives me a quick smile as I stretch out across my side of the bed, my head propped on my hand.


For a long time he just plays, picking out bits of melody and odd riffs, looking thoughtful. Harm has played for me before, of course, but like everything else since we became lovers, it is special now. I watch his long, strong fingers moving over the frets and let my eyes run over his powerful throat and the dark line of his eyelashes against his cheekbone as he concentrates. There is a living connection between Harm and the music, and I let myself flow with it, let it draw me in.


After a while he starts singing, very quietly, as if to himself. As I listen to his clear, true baritone I feel an ache fill my throat, knowing that this is one of the sweet times, a memory I will always carry in my heart. His eyes flick up suddenly, clear green in the lamp light, and the shock makes the blood pound in my throat.


His hands come to rest on the guitar strings. "I love you," he says quietly.


I can't find my voice. It is so hard for Harm to speak of his feelings. I never expected this, not in so many words, not yet.


He reaches out and traces my cheekbone with his fingertips, a line of fire beneath his touch. His voice was barely a whisper, but I have no doubt. I take his fingers in mine.


"I love you, too. For so long, I can't remember when I didn't. Even when I was trying to persuade myself otherwise."


He nods in agreement, then looks at me very directly. "You need to know -- it's never been like this for me before." He hesitates. "Can you believe that, Mac? I'm not very good at this."


"I believe you." We look at each other, and I can see my wistful smile mirrored in his eyes. Harm sets his guitar onto its stand and holds out his arms, and I slide into them, holding on for all I'm worth. I need to feel him around me, and the amazing thing is, I know he needs me just as much. Harmon Rabb. A living, breathing miracle.


He lets his breath out in a lingering sigh. "We've been friends so long. Did you ever think we'd get here? Like this?"


"Never stopped hoping, I guess. The funny thing is, it feels so right. Even though we spent so long trying to keep out of each other's way."


"I kept telling myself I didn't want you to get hurt," he says. "I think I'd give anything to keep that from happening." He holds me quietly, and I rest my head over his heart. After a long while, I stir a little. Soft as a sigh, he murmurs, "Don't go."


"I'm not going anywhere, Harm," I whisper, somehow knowing what he really means. "That's a promise." I sit up and brush his hair back. "Now, how about that back rub?"


"Will you keep that little satin thing on?" He shoots me a mischievous look and rolls over on top of the sheets, face down. My heart is floating somewhere up around the ceiling, and something warm and sweet thickens my throat as I laugh and dig the baby oil out of my duffel, setting it on the night stand. "Yes, sir," I tell him, and drop my robe.


Carefully I climb onto the mattress, one knee on either side of him, and sit on his ass. He wiggles a little with a contented sigh, adjusting, and then relaxes with his face buried in a pillow. I squirt a little oil into my hand and rub my palms together, warming it, before I reach forward and begin kneading out the kinks in his powerful shoulders.


God, he has such fine skin. Warm and smooth and taut over the wide flat muscles of his back. I work my way down his spine, circling each vertebra with my fingertips, enjoying the way it makes him groan.


I shift back to sit on his thighs and slide my hands over his kidneys, his lower back, his waist. My fingers slide beneath his shorts and I ease them down a little as I press slow circles with my thumbs at the base of his spine, and then I stop.


My fingers felt something strange, a thin, hard line running down over his hip. I lean forward to look, but it's hard to see in the dim light. "Harm?" I whisper. I think he's asleep. "What's this?"


He gives a little snore and turns his face to the side. "What's what?"


"This scar. My god, I never saw this. When did you get it?"


He is still for a moment, and suddenly I know. "Oh Harm, I'm sorry. I didn't think" –


"It's okay. That's where they had to put a temporary pin in my hip, after my ramp strike."


"You couldn't walk?" Somehow that seems like the worst thing, maybe because I didn't know. It's so alien to the vitality that I always associate with Harm.


"I was in traction. I wasn't paralyzed or anything. It just took some rehab, and I was fine." Or as fine as he could be, with his RIO dead and his career taken away. The respect I have always had for the way he was able to get his life back together after all that just went up another notch.


I start rubbing slow circles over his waist again, easing the tension from the small of his back. "Everybody has scars, I guess," I say.


"It's just a question of what you do about them," he agrees, his voice sleepy and content. After awhile he rolls over and I sit on him, leaning forward as he runs his hands over my gown. In the dim light, I watch his face as he caresses my breasts, cupping his palms over them, skimming his hold to my waist to pull me down for a slow, soft kiss.


I can tell he's getting sleepy. I click off the lamp and slip lightly down to lie against him, one leg thrown over his hip, my head on his shoulder. Slowly I stroke his chest, and after a few minutes I hear his breathing slow and even out.


My own eyes are getting heavy. On the verge of sleep, I hear him murmur, "Sleep tight, sweetheart."


* * *


I awake to the sound of the shower running. Pulling on my robe, I drag myself out of our warm bed to make coffee.


When I return to the bedroom with two steaming mugs, I glimpse Harm through the wall of glass blocks. So I amble around the corner to find him standing at the sink in boxers, shaving.


"Hey, thanks," he mumbles around the lather and slips his arm around my waist for a minute. "You didn't have to get up."


"Sure I did. I wanted a real goodbye kiss, not a peck when I'm half asleep." I run the flat of my hand slowly up the smooth skin of his back.


He rinses his razor beneath the tap and goes to work on his neck. "Just have the motor running when I get home, baby. Sorry I was so tired last night."


"It's not a contest, you know. We get a night off now and then." I lean on the edge of the counter, watching him. In my experience, men are not sexy when they shave. How does he do it?


Harm is moving fast, and I stay out of the way, sipping coffee and watching as he pulls on his dress blues and knots his tie. When he picks up his sea bag, I follow him to the door. His briefcase and computer are there, lined up, ready to go. He opens the door, letting in the weak yellow light from the hall. Harm rings for the elevator, puts down his cover and his bags and takes me in his arms.


As goodbye kisses go, it's pretty spectacular. We pull back, and then for some reason I pull him close for one last, fierce hug. "I love you," I whisper. It seems important to say it first, not just because he said it to me but because I mean it.


He doesn't let me go. His hands come up to cradle my face, and there is possession in his touch. Those incredible green eyes look into mine intently. Then, "I love you, Mac," he whispers, and kisses me lightly once more.


I stand there as he dons his cover, grabs his bags, pulls the elevator doors closed with a quick smile, and is gone.


* * *


0830 Zulu (3:30 a.m. EST)

Sunday


I unlock the door, trying hard to be quiet. If Mac is asleep, and I hope she is, I don't want to wake her. I'm so tired my eyelids feel like sandpaper, and all I can think about is climbing into bed with a beautiful Marine and curling up around her sleeping warmth.


It's dark inside and I don't flip on the light. But as I put my bags down inside the door, the light from the hall shines across the room and catches something white on the island. An envelope.


It's very quiet and still in the apartment -- empty. Instinctively I know there's no one there. A cold little knot forms in my chest.


I turn on the desk lamp and go to the island, where the big white envelope is leaning against the coffee grinder. I don't want to pick it up, but I do. After a brief hesitation, I rip it open.


"Dearest Harm,


"The Marines have pulled me out of JAG and reassigned me to the 121st MEU. I have six hours to dispose of my caseload and be on a transport from Andrews. Whatever it is, it's so classified they won't tell me anything else until I get there. I couldn't email you, or call.


"I can't believe this is happening now. But it's what we signed up for. I'll do the job, whatever it is, and then I'll be home. I'll call as soon as I can.


"As usual, there is so much I want to say to you, and I can't find the words. Except to tell you that I love you, with my whole heart. --Sarah."


* * *


The sky outside the windows is turning grey with dawn before I realize I'm sitting on the sofa, her letter crushed in my hand. Slowly I open my fingers and spread the paper on the table, carefully smoothing out the creases as best I can.



* * *


Part Two


1740 Zulu (1:40 p.m. EDT)

JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, Virginia

Four weeks later



"Excellent work, commander."


"Thank you, sir." Praise from the Admiral is as rare as it is sincere, and I tell myself to appreciate it while it lasts. As he continues to skim my report, I let my eyes drift to the sunshine outside. It's a beautiful spring day. I wish I gave a damn.


Chegwidden snaps shut the blue cover on the thick official document, a monument to the project I've been working on for the past two months. "The Army sign off on this yet?"


"We're ironing out the final wrinkles, sir."


"The usual pissing contest?"


"They want to write their names bigger, sir."


AJ snorts and looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. "The Secretary and the President are pleased with the way this is shaping up. You'll be overseeing major investigations and prosecutions once we start convening the tribunals. It'll probably raise hell with your caseload here, but that can't be helped."


"Understood, sir."


The Admiral leans back and gives a sigh that manages to convey a remarkable level of disgust. It's not directed at me -- we're short-handed here and none of the litigators we've brought in have come close to taking up the slack created by my special duty assignment and Mac's absence. I don't think Sturgis has taken a day off in weeks, and we're still behind.


Briefly I consider asking Chegwidden if he's heard any scuttlebutt about Mac or her situation. But I jettison the idea as quickly as it occurs to me. If he knew anything, he'd let me know. Instead, I wait impassively while he scribbles his initials on the cover sheet and hands the report back to me.


Instead of the dismissal I was expecting, he fixes me with a keen stare. "Commander, you look like hell."


"I'm fine, sir. Been putting in some long hours lately."


"Uh huh." He continues to impale me with those sharp black eyes, and I must be imagining the hint of concern I see there. "Heard anything from the colonel?" he asks abruptly.


"No, sir. I was wondering if you had any news, sir."


He grimaces and tosses his reading glasses onto the desk. "Hell, no. I put out a few feelers, but they're not talking. Goddamn special ops, pulling my people out with no word . . ." He scrubs a hand over his bald pate in irritation. "No news is good news in this instance, Harm."


The familiarity is a little surprising. I thought I had been doing a pretty good job of keeping my cool since Mac left. "Yes sir," I respond. There really isn't anything else to say.


Chegwidden stares at me a little longer than necessary, and I meet his eyes impassively. "Take the rest of the afternoon off, commander." He holds up his hand as I start to protest. "That's an order. Dismissed."


"Aye sir."


* * *


It seems strange to be home in the middle of the afternoon, and for some reason I am reminded of the time I was sent home from second grade for beating up some kid in a playground fight. Tiny golden motes dance in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows of the loft. The silence has weight.


I can't stand the quiet in here since she left. Usually I crank up the radio or the CD player as soon as I come in the door, and I have even considered getting a TV. At least it would be something to do in the middle of the night when I'm lying there wondering where she is, what she's thinking, whether she's safe. This is so much worse than last summer, when she was hiding out on that damn carrier in the middle of the Indian Ocean. At least that time, I knew where she was. Missing her feels like a solid weight pressing on my chest. It never goes away, and in the small hours of the morning it gets so heavy I almost can't breathe.


So I don't waste any time -- I grab a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, lace up my running shoes, and head out.


Running has become my solace and my salvation. When I'm not working, I'm running or at the gym -- sometimes before work, sometimes after. Or both. Sometimes I find myself running past Union Station in the middle of the night, my footfalls echoing on the pavement as traffic lights blink meaningless red and yellow signals across the empty streets.


But now it's mid-afternoon, and on impulse I get out the 'vette and head for the Tidal Basin. The cherry blossoms are out. It would be a shame to miss them.


Thirty-five minutes later, I'm pounding along the running path through the park when I hear someone gaining on me from behind. What the hell? Not too many runners could keep up with me, let alone try to pass. I bear down, obscurely glad to have something to distract me, but the light footfalls keep coming. Now I'm beginning to get pissed. I hope it's a really dedicated mugger. It would feel good to deck somebody.


"Hey buddy," a familiar voice pants out, just behind my shoulder.


"Fuck, Sturgis, I thought you were a mugger," I gasp.


"One who was running from the cops?" he asks. "Jesus man, you're hauling ass. When did you get so fast?"


"What are you doing out here, anyway?" I give a final burst of speed and ease off, letting him pull even. By unspoken consent we both slow down to an easier pace.


"I might ask you the same question."


"Admiral told me to take the afternoon off."


"Yeah? Me too. Guess he was in a good mood."


"Not so I noticed. Anyway, enjoy it, it happens about once a year."


We keep going in tandem, not speaking, our breathing keeping time with our footfalls. The trail is dirt and wood chips, cool beneath the dappled shade of the trees.


"Haven't seen you much lately. You still over at the Pentagon?" Sturgis asks.


"Just winding it up. Should be ready to help out with the caseload starting Monday," I tell him. "How's your trial going?" Sturgis has been busting his butt over a court martial for the past week, embezzlement and fraud.


"Ready for summations tomorrow."


"You got 'em?"


"I got 'em." From anyone else that might be bravado, but not Sturgis. If he's that sure, it's a lock.


We emerge from the trees to the breathtaking sight of rows of blooming cherry trees reflected in the water. Behind my sunglasses I squint in the sudden glare.


"You hear anything from Mac?" Sturgis asks.


"Nope."


"What a hell of a deal. She's got to be in Afghanistan. How do they justify sending a woman into a combat situation?"


"How the hell do I know, Sturgis? They're Marines, they think everybody chews nails for breakfast." Rage ignites inside me, and I see the surprise in Sturgis's face.


"Hey, man. I know you're worried about her. We all are."


"Yeah. Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean" --


"It's okay. But you're wearing yourself out over this thing, Harm."


"Over what thing?" Suspicion fills me. "Did somebody put you up to this?"


Sturgis has a great poker face. Those calm black eyes don't even flicker. "You've been a little testy with people lately," he observes.


I give a short laugh. Great. Now my personal life is grist for the JAG rumor mill, just what I hoped for. "In case nobody noticed, I've been working the biggest assignment of my career," I tell him. "I'm fine."


"Okay, have it your way. But you've lost weight, and you look like you haven't slept in weeks."


"What is this, 'National Harm Needs a Mommy Day'?' Look, pal, I appreciate it. But I'm okay."


He heaves a deep breath. "Okay. But if you want to talk about it, I'm around."


"Talk about what?" I snarl, stopping and forcing him to stop too. We're both wet with sweat and panting, so it's difficult to speak.


"About Mac, you ass."


"What about her?"


"About the fact that she's gone, and you're eating yourself up over it."


"Yeah? Is that why you appointed yourself Mr. Boy Scout? Look, I don't need a counselor or a chaplain or whatever you think you are, Sturgis, so back off." I want to swing at him, I really do. But Sturgis just stands his ground, not upset or intimidated at all. He just keeps meeting my eyes with his calm gaze, and abruptly all the anger goes out of me.


My breath is finally leveling out, and I reach out and grasp his shoulder. "I'm sorry, man."


"Forget it. Harm, she's going to be okay. You have to believe that."


We just stand there together, panting. A light breeze blows across my wet shirt, making me chilly.


"I don't know what to believe, Sturgis. We finally get together, and now this."


"You told her how you feel?"


"Yeah, I did." His look of surprise is almost comical, and I give a short laugh.


"That's great, Harm. I'm glad for you."


"You knew." I say with sudden conviction.


"Not about that. But I knew she was in love with you, although I find that difficult to imagine. So I'm glad you finally worked it out."


"She told you?"


He gives me a look. "It was a confidence between friends."


I roll my eyes in disgust, whether at him or myself, I don't know. So much wasted time. Will I ever get a chance to make it up to her?


"So, you up for something to eat at McMurphy's later? Wanna shoot some pool?" he asks, starting to jog slowly along the path. I pick up my feet and follow.


"Did Harriet tell you to feed me?" I ask.


"No, the Admiral did," he smirks.


* * *


1000 Zulu (3 p.m.)

Marine Expeditionary Unit Base

Mazar e Sharif, Afghanistan

Two weeks later


The rotor blades of the Huey kick up a dust storm on the landing pad as we set down, and I have to shield my eyes from the blowing grit as I return the salute of the welcoming committee -- a lance corporal who looks about 18. "Commander Rabb, Mr. Webb, right this way, sir."


Clayton Webb has never struck me as the kind of guy who is comfortable letting his hair get blown around. He traveled all the way to Chechnya and back last Christmas wearing a three piece suit, for God's sake. For this trip, though, he's made some concessions. He's wearing khakis, desert boots, and something that resembles a fly fishing vest. Hell, Webb probably gets invited for weekends at somebody's castle in Scotland for all I know. He looks like he just stepped out of an Orvis catalogue.


Webb and I follow the corporal across to a line of canvas tents that surrounds the air strip. The hot, dry wind whips sand and dust around our ankles and blows away the cloud kicked up by the helo.


It's even hotter inside the tent, but at least there's shelter from the wind. Tables and folding chairs are set up in rows, and Marines are working in a controlled chaos of papers, maps, and laptops. Lights are strung overhead and there's the hum of a generator somewhere. Everybody's wearing BDUs, and I stand out in my khakis.


A barrel chested bird colonel turns away from the table where he's working and sketches a perfunctory return of my salute. His name tag reads Hayes, C.M.


"Commander Rabb and Clayton Webb reporting, sir."


"You didn't waste any time getting up here," Hayes says, sticking out a hand the size of a baked ham as he gestures for us to sit down. Without asking, he flips each of us a bottle of water from a cooler behind him and sits down opposite me. I set my cover on the table and gratefully take a long drink. The water tastes of plastic, but at least it's cool.


"Colonel, we're getting ready to put Mustapha Atef, a major al-Qaeda leader, on trial aboard the Seahawk," I launch into my spiel, "and we need some corroborating evidence. I need to talk to the prisoners at your detainment camps. We can use affidavits if they're sworn by one of our interpreters."


"Sure thing, we're doing that anyway. I've got just the officer for the job, too. Fitz!" he calls over his shoulder, and a major springs to attention. "Get Ellis on the horn." Hayes turns back to me. "We've had a lot of success sending interpreters out with the recon teams," he tells me. "Works a lot better than hauling people in here for interrogation. The officer I have in mind has done miracles getting the locals to talk to her. Maybe she can pry something out of the hard cases."


"Her?" From the corner of my eye I see Webb's head turn.


"Yeah, Mackenzie. Lieutenant Colonel. My secret weapon." Hayes grins without humor at some private joke. "She's a JAG. Know her?"


The condensation on my water bottle has softened the label to mush beneath my fingers. I realize I'm shredding the foil compulsively with my thumbnail, and force myself to relax my grip. I clear my throat. "We were stationed at headquarters together. Where's Colonel Mackenzie now?"


Hayes grabs the handset. "Up near the border with one of the recon teams," he tells me, and then starts barking orders into the radio, talking to somebody named Ellis. "We'll have a helo up there to collect you guys in an hour. Be at Point Charlie. Right. Out." He clicks the radio off and looks up. "Okay, commander. They're on their way. Major Fitzwater here will help you get set up with the places you need to visit. You can start first thing in the morning. I'd say get started now, but those guys have been out for five days. They'll need a shower and some chow first."


I come to attention. "Thank you, sir."


He nods his dismissal and we follow his aide over to one of the map tables. I manage to maintain focus while he makes some suggestions about the interrogations, and then he leaves us to go over the material. Webb cuts a glance at me. "Did you know Mac was here?" he asks.


"No," I answer. He's watching me alertly. I don't intend to say anything else, and he takes the hint. I leave him fussing around with his cell phone and place a call to the Seahawk. Then I just sit there and sweat and check my watch every few minutes.


Of course I knew it was possible I'd run into Mac when I came up here. Hell, I was hoping. Guess I just never expected it to happen so fast. Or to discover that she's been hanging out with a bunch of commandos on the front lines.


Somehow I have to get through another forty-five minutes before they arrive. There is no way I can sit in this canvas chair and look at reports. Abruptly I stand up and tell Webb I'm going to stretch my legs and head back outside, putting on my sunglasses against the glare. A little reconnaissance walk around the camp is a great way to pace without attracting attention.


* * *


On the Huey, inbound


I stretch out my legs and regard my scuffed boots. Like the rest of me, they are coated with dust. I can taste it on my lips, feel it in my nose and eyes and hair. God, it will feel good to get clean.


We're packed in pretty tight, but I got the spot by the door and I can watch the mountains flowing beneath us, brown and grey and beige. The six guys of Recon Team Bravo are sprawled out on the floor of the cargo bay among our weapons and packs of equipment, leaning against the bulkheads. They are great guys, all of them, and once they got over having a woman along they have been terrific. Of course, Gunny is the only reason they even gave me a chance. I never expected to find myself going out on patrol, especially with Victor's team. I was only supposed to operate out of headquarters, but when the idea came up he spoke up for me and to everyone's surprise, it has worked out.


I hear the click of a lighter and smell the sharp tang of a cigarette as Gunny lights up. He looks scruffy and unshaven, so different from the spit and polish Marine I knew at JAG. But then again, I'm no fashion plate myself. He catches my eye and gives me one of those little smiles of his.


"We owe you one, ma'am," he says over the roar of the engine. "Getting in three days early."


"Yeah, somebody must be in a hurry for something," I call back. "Hey, can I have one of those?" I gesture to his cigarette, and his eyebrows go up in surprise as he holds out the pack.


"Didn't know you smoke, ma'am."


"Used to, when I was a kid. But sometimes nothing else will do, you know?" I lean over to accept a light, and our hands touch for a moment as we cup them around the tiny flame. I can see the contact jolt in his eyes. It's okay. It's nice to be noticed, and nice to know we don't have to do anything about it. Victor and I became friends last summer, and we know where we stand. I trust him more than anyone except Harm.


We ride in companionable silence for awhile, and I know he won't feel the need to get chatty unless I do. Just one of the many things I like about Victor Galindez. Now he tilts his head and points. "Looks like we're coming in." The helo dips and descends to the landing pad, and I hold my breath against the flying grit as I jump down and grab my pack.


The guys follow me out, and I can hear their boots thumping to the ground around me. We haul our gear out from under the rotor blast and I brush the sand off my face as I look up, squinting into the setting sun.


A tall figure in khakis is silhouetted against the glare. The clouds of dust swirl around so I can barely see. For a moment I am sure I'm hallucinating, that my tired brain has conjured him up out of nowhere, out of my longing dreams. But then he moves toward me, and I know.


"Looks like Commander Rabb, ma'am," Victor says in my ear.


"It is," I tell him.


* * *


At first I can't see a damn thing. Half a dozen Marines are milling around and they're all the size of linebackers. Then the dust cloud settles a little and I see her, standing in their midst.


Mac is tall for a woman, but she looks tiny in that crowd. She's gotten so thin she looks almost fragile. She's wearing baggy BDUs and she's covered with dust and sweat. She is without a doubt the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.


When she sees me, it's as if there is no one else there at all. We walk toward each other and stop about three feet away. Suddenly I am acutely aware of all the other people around -- this is a military base, we're in uniform, and I can't touch her.


"Commander Rabb," a familiar voice calls out, sounding pleased to see me.


"Damn, Gunny, good to see you," I say, returning his salute. "I didn't know you were in this outfit."


"Yes sir. Been here nine weeks." He hesitates for just a second, his eyes darting to Mac and back to me. "Sir, ma'am." He quickly sketches another salute and follows the others. Mac is just standing there, watching me. I reach out and take her pack.


"Does this mean you'd follow me anywhere?" she asks with a trace of amusement.


"I would, but I didn't know you were here until an hour ago." We start walking toward the tents. God, she looks tired. We don't say another word until we arrive at her door.


"Female quarters. For all three of us," she tells me. She opens the screen and calls, "Anybody home?" There's no answer, so I follow her inside, carrying her stuff. It barely hits the floor before she's in my arms.


For a long, long time we just hold each other, not moving, not even breathing. I wrap one arm around her slender waist, one around her back, and lift her against me. She's holding on for dear life, and I can feel it when she starts to tremble.


"Mac," I whisper. "Mac. It's okay baby, it's okay."


"I didn't know I could miss anybody this much."


"I missed you more."


"They won't let us call or write or anything," she sniffles.


"I know, sweetheart. Shhh, it's all okay now."


I keep holding her and stroking her back in little circles, my face buried in her hair. My shirt collar is damp, but she knows I don't want her to cry and she gets hold of it. At last she leans back and gives me a watery smile, and I brush the tears from her cheeks. They leave smears in the dust on her face, and we both laugh a little.


"If they catch you in here, we're dead," she whispers.


"I'll risk it," I tell her, pulling her closer. And finally, finally, I'm kissing her, and it's even better than I remembered.


"I love you," she murmurs against my mouth. After that, we really don't need to say anything else for awhile.


Eventually we need to breathe and we lean against each other, panting. My leg is pressed between her thighs, and if we don't stop now I'm not getting out of here without major embarrassment.


She leans her forehead against my chest and mumbles something. "What?" I ask. "I need a shower," she repeats, looking up with a glimmer of laughter. "And you need a cold one." She looks down, pointedly, and grinds against me a little.


"Tease."


"Rain check?"


"Does it ever rain here?"


"It's in the forecast."


* * *


"Colonel Mackenzie reporting as ordered, sir," I come to attention in front of Hayes. God, it feels good to be clean. After Harm left me I grabbed a quick shower, and the fresh cotton of my BDUs rubs pleasantly against my skin. My hair is still wet, but it won't stay that way long in this heat.


"As you were, Colonel," Hayes says. "I think you know everyone."


"Clayton Webb, what brings you here?" I ask as I join the group gathered around the map table. Webb gives me a quick once-over and nods at Harm, with whom I have studiously avoided eye contact.


"Commander Rabb and I need to corroborate Mustapha Atef's identity and activities," Webb tells me. "We think we can get what we need from prisoners in the detainment camps."


"Who is Mustapha Atef?" I ask.


Webb looks nonplussed. "I forget you've been in the field for awhile," he says irritably. "Rabb?"


Harm meets my eyes and his intensity is purely professional. "He's a kingpin in al-Qaeda, Mac," he tells me. "We caught him two weeks ago, and he's going on trial by military tribunal aboard the Seahawk four days from now. They call him 'Mohandess.'"


My pulse accelerates. "You're prosecuting?" He nods. "Who's defending?"


"Admiral Chegwidden."


God, what I wouldn't give to be on board for this one. Harm sees it in my eyes and gives me a look I can't quite decipher -- humor, approval, encouragement, I can't tell.


"We're sending two teams out in the morning," Hayes tells me. "Colonel, you'll be with one, Rabb with the other so we'll have JAG oversight on both. I'm sending Corporal Denbedian with Rabb's team as interpreter."


"Sounds good, sir. What are we looking for, exactly?"


Harm says, "Anyone who can confirm his identity, primarily. He's trying to say his confession was coerced and he's not al-Qaeda. We also hope to get some sort of confirmation about his involvement in 9/11."


"His name ought to be enough," I say.


"How's that, Colonel?" Webb snaps.


" 'Mohandess' means 'the Architect'," I tell them.


* * *


Webb disappears somewhere as soon as the meeting breaks up, and Harm and I stroll outside together. I take a deep breath of the crisp air and look up at the evening sky. There's still a faint glow from the sunset, and a few stars shimmer like chips of ice high above the mountains. It gets chilly fast in the desert at night. I hug myself with a quick shiver, feeling happy, feeling his warm solid bulk beside me.


"I still can't believe you're really here," I smile. "It's as if you dropped out of the sky, like that house in The Wizard of Oz."


"Well, this sure as hell isn't Kansas." Harm smiles back at me, but his eyes are somber. He hesitates, then adds, "One minute we're together in Washington, the next minute you're halfway around the world, dodging sniper fire and landmines."


"Not my choice." I keep my voice steady. Okay, here it comes.


"Mac. I know you can handle yourself. And I hope to God you know I'd never stand in your way. But I don't have to like it."


"Desert crawling with a recon patrol isn't exactly my idea of a great time, Harm. But it's my job."


He turns away impatiently. "Damnit, Mac, I know you're the meanest, toughest Marine in the Corps. It doesn't help when I wake up dreaming about what could happen to you."


"Now you know how I feel every time you go up in a Tomcat," I blurt out, and freeze at the flash of pain in his eyes, quickly concealed. "Harm" -- my hand reaches out, but he turns away and I'm left waving in empty air. "I'm sorry. That was a cheap shot."


"But accurate, nevertheless," he replies.


"No it isn't. I'm here because it's my duty. You fly because you love it, and you're great at it." Something twists inside me. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. Until now, I didn't really believe this could be as hard on him as it was on me -- or that he would ever be able to admit it.


I take a deep breath and put my hand on him, and this time he lets it stay. "Harm -- it goes with the territory. Loving you means accepting all of it, including all the things that could happen. Including lying awake at night, missing you."


"Touche," he says lightly. "It's just that" -- he lets his breath out slowly, and some of the anger he was hiding behind seems to go with it. "Mac, I told you once I never want to lose you. I don't know if I could take it."


We're standing toe to toe, barely six inches between us as I look up at him. Between one breath and the next I realize what a great and terrible responsibility it is when someone hands you his heart. He is the bravest man I have ever known, and loving me may be the bravest thing he has ever done.


So I take his hand, and say very softly, "Then we'll just have to concentrate on living, and loving each other. Nothing -- *nothing* -- will ever change that."


He holds my hand, looking away at the horizon. Finally he gives my fingers a quick squeeze. "Okay." I don't think he trusts his voice. After a moment he tosses his head and looks at me with a quick smile. All I want is to put my arms around him.


Instead, we start walking again. I say, "God, do you have any idea how much I'd give to be in that courtroom on Friday? Why is the Admiral defending?"


"You know A.J. He wouldn't order any of us to do it."


"Can you get a conviction?"


He gives one of those maddening shrugs, all male. But I can feel the fire behind it. "I damn sure intend to, Mac. Finding some evidence tomorrow would help."


"Well, I think dinner and a good night's sleep would help. I'm starving, and you look like you could use some chow. Have you eaten *anything* lately, Stickboy?" I poke him in the ribs and he grabs my hand again.


"I've been running a lot," he tells me, looking away. "Besides, you look like you're about to blow away yourself. Don't they feed you?"


"How does canned chicken chow mein and chocolate pudding sound?" At the face he makes, I burst out laughing.


"Mac, I have leftover MREs from the Gulf War that would taste better than that." He reaches out and puts his hand on my cheek. After a minute he says, very quietly, "And if I don't touch you soon, I'm probably going to self-destruct."


"There's a truck behind the supply hut."


"Good thinking, Marine." He all but drags me across the compound. Thank God it's dark already.


Two Humvees and a heavy truck with canvas flaps are parked in the deep shadows. We stumble over the guy wires around the tents, shushing each other and snorting with suppressed laughter. After glancing around with elaborate casualness, I flip open the back of the truck and climb in. "Come on," I whisper, tugging on his sleeve.


With one quick heave he's inside and turning to drop the canvas. It's still warm in here, and it's empty except for a couple of crates and a coil of rope. It smells of oil and dust. We reach for each other at the same moment in the dark and stumble to our knees on the dirty floor, kissing frantically and fumbling with each other's clothes.


"I feel like I'm fifteen again," I whisper as he slips my shirt off my shoulders.


"Don't laugh, I got caught like this when I was fifteen." I can hear the grin in Harm's voice. It's so dark in here, I can't see a thing. There's a lot of rustling and bumping as we struggle out of our clothes and I hear him swear under his breath.


"What?"


"My sleeve is caught on my watch." He jerks something and I hear a button pop and roll across the floor. "Shit."


He flings his tee shirt onto the floor and lowers me onto it. My bra is gone somewhere in the dark, I'll probably never find it, and then his hands are moving over me and I gasp with pleasure. God help us if anybody walks by right now.


I start to giggle. “What?" he hisses.


"It's just -- I'll have to take my damn boots off."


Harm goes stock still, then rests his forehead against me. I feel him shaking with laughter and I am convulsed with giggles beneath him. His breath is warm on my neck and the laughter changes to little panting breaths.


* * *


After awhile consciousness returns and I'm lying across his chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heart as his hand strokes my back. "Wow," I croak, "gives a whole new meaning to 'she died with her boots on.'"


For some reason this strikes us both as hysterically funny. We hug each other, rolling with silent laughter until my stomach aches and I start to hiccup. Finally we get hold of ourselves. Harm wipes his streaming eyes and sits up. "Okay, time out," he gasps.


"Do you have any idea where my bra is?" I ask, feeling around in the dark and cringing as my fingers brush the dirty floor.


"Maybe somebody ran it up the flagpole," he answers dryly. "We made enough noise, I'm sure the entire camp is out there waiting to applaud."


I shoot him a dirty look which, unfortunately, is lost in the dark. We pull and tug and somehow manage to get ourselves dressed, more or less, and Harm peeks out of the canvas flap.


"The coast is clear," he announces in a stage whisper, and holds out a hand to help me. His arms go around me in a warm, solid hug, and for a while we just stand there in the shadows.


"I don't want to let go," I whisper, already dreading the chill when I have to leave him. How can this man take me from angry to ecstatically happy to sad in the space of an hour?


"I'll never let go, Mac." He whispers into my hair and holds me awhile before he kisses me tenderly. Reluctantly we head off to our separate tents.


* * *


0800 Zulu (1 p.m.)

Two days later


The Humvee's brakes screech to a halt in a cloud of dust beside the command post. I jerk the parking brake and jump out, not waiting for the Marine to follow. We've been driving for two days, and my BDUs are soaked with sweat where I was sitting in the driver's seat. All I want is to see Mac and get a drink of cold water, in that order.


It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust from the brightness outside. Then I spot Mac and Webb at one of the tables with Colonel Hayes and a couple of other Marines, and I head that way, shaking the dust out of my clothes before coming to attention.


"Rabb," Hayes returns my salute with a laconic gesture, and I grab a bottle of water from the ever-present cooler before I sit down.


"You get anything?" Webb asks.


"Absolute zero," I answer with disgust, looking at Mac. How does she manage to look so pretty in spite of the dust and that ugly uniform? She flashes me a quick, reassuring glance, and right away I know they had better luck than I did, thank God. "What about you?" I ask Webb.


"Oh, Mustapha Atef is Mohandess all right." Webb looks smug, but then Webb always looks smug. "But there's more."


I take my hat off and give him a look.


"We intercepted a lot of radio traffic between Atef and his brother Kabir, in Pakistan. Something big is going down, something big enough to keep Mohandess in Afghanistan, waiting for Kabir, even when we were on his trail. We also are sure that Kabir was behind a wire transfer from Pakistan to Russia -- a quarter of a million dollars, to be exact. And Kabir was seen near Jalalabad two days ago."


"Regardless of the outcome of the tribunal, we can't execute Mohandess," Mac leans forward urgently. "He's our only leverage with Kabir."


"How the hell did you find all that out?" I say to no one in particular.


"Mac got it from an al-Qaeda prisoner at the camp," Webb says briefly.


"How?" I look at Mac.


"He was wounded. They weren't doing anything for him, so I gave him some water." She shrugs, not looking at me. There's something more going on here. I'm hot and tired, but something puts my radar up.


"Maybe he felt bad about trying to kill you," Webb makes a wiseass aside to Mac. At the look on her face, he goes very still and changes the subject. "So, Rabb, the helo from the Seahawk is picking us up in 90 minutes. You ready?"


I ignore him. "He tried to kill you?" As far as I'm concerned, there's no one else here but Mac. The glance she shoots at Webb has daggers in it.


"It was nothing," she says calmly, and turns to Hayes. "Sir, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get cleaned up and write my report." She comes briefly to attention and slips out of the tent.


"Oh for God's sake, Rabb," Webb snaps irritably. "One prisoner had a concealed knife. He grabbed her, and Mac got the drop on him. We shot the others. It was over before it began." He shrugs and takes a drink of water.


"What others?" I keep my voice very quiet.


Hayes leans forward and tosses an envelope at me. Maybe he's worried I'll slug Webb. "This just came through, flash from Washington," he tells me with faint disgust in his tone. "Orders for Col. Mackenzie to report to the Seahawk to assist in the prosecution of Mustapha Atef. Why am I not surprised? You have anything to do with that, Rabb?" My control snaps into place and I shake my head.


"No, sir. I did inform Admiral Chegwidden of the Colonel's whereabouts," I say.


"Uh huh. And something tells me I won't be getting her back anytime soon," he says. Looks like I'm not real popular around here all of a sudden. "Give the colonel her orders, commander. And good luck with the trial. Nail the son of a bitch."


"Thank you, sir." I come to attention, then get out of there before I say something I'll regret. I head across the compound toward Mac's tent, where I pull open the door and barge in.


"Well, knock knock," an unfamiliar voice says calmly. A petite blonde is standing beside one of the cots dressed only from the waist down, and I back up a step before turning away.


"Excuse me. I'm looking for Colonel Mackenzie," I tell her over my shoulder.


"I guess so," she drawls, and I can hear the amusement in her voice. Women on the front lines either learn to handle male behavior with aplomb or they get out. "Mac, there's someone here for you."


Mac steps around a curtain and looks at me. "Harm. Can we do this later?"


The blonde pipes up, "Oh, don't mind me. I'm on my way to chow anyway. Don't wait up, kids." She finishes buttoning her shirt and leaves.


Mac is looking at me steadily, but she doesn't say anything.


"Were you going to tell me about it?" I ask.


"Probably not."


"Why?" My voice sounds a little rusty. "Do you see me using Webb for a tent stake?"


A tiny smile is lurking on that gorgeous mouth. "No. But I was afraid you might."


"Well, I won't say it isn't an attractive idea. But Mac, I thought we dealt with this. That guy who grabbed you -- I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard."


"That's probably the most charming thing you've ever said to me."


"Hey, give me some credit. I know how to sweet talk a Marine."


She comes up to me and puts her hands on my chest. "Yes, you do."


"Then you'll listen to something else I have to say?"


"Okay." Now her tone is wary.


"Admiral Chegwidden has requested you as backup counsel for the prosecution. You're to report with me to the Seahawk."


Mac's eyes narrow. "You did this just to get me out of here," she says accusingly.


"The hell I did. Sure, I called him as soon as I knew you were here. Want to know why?" I don't wait for her to answer. "You're a hell of a lot more valuable in that courtroom than being an interpreter for recon. And maybe you don't appreciate how pissed the admiral was when they pulled his chief of staff out from under his nose and wouldn't even tell him what your assignment was. He pulled every string in the book to get you back."


"He did? You do?"


"Mac -- look, we need you on this one. So much is riding on it. It's incredibly complex, and I only have tomorrow to finish preparing. I need help -- I need *your* help. You're the best. There's nobody else I trust."


Tears are standing in her eyes as she regards me calmly. "When do we leave?" she asks.


* * *


2300 Zulu (4:00 a.m.)

U.S.S. Seahawk, Arabian Sea.

Four days later


"Why the hell can't the military ever run a transport at normal hours?" Harm starts complaining as soon as I open the hatch to my cabin. He is freshly shaved and pressed, but he looks tired.


"You're pretty grouchy for a guy who just won a major conviction," I kid him. My own reflection is not inspiring this morning, and with a final glance in the mirror, I give up. The only thing to do with a bad hair day is surrender to it.


"Not when we were up 'til 0130 writing reports on a terrorist's suicide," he grumbles. "Not to mention we'll probably have to turn right around and come back for the board of inquiry."


"He wanted to be a martyr, and he succeeded. Webb will have to do some fancy tap dancing on this one," I say as I toss my toothbrush into my sea bag and zip it closed.


"Webb doesn't have to fill out reports, he has minions to do it for him. He decamped last night," Harm complains as he reaches for my bag. He's already carrying his own. "He thinks he can get a line on the money transfer to Russia through the Iranian embassy in Pakistan."


I shut the hatch to my cabin behind me and follow him toward the wardroom, carrying his briefcase and laptop. "More power to him. You're just irritable because you don't like to admit that this one got away from us." I step carefully over a knee knocker and dodge my way through the throng of sailors on Broadway. One thing about life on a carrier, you're never alone.


Harm mutters into my ear, "No, I'm irritable because I wanted to sleep with you last night and you shut the door in my face."


"Appearance of impropriety, counselor. Besides, you didn't want to sleep."


I catch a glint of amusement. "We'll have plenty of time for sleeping on the flight home." I wonder what else he has planned for all those hours.


"Look, at least you won the case," I remind him.


"That guy couldn't wait to confess on the stand. Like he wanted to rub our noses in it."


"Only because we closed off all his options and you led him right where you wanted him to go."


Harm shrugs. "I can't get over the feeling that Mustapha had some other reason for checking out like he did. He wasn't the kind of guy to be afraid of interrogation."


"He was afraid of giving something away," I speculate. "He did it once before."


"Yeah, maybe. But you'd think they'd change their plans once he was captured, wouldn't you? Good operating procedure?"


"Unless something is going to happen soon. Maybe they couldn't," I say.


Harm looks at me intently. I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. He gives a quick nod and opens the door to the wardroom for me. "I think you're right, Mac. We'd better let the skipper know asap. They may want to alert military targets in the theater."


We ditch our bags at a table and head for the serving hatch. Even at this hour, a carrier in a forward area is a busy place. Aviators coming off night patrols are eating, and officers on the second dog watch are downing the last of their coffee before heading to the bridge. It's a quiet, controlled bustle, like Grand Central Station just before the morning rush hour.


Scrambled eggs and crisp bacon for me. Oatmeal for Harm. It will be a long trip home, and we won't get another hot meal for awhile. He holds a chair out for me at an empty table, and I pick up my napkin.


"I'm so tired I can't decide if I'm waking up or falling asleep," I say as the wardroom steward pours coffee. "I feels like I just finished third year finals." I regard him over the rim of my cup as I sip delicately. "This was a blast, partner. You done good."


He flushes in pleased surprise and glances away quickly. "I couldn't have done it if you hadn't handled the preliminary testimony. I was swamped."


Coming in late on this case as I did, I jumped in and organized the mountain of technical background, analyzing weak spots and preparing rebuttals. "I'm good at the details, Harm, but you came up with the slam dunk," I answer. "Mustapha never would have confessed if you hadn't gotten under his skin on the cross. And the Admiral did a terrific job defending. I'm glad we did it right."


"I'm just glad we'll be home in twenty hours," Harm leans back in his chair with a long sigh and rubs his forehead. "Mac, all I want to think about right now is you, me, a sailboat, and the Bahamas. For about a month."


Beneath the starched white tablecloth his knee is pressing against mine, and I'm about to lick the strawberry jam off my lower lip when a nervous young ensign comes to attention beside our table. We really have to stop having food sex instead of the real thing.


"Commander Rabb, Colonel Mackenzie? The Captain requests your presence on the bridge?"


I'm about to ask the kid if he's sure, but Harm catches my eye and we stand. "Lead the way, ensign," he says. "Speak of the devil," he whispers to me.


Outside the broad windows of the bridge, the sky and sea are a dirty grey. The sun has barely hauled itself over the eastern horizon, an ominous red ball cloaked in lines of overcast clouds.


I doubt Captain Johnson ever sleeps. He's staring out the forward windows as we come to attention, and he doesn't keep us waiting.


"Commander Rabb. Colonel Mackenzie." His frosty eyes survey us without emotion. "One of the prisoners, a Mohammad Aliyah, has asked to speak to you. Says he has information that he's willing to trade for a more lenient prosecution."


"Sir, we have to be back in Washington at 0800 Monday" --


"We'll hold the helo, Commander. And I've radioed Riyadh to hold the C-130."


"Aye aye, sir." From the corner of my eye I can tell Harm is keeping his eyes resolutely front and center.


"You think this is a wild goose chase, Commander?"


"Hard to say, sir. Coming right after Mustapha's conviction and suicide, it could be the break we're looking for. Sir, we think there is reason to be concerned that al-Qaeda's next attack may be imminent. Atef may have killed himself to avoid revealing plans that could not be changed at short notice."


Johnson looks at us sharply. "Agreed. I'll get on the horn to command. Meanwhile, you have two hours to report. If you think it will take longer, send word."


"Aye, sir."


We salute and leave the bridge, only risking a glance at each other when we're out of earshot.


"What do you think?"


He shrugs. "We'll see, Mac. At least we get a guided tour of the brig."


* * *


The brig is located on Level 3, amidships near the starboard machine shops. Mac and I have never been here before, since Mustapha was being held in isolation during his trial and that's where he was found dead last night. Now we follow a petty officer below, descending six decks and eight companionways before traversing a narrow passage that runs between the lower holds.


"How do you transport the prisoners, Petty Officer?" I ask.


"Elevator, sir. Security clearance top and bottom, one at a time, direct to the flight deck. They're escorted from there to transports or the courtroom, sir. Don't go nowhere else on the ship."


"Was the brig always located here?" I'm curious. There are a couple dozen al-Qaeda prisoners on board, give or take, and I can't believe the Seahawk normally needs a jail this size.


"No, sir. Had to put in special security, plumbing, even. Not that any of them guys ever seen any." There's a note of barely concealed contempt in the kid's voice as he stops outside a steel hatch like all the others in the hold. "Here you go, sir, ma'am."


The door buzzes open, and I look up. A security camera is aimed at us. Just beyond, I can see a freight elevator shaft. It must open into the lower hold where the cells are.


We enter and discover it's an airlock, with a keypad on the inner door. "Nobody's getting in or out of here on a whim," Mac comments, looking around. The petty officer reaches past her to punch the code, and a moment later the inner hatch swings open and we step through.


A Marine guard steps forward. "Sir, ma'am, the interrogation room is just behind you." He gestures and I push the steel hatch wider, holding it for Mac. There's a guard shack opposite with big windows overlooking the cells below and the hold next door. This was probably some sort of control center for operations before it was converted.


The Marine comes to attention. "We'll escort the prisoner up. A guard will stay with him at all times, and you'll be on the monitor." He points to another camera high in the corner. "I'll have to ask for your briefcases and sidearms."


"Is that really necessary, staff sergeant?" Mac asks. "We're not armed."


"Ma'am, two days ago one of these guys stabbed a CIA guy through the hand with a pencil. And after last night, we can't take any chances. All firearms are locked in the guard shack, we'll return them when you leave."


Reluctantly Mac hands over the briefcase and laptop. "May I keep my tape recorder?" she asks. "I need to keep a record of what is said."


"Of course, ma'am. Just hit the buzzer when you're ready to have the prisoner escorted back to his cell." That's when I realize we'll be locked in here with the prisoner and the guard. Great. Now I remember why I prefer prosecuting these guys -- at least I don't have to spend time with them before the trial.


Mac seats herself at the single table in the center of the anonymous little room, and I notice that everything is bolted to the floor. She fusses a bit with her pocket recorder, then sets it in the middle of the table's shiny formica surface. I pace behind her, feeling oddly keyed up. Something's coming, I can feel it. Mac thinks so too, I can tell by the way she's sitting very still, watching the door.


It swings open to admit a short, skinny guy in an orange jumpsuit. His wrists are chained to his belt, and chains clink between his feet as he shuffles forward. It's hard to see much of his face behind his wild-grown beard and long hair.


The Marine guard shoves him into the chair opposite Mac and she leans forward. "Mohammad Aliyah?" she asks. He looks at her with surprise and contempt.


"I do not speak to women," he says to me.


"Then you're out of luck," I tell him. "Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie is co-counsel for the prosecution. You speak to her, or we don't speak at all."


Aliyah stares at me in confusion, then leans over and spits on the floor.


"Okay," I say to the Marine. "Interview's over. Take him back."


As the Marine's hand drops to Aliyah's shoulder, Mac leans forward and says something in Farsi, low and quick. Aliyah hesitates, then answers her.


"Translation?" I inquire.


"He'll deal," she says.


It doesn't take long. Speaking through Mac, Aliyah keeps babbling something about godless traitors and a great blow for freedom. Apparently he lost faith when Mohandess killed himself rather than die with his martyred comrades. Suddenly Mac leans back and asks another question, low and sharp. He stares at her, the whites of his eyes showing. Then he starts talking even faster.


"What?" I demand as soon as he stops for breath. Mac is still for a moment, and when she looks up at me, her face is tense and pale.


"He says they have a submarine," she says slowly. "They bought it from the Russians. It's going to strike at a major American military target sometime today."


"Think he can give us more?"


"No."


I buzz immediately. "That's all, take him back. Come on, Mac. We have to call the bridge." She looks up at me quickly, then slips the recorder into her pocket as she stands. The Marine guard is already hustling Aliyah through the door, and Mac and I hang back until they're clear.


"You think he was telling the truth?" I ask her.


She nods slowly. "Yes. He didn't know all the details, that's what convinced me. If he were making it up, he'd have filled in the blanks."


"I agree. The guy was scared."


"So am I." She touches my sleeve for a second, then steps toward the hatch.


And the whole world explodes.


* * *


Dust. Smoke. Thick, acrid smoke making it hard to breathe, leaving a gritty layer on the steel deck beneath my cheek. Why am I lying on the floor?


"Mac," I manage to croak. It's so dark I can barely see, and for a weird moment I have no idea where I am. My foot moves a little, scraping the deck, and my hand bangs into a table leg that seems to be stuck to the floor. Table. The brig. Oh, right.


There's so much noise -- banging, sirens, a sort of roaring sound, groaning metal -- Jesus, is the ship coming apart? I get my head up and try to look around, relieved that the blue emergency lights have clicked on. Something glitters like diamonds scattered across the floor, fanning out from the open hatch, and I realize there's broken glass all over the place. Slowly I manage to sit up and I brush myself off. Except for the ringing in my ears, I seem to be okay. Looks like the steel hatch protected us from the main force of the blast as I held it open for Mac.


Mac. Oh, my God.


I'm fumbling around on my hands and knees, feeling my way in the dark, when I touch something soft. Her hip. I scramble closer and peer at her in the dim light.


She's lying in the corner behind the overturned table, curled up in a protective ball. The explosion must have ripped the bolts right out of the deck plates. "Mac," I rasp out. "Sweetheart, are you okay?" Please, God.


"Harm?" Her voice is so faint, I can barely hear it over the din all around us. Her hand gropes toward me, and I grab it as I crawl closer. Her arm stiffens, holding me away, and her voice is deceptively calm. "Careful. My leg's broken."


I look, and see that Mac's left foot is bent at a ridiculous angle. Her ankle is clearly broken, probably in more than one place. I ease over to kneel beside her as she carefully pushes herself into a sitting position, panting, and grabs hold of my hand. The whole side of her face is scraped, and her right eye is swollen nearly shut. A thin line of blood seeps from her nose.


"What happened?" she whispers. "Bomb?"


"Torpedoes, I think. Fore and aft of us."


"Are you okay?"


"I'm fine. Now just lie still, let me take a look," I tell her. "I won't move it, I promise."


She nods her head, her lips tight. Her breath is coming in quick little gasps. I lean closer and run my fingers lightly over the ankle, which is already swollen to the size of a football. But at least there aren't any bones poking through the skin. Her shoe is gone, fortunately, and I take out my pocket knife.


"Mac, I'm going to remove your sock. It'll cut off circulation if we leave it on," I tell her.


"Okay," she says faintly, and I see her clench her fists. Carefully I slit the leg of her trousers and lift the top of her sock enough to slip the knife blade beneath. There's no way to pull it off, and the only way to cut it is to saw at the fabric. I do it as gently as I can, but she gives a strangled little cry that tears at me.


"Okay, that's got it," I tell her. Quickly I pull off my khaki blouse and fold it into a pad to put beneath her foot, bracing it a little. Jesus, that thing has to hurt.


I look up to find her watching me with a crooked little smile. Slowly she reaches out and puts her hand against my cheek. "You're pretty good at that," she says. "Feels better already. Thanks."


My mouth is dry, and I realize that what I'm feeling is rage -- blinding, total fury. It's so bad my hands start to shake.

Then Mac’s hand is gently stroking my cheek, and I manage to focus on her. I take a deep, shaky breath and smooth her hair off her forehead, carefully avoiding the bruises. She's watching me quietly, her good eye calm, and I feel control slide into place, cool and sure.


"Mac, I need to go see what's going on."


"Yes, you do. Go. I'll be fine."


I give her a quick kiss on the forehead. "I'll be right back, sweetheart. Just hang on."


"Not going anywhere," she gives me a tight smile.


Poking my head into the passage between our room and the guard shack, I see what happened. The force of the blast blew out the windows overlooking the hold and the cells below. What's left of the Marine guard and the prisoner is splattered all over the companionway. The hatch of the guard shack is hanging on its hinges, and when I put my shoulder to it, it pushes against something. A body. Oh Christ, it's the other Marine. This poor kid couldn't have been more than 25. I close his staring eyes and move him carefully to one side before I do a quick search. The phone is dead, of course, and my cell phone will never work down here. The firearms locker was blown open in the explosion, and I quickly stuff a couple of automatics into my belt and all the spare clips I can see. Under the shattered remains of the counter I discover a big Maglight, still intact, and a first aid box and a blanket.


In the cells below, the prisoners are screaming and banging on the bars. Guess the blast didn't take them out, too bad. It's hard to see in the dim light, but the locked gate that gives access down to the detention area feels solid when I pull on it. I peer over the catwalk into the gloom, but it's impossible to see whether any of the cells were damaged in the blast. I can hear water sloshing down there somewhere.


The deck is definitely beginning to list a little to starboard. We're taking on water -- no big surprise. I'd rather not drag Mac through the broken windows, but she can't stay where she is. So I check the airlock. Pushing on the inner hatch succeeds in opening it about halfway, but the outer door, though buckled and dark with soot, won't budge. I grab a fire ax from the wall in the ruined guard post and start to work, striking sparks on the steel, and finally something gives and I'm able to shove the whole thing aside.


A single blue emergency light is shining outside the hatch, but the corridor itself is demolished. Clearly the steel bulkheads of the brig deflected the blast, but on either side the passage is completely closed off.


Mac is sitting where I left her, arms curled around herself as if she's cold. "Mac," I say quietly as I kneel beside her. "Do you think you can stand up?"


"What time frame did you have in mind?"


"We're taking on water. I don't know how fast this place will flood."


"Good reason," she says, and bends her good leg. She holds up her arms and I lift her, trying to hold her steady and take all her weight as she stands up on one foot, holding her left leg out at an awkward angle.


"Put your arms around my neck," I order, and for once she does it without arguing. As slowly and cautiously as possible, I lift her, but she bites off a cry and I know the jostling has to be excruciating. "I'm so sorry, baby," I whisper in her ear. "I don't want to hurt you."


"You could never hurt me," she says bravely, but her lips are white and she keeps her face pressed into my neck as I carry her through the hatch and into the corridor. Very carefully I ease her down onto the deck, letting her lean against the bulkhead beside the hatch. Gently I slip my blouse under her ankle again. It probably doesn't help any, but it makes me feel a little better.


"Let me have your wings," she says, groping for the blouse. "They might get lost." Something tightens in my throat. With everything that's going on, that's what matters to her.


Working quickly, I break open the first aid box and pour antiseptic onto a gauze pad. "Okay, Marine, hold still now." She squeezes her good eye shut and doesn't even flinch as I dab at the cuts and scrapes. The kit doesn't have anything like splints for her leg, and I'd probably just make it worse if I tried to straighten it anyway. I fold the blanket into a rough square and slide it behind her and say, "Just lie back and rest, Mac. I'm going to see if I can find any other survivors."


"Is there a way out?" she asks.


"The elevator shaft," I say, pointing. It's ripped open from deck to overhead, and I can feel fresh air coming from the hole. "It should be possible to climb up through there."


"You go. I'll be okay."


Kneeling beside her, I brush a smudge from her cheekbone with my thumb. "Like hell. Look, Mac, take this. Just in case." I hand her one of the automatics and an extra clip.


"What am I supposed to do, yell 'friend or foe'?" she asks with a faint grin. That's my girl -- a sense of humor, and no complaints.


"Shoot anybody who doesn't know the name of the Red Sox's third baseman," I kid her.


"Harm, *I* don't know that."


"Me either. Look Mac, nobody's going to come walking through here anytime soon." She's looking up at me with those big dark eyes and all I want to do is hold her. "Mac, I don't want to leave you. But I have to."


"I know. There's nothing you can do here. Be careful, and hurry back."


"Always."


She gives me a wan smile and I kiss her before I go.


* * *


Is it my imagination, or is it cold in here?


Maybe it's shock, I can't tell. I try to remember my first aid training. Something tells me I wouldn't be alert enough to wonder about shock if it were setting in.


I broke my wrist when I was eleven, ice skating with Lallie Boyd. I don't remember it hurting all that much, but my dad was furious. Wore a cast for a few weeks, nothing to it. Wonder how hard it is to get around with crutches. This whole thing seems so unreal. One minute I'm standing there, the next I'm flying through the air as if propelled by a giant hand, hitting the deck, feeling my ankle collapse with a horrible sort of crumpling sensation and knowing it was bad. It didn't really hurt at first, but now it feels like a bag full of broken glass is tied onto the end of my leg. Only thing to do is wall it off, think about something else.


All around me, the carrier is groaning like a living, wounded creature. Added to the usual slow rolling motion of the deck is a more ominous, shuddering vibration and a definite list to starboard. How many decks were hit? How many areas are taking on water? Were a lot of people hurt or killed? Not knowing is the worst. No, worrying about Harm is the worst.


There's a sudden, bellowing roar from somewhere below and aft, and I jerk upright, jostling my leg. Oh God, Harm. For a long tense moment I'm rigid, listening, but there's nothing else. The ship settles a little more, and I find I can actually lean back on the bulkhead behind me. It's no longer vertical. I try not to let that scare me, either.


Gradually other noises begin to penetrate, over and above the surrounding din. Voices. Men's voices, shouting and cursing in Farsi. Coming through the hatch beside me. The prisoners, of course. They're trapped in their cells on the deck below, and we're taking on water. Unless help comes soon, they'll drown like rats in a trap.


Now that I'm aware, I can't hear anything but their screams. How high is the water? How long do they have? Dear God, don't let this happen. Not to them, not to any sailors who might be on the decks somewhere below.


Maybe it's because I'm listening so closely, but I notice when the sounds change. One or two voices are shouting over the rest, I can't make it out, and then it gets way too quiet. The water can't be that high yet, can it?


And then I hear a sound I have subconsciously been listening for and dreading. A metallic scraping and a snap, followed by the slow creak of metal on metal. The gate to the detention area. Swinging open.


Oh shit, I have to be imagining this. Harm, didn't you check it? I know you did, you wouldn't have left me alone if you thought they could get out.


There's some quiet rustling and a low muttered oath. It's on this level now, and closer. They must be nearly to the guard shack. Please God, don't let there be any more weapons in there. I realize I'm clutching the automatic Harm gave me, and control slides over me like a cool breeze.


I roll carefully to my left, trying not to make a sound as I get prone. Maneuvering my ankle is a problem. There is no way I can turn all the way onto my stomach without shrieking in pain, so I lie sort of sideways on my left hip and brace my forearms on the knee knocker. Cautiously I twist my shoulders a little more and raise my head just enough to peer over.


It's a good line of sight. They're coming all right, two of them, their orange jumpsuits looking grey in the faint lights. Groping their way toward me, clutching something, I can't see. Pieces of broken pipe, maybe? Taking a deep, steadying breath, I fire a warning shot above their heads.


"Stop! Do not move!" I shout in Farsi. "Stay where you are."


For a long, long minute they crouch there, whispering. Then one says, "It's only a woman," and they come in a rush.


I fire, and the man in front is flung backward, a gaping hole in his chest. Instantly I bring my weapon to bear on the other target, but he is trying to duck and for a second I lose him in the dark. He's screaming in Farsi, and I know what's coming and I wait.


When he charges the door, I get one glimpse of a terrified pale face pierced with two black holes for eyes. My shot hits neatly between them.


The force of his rush propels his body against the inner door with a terrific thud, and then he's sprawled across the inside knee knocker, less than four feet away. I can't see his face anymore, his hair is hanging down and covering it.


Slowly, very slowly, I manage to relax my grip on the automatic and wait, watching and listening, peering into the darkened passage. I'm not worried about the two I can see, they were dead before they hit the deck. But I can't tell if any of those shadows are more men who will try to get past me to escape into the ship.


Suddenly a voice starts screaming again from below, wailing and keening. Others take up the chant and start clanging things on the bars. Okay. It was just the two of them. Their cells must have been damaged enough to allow them to get out, and somehow they pried open the gate. After a long while listening, I'm satisfied that the other prisoners aren't loose down there. Nice guys -- they didn't even take time to let their friends out.


Carefully I roll onto my back, resting my head on the blanket, and stare up into the dark illuminated by the single blue bulb. My ankle is singing Ave Maria, but it's more of a distraction than a problem. I'm shaking, and my mind feels oddly calm and detached.


Oh Harm. Are you all right? Where are you?


* * *


Sharp fragments of glass line the frame where the windows used to be. I knock them away with the handle of the Maglite, and they shower to the floor with a silvery, tinkling sound. Then I hoist myself over the sill into the storage hold beyond.


Even the emergency lights were destroyed in the explosion. Jesus, it's dark in here. The harsh narrow beam of the flashlight sweeps from side to side, picking out swaths of wire and hulks of scorched, twisted steel and debris. The torpedoes must have hit the decks just below, forcing the blast up through the loading hatches. We had a couple of extra steel bulkheads protecting us, but the guys working here weren't so lucky. Bodies like blackened scarecrows lie awkwardly where the explosion flung them, the rage flows through me like ice water, helping me focus.


The footing is tricky as I work my way aft. Besides the mountains of wreckage, the deck is buckled and ripped open in places. There's a strong smell of hot metal and burning, but no smoke yet. After scrambling toward the stern for a few dozen yards, I can finally see some emergency lights and a couple of flashlights moving around.


With a shout, I try to make myself heard above all the noise and keep going. Finally somebody yells back, and I clamber over a mound of debris to find about a dozen sailors huddled around an open loading hatch. Several are sitting or kneeling, possibly injured. I scan their tense faces quickly, seeing confusion and a little hostility.


I realize I left my blouse and all my rank insignia with Mac. "Master Chief!" I pick out the senior non-com. "I'm Commander Rabb. Report, Chief."


"This is all the survivors we can find right here, sir," he says. "I've got two seamen scouting around for a way out, but so far no luck. There's four or five guys trapped in the storage hold below, and we've got about two feet of water down there now. We've been trying to pull the wreckage out of the way, but it's too heavy."


"Injuries?"


"Nothing serious, sir. We're not sure about the guys who are trapped yet."


"Okay. Now listen up." I raise my voice so everyone can hear. "There's a way out of here. We're going to climb up the freight elevator by the brig, it's open all the way to the top." An inaudible sigh moves through the group, and I can feel everyone relax and begin to pay attention. "But first we're going to get those guys out of there," I tell them as I run my light around the part of the hold I can see. "You got a chainfall anywhere around here, Chief?"


"Yes sir, if it ain't broke. But it's mounted right forward."


"Well, we're going to unmount it and rig it on that steel girder overhead. That ought to take the strain."


"Sir, it'll take six men to lift that thing."


Impatience won't help. He's willing enough, just too stressed to think straight. I keep my voice slow and steady. "Then take six men, chief. Where's the tool locker? Anything left in it?"


"Sir, right here sir!" At least this kid is on the ball. A young machinists' mate has already checked the locker and he's bumping and banging his way back to us, lugging two heavy tool carriers loaded with wrenches and pry bars.


"Good work -- Brady. Take a team of six and get forward to that chainfall. Chief, you're in charge. Let me know how long it'll take."


"Aye, sir." Everybody looks better now that there's something they can do. The remaining sailors are watching me expectantly, and I address myself to the smartest looking one, a big burly kid with a cut over his eyebrow.


"Pulaski," I read from his nametag, "think you can find about thirty feet of heavy chain around here?" He nods and waits for the rest. "Coil it up right here and find some kind of ladder. I don't care if you have to pull it off the wall." I get a couple of faint grins with that. "Something that will reach up there." I point out the beam we need, and he nods and moves off with three more guys to help.


It all seems to take a hell of a long time. To keep from exploding with impatience, I climb part way down into the opening and yell to the trapped sailors that we're working on it. I can barely hear them behind the heavy steel deck plate blocking the hatch, but at least they're alive.


After a lot of sweating, swearing, and thumping around in the dark, we get the hoist secured overhead with a cargo chain hooked securely around fittings on the debris. "Okay, you guys," I bellow, "only pussies need a winch! Grab onto that line and walk forward with it, on three! One, two, THREE!"


With a shudder and groan the chain tightens, and the only sound is the scraping of the men's shoes trying to find a purchase on the slippery steel deck. Everybody is straining, gasping for air, and then it starts to move. "That's it, keep going," I'm yelling at the top of my lungs. The master chief, now in his element, is bellowing too, and all of a sudden the heavy steel rises, rises, and topples out of the way with a reverberating crash. A ragged cheer goes up from the men, and we all stagger back to help the guys scrambling out of the hold.


There's five of them, and they're all wet and black with soot. They're helping one guy and another is limping, but basically they're all okay. After a second or two I realize I can see them clearly and notice that the hold behind them is filled with golden light. Fire. Funny, there still isn't much smoke.


"Sir!" One of the men is on his hands and knees coughing, but he manages to grab my leg. "Sir, Hobbs is still down there, sir! He's in the back and a locker fell" --


"Where exactly, Petty Officer?" I grab his shoulder.


"About ten feet back from the hole, sir."


"Okay. Master chief, lead these men forward to the brig and get them climbing up. Go in through the windows. The elevator shaft's busted wide open in the passage outside the brig. There's probably an access door before you get to the top, bang on it like holy hell. And chief" --


"Yes sir?"


"You'll find Colonel Mackenzie in the passage. She has a broken leg, she can't climb. When you find help, tell them her exact position and get a litter party down here. Tell them they'll have to cut in through the bulkheads."


"Aye aye, sir." He pauses, and I see a gleam in his eye. "Any message for the colonel, sir?"


"Yeah. Tell her to enjoy her break, soon she'll be eating my dust."


"Aye sir." He grins and turns to bellow at the men. "Okay, listen up! Fall in!"


"Brady, Pulaski, you're with me," I call out.


"Aye aye, sir!" Two voices shout back. The big group moves out with the chief haranguing them all the way, and Brady and Pulaski join me beside the hatch.


"Okay. Give me the hook. When I yank on it, haul away."


"Sir" -- Brady looks worried.


"Get that chain clear, Brady." I don't have time to argue, whatever's burning down there is going to get worse soon. I grab the heavy cargo hook and climb down the steel ladder, splashing into water at the bottom. It comes up to my knees.


Now there's smoke. Thick and acrid, it's lurking just beneath the overhead. I duck and start wading aft, peering through the glare of the flames.


Then I see it -- a big steel locker has ripped loose from the bulkhead and is lying across the doorway to the hold beyond. It's full of sealed tins, great, something else to worry about. I heave on the chain and they give me some slack, and somehow I hook it onto the frame of the locker. "Hobbs!" I yell.


"Yeah! In here!" The cry is faint but unmistakable. I grab the steel links, smelling grease and metal and smoke, and give two tugs. Without hesitation, it tightens as Pulaski and Brady haul on it. Maybe I should have kept more guys back. Damn, it's hot in here. I cough, and heave at the locker. For a second I flash on a vivid memory: the Suribachi, Demeara yelling, the Admiral peering down at us with breathing equipment. Then the locker shifts, just an inch or two.


"Heave, goddamn it!" I yell, and from somewhere behind I feel an answering pressure and suddenly the whole thing shifts, tilting toward me. I stumble back, clumsy in the water, and grab hold as a soaking wet sailor gropes in the narrow gap.


"Hobbs? You okay?" I shout over the noise.


"Huh?" His voice is slurred. Blood is pouring down the side of his face and he's disoriented.


"Come on!" I yell, dragging him as we struggle through the water, now hip high, slipping on the greasy footing. Thank God for the water, it's keeping the fires down.


Hobbs stumbles and goes down with a splash, disappearing beneath the dark surface. I grope around and grab his belt, but when I get his head up, he's barely conscious. With a grunt, I heave him over my shoulder and keep wading forward. It's getting hard to see in here, but the hatch can't be far. I can hear Brady and Pulaski yelling and I aim for their voices.


The hold is filled with bright orange flames, and the heat is getting intense. Finally the ladder materializes out of the smoke, and I take a deep breath to yell, "Get your ass up there, Hobbs!" when there's an enormous crash and a brilliant flash of light. Next thing I know I'm flung against the steel ladder and my head crunches into the bulkhead.


I don't know how much later I come to and find myself lying face down on the deck, gagging up stinking black water. Something hurts inside as I cough, and from far away I hear somebody calling for Commander Rabb. I suppose I ought to answer. Vaguely I reach out and encounter a body -- no, it's Brady, kneeling beside me and thumping me on the back. This is the second time today an explosion has knocked me off my feet and it's getting old.


"Sir? Sir, you're okay. Just stay down sir, take it easy."


"Like hell," I croak, gasping, and try to sit up. A bolt of pain slashes through me, and my head hurts. But my left arm is a lot worse -- a white hot sheet of agony from wrist to shoulder. Tentatively I try to look and all I can see is puffed, sooty blisters. There seem to be two Bradys flickering in the gloom, and I grab for his shoulder to steady myself. "Where's Hobbs?" I rasp out.


"Over here, sir. Pulaski's got him. He's gonna be okay, sir, he just had too much smoke."


"O-Okay." I manage to get to one knee, and Brady gets a hand under my right shoulder to help me up. The deck seems to be revolving beneath my feet, but after a minute it settles down. I squint against the glare of the fire at Pulaski, who's standing there soaking wet and filthy, holding onto Hobbs. "You guys pull us out?" I ask.


"Yes, sir. Solvent locker must have exploded, sir. Lucky it knocked you both under the water for a minute, kept you from turning out Extra Crispy." Brady's teeth flash white in the darkness, and I manage a grin in return.


"Thanks. Now let's get moving. Can he walk?" I nod at Hobbs, who's showing signs of coming around.


"Good enough, sir," Pulaski says, and I start forward, dragging Brady with me and trusting the others to follow. The flashlights cut the darkness in jerky slashes of light, and the deck seems to sway and tilt beneath my feet. Brady keeps a firm hold on me as I stagger along.


It seems to take forever to get back and I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. My clothes are soaked and chilled. Hobbs is doing better, walking on his own. At last we make it to the guard shack, and I gesture at the broken windows. "Through there." The others hoist themselves up and somehow I follow, clambering through clumsily. In the dark I stumble over a couple of bodies that weren't there before, and realize they're wearing orange jumpsuits. Shit, how did they get out? A glance shows me the heavy gate hanging open, the pry marks on the lock.


Oh God. Mac.


In two quick steps I'm at the hatch, looking around frantically. She's right where I left her, sitting just beside the door, looking pale and wan and scared. "Are you okay?" she asks, frowning as she looks me over. It might be my imagination, but there's a little catch in her voice.


"Of course I'm okay. Are you?"


She just gives me a look, and shifts her attention to the three sailors who have crowded in behind me. "Can you make it up there, seaman?" she asks Hobbs, who's looking at the ladder.


"Yes, ma'am, I'll be okay," Hobbs says.


"I'll hang onto him, ma'am," Pulaski says.


"Good," I say, "then get going, all of you. There's no way the colonel and I can climb, so tell them where we are."


As he follows the others into the shaft, Brady looks back, worried. "Sir," he keeps his voice low, "in a couple hours this whole level will be flooded. How about the prisoners?" He jerks his chin toward the noise from below.


"Even if the rest of the men were still down here, there's more of them than all of you put together," I tell him. "Can you think of any way to keep those prisoners under control long enough to get them out? Even if you had guns, you really think some of them wouldn't try to knock you and the other guys off that ladder?"


He wrestles with it, looking doubtful. He's a smart kid, and he probably saved my life -- I owe him a chance to work it out for himself. I can see the moment he understands and accepts it, and I feel a moment's sorrow for the horror in his eyes. "No sir. I don't see how it could work. But it's a shame, sir."


"Yeah, it is. But just remember, their guys fired the torpedoes." I clap him on the shoulder and shove him toward the ladder. "Now get going. And Brady, tell them, if the water gets too high, the colonel and I will hang onto the ladder in the elevator shaft."


"Aye, sir." And just like that, Mac and I are alone down here in the dark, listening to feet scraping on the steel ladder as the echoes recede upward. All of a sudden I feel incredibly tired. I put out my good arm, bracing myself on the bulkhead, and slide down the wall to sit beside her on the cold deck. She leans against my shoulder and I pull her close.


* * *


"We'd better save the flashlight," Harm says, and clicks it off. I reach for it and turn it on again.


"First let me see." There's blood running down the side of his face, I saw that before. It hurts like hell to reach across, but I manage to run my fingers over his scalp and feel a big lump above his right ear before he jerks away. "Mac, it's nothing. Quit it," he snaps impatiently. In the narrow beam of light I can see the bruises around his eye.


"Great, we have a matched pair of shiners," I say. Then I run the light downward, and the breath hisses through my teeth. "My God, Harm, what happened?" I blurt out. He was keeping his left side away from me, but now I can see the puffed, angry blisters coating his arm, his scorched tee shirt.


"Solvents locker exploded."


"What the hell were you doing messing around with that?" I demand. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"


"No," he answers shortly, and immediately I'm suspicious. He's leaning back, resting his head against the wall, his eyes closed in weariness. A long, silent sigh escapes me, along with some of my frustration. Even if he told me, there is nothing I can do to help and he knows it.


So I relax as best I can against him. "I thought you were just saying that, about not being able to get up the ladder," I tell him.


"I wouldn't leave you anyway, Mac. I shouldn't have left before."


"Yes, you should. You can't tell me all those men would have made it out of here without you."


"And you wouldn't have had to hold off al-Qaeda single-handed. What happened, anyway? How did they get out? Damnit, Mac, I checked that gate."


"I know you did. I think the cells must have been damaged, and they pried the doors open with broken pieces of pipe or something." I pause, and gulp. "I told them to stop, Harm. I even fired a warning shot."


"That'll teach 'em to mess with a United States Marine. Nice shootin', Tex."


My voice sounds hoarse. "I didn't want to kill them, Harm."


His arm tightens around my shoulders. "I know, baby. You had to."


"Yeah, I did. But God, all they know is hate. They're ignorant and they have no hope -- it makes it so easy for their religion and their leaders to manipulate them. If only we could" --


"We can't change the whole world, Mac."


"I know. But I'd like to do *something.* Not just keep up this senseless killing, back and forth."


His eyes crinkle at the corners with a tired smile. "You will, too. We just have to get through this. What time is it, anyway?"


"Oh-nine-hundred. About three hours since the explosion."


"Explosion?" His eyes look cloudy for a minute, then they clear. "Oh right." Head injury, I think, maybe a concussion. Oh God, don't let it be too bad.


I say, "Well, if this had to happen, I'm glad we're together."


"Me too, sweetheart." His arm tightens briefly, but he keeps his eyes closed.


"Are we going to sink?" I try to keep my voice matter-of-fact.


"Nah. Take more than two small torpedoes to sink one of these babies. We're taking on water in some of the compartments, but they'll get this part of the hold sealed off and the pumps will keep up 'til we make port."


"Depends on how soon they get to us, I guess."


"We'll be fine." He snaps off the flashlight again, and we're plunged back into darkness. With the illumination from the safety light I can barely make out the flash of his white teeth as he grins, "So, you got any new jokes? Riddles?"


"What?"


"Hey, we've gotta pass the time somehow. Know any good songs?"


"You're obviously forgetting the last time I tried to sing." I try to keep my voice cheerful. Try not to let him see how scared I am. How much my leg is killing me.


Harm sounds exhausted, but he refuses to give up. "Okay. So what's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you when you were a kid?"


"Gee, that covers a lot of territory." Come on, Mac, there must be some funny story you've never told him. Something to take your minds off this horrible nightmare. "Well," I begin, "one time Sally Masterson and I decided to ride the Giant Cyclone at the county fair until one of us threw up."


"Who won?"


"Please. It wasn't a Tomcat. But I didn't have any idea it tilted 90 degrees, either. I remember opening my eyes and seeing the ground about a hundred feet straight down, and screaming bloody murder. Then I threw up."


"So you lost."


"Not really. It all blew onto Sally."


Harm's laughter is genuine and it makes me feel a little better. "How old were you?"


"Eight or nine, I guess." I decide to leave out the part about how I was spanked later for making a mess. "Okay, what's yours?"


He tilts his head back, considering. "Guess it was the time I thought I was going to get lucky with Bonnie Tyler on the living room sofa," he grins.


"Do I really want to hear this? How old were you, hotshot?"


"Fifteen. She was seventeen, and she *was* hot. She quit school the next year and made a fortune dancing in clubs."


"You mean stripping."


"I mean she was a noted entertainer on the local cultural scene. Anyway, she offered me a ride home and I asked her in. My mom was at the gallery and Frank was out of town, and I figured we were safe."


"Why did she want to corrupt a kid?"


"Hey, I was the only new face in town. So I ask her in, and one thing leads to another, you know? So we're on the sofa and I've got my hand in her blouse and I figure my education is soon to be complete, when I look up and there's Hilda."


"Who was Hilda? Your Doberman?"


"Worse, my mom's assistant. She'd sent her to the house to pick up something. Anyway, Hilda was this very nice lady. She's standing there in her twin set and pearls with her eyes the size of garbage can covers" --


"Nice metaphor."


" -- and she says, "Harmon, aren't you going to introduce me to your young lady?"


"You're kidding, right?"


"I wish. We're looking over the back of the couch, she's standing in the doorway to the living room, and all I know is, I can't stand up."


"I can't imagine why," I say dryly.


"So Bonnie buttons her blouse, cool as a cucumber, stands up, and shakes Hilda's hand. Then she winks at me and leaves."


"Wow. What did Hilda say? Did she try to blackmail you or something?"


"She kept me worrying about it all summer, doing chores for her every time she got the chance. Washing her car, that kind of stuff. She never did tell mom, and by the time she quit working for the gallery, I almost wished she *had* told her."


"So did you ever get lucky with Bonnie Sue?"


"Please, Mac. You are speaking of a young lady who is dear to the heart of an entire generation of La Jolla Country Day School graduates."


I laugh. "I'll bet you were a knockout at fifteen," I tell him.


"Not like you," he says vaguely, drifting away again.


We sit there quietly for a long time. There's no way I can really relax, my ankle feels like someone's pounding on it with a sledgehammer in time with my heartbeat. So I concentrate on the warmth of Harm's body and let my mind wander, trying not to worry about the rising water or the shouts of the men trapped down there. Trying not to count the minutes that tick by more and more slowly.


A long time later something rouses me. My eyes snap open and I catch the gleam of Harm's eyes in the dark. "What" -- I begin, and then I hear it. Above the metallic banging and groaning of the huge ship, the prisoners are shrieking. They were noisy before, but this is different. These are men about to die. "Oh God, Harm," I gasp. His arm tightens.


"Don't listen, Mac. It'll be over soon." To my horror, I can hear water flowing beneath the hatch, and the sound is nearly obscured by the loud splashing and desperate screams of the trapped men. The bulkhead is reclining even more behind us. Tears are streaming down my face and I find myself praying for some miracle to help these poor people, regardless of what they have done. Harm holds me tight, pressing my face against his chest, and I put my fingers in my ears and sob.


And then it's over. Just like that, there's nothing more, no sounds at all. Except the rising gurgle of water in the dark. Harm exhales a long, shaky breath and strokes my hair.


"God have mercy on them," I say quietly.


"You're more generous than I am, Mac," he says. And a moment later, I hear water trickling and splashing as it overflows the knee knocker beside us. He tightens his hold, and I'm grateful for the warmth of his body next to mine. "We're going to be okay, Mac."


"I know. Besides, even if the water fills this entire deck, like you said, we'll just get into the shaft and they'll find us. Won't they?"


"Right." But I can hear the weakness in his voice. After a minute he goes on. "Look, Mac. If it gets too deep, you won't be able to hold me up."


"So we'll hold each other up."


"I may not be able to" -- he seems to lose his place for a moment, then pulls himself together. "Mac. Promise me that whatever happens, you'll hang on. You'll let me go if you have to, but you'll hang on. You're strong. You can do it."


"Harm." I want to keep arguing, reassuring, anything. But water is running over the deck, pooling beneath us.


"Promise me." He shifts and grunts a little in pain. Something tells me it's not simply his arm that hurts.


"I can't do that, Harm. I won't do it. We'll make it together or not at all."


"Don't argue with me. Damn it, don't make me responsible . . ."


"And I am telling you, we're going to be all right. *That's* what I'll promise you."


He shakes his head weakly in frustration. "This discussion is not over," he mutters, but he lapses into silence and we just sit for awhile, staring into the dark, listening to the carrier echo and boom as it settles around us.


"The water really isn't that cold," I say. "It's the Arabian Sea, for Pete's sake. We'll be fine."


"Huh?" Harm seems to comes back from somewhere far away. "Yeah, you're right. No waves, no rain, no wind. It's practically a hot tub." It occurs to me that Harm has more expertise in this area than one man ought to have.


The water is halfway over my thighs when I realize Harm is shaking. "Honey?" I whisper. "Harm, talk to me. What is it?"


"Hurts." His body is rigid with chills, but when I touch his face I find it flushed with fever. How can he be burning up like this when we have cold water up to our hips?


"Okay, hon, it's okay. Look, can you slide over my leg? Come on, Harm, get into my lap."


"Too heavy," he mumbles, stubborn to the end.


"Damnit, sailor, move your ass now!" I muster my best drill sergeant tone, and to my surprise he does it. With a heave and a harsh sound, bitten off, Harm manages to sit up and scoot forward. As he moves he accidentally bumps my bad leg and I bite back a scream as a jagged streak of agony rips through it.


Pulling himself with his good arm, Harm slides up between my legs and leans back against me, huddling for warmth. I wrap my arms around him, careful not to touch the burns, and feel him shiver.


His big body is heavy, but the water is supporting some of it. Gradually his head drops against my neck and I hold him, feeling his weight pressing against my breasts as I close my eyes. "Okay, honey. It's okay," I croon, and at last he seems to sleep. There's no way I can do that, but after awhile I manage to relax a little and let my mind drift off.


* * *


A loud bang somewhere nearby startles me awake with a jerk, and I find myself staring blindly into the darkness. "What -- Mac?"


Her arms tighten around me and I feel her breath warm on my ear. "It's okay, Harm."


Gradually I realize the water is up to my chest and we're nearly afloat. I twist a little and manage to turn enough to see Mac's eyes shining in the dim safety lights. "I'm glad you're awake," she says with a calm smile. "We need to move before it gets too deep."


A fierce chill seizes me and I'm shaking, my teeth chattering hard. Her arms tighten around me and hold me until the shivering eases. Jesus, I feel like shit. Everything aches, from my head to my ass. For a selfish moment I nuzzle my face into the warm curve of her throat and rest against her breasts. It seems impossible to move again, but I clench my jaw and sit up. The chill as the water rushes between us makes every muscle in my body flinch.


Mac switches on the flashlight and moves to the left, toward the deeper darkness of the elevator shaft. She's half swimming, half dragging herself along the wall, and for a second I glimpse her face, contorted with pain. Moving at all with that busted ankle must be agony. I suck it up and follow her, pushing myself along with my feet.


The water is halfway over the jagged opening, and I grope to find a grip on the edge with my good hand and pull. My head feels light, as if it isn't attached to my body, but I manage to pull myself through into the shaft. Noise echoes off the confining steel walls and it stinks of steel and fuel oil and seawater. Suddenly there's no deck beneath my feet anymore, and my head bobs under.


I grab something with my burned arm and surface with a splash. The pain alone would have startled me back to awareness without the dunking. Beside me, something bumps against the steel bulkhead and Mac gives a stifled scream.


"It's okay. I just banged my leg." She's panting, but her grip is firm on my good shoulder as she hauls herself past me in the dark and fumbles around. "Okay, I've got the ladder. Here, hook your arm around it, Harm." Her hand guides me and I manage to find a support on the steel rungs. The black water is up to my chin.


After a minute she says, "Where are the cables?" Her voice echoes in the narrow shaft.


"Blast must have sheared them off." I peer upward, blinking water out of my eyes, trying to get my bearings. It feels like being trapped in the barrel of a gun.


"Can you see a light up there?" she whispers. She shines the flashlight up the shaft, but it doesn't reach very far. Batteries are probably giving out.


"Yeah. Must be five decks up, though."


"Can't they lower a rope or something?"


"No way. Look, Mac, don't you see how the shaft is buckled? They could climb around it, but there's no way to drop a line or pull us up."


"Yeah. I see." She makes her voice sound cheerful, but her face looks pale and pinched. After a minute, Mac takes a breath and ducks under my arm, surfacing with a splash behind me.


"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss.


One of her arms slips around my chest. She has her other arm wrapped around a rung of the ladder, and she grabs it, making a loop. "I told you I wouldn't let go," she pants. "I meant it."


"You don't need to hold me up, Mac." But the truth is, I'm not sure how long I can hang on. Maybe the water isn't that cold, but I'm shivering so hard my teeth sound like castanets. Finally I manage to take a deep breath and whisper, "I am so sorry, Mac."


"For what?" She sounds genuinely perplexed.


"For getting you into this. You wouldn't be here if it weren't for me."


"Oh, Harm -- don't you get it, this isn't just *your* job, it's mine, too. Besides, I'd rather be here with you than worrying about you." Her lips are moving softly against my temple, and it's so soothing I don't ever want her to stop. My body feels like a limp rag and it's hard to think, but there's something . . . something important. She has to understand.


I try to take a deep breath but it hurts. Fighter pilots don't talk about fear. We don't even think about it. You can't do the job if you let fear in. There is no way I can explain that, but I manage to say, "I can take anything but your being hurt."


For a long time she just rests her cheek against mine and I listen to her quiet breathing. I'm glad I finally said it, and I don't need her to answer. The water heaves and falls slowly around us in time with the roll of the sea. My whole body aches and it's good to rest in her strong, slender arms, just for a little while. After a bit I let my pounding head rest on her shoulder. Beneath my lips I can feel the living pulse in her throat.


"Funny," I hear myself murmuring against her skin, "I always figured . . . if I got killed on a carrier . . . it would be on the flight deck."


"You're not going to die, goddamn it."


"I know. Gotta take you sailing in the Bahamas first."


Her voice, when it comes, is so quiet I nearly miss it. "Harm. Didn't anyone ever tell you it's okay to be scared?"


"No."


"Well, it is." She gives a little sigh. "It's okay as long as you hang in there. Want to know what helps me when I'm scared?"


"What?"


"You. I think about you."


"Wow. Then can I think about you? With that little satin thing on?"


That makes her laugh, a little.


* * *


Twice I have had to extricate my arm from the steel ladder and snake it up higher as the water continues to rise. I'm so stiff and numb I'm not sure I can do it again. Each time I release my grip to move, Harm starts to slip, and I have to clutch him as his weight threatens to drag us both under.


Every tiny movement causes a fresh jolt of agony in my leg, but at least it keeps me awake. Bracing my right foot on the rungs below helps, but the downward drag is slowly sapping whatever strength I have left. My internal clock is completely shot -- I have no idea how long we've been down here. And it's so dark. The flashlight gave up awhile ago, and there's only a trace of glimmer on the surface of the water. Our breathing echoes harshly back from the steel walls pressing around us.


Sea water slaps at my mouth, and I cough. God, I am so tired. Harm's head lolls against my neck, and I hear myself babbling to him, nonsense, I don't know what, anything to keep awake. He stopped answering me almost an hour ago.


I must be hallucinating. Showers of blue stars are falling all around us, sparkling on the oily black surface of the water. Now there's a loud clang right above us and some dust sifts down, and then a bright light stabs my eyes.


"They're here! We got 'em!" I hear somebody yelling. There's a splash, and a sailor is swimming beside us, reaching for Harm.


"It's okay, colonel, I got him, ma'am." They're swinging a big basket over our heads, maneuvering it so they can float Harm into it. Something is scalding my face and vaguely I realize that it's tears. Another sailor reaches for me and carefully eases my arm away from the ladder. I hope he won't notice that I'm crying.


* * *


I nearly pass out when they lift me from the water. I hear myself scream, I just can't help it. They ease me into some sort of stretcher and cover me with heavy blankets, and I try to relax but I'm shivering so hard I can't. Our journey to the decks above is a hallucinogenic dream of swaying, jolting, bumps and noise. Lights stab my eyes, ceilings and faces revolve above me, and finally I close my eyes against the nausea and agony that sweep through me every time a movement jostles my broken ankle. It seems to take forever.


After a long, long time I feel an extra thump as they set me down somewhere. There's a lot of noise. All I can see are some glaring lights and a curtain that keeps swishing back and forth, and then they're cutting my clothes away and helping me into something dry. A corpsman leans over me and says something about a shot for pain, and I think, it's about damn time. After that everything floats away. I'm vaguely aware of hands pulling on my leg and making me sob and someone holding my hand and saying, "Soft cast to immobilize it for your flight, colonel," and then I'm swaying again and we're out on the flight deck and there's so much noise and wind and nobody can hear me when I ask where Harm is.


The sky is overcast, low grey clouds over a gunmetal sea, and the light looks like late afternoon. God, were we down there that long? As they lift me into the COD, I sense that there are other litters, other injured people being loaded around me, but when I try to look I can't seem to lift my head. "Please," I try to grab the arm of a corpsman nearby. But I must be strapped in because I can't move, and he doesn't hear me. The lurch of the catapult jolts me hard, and that's all I know for awhile.


* * *


Quiet. Warmth. Swimming up to the surface of awareness like a great, lazy goldfish rising in a pond, I see light and rise toward it.


"Harm," I hear my voice, faint and scratchy. My mouth is dry.


"Colonel Mackenzie?" a cheerful face looms over me. "Wake up, now."


"Where -- huh?" I'm floating. There's a trapeze bar above me and my left leg is propped in a sling. There's a huge white plaster cast on it, feels heavy. Sunlight is filtering through orange and blue curtains.


"You're in Italy, colonel. You've had surgery on your ankle, you're going to be fine."


"Harm?"


"You're okay, colonel, really. Lieutenant Starrett will be in to talk to you."


I try to ask her about Harm again, but she's gone.


* * *


Hours later, I have no idea, my eyes open and I feel more alert. Clock on the wall, four o'clock. Day or night? Sunlight -- afternoon.


An aide comes and helps me with the bed pan and a sponge bath. She doesn't speak English and I can't seem to remember my rudimentary Italian. A meal arrives, but I can't stand the sight or smell of it. There's some lemonade that I manage to sip without spilling. Finally there's a swish of rubber soled shoes and a movement of air.


"Colonel Mackenzie?" A doctor with a serious, old-young face is standing beside me. "I'm Dr. Starrett, I did the surgery on your ankle. How you feeling?"


"Okay, I guess. Look, Doctor, I need to know" --


"You had rotated fractures of both the tibia and fibula right above the ankle," he begins in a detached lecturing tone. "We opened the ankle on both sides and inserted metal pins in both bones. They'll be permanent" --


"Doctor, later, please. Right now, I have to find out about Commander Harmon Rabb. He's my partner, we were rescued together, I need to know how he is."


Starrett looks taken aback. "I don't have any idea, colonel. You can ask the nurses" --


"I am asking *you,* Lieutenant. No one has listened to me since they pulled us out of the hold of that carrier and you're damn well going to."


Suddenly his pale eyes twinkle behind the silver wire rims. "I keep forgetting I'm in the Navy now. Student loans, you know? Okay, colonel, you do outrank me. If you're feeling well enough to issue orders, that bodes well for your complete recovery. I'll find out about Commander" --


"Rabb. R-A-B-B."


"Rabb, for you. And by the way" -- he turns to go -- "you're going to be fine."


* * * *


"Mac?" Admiral Chegwidden's voice booms over the phone.


"Yes sir. Good to hear your voice, sir."


"Hear you had kind of a rough time. How's the leg?"


"Just fine, thank you, sir. Admiral" -- I jump in before he can ask anything else -- "do you know where Commander Rabb is? Nobody here seems to be able to find out anything."


"That's because he's not in Italy. They evacuated a bunch of the injured to bases in Germany."


I stare helplessly at the ceiling, waiting for him to go on. "How is he, sir?" I finally say.


"Doing okay, from what they tell me. I haven't been able to speak to him yet. Had a hell of a concussion and they had to remove his spleen, but he's going to be fine."


I close my eyes. The sheer intensity of my relief is so great, I don't trust myself to speak. Fortunately, the Admiral starts going on about the maneuvering he has done to get me released from my TDA in Afghanistan, and something tells me he's being kind, giving me time to collect myself. Finally I hear him say, "I hear they're sending you home tomorrow, Mac."


"Yes, sir."


"Well, I'm sure it'll be a thoroughly lousy trip." His gruff honesty, as always, is oddly soothing.


"That's what they tell me, sir."


"We'll see you then. And Mac" -- he pauses for a moment, and I wonder what's coming. "Good job, colonel."


For some reason, his approval nearly undoes me. "Thank you, sir," I gulp.


* * * *


0200 Zulu (10 p.m. EDT)

Approaching the Eastern Seaboard

Ten days later


Naturally, the goddamn plane is late.


The interior of a C-130 is not particularly cozy under the best of circumstances. It looks even worse when it's lined with hospital beds bolted to the deck and filled with injured men. It's chilly, dark, and smells of diesel and old sweat. But we're the lucky ones -- we survived, and we're going home.


As one of the walking wounded, I abandoned my cot and appropriated a seat in the forward cabin. I've filled some of the endless hours pacing up and down, talking to the guys who are awake. It's infuriating to feel so weak and sore -- everything either hurts or itches, from my arm, which is strapped across my chest in a heavy sling, to the stitches in my side. From time to time I have stretched out on my bed to nap, but then the restlessness gets to me and I find myself pacing again. I thought I'd go berserk when we were grounded in Keflavik for hours by an overheating cylinder head.


"Hey Commander," someone calls to me.


"Hey, chief," I answer, "How's it going?" I scramble for his name -- Mays, that's it. He was one of the guys who made it out of the hold in spite of being badly burned. Now he's swathed in bandages, but his smile is cheerful.


"Goin' home, sir, can't complain. Goin' see my babies and their mama."


"You're a lucky man, Mays."


"You got anybody waitin' for you, sir?"


I doubt it. Mac is still laid up and can't put any weight on her leg for another couple of weeks. I finally got a call through to her cell phone and left a message that I'd call again when we got in. "Not this trip, chief."


"Aw, sir, a guy like you probably has so many women, you gotta keep 'em from trippin' over each other to take care of you," Mays grins.


"Not any more," I grin back.


"You got a girl, sir?"


"She's got me, chief." We share a laugh at that, and I wander forward again. The landing light goes on, and I drop into my seat as we begin the long glide into Andrews. I fasten my safety harness and lean back with my eyes closed, thinking of Mac. The admiral filled me in on how she's doing, but it's not the same as talking to her.


We touch down with barely a bump. A petty officer comes by and makes me get into a wheelchair for the trip inside. This damn folding chair was never intended for a guy my size, and it catches me in all the wrong places. It takes forever to lower the ramps and start moving people into the terminal, and the hot, humid air that fills the plane reminds me instantly that I'm back in D.C. in the summertime.


With any luck, the docs at Bethesda will check me over and let me go home tomorrow or the next day. But in the meantime, I resign myself to being pushed around like a side of beef -- with just one good arm, I can't even maneuver this damn chair by myself. A young sailor grabs the handles and we bump down the ramp, and the heat comes up off the tarmac like a fist. Even in the middle of the night, it barely dissipates.


Noise. Doors swishing open. Linoleum floors and bright florescent lights glaring down. Suddenly there are a lot of people milling around, women and kids crying and swarming all over the place, and I realize they let the families come out to meet us. It's bedlam. I slump deeper into my chair and wait for the crowd to move.


A guy is wheeled past with his girlfriend or wife walking alongside, holding his hand. Left and right the gurneys jostle by, and I see several young women furtively wiping away tears. Somebody yells, "Hey commander!" and I look up to see Mays, grinning and waving. Three little kids are riding with him, and his wife is laughing and crying and hanging onto a baby on her hip. I return his salute with a smile, but it fades as soon as they go by. Come on, Rabb. Suck it up.


Another rolling bed bangs into my chair, and the young seaman pushing it gives me a startled "Sorry, sir" before shoving past me. The crowd moves aside for him, and as I watch the big kid shoulder his patient through the gap, something catches my eye and I look up. Mac is standing there.


"Harm." Her voice isn't loud, but all the noise of the crowd goes away. She's teetering on a pair of aluminum crutches, a huge white cast stuck out in front of her, and she looks frail and none too steady. But she's smiling that radiant smile.


Vaguely I notice Sturgis hovering behind her. Even as I'm struggling out of my chair and pushing my way through the mob, I'm relieved that Mac didn't try to get here alone. Then she's right in front of me, and I guess I say "Mac" as I pull her against me with my good arm. There's a distant clang as her crutches fall to the floor, and her arms are around me and I remember all over again how it feels to know she will never, ever let me go.


I pull back just enough to see her laughing with tears all over her face before I lean down and lose myself in our kiss. After a long time someone taps me on the back. Sturgis clears his throat, and that deep voice mutters in my ear, "Jesus, Rabb, give the poor girl a break or get a room," and Mac and I reluctantly break it off and laugh a little as she leans against me.


"Sturgis," I say, grateful for the sight of his warm brown face, and I manage to stick out my hand. He gives me a firm shake and holds up Mac's crutches. "There's a place to sit over here," he gestures, and I keep my hand on Mac's back as she hops along. Sturgis retrieves the wheelchair, and somehow we all struggle over to a bench against the wall.


"You need this thing more than I do," I tell Mac as I push the chair into place and help her prop her leg up. Then I drop down beside her and tuck her shoulder beneath mine, and she leans against me with a little sigh. "How the hell did you know when we were coming in, anyway?" I ask.


"Tiner," she smiles.


"Figures. But God, Mac, you must have been waiting for hours."


"It wasn't bad. I called before we came out," she shrugs. Faded bruises are still visible on her cheekbone.


"Don't you believe it, buddy," Sturgis says. "We've been here half the night. But I couldn't talk her out of it. She threatened to take a cab if I didn't bring her."


Mac laughs happily. "Be grateful you didn't have to carry me down the stairs," she tells him.


"Only because that lousy elevator was working for once," Sturgis grumbles goodnaturedly.


"Elevator?" I say blankly. Mac's building doesn't have one.


"I'm staying at your place, flyboy. Hope you don't mind." Her eyes are dancing.


"Hey, what's mine is yours." I make an expansive gesture.


"The walk-in shower is great with crutches," she explains. Our eyes meet, sharing the private joke. It's going to be awhile before we can do anything about it, though.


"After all, she did save your life," Sturgis points out. "From what I hear, anyway."


"In more ways than one," I say, my voice low, for her alone.


* * *


0730 Zulu (3:30 a.m. EDT)

North of Union Station

One week later


"Harm?" My voice sounds groggy, and I rub my eyes as I try to get my bearings. The living room is dark except for the faint glow of moonlight from the windows. Headlights of a passing car slant through the blinds, sending graphic stripes of black and white sliding across the ceiling. It's either very late or very early, and the city around us is silent and still.


Between my ankle and Harm's injuries, we keep hurting each other when we try to share the bed. So I've been sleeping out here on the sofa with my cast propped up on a pile of pillows. Now I push my hair out of my eyes to see Harm at the desk, staring at the computer. His face looks drawn and haggard in the blue glare from the screen.


"Sorry, Mac. I didn't mean to wake you," he says quietly.


"S'okay," I say, as I struggle to disentangle myself from the sheet and blanket and sit up.


"Are you all right?"


"Yeah. Fine." He clicks the mouse and pushes his chair back with a jerk. Then he stalks to the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and leans against the island as he stares out the window.


It's a lot easier to stand up now that I have a walking cast. I get to my feet and stump slowly across to the bedroom steps, heading for the bathroom. Harm's still standing there with his back to me when I return, so I go over and perch on one of the stools beside him. Silently he hands me the bottle of water, and I take a sip.


"Anything exciting on Ebay?" I ask.


"Nah. Just couldn't sleep. I've been napping so much during the daytime, I'm awake all night."


"Yeah, me too."


He snorts and throws me a look.


I smile at him. "It was getting lonely out here, anyway." He puts his hand over mine and squeezes, but there's something too intense about it. He's looking away, out the window, and the Rabb wall of inscrutability is up. Something's bothering him.


"You gonna to tell me what's going on?" I ask lightly.


"Nothing's going on, Mac. I just can't sleep." He shifts irritably. "God, I'll be glad when I get these stitches out and get back to work. Maybe then" -- he stops.


"Then, what?" I ask lightly.


"Maybe then we can start sleeping together again," he says, flashing me a small smile. I'm almost fooled -- almost.


"Hey, we're convalescents in the same small apartment and we're still friends," I kid him a little. "That ought to count for something."


"It counts for everything," he says, his voice serious. Gently I touch his left arm, where tender new skin has healed over the burns. A heavy bandage still covers Harm's torso from chest to waist, concealing the line of ugly sutures.


"I miss it too," I whisper, stroking his fingers. Without a word, Harm lifts my hand, entwined with his, and lightly kisses my knuckles as he continues to stare out the window. "Still thinking about that sailboat in the Bahamas?" I kid him.


"Among other things," he says. After a minute it's clear this goes way beyond midnight brooding, and I disengage my hand and limp over to the computer. "Mac," Harm protests, but I restore the screen and take a look. Uh-oh.


"Naval BUPERS listings?" I raise my eyebrows. "What's this, Harm?" Of course, I already know. My brilliant, obsessive, stubborn partner is looking for a job.


He shrugs. "There isn't much available right now. Nothing that isn't a step backward or a dead end. I've made a few calls, but you know how it is. Maybe it'll be easier once I get back to work."


"Why the big rush?" I ask, keeping it casual. "We're on separate duty these days. It's not like we're opposing counsel on a high profile trial."


"But it could happen any day, Mac. Come on, you know the minute the Admiral tries to assign us to the same proceeding, we'll have to excuse ourselves. That alone is grounds for a charge of interfering with good order and discipline. We have to tell the admiral we're seeing each other, and hope he gives us time to work it out. But there's nothing that says he has to."


"Harm, I don't want to sneak around any more than you do. But we don't have to jump at the first option. What about the DOD?" I ask. Harm's work with the task force brought him into the orbit of the Secretary of Defense, surely that ought to count for something.


"Mac, in two years the administration will be up for reelection. Hell, in six years they'll be out regardless. That's not exactly a long-term career path. And I don't want to be somebody's aide, or a political liaison. The simple fact is, if we stay in the military there's no way to be sure we won't have to take tours on opposite sides of the world, in fact, it's probable. Even if I leave the Navy, it wouldn't solve anything. A good law practice isn't exactly portable. When you're stationed overseas, I wouldn't be able to just pick up and go."


"And I don't want one of those commuter relationships, where one of us is always on a plane so we can spend the weekend together. But what about me? I haven't even started looking yet." Suspicion fills me. "Harmon Rabb. You're thinking of taking some unilateral action, aren't you?"


He cuts a glance at me and shrugs. "I'm just looking, Mac."


"And I'm Martha Stewart. You have that Naval Academy, 'damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead' look."


"The WHAT look?" He turns to look at me, and his smile flashes white in the darkness. Good, progress.


"When was it decided that you would be the one to make a career change?" I demand.


"And why should it be you?" he fires back. "You're one hell of a lawyer, Mac. One hell of a Marine. You've worked hard for it. Why should you have to give all that up?"


I fix him with a glare. "Harm. I love the Corps, but it's not my whole life. You and I both know that with the Article 32 and captain's mast on my record, I'm never going to make more than bird colonel if I'm lucky. And that's okay with me." I stand up so I can argue at full throttle. "You, on the other hand, are set to go all the way. You'll make captain in a few years, you'll get your star before you're fifty. You could be CNO before you're done." He laughs at that, but I can see that none of these ideas is unfamiliar to him. "But more than that, Harm, you're not just a great lawyer, you're brilliant. You're a genius in the courtroom. My mouth still goes dry every time I have to address a jury. I love being a JAG, but every time I start a big trial I go into the restroom and throw up." That gets him.


"You do?" He's astonished.


"Yeah," I say, a little defiant now. "I can't get over it. I'll never really be comfortable trying cases."


"Why haven't you ever said something?" He's watching me closely, concerned and a little upset that he didn't know. Oh, Harm.


"Because I wanted to keep working with you," I tell him quietly.


He opens his mouth, stops, and fidgets. His grip is crushing my hand. "I -- see," he says finally. He's staring at me as if he's never seen me before. Then he holds out his arms and gathers me to him. I'm not sure who's holding whom, but it doesn't really matter.


"Harm," I begin, and touch his bandages. "Three weeks ago, you nearly died risking your life for a man you didn't even know. It was your duty, but in my opinion it would NOT have been a good trade." I look at him defiantly. "And I'm damned if I'll let you ruin your life by sacrificing your future for me. You said it yourself, that's the worst thing we could do." He starts to say something, but I rush on, "It's not just about you and me, damnit. It's about the Navy, hell, the whole damn country. There aren't many like you, Harm. I told you once, you were born to be an naval officer. You can't turn your back on that."


His deepset eyes are watching me with a peculiar expression -- part tenderness, part amusement, part something I can't put my finger on. "Wow," he says softly, with the beginnings of a smile. "Like I said. One hell of a lawyer."


"So you'll wait while I look around?" I ask, looking at him very straight. Harmon Rabb is not a patient man.


"Yeah." He strokes my cheek. "We'll do it together this time, Mac. And I promise you, I'll pay attention from now on."


"You have *always* paid attention, flyboy. Look, we both have cabin fever from being cooped up here with nothing to do but pop pain medication and fight over the computer games. It's going to get better."


"It's already pretty damn good, Mac." His arms tighten for a moment. "Now if only you would jump my bones" --


We both laugh a little. "I don't want to be responsible for putting you in the hospital for the second time in a month. But there's nothing that says we can't snuggle," I say, pulling on his hand. His arm goes around my shoulders, and together we move toward the bedroom, leaning on each other.


* * *


1200 Zulu (5 a.m. PDT)

Burnett residence, La Jolla, California

Fourth of July weekend


Mac is still sleeping, her breathing light and even. She was so tired, she fell asleep in my arms before Letterman finished his monologue, and I never heard her moving around in the night.


I ease myself out of bed and move stealthily to the bathroom. When I come back, she's rolled over into my spot and her head is on my pillow. Mac is such a light sleeper, I want to let her rest as long as she can -- it's our first day of vacation, after all. Besides, this way I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes and just watch her. The sinfully soft Egyptian cotton sheets have slipped down to her waist, making a wonderful contrast with her tawny skin as she lies there with one arm flung out and the other across her hips. Her breasts, high and round and soft, are on display. By now I am fairly familiar with the sight, but it never fails to stir me. The lush, womanly curves of Mac's body are a wonderful contrast with her taut, trained muscles and long slender bones. In my arms she feels so small, almost delicate beneath her strength.


I have never understood why intense happiness is physically painful. I have to swallow to ease the sudden ache in my throat. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined the reality of being loved by Sarah Mackenzie. The passion and tenderness she lavishes upon me are astonishing. How could I have known this woman so well and so long and never discovered the sweetness beneath the strength? The gentleness behind her fierce loyalty?


Finally I turn away from the exquisite sight of her in my bed and wander out onto the balcony. The vast sweep of the Pacific stretches toward the horizon, blue in the sunrise, and the soft morning wind teases the long white curtains in the doorway. I take a deep breath of the salt scented air and lift my face to the first rays of sun slipping through the palm trees.


A pair of slim arms encircles my waist, and a soft body presses up against my back. I smile and cover her hands with mine. "You were supposed to sleep late," I tell her. "It's vacation."


"Mmmmm, not without you," she mumbles, her lips warm against the skin of my back. Her fingertips slide lower, and I feel her mouth curve in a smile. Swiftly I spin and catch her in an embrace, and she laughs up at me.


"How do you do that?" I ask.


"Do what?" she murmurs, kissing as high up my neck as she can reach.


"Look so damn beautiful first thing in the morning?" Her big dark eyes open wide in delighted surprise. "No one ever told you that?" I ask. It seems impossible, but I hope not. I want to be the only one.


"Never," she says, her eyes sparkling.


"You don't need any makeup, or your hair fixed, or anything else. You wake up beautiful," I tell her.


She looks like I've just given her a wonderful present, and something tightens my throat again. So I pull her against me and slip my hands inside her thin robe, caressing her satiny skin, and I feel myself rise hard and insistent against her.


"Harm," she murmurs, stroking my back and curving her body into mine. Her inflammatory mouth is nibbling at my chest, licking a nipple, pulling gently on it, and I groan. Quickly I slide one hand down to the small of her back and press her hard against me, bending my knees to bring us closer. She gasps as her robe slips off her shoulders.


"Inside," Mac is panting, her eyes hazy with desire. "Your mother" --


"My mother is probably leading a brass band down the street," I growl, cupping one heavy breast in my hand and pressing my thumb against the nipple. Mac sways and her eyes close as her head drops back. With a little sigh, she eases away from me and takes my hand, pulling me inside. I barely make it through the curtains before sweeping her up and depositing her, none too gently, onto the bed. Then we're rocking against each other, aching with arousal, and it's long and slow and sweet until Mac cries out and I lose myself in her once again.


* * *


"So what do you want to do with your first day of vacation?" I ask Mac. Her head is nestled in the hollow of my shoulder and her hand is stroking my chest. I hope we stay right here for the next four days. Wonder if mom would mind.


Mac smiles. "I want to walk on the beach and swim in the ocean," she says decisively. I laugh.


"That we can do. Now that your cast is off," I say.


"Will your mother expect us for breakfast or anything?" she asks.


"Nope." I close my eyes and start to doze.


"You're sure she doesn't mind our sharing a room?" Mac says, sounding a little uncertain.


"She not only doesn't mind, she gave us the guest suite," I say, glancing around the big room with ocean views on three sides. "She and Frank have a master suite like this in the other wing. When I called to ask her if we could come out for the long weekend, all she said was, 'One room or two, dear?' I never expected she'd put us here. My old room is on the other side of the house, with a small bed and no balcony."


"Is that how she always handles your girlfriends?" Mac says it casually, but I hear the insecurity beneath the surface.


I roll onto my side and lean on one elbow as I look down at her. "Mac. I haven't had a girl in this house since Mom caught me with Mary Kelly in my room senior year of high school."


"I'm not sure any woman really wants her son sharing a bed in her home," Mac says, still doubtful.


"Mac, Mom is so thrilled you're here she can hardly stand it. Believe me, if she didn't like you, you'd know it." I remember my elegant mother extending her hand to Renee like the queen greeting a naked aborigine, and keep my grin to myself. We ate dinner last night on the terrace with Mom and Frank, surrounded by glowing candles, and laughed and talked all evening. It was one of the best times I've ever had here.


Something tells me Mac is not convinced, but she gives me a quick smile. "Okay. So, can we go down to the beach now?"


"Now? I was planning to go back to sleep," I whine. "I'm on vacation."


"You've only been back at work for three weeks, and you can sleep on the beach. C'mon, sailor. Get the lead out."


She shows no mercy. When I try to roll over and pull the pillow over my head, she ruthlessly strips off the bedcovers and tries to haul my ass off the mattress. By the time I pin her down we're both laughing so hard I start wondering if the scar on my side will hold up.


So we brush our teeth and Mac puts on a bikini and I pull on a baggy old pair of blue swim trunks. At the last minute, while she's getting the sunscreen, I take something out of my luggage and slip it into my pocket.


Downstairs, we let ourselves out the guest entrance. It's still early. The pool man is pushing the vacuum through the turquoise water and gives us a casual wave, but no one else is around.


"This way," I tell Mac, and take her hand as we cross the lawn toward the weathered wooden stairs leading down the cliff to the beach. She is still limping a little, but she's been working hard on the physical therapy since the cast came off and she only uses the light canvas brace when she has to walk a distance, like now. I grab a couple of big towels from the pool house as we go by.


She pauses at the top of the cliff and looks out at the ocean. She's smiling a little.


"What?" I ask, brushing the hair blowing in her eyes.


"It was so hard to get around all those weeks," she says. "It's a treat just to be able to walk out and see this."


"We'll have to arrange some more treats while you're here," I tell her, giving her a quick hug, keeping it light.


She slips her arms around my neck and gives me a smile that rivals the sunrise. "Okay, flyboy. How about carrying me down those steps for starters?"


"A challenge is a challenge." Without missing a beat, I slide one arm behind her shoulders and the other behind her knees, and swing her up against my chest.


"Harm!" Now she looks alarmed. "I was kidding! Are you okay?"


"Mac, please. I'm the one who runs every day, remember? And you weigh about as much as a sofa cushion." Not quite, but it certainly isn't a strain to carry her down the long flight of steps to the beach. As soon as she's sure I'm not going to drop over with a coronary or something, Mac leans her head on my shoulder and grins, enjoying the ride.


The soft, deep sand will be hard going for her ankle, so I tighten my arms and keep on going until we reach the firm footing where the water foams and recedes. Carefully I set her on her feet and don't let go.


"Very impressive, sailor," she grins. "I could get used to that kind of service."


"Beats pumping iron in the gym," I pant. Only a little. Mac laughs and leans against me as she bends down to untie her leg brace and pull it off. The sunlight is marching up the sand, pushing the shadows back against the cliff, and where we are standing the light is already brilliant. Mac's bikini is a sort of bronze color with a soft metallic sheen, nearly an exact match for her skin -- she looks burnished, almost naked. I reach for her as she straightens, but she steps away from me, laughing.


"Last one in is a rotten egg!" she tosses over her shoulder, and limps down the sand into the onrushing waves.


"Hey!" I'm so distracted, watching her body in that barely-there suit, I have to run to catch up before the first wave knocks her off her feet. She gives a little shriek and tries to escape, but I grab her and hold on as the water crashes around us in a burst of spray, then pick her up again and wade out beyond the breakers.


We're both laughing and gasping. When I get out to chest depth, I lift my feet and hold her and we ride the lines of waves rolling in toward the beach. Mac giggles with delight like a little girl each time we swoop down the back of another wave, leaning her head back with her eyes closed.


The water sparkles on her eyelashes like diamonds. When she opens them to look at me, her arms slide around my shoulders, and our mouths come together in a slow, endless kiss. Her lips are so soft beneath mine, and they taste of salt and sunlight. In the water her skin is like satin, cool on the surface, hinting at the heat beneath. She rests her hand against my sandpapery cheek.


At last we pull back, panting, her mouth against mine. Slowly Mac reaches behind her neck and pulls on the ties, and her top slides away to trail around her waist. I put my feet down on the firm sand and slide my hand to cup the fullness of her breast, feeling the peak harden beneath my palm. Her eyes darken as she stares into mine, not looking away as those long legs slip around my waist and we press against each other beneath the warm surface of the sea.


"Think we can get arrested for making out on your mother's beach?" Mac murmurs in my ear.


"It's a public beach. Lots of people can see us."


Mac gives a little sigh, smiling into my eyes. "Thank you, Harm." There is no trace of irony in her expression.


"For what, sweetheart?"


"For making me so happy."


I tighten my hold, just a little. "I could say the same, Mac."


She lifts an eyebrow. "Which am I?"


"Which what?"


"Sarah or Mac?" Her eyes are sparkling. "I'm Mac most of the time. You only call me Sarah when you're feeling romantic."


"Do I? Well, I like it. It's nice to have a special name for that."


"I love you." Her voice is so soft, it's almost lost in the crash and boom of the surf. But I hear.


"I love you too, Mac. I love it when you look so happy. You deserve every wonderful thing in the world."


"I have you. What could be better than that?"


"You could marry me."


Mac goes very still, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. I surprised myself, too. Then, "Yes," she whispers, and nods slowly, as if she's agreeing with someone that this might be a good idea. I didn't know I was holding my breath, but it comes out in a long sigh.


"Yeah?" I say, grinning stupidly.


"Yes," she laughs, and now there are tears in her eyes. So there really isn't anything else to do but hold her very tight and kiss her a lot.


After a long time we fumble Mac's top back on and wade out of the surf, stumbling and hanging onto each other. I grab a towel and wrap it around her and hold her possessively.


"You realize this will force the issue at work," I say. Brilliant, Rabb, you obsess about the future even at times like this.


"Well, I was waiting for a chance to talk to you about that," Mac smiles, and gracefully lowers herself to a warm patch of dry sand. I drop down beside her and she takes my hand in both of hers.


"Remember when I went up to the Academy a few days ago?" she asks.


"Yeah. Something about getting that Arabic program going in the fall?"


"That's right. But while I was there, they offered me a full-time appointment to the faculty, starting with the fall semester. Teaching the UCMJ survey course, and some of the programs at the Center for Professional Military Ethics." She strokes the back of my hand. "It would be perfect, Harm. I'd always be in Washington when you are, and they'd let me take a sabbatical when you're stationed overseas."


"You asked them *that*?"


"In a general way." Her dark eyes are laughing at me, but she looks serious when she says, "I'm excited about it, Harm. I love teaching, working with the mids. It's something I could really get into, something worth doing."


My hand tightens around hers, and instinctively I look for a counter argument. "But Mac. Are you *sure*? It's a brick wall, you'll be in the same slot until you retire. And it'll be a big let down after JAG headquarters."


"Not if I inspire another Harmon Rabb or two," she smiles. "That alone would be worth it." She sifts some sand between her fingers. "It feels right, like it's the direction I've always been looking for. And besides," she smiles a little, "the kids really ought to know what time *one* of us will be getting home at night."


The kids. *Our* kids. At that precise moment, staring into her heartbreakingly beautiful eyes, I know. It will really happen. Mac will be my wife, we'll have children, and it will be the best thing I ever do.


So of course I have to argue a little. "You're sure it's what you really want, Mac? I don't want to wake up some day knowing you did this just to make it easy for me."


"I'm sure, Harm. Are you?" She is looking at me very steadily. And here it is. The turning point, the precise moment that will determine the rest of our lives. If we lie to ourselves now, or lie to each other, we will always regret it.


"Yeah. I'm sure. If it's what you really want, Mac, then I'm behind you a hundred percent."


"You always are."


I look out at the waves for a minute, trying to figure out how to say something. "Mac, I want to tell you that everything will be perfect, everything will always work out, that I'll always make you ecstatically happy. We both know it doesn't work that way. But Mac, I promise you this." I take her lovely face in my hands. "I will love you for the rest of my life."


Tears are sparkling in her eyes and her lips are trembling. "Okay," she whispers.


"Okay. So, when do you want to get married?" Teasing seems to be a good idea right now.


"Why not tomorrow?" She shoots back with a quick smile.


I stop, narrowing my eyes. This seems to be my day for great ideas. "Why not?"


"What about a license?" Okay, now things are back to normal. My Marine looks skeptical. She presses, "I mean, I know this is California, but they *do* have laws."


"Yeah, but we could still do it this weekend. Hell, Frank knows a judge, maybe he could pull a few strings. Even if we can't get a license in time, we can still have the ceremony. Then we can get Captain Sebring or Admiral Morris or one of the other judges to perform the legal part in chambers when we get back."


"Captain Sebring hates me. And Admiral Morris hates you." Good, now she's laughing.


"Then we'll get them to do a tag team, balance each other out." I feel my grin getting bigger and bigger as I get seriously into this. "Think of it, Mac. No hassles, no fancy stuff. Just you and me, with Mom and Frank for witnesses. We could have it right up there on the cliff, Saturday afternoon. We can have a party for all our friends when we get back."


The smile on Mac's face tells me this may be the best idea I've ever had. "Let's do it, Harm. It's perfect," she grins, slowly nodding her head. And then her face falls, and if she weren't so obviously worried, it would be comical.


"Mac? Sweetheart, what's wrong?"


"Your mother will kill me," she breathes.


"Mac," I say, "my mother will kill *me* if we *don't* do this. Trust me."


She searches my face for a minute, then relaxes. "Always."


"Okay. Now, let's get up there and tell her. She has a lot of arrangements to make." I stand up and pull Mac to her feet, and she grabs my hip to steady herself.


"Hey, what's this?" she asks, her fingers brushing my pocket.


"Oh. I forgot. That's for you." I reach in, pull it out, and hand it to her.


Mac stares down at the object in her palm. After a moment she clears her throat. "Harm. This is the Navy Cross."

"Yep. They hurried up all the decorations for the action on the Seahawk."


She lifts her face to look at me, bewildered. "You got the Navy Cross and you didn't tell anyone?"


"It just came yesterday, right before we left. The Admiral ordered me to be part of a ceremony next week. He pointed out that it was my duty to inspire others." I grimace.


"Well, it is," she nods.


"Mac, you and I both know we just did what the situation demanded. I don't see anybody decorating *you* for holding off those al-Qaeda single-handed."


"Uh huh. Okay, let's see. You took command and rescued eighteen sailors, six from certain drowning, and you personally saved one of them at risk of your own life. Gee, sounds like just another day at the office to me."


I shake my head and press the blue and bronze medallion into her hand. "This belongs to you, Mac. I'll wear the ribbon, but I want you to have this. For saving *my* life." I grin at her. "You can wear it with your wedding dress. It's the 'something blue.' "


And two days later, she does.


Finis