Wings of the Morning

Chapter 4

Disclaimers: As previously stated.

Spoilers: Anything up to and including ‘A Tangled Webb II’ in season 9.

A/N: Many thanks to Jaggiegold for proofing for me while I’m in my present state. (Smile)

<i>If I ascend into heaven, You are there.

If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.

If I take the wings of the morning,

And dwell in the uttermost parts of the seas,

Even there Your hand shall lead me

And your right hand hold me.<i/>

Saturday

June 3, 2003

Uchenskoyan Forest

Sergei had been walking for some time, the chill seeping through his light weight coat on this summer day. The taiga was becoming cooler as he walked further in and he was beginning to wonder if he had taken a wrong turn. His path was littered with an occasional ancient fallen tree and lined with Scots pine and black spruce, some growing so closely together that a man could not have walked between them. He had long passed the larch and silver birch that served as an entrance to the deeper and darker parts of this other world, with trees never known to have been cut and a floor of nearly frozen green moss.

Looking down at the crudely drawn map, he wondered how he would ever find the place where his uncle had buried his father. If Sergei were to go much further into the taiga, he would run the risk of losing himself completely.

His uncle had written a key at the bottom of the map, he wrote that he had covered the grave with heavy slate and granite stones, because the shallow ground would not allow a deeper grave. Mikhail Zhukov wrote that he had buried his father behind a large slate and quartz rock formation. He said that the black slate stone was long and the width of his arms outspread. His uncle chose the place because the stone was unusual and its angle made it appear to have been placed on its end, much like a tombstone. He said the stone’s height was that of a grown man and that it was marked with veins that were filled quartz and other stone that glittered like gold when the sun shone upon it.

Sergei stopped and looked around him. There had been over 20 years of forest growth since his uncle had drawn this map; finding his father’s grave would be nearly impossible. Sergei left his own land marks and tried to recall some of the natural landmarks he had already passed. He looked up at the sky; the day was clear but the height and thickness of the trees made it difficult to judge the time of day by the sun. He looked at his watch, ready to give up his search for the day; thinking that perhaps he and Harm would try to do this, when he came to Russia for his wedding. Just as he started to turn around and head back, a glint of light caught his eye. He turned toward it and he saw what appeared to be black stone, covered in moss and sapling larch, with its young roping branches.

He carefully walked over to it, brushing away the moss with his gloved hand. He saw the streaked quartz that looked to be inlaid into the naturally deep veins on the black stone. Sergei thought it looked as though they had been carved by hand and made to look like stars, falling from a dark night sky. The sight of it gave Sergei pause, when he remembered what had begun his father on this journey. He thought of the long, lonely and unforseen road that led him to his mother…and to this forgotten grave.

His joy at finding this grave was short-lived and a profound sorrow covered him as he stepped around the stone. It was exactly as his uncle had described it. There were oddly shaped but carefully placed granite and slate stones, in a circular pattern, covered with a thin layer of moss.

Sergei walked as near to the grave as the forests undergrowth would allow. He knelt down on one knee and lowered his head. He wept as he whispered the words, ‘my father.”

1845 (Pacific)

Saturday

June 4, 2003

Burnett residence

La Jolla, California

Trish Burnett watched her son as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d had something on his mind from the moment he’d arrived. As they sat on the stone patio with its spectacular view of the Pacific, she decided she’d waited long enough.

“Son, when are you going to tell me what’s really on your mind?” His visit had been an unexpected pleasure, but she knew there was more to it than that. During dinner Harm kept glancing at the clock in the dining room. It had puzzled her at first, but now, she understood. He had something to say, and he felt as though he were running out of time to say it.

Harm stopped trying to adjust his position in his seat and grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry Mom.”

Harm leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands together, unable to think of the right words to say that would help him make her understand that he wasn’t trying to hurt her. He just needed her help.

In Trish’s mind, this awkwardness could mean only one thing. Whatever it was that had him in this state, it was about Harmon.

“Just begin, darling….it’s about your father, isn’t it?”

Harm nodded.

“Yes, I need to talk to you, Mom…about a lot of things. I’ve uh…that is, the Admiral has ordered me to….”

“The Admiral ordered you to?” Trish frowned; this was not sounding the way she expected. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Is there a problem at JAG?”

“No...Not now, I’m doing fine…at JAG. A lot of things happened in the last few months…I turned in my resignation.”

Trish’s face lost its color, “What?”

“Oh, I’m back…the Admiral reinstated me, but…he wouldn’t let me come back until I agreed to some…things.”

“What things?” Trish was still too stunned to ask why he’d resigned.

“He said that I had to agree to go to counseling…about Dad…and about how I handle…certain situations.”

Trish finally found her voice. “Why did you resign?’

“I… uh, had to find Mac…she’d agreed to assist on a covert mission; she and her… counterpart were lost, some thought they were dead. The Admiral would not agree to allow me to go…so I resigned.”

Trish gave him a critical look, still feeling she wasn’t hearing the whole story. “That doesn’t sound like Admiral Chegwidden. Did he say why?”

“Yes…I’d been having some…difficulties…at work. He didn’t think my career could take another...uh, complication.”

It was beginning to hurt, that he didn’t trust her enough to say what was on his mind without all this discomfort. She decided to cut to the chase. “What are you leaving out of this…story?”

With that statement, Harm was up and out of his chair; he walked over to the edge of the stone terrace and looked out to sea. He hated putting his mother in this situation; he really was here about Sergei, but he couldn’t tell her about Sergei without telling her what a mess things were a couple of months ago. There was no easy way to say this.

“I was accused of murder….in April…” He looked around at her directly. “I was acquitted, but I did spend some time in the brig… a week.”

“What? Why didn’t you contact us? Frank and I would have been there on the first plane.” She stood, and started toward him, the thought of Harm in a jail cell making her head spin.

“I...didn’t want you to worry; I didn’t really think I would be arrested. Everything happened…so fast; it just…spun out of control, almost before I knew what was happening.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would accuse you. Where was Admiral Chegwidden while this was happening? What could you have done that would make anyone believe that you could ever do anything like that?” She was speaking before she knew what she was saying, her questions rapid fire.

“I…wasn’t very forthcoming about…something I knew… a woman I worked with…was killed; we had a disagreement…a very public one. The victim... knew…Sergei...”

Trish could not keep the disgusted look from her face. “And you were afraid they would accuse him, so you thought it was your place to protect him.”

“It was Mom…it is.”

“No, Harm….it is not your place. Did Sergei kill her?” Her tone was sharp and biting; she was immediately very angry.

Harm looked at her in disbelief. “No! Of course not.” How could she think something like that?

Trish had been trying to keep her true feelings about Sergei to herself. She knew that spilling her anger out on Harm wouldn’t serve anyone, but this was too much.

“Son, you risked your freedom…you could have risked your life, for him. You don’t even know if he really is your brother…you just want to believe it. I don’t understand why you insist on pushing this…on trying to make me accept this.”

She turned away from him, shaking her head.

“You have the only means I have at my disposal to prove or disprove it.” Harm knew in his heart that Sergei was his brother, but given the way his mother was reacting to this conversation, he thought he should approach this subject from a different direction, the disproving part of the equation.

.

Trish whirled around and faced him, her face showing anger that Harm hadn’t seen in a long time. “You cannot have them.”

“Mom…” Harm immediately tried to calm her down. “Where did all of this come from?” He wondered. She hadn’t reacted this way when he told her about Sergei over 3 years ago; he didn’t know what to say to her.

“No…. if you are set on proving this…idea…that Sergei Zhukov is your brother, then so be it, but you will not use the only things I still have from your father that are mine... his letters. I gave you his letter tapes...even the one that was meant for only me, but not my letters. You can’t have them.” She had been emotional when she began but as she finished her statement, her tone became firm and resolute. “If this is the only reason you’ve come, then you wasted your trip.”

“Mom, it isn’t the only reason.” Harm was still dumbfounded by her reaction, his words seemed to come too slowly and she didn’t seem to hear them.

Trish continued to walk into her house with Harm following close behind her. Harm hadn’t expected this; he knew she had been reluctant when he spoke of the letters in the past, but this was something else entirely.

At that same moment…

Chegwidden Residence

MacLean, Virginia

AJ walked through his quiet house. Another day to go and then the weekend would be over. He turned some of his favorite music on and listened as it filtered through the house, glad to hear something besides his own footsteps on the floor.

He missed them. He missed his daughter’s laughter, feeling the sleeping weight of his grandson against his chest, and he missed Marcella…everything about Marcella.

Without realizing what he had done, he found himself standing at his bedroom door, looking at his empty bed. Two nights with Marcella and now, he hated the idea of sleeping alone. It had been less than a month ago that he thought he’d live the rest of his life alone, and the thought didn’t really cause him pain, he’d accepted it. For the first time in a long time, he saw a full and satisfying life after he left JAG. It was as though, everything that had happened over the past month, was fate bringing him back where he belonged.

Francesca was not a stranger to him. Those first days in Naples, when he was not with his grandson, Alberto, he was with his daughter. They were able to connect on a level he never thought possible.

Although, there were some things she held back from him, one particular thing that AJ had to work very hard not to press her about. He wanted to know who the father of Francesca’s child was. Why didn’t she marry him, or at least allow him to be in her life? If her lover had left her, and broken her heart, it was not obvious to him. When he had spoken to Marcella about it, she only said that, in this, she was like him. She hid her heart well and she allowed few people into her confidence. Marcella believed that, in time, they would know, but she was so happy to have her grandson, that she would not press the issue. AJ realized he was in the same predicament, the argument that he knew would ensue, was not worth it. He’d waited too long for this precious time with Francesca; nothing was worth jeopardizing that. It was enough for him that Francesca was well, in fact, she seemed very happy.

As AJ started back out of his bedroom his phone rang. He answered it, “Chegwidden.”

“Papa?” Francesca said above the sound of her son, saying loudly, “Pa! Pa! Pa!”Alberto was tapping his fat little palm on the outer side of the receiver. “Ma! Pa!”

This was what he needed, to hear from the loves of his life. “Hello! What is that noise I’m hearing?”

Francesca laughed, “That noise is the grandson you have spoiled so badly he won’t go to sleep without having a story read to him…sometimes he needs two.”

“Nothing to worry about…it’s good for him…it’s good for you too,” his voice automatically taking on a fatherly and authoritative tone.

Francesca sighed, “I know…we miss you, Papa.”

“I miss you too, daughter.” All the authority left his voice as his daughter, unknowingly and effortlessly, wrapped around her little finger.

1036

Sunday

United flight 1048

Somewhere over the Midwest

Harm reclined slightly in his first class seat. They’d been in the air for over 3 hours, and though it would have been smart to sleep, the events of the day before would not allow it.

<i>Burnett residence the night before<i/>

Trish had gone into her bedroom and closed the door. She would not come out of her room or speak to her son, for some time. Harm had spent most of the evening shaming himself, for the way he approached the subject of Sergei and his father. It was awkward, to say the least. Why couldn’t he just talk to the people he loved and respected most. It was a miracle he and Mac had gotten together at all. All he ever seemed to do was put his foot in his mouth.

Around midnight, Harm was just finishing up a call to Mac, “Give her time, Harm; this is really hard for her. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her.”

“I know, I just didn’t say it the way I wanted to; I think I might have blown the whole thing.”

“Give it time…maybe you can talk with her in the morning; maybe if she has time to think about this….”

“Thanks, Mac, I’m going to go. It’s getting late here...”

“Okay…I miss you, you know.”

Harm smiled. “I miss you.”

“I’ll see you at your place…remember?”

Harm chuckled, “Oh yeah, I remember. Bye”

He didn’t hear that Trish had come back downstairs until he closed his cell phone. When he turned she startled him, his face coloring immediately considering what he’d just been thinking about.

“Mom?”

“I need to talk with you, son, I don’t want you to go back to Washington and leave things this way.” Harm’s embarrassment was lost on her; her mind was focused squarely on something that had breaking her heart, for years.

Harm nodded his agreement, grateful for this chance to explain why he was asking this of his mother.

Seeing the relief on his face, Trish felt the need to warn him, “I haven’t changed my mind; I’m not going to give you my letters, but I do have something that might help you.” She reached into her pocket and took out a plain white envelope. On the outside was written, ‘Harmon, age 2.’

She handed it to him. “This was sent to me, along with other personal letters that belonged to your grandmother. After she died and the estate was sold, she requested that your father’s letters, their family pictures and...” She nodded toward the envelope, “this, be sent to me, along with everything else. It was to be given to you after you married and settled down.”

Harm opened the unsealed envelope and carefully took out a thick chestnut brown curl.

“Your grandmother said it was from your father’s first haircut.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, holding on tightly and resisting the urge to take it back, to keep that part of him to herself as well, but she did not. Sarah Rabb wanted Harm to have this, and knowing this helped her do what she knew was right. But, no matter what anyone said, including her son, she would never give her letters up. When they were dating, she fell in love with him, reading his letters. After they married, his words carried her through the first two tours, during Vietnam and then for years afterward.

Harm looked up at his mother and saw how difficult this was for her. “I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I know this is hard…”

Trish shook her head slightly, as she walked to the back of their house, toward the large windowed wall in their den. “I don’t really think you do, son. I don’t know if I could really explain it to anyone.”

Harm silently followed her into the room. “What I had…what we had, your father and I, was something so…special.” She looked back at him and smiled, “I know, everyone says that, but it was true with us. I knew no one; nothing would ever come between us. Not time, nor circumstance, certainly not another woman.”

“Mom,…I don’t think Dad thought he would ever come home…”

Trish raised her hand, “Don’t…Harm, just….don’t.”

To even mention the possibility of her husband loving anyone but her, even in the most indirect way…or the painful possibility that she had been the one who gave up first, when he loved her and stayed alive, so that he could return to them. She would never tell Harm about the nights she’d lain awake, after Harm told her about his belief that his father had been transferred to Russia. She couldn’t stop wondering what his life must have been, in all those years.

Harm stopped, silent.

“I can’t think of him that way…I know, when you told me about this the first time. I didn’t tell you how I felt about this…maybe I was in a state of shock…I can’t even remember what I said to you; I don’t know. But after I had time to really think about it, I just can’t think of him…that way. I can’t.”

“Mom...”

“Harm…it took a long time to let go…of the idea that he was still alive. You don’t know what I went through. I tried to be strong, for your sake, to start over and make a good life for you. I thought I had but… your reaction…then you ran away to Vietnam. I thought I’d lost you both, I nearly did. I thought it was my fault that you ran, because I’d held on too tight. I thought if I did that somehow, I’d keep you with me longer, and never have the risk of losing you.” She smiled without humor. “I only made you more determined to get away, and prove that I was wrong. Without a word, your actions told me I’d betrayed you…and your father.

“I don’t think that now, Mom, I don’t. I know I didn’t make it easy for you back then. I’m sorry for that…. I really am.”

She turned and studied his face, still struck by how much he was like his father.

“I know you were just a child Harm. As difficult as you were, if I hadn’t had you, I don’t know if I would have survived…after losing…. him.”

Harm had come to stand nearer to her and looked out at the moonlight on the water. “I hope you find love like that, son, but I pray it’s never taken from you, as mine was.”

Harm thought of Mac, and how much the thought of her loss struck fear in him, a fear so profound, that he was willing to throw everything away to be sure she was safe. “I think I know what you mean, Mom.”

She gave him a side long glance, “Mac?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“So you’re really serious?”

“Uh….we’re doing….okay.”

Trish laughed softly at Harm’s not so subtle evasion of her question. Harm looked at her directly, relieved with the knowledge that she understood his reluctance to talk about this. He was her son; there were some things she still understood.

“Okay….I won’t start.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He tentatively touched her back, as though he were asking, “Are we okay, Mom?”, and she turned and hugged him. They both laughed, at themselves, and in relief.

Trish took one step back from him, and studied his face for a moment, and her smile faded slightly. “I want to say one more thing about Sergei. What you do about him is really up to you, but I hope you won’t pursue this. Not because I’m angry with him, or that I dislike him, it’s just that I’m afraid for you.”

“Mom…I’m fine.” All he wanted to do now was reassure her, trying to make her understand, now, was out of the question.

“Harm, I want you to finally let your father rest….wherever he is. You are a wonderful man; I am so proud of you. You have Mac now; just be happy son, and don’t wasted another minute on what cannot be undone. Your father was taken from us; I wish I could change that but I can’t…you can’t. The best thing to do is to live well, to live happily, like he would have wanted us to. I know he loved us both…I can still feel that love, especially when I think of you and your happiness. Please, son, for your own sake, let this go.”

Harm was quiet for a moment, then he asked, “If you want me to let this go, why did you give me this?” He held up the small envelope. His expression was soft and questioning.

Trish could see how hard he was trying not to hurt her. The least she could do was to be honest with him, he wasn’t a boy to protect, he was a grown man.

“Because, whether I agree with you or not, to keep it from you would be wrong…deceitful somehow, and I don’t want to do that…be that, to you.”

Harm huggd his mother close to him, the loss of his father making his heart ache, for both of them. “Thank you, Mom.”

She nodded, her throat tight from emotion, and said, “Consider…everything...I said, son.”

“I will.” He would, but he was still going to find a way to prove Sergei was his brother. He would not try to involve her in the research again. He thought he understood her feelings, but he could not stop now, it was nearly as consuming to him, as finding his father had been.

Back to the United Airlines flight 1048…

Harm stretched his legs, as far as the seat ahead of him would allow. As he looked out of the window of the plane, he couldn’t help smiling when he thought of his next session with Captain Miles….There was no doubt about it, he’d have a field day with this.

1945(Pacific)

Sunday

Burnett Residence

Patricia Rabb Burnett walked out on the stone patio of her home; the sun had begun its long descent, leaving the sky alight with color. Her conversation with her son was still weighing heavily on her mind. She wondered if she had been too sharp with him; she went over everything she said to him, and knew that she would still have said the same thing. She had been harboring those feelings for a long time, and though it concerned her that he might not understand, saying what she felt about Sergei and Harm’s insistence on pursuing proof of his parentage, freed her. There had been too many emotional highs and lows since Harm’s first trip to Russia; his second trip brought out a bitterness she didn’t like in herself. Now, maybe she could go on, and she hoped Harm would too.

She decided to take a walk along the path that led to the beach. As she looked up into the clouds that the sun had turned silver and gold, she spoke to her first love as though he were near enough to hear her words. She spoke aloud a question she had wrestled with for years, “What happened? Did you give up? Could you possibly be Sergei’s father?” It was all too confusing. If he did know this woman… The thought was so painful, Trish shook the thought away; her husband never would have done that. If he was alive, then he was trying to get back to her. She still believed that with all her heart.

If she’d have believed he was alive, she never would have remarried, not ever.

As she watched the tide roll over the packed down sand and the sandpipers skitter out of its path, she questioned again… “What happened, Harmon…what really happened?”

February, 1980

Vulkoda Gulag

Southern Siberia

Colonel Mikhail Parlovsky stood in his stark green-grey room that served as his office, preparing to dismiss the men who had ‘interrogated’ his prisoner S394652.

The prisoner had tried to escape again and had nearly succeeded, this time. However, after his recapture, his interrogators made sure his leg would prevent his ‘running’ away again. The prisoner would need to be removed from this camp, before any of his superiors had a chance to hear of this incident. He would put out a story about a mining accident, to cover his need to move him.

Colonel Parlovsky had been consigned to a command in the gulags in 1972 because of the lies Prisoner S394652 told. Although Parlovsky had not been his chief interrogator, the prisoner’s presence in the Soviet Union was the result of an operation he set in motion. He had cost the Soviet government a great deal of money and manpower, when they spent over two years acting on misinformation given by this prisoner. Viktor Lushov could not spare him this time, as he had in the past. When the operation had begun, to transfer US aviators from Vietnam to the Soviet Union, Parlovsky believed it would be the means to promote him to the highest levels in the KGB. Because of the misinformation the prisoner gave them, he had instead been transferred to the frozen wastelands of Siberia.

It was tempting to kill him, and destroy any evidence of the existence of prisoner S394652. But that would be too easy and Parlovsky wanted to make him pay, to live and suffer pain, all the while knowing that his wife and child thought him dead.

Colonel Parlovsky focused his attention on the two men in front of him and asked.

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, I will speak to him. He is still restrained?”

“Yes, but he is no threat, Colonel. He was unable to stand an hour ago.” One of the men answered, a cruel gleam in his eye,

“Very good, you may go.”

Both men came to attention, and then left the room. Colonel Parlovsky took a file from the top drawer of a file cabinet in the sparsely furnished office. He opened the file and looked at the newspaper clippings within; one of the articles was more recent than the other. Each held information that Parlovsky believed would finally break the will of Lieutenant Harmon Rabb Senior.

Parlovsky walked into the adjoining room, and approached the tall figure, slumped over in a chair in the much colder room, with his hands tied behind his back.

“Prisoner S394652, you are still with us, I see.”

Harmon did not raise his head, even though he knew Parlovsky could pick up where his ‘friends’ had left off. He was past the point of giving a damn. He knew that if Parlovsky wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. He could take anything, he would survive, and somehow, he would get home.

“You have nothing to say….prisoner S394652?”

Harmon remained silent.

‘You will look at me.” Parlovsky spoke sharply to him and stood in front of him now.

Harmon raised his head slowly, and Parlovsky could still see defiance in his eyes; perhaps what he would learn tonight from the information he had in his file, would finally take that defiance away.

“I have news…, news that will hold your interest…would you like to see?”

“More propaganda, Colonel?”

“Oh, no…no propaganda…this is news from an American newspaper.”

“Are you going to tell me again that America lost the war?” Harmon wasn’t sure how he had accomplished it, but he would never believe that a military with the size and capability of the United States would ever lose, there was just no way, even with the help of the US’ cold war nemesis, the Soviet Union.

“No, not this time; this news…is much more….personal and I assure you, what you will see is very…real.”

Harmon shook his head and looked again at the floor; he didn’t care what Parlovsky did, and he didn’t feel like playing this game. “What the hell else could they do anyway?” He thought, as the pain in his left leg began to peak, making sweat break out on his forehead, even in the cold interior of the room.

“You have no interest?”

Harmon did not answer.

Parlovsky smiled as he took the first clipping out and placed it on the floor in Harmon’s line of vision.

Harmon’s eyes came into focus on a picture of….his wife, on the society page of the LA Post. ‘Burnett Nuptials’ The caption below a picture of Trish and her new…husband... stated that this was a second marriage for both of them, and that the former Mrs. Harmon Rabb, had been widowed for over 8 years.

Harmon forgot his pain…the cold of the room, and for a few seconds, even that Parlovsky was standing near him, as he looked at his beloved wife on her wedding day… to another man. He looked at the date, June 2, 1977. He knew this was a possibility; he’d even tried to prepare himself for it, but actually seeing with his own eyes, his wife….leaving him behind, was another matter. The room in his heart, in which he kept his hope of returning to her, and to little Harm, was being obliterated by the reality that he had been forgotten.

“It seems your wife grew tired of waiting.” Parlovsky’s voice took on a sarcastic lilt, as he walked around the room, all the while watching his prisoner’s every move.

Harmon swallowed hard, his mind trying to comprehend, as he tried to hide his feelings from one who would only exploit them. He would not give him the satisfaction of seeing him break down, though the pain in his heart nearly matched the pain he felt after Parlovsky’s interrogators finished with his injured leg. It was at that moment, he noticed something, in the background, a face he knew as well as his own; it was Little Harm who, in this picture, appeared to be 13 or 14 years old, and anyone looking at him would have known how unhappy he was.

Parlovsky squatted down so that he could look into his face. Harmon gritted his teeth to keep his pain from appearing in his expression. “You have seen someone else you recognize in this picture?”

The Colonel was speaking in a conversational tone, patiently waiting for Prisoner 394652 to break.

This was the part of his little ‘treat’ that he planned for Harmon Rabb, that he would enjoy most. “Yes, Prisoner S49652, this is your son…no longer a little boy, but growing into a young man.” He looked back down in the picture. “He is very much like you, is he not?”

Harmon did not answer.

“I have something else, something you will be especially interested in.” He placed another clipping from July of 1978, of 16 year old Harmon Rabb Junior, being escorted by his step father and his mother, off of a plane at LA International Airport.

The headline above this picture stated, ‘Missing California Boy Found in Vietnam.’ The caption explained that the young man had gone in search of his father who had been classified as MIA, since he’d been shot down in 1969.

“It seems your son is a very determined young man….it appears he doesn’t believe you were killed, all those years ago…a terrible burden for one so young.” He looked at this picture and grinned at Harmon, evilly. “Who knows when he will try to find you again…Maybe we should arrange for him to find you…with the help of our own agents, of course…perhaps you could share a cell, in Vorkuta gulag.”

Harmon could not hide his horror at the thought of it.

Parlovsky was satisfied. This prisoners reaction was almost worth his demotion and assignment to Siberia. “It is something to consider…Prisoner 394652….when you tell yourself you have done well with your lies. I may have been temporarily set back…but I promise you, I will be here when you…and your son, are long dead. You will never leave Siberia, never, and you will live long and suffer much before I allow your death.”

Harmon looked away from him, battling a despair he’d never allowed himself to feel.

“What is it, Lieutenant Rabb?” He had not been called by his own name in years, not since he’d seen Victor, in 1972. “Do you not want to see your son?”

Harmon turned quickly back toward him, a feral rage exploding up through his beaten and starved body. Even in his present physical state, if he were not restrained, he would have snapped Colonel Parlovsky in two.

Parlovsky stood and walked away from him, still feeling very satisfied with what he had accomplished today. He opened the door to his office, glancing briefly at his prisoners face, still twisted with rage and then casually called to the guards who would return Lieutenant Rabb to his cell.

Shortly before dawn the next morning…

Harmon Rabb Senior lay on the wooden bench that was his bed, his leg and the rest of his body throbbing with pain. His mind was still trying to grasp what he had learned last night. He felt immense pride and at the same time, nearly paralyzing fear for his son. His son had not forgotten him; he had the strength of heart and mind to get himself to Vietnam to try and find him. But there was little solace in that because it was that very trait in his personality could get him imprisoned, as he was, in this godforsaken corner of the world.

The cold of the room caused his body to shiver violently as he placed his hands over his face in the dark of the room. His mind immediately returned to his wife. He whispered her name, his breath visible in the cold and dark, “Trish…Trisha.”

Trish had done what they had both agreed she would. She would make sure Little Harm had a father and a home. The problem was, he didn’t realize how tightly he’d clung to the hope that she would wait, that somehow she would know, that he was here, trying to get back to them. In all the time he’d been in captivity, he could not dwell on the thought of her, but there were moments when he had the strength to allow it. When times were especially bad, he would bring back a memory of how it felt to hold her, to hear her laughter, or the sound of her voice when she whispered that she loved him. No matter how bad it got, it would be just enough to get him through another day.

Silent tears came; his despair had finally broken through and they washed warm on his face. Everyone in the cell was sleeping; he could not afford to let anyone see his pain.

For most of the night, he lay on his bed and mourned his dream, then as dawn was beginning to break, a new determination was born of that pain and loss.

He still had his son; his son still needed him...the little guy who never gave up. In his mind’s eye, he remembered Little Harm’s tripping over the knee knockers when he’d accompanied him on his first Tiger Cruise. He saw his determined expression as he got up quickly and caught up with him. If his son never gave up on him, the least he could do was try to stay alive and get back to him. The only way to do that was to get away somehow. Parlovsky meant to kill him, but slowly and further away from any means of escape.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t think about how far away he was, or what it could cost him, if he tried to escape again.

He only knew that he must get to his son….or die trying.

TBC

A/N: I will refer to Harmon Sr as Harmon and Harm as Harm (grin) so it won’t be confusing for anyone.

A/N The word ‘gulag’ is actually a Russian acronym for The Chief Directorate of Corrective Labor Camps and Colonies.

A/N: I have spelled Vulkoba phonetically. I am sure this is not the Russian spelling.