She Who Holds the Key

Author: SMKLegacy

Rating: PG-13
Category: Story, Drama, Romance

Disclaimer: If I owned the ensemble and the concept, I wouldn't be in debt. If I were making money from them, I would be in a lot less debt. If DPB and TPTB would like to sell them to me on an installment plan, show me where to sign. Until then, consider them borrowed with love and the story and any new characters mine.

Archive: On FanFiction.net and at Shannon's phenomenal site.

Feedback: Always, but spare the flames, please. Life is tough enough without a hobby being stressful, too.

Author's Note and Spoilers: Companion piece to "A Prisoner Set Free" and "The Keymaster". Not related to my previous stories "With Prejudice", "Raising Men: My Sailor", or "Lady Sarah". Anything is fair game up to season 8 through "Favorite Son"; based, alas, on current events, and set in Mac's voice.

24 March 2003

Really, it was only a matter of time before one of us got tagged. But why couldn't it have been Tracey or one of the other judges instead of me?

Because it's a mission for a Marine, and a Marine with very specific qualifications, at that. Farsi and Russian speaker, member of the D.C. bar, in-depth knowledge of al-Qaeda operations and structure, and experience with the military tribunal system. Hmmmm... let me think how many Marines meet those exact criteria.

None.

Except me.

Damn it. I can say that out loud here in my own apartment in Georgetown, since the admiral's dog is safely at home with him in McLean. I know because she was barking furiously the entire time AJ--Admiral Chegwidden--was telling me about this ludicrous interruption to my extended tenure on the bench. I think poor Dammit was reacting to the venom in his voice, because if anything, he's even more distressed about this than I am.

We agree, however, that neither of us can possibly be as distraught about this as a certain Naval Aviator turned JAG we both know will be when I tell him in about 5 minutes.

"Mac," the admiral said to me as we finished the call a few minutes ago, "do you have any magic words that will keep Harm from going off the deep end while you're away?"

"Short of letting him come with me, sir, the only thing I can think of is chaining him to his desk so he can't go UA to come after me." My partner's obsession with my safety is either a sign that he's mentally ill or that he really is in love with me but doesn't have the maturity yet to show it in more appropriate ways. I'm not willing to place a bet either way, but my hopes lie much more in the latter than the former.

"What size link should I look for?" our commanding officer asked with just a touch of macabre humor in his tone.

I laughed. "The anchor chain from the Seahawk might to do the trick, Admiral. I need to go if I'm going to catch Harm early enough for him to pick me up."

Four minutes and 12 seconds have passed since I hung up from the only man I've ever met that I wish I could call "Father", even though he's not quite old enough to fit the bill. Now I have to call the only man I've ever truly loved enough to marry (never mind the one I did marry and the one I almost married) and ask him to pick me up so he can take me to Andrews for a flight to Qatar. He'll be so happy to hear that part of this mission means going into Iraq.

"Rabb," he grumbles into the phone, and I know I've woken him up. It's only 0655, after all.

"Mackenzie," I rumble back, and get the laugh I wanted from him as he tries to come to his senses. "Got a favor to ask. Can you pick me up for staff call?"

I think I hear him push himself into a sitting position before he answers me. "Sure. Car dead or did I forget that you have a maintenance appointment today?"

It's a logical question for him to ask, but I have to disappoint him. "No, Harm," I say in as gentle a voice as I can, "I'm going TAD and the admiral wants you to take me to Andrews."

"Iraq?"

I nod and am not surprised that he guessed right off the bat. We know each other too well for something this big to go unnoticed along the strong cords that have bound us together over the last six years. "Yeah. But mostly Centcom in Qatar," I confirm, hoping to reassure him that mostly I won't be in danger.

"I'm going with you," he declares to me, but I know as well as he does that those words, while heartfelt, have no power.

I laugh because otherwise his sentiment would make me cry. "Not likely, Flyboy. The powers that be asked for me by name, apparently, and before you ask, Webb had nothing to do with it."

He snorts on the other end of the phone, and he's probably right to assume that Webb isn't completely innocent in this venture. I, however, won't stoop to Clay-bashing until I have proof that he's placed me in--no pun intended--harm's way. He did that six years ago in the White House Rose Garden and I haven't decided yet if there's a need to kiss him or kill him for it--it's a minute-to-minute thing.

I continue. "You will not magically disappear from DC while I'm gone, do you understand me? You've managed to keep your record fairly clean lately and DDO/UA charges now would be detrimental to your career. But flattering in its own warped way. 0740, Harm, and not a minute later."

"Yes, ma'am," he barks out in that way he has of chafing at my seniority. "If you want me there, you've got to let me go."

"Good-bye, Harm," I say as he's saying "Good-bye" on his end.

Only as I'm standing under the scalding spray of the last hot shower I'm likely to get for two weeks does it dawn on me that he said, "Good-bye, Sarah." I spend the rest of my morning routine and final packing basking in the glow that comes whenever he uses my given name. Damn him.

When Harm arrives two whole minutes early, I can see in the set of his jaw that he's extremely upset, although he tries mightily to make light of the situation.

"You ought to get some good sun, at least," he says as I'm fastening my seat belt. "That will be worth seeing when you get back." The jaw is still tight and the smile doesn't reach his eyes, although I think that there might be a very masculine gleam there if I could look right at him.

"I wish," I mutter back. "I'll be stuck in the stupid chocolate chip BDUs with the campaign hat when I'm not gas masked and helmeted."

Ooo, bad move, Mackenzie. Reminding my Flyboy of the dangers just now was definitely detrimental to the mood. Maybe I can reverse this, though. "Look at it this way, Harm. I won't be wearing skimpy clothes in front of hundreds of ogling, deprived men."

I get the fish eye from him before he breaks into a small grin. "Will you for one deprived man when you get back?"

I'm going to categorize that in the same family as the "I can help with that, too," remark from the Seahawk before we found out about Bud. Outrageously flirtatious but ultimately harmless (pun intended.) "Depends on who he is," I shoot back, and for the first time this morning I get the full Flyboy grin as he pulls to a stop at a traffic light.

"Me?"

God, I don't think I've ever heard such pathetic hopefulness in his voice before as he put into that single syllable. And I know, suddenly, that as soon as he sets himself free from his prison of self-control, that the key to the innermost recesses of his heart is five simple words from me. But the keyhole isn't accessible yet. "I'll take it under advisement," I say instead, because I love to see him squirm, and give him my best "Ooh-rah Marine" grin.

Judging by the shifting he's doing as he tries to focus on the road, someday, I'm going to have a great deal of fun seducing this man.

He's crying in my arms.

My Harm is crying in my arms, all because I'm going away for two weeks. True, it's to a war zone, but still...

Why can't he just say the words so we can get past this nebulous in-between thing and get on with living like a whole being instead of two halves of a whole? I would like so much to kiss him, to reassure him that I care as much as he obviously does, but I'm not going to throw that burden into everything else just now. I content myself with the short, silky hairs on the nape of his neck and call to him. "Harm?"

"Mac, you're gonna give me nightmares," he moans. I'm instantly back in the office on that day when he actually had the nerve to ask me--after everything we've been through--if he gives me nightmares when he flies. Duh. He gives me nightmares whenever I'm not around to watch his six, and about 9 times out of 10 when I am. The nightmares about him are more frightening than the ones I have about Bosnia and Indonesia because... well, because I survived Bosnia and Indonesia. I'm not sure that he'll survive the next time he goes flying or the next time he goes to interview a violent client in the brig.

I make my voice as low and soothing as I can, as though I'm talking to Little AJ before bed. "Harm, I'm going to be fine. I'm only going to be in the hot zone for about 12 hours, in and out to get the subject, then I'll be in Doha at Central Command HQ until the whole thing is resolved to a point that I can come back."

His instant reply is, "How long?"

"Two weeks tops." I tear my hands away from the back of his neck reluctantly and move to cup his wet cheeks in my palms. His eyes are that tumultuous sea gray they get when he's upset and it hurts me to the quick to know that I'm the cause.

"Is that a promise?"

That word is almost as loaded as "eternity" between the two of us. "Promise," I nod, and give him a small smile.

"Don't make a promise you can't keep," he warns.

We both laugh a little at the backwardness of this conversation but it's somehow okay. "I haven't yet."

A cloud passes across his eyes and I wonder if he's thinking about what he didn't make me promise to do in Sidney. But he nods after a brief moment and acknowledges, "No, Sarah, you haven't. E-mail me?"

"As often as I can." I was absolutely blown away with his late Christmas gift to us this year. Satellite phones and wireless laptop connections. He had to have dipped into that trust fund he never, ever touches to afford all of it after the replacement Corvette last year wiped out his savings, and something tells me he did it just in case something like this ever happened. But I'd be willing to bet that he thought he'd be the one leaving, not me.

Tears are still streaming from his eyes; that he's not bothering to try to hide them touches me deeply, but now I'm more worried about him than ever. Again, I want to kiss him, but I settle for a question. "Harm, will you really be okay?"

Liquid warmth flows through me as he gazes at me with those wide, pained eyes and it's almost as good as a kiss.

It's his words, though, that resonate. "I'll survive until you get back, and then I'll be okay."

It's a good thing that the steward comes when he does because I'm about three nanoseconds from throwing myself into his arms and kissing him senseless. Wait. Harm's a man, he's already senseless. That's a cold thought, but effective for helping me lighten the mood because I can't leave him like this. I step back a little to increase the distance between us, but I'm not ready to leave his embrace or to move my hands from his beautiful, tearstained face. "I guess I really am a VIP this trip."

He takes my hands in his and lays a tender kiss in each palm. "You're always a VIP to me, Sarah."

I swear, the way that man says my name is enough to have me right on the edge of orgasmic bliss. But I can't let him know that, so I force myself to smile at him and lighten the mood a bit more. "You be careful and smart while I'm gone, Mr. VIP Flyboy. Or I'll come back and kick your six into next year."

"You, too, Mac." He freezes for a moment, holding my hands, before he lets go and steps back.

Or maybe I step back, I'm not sure. I just know that I'm not basking in his warmth anymore, and I am immediately afraid that this might be the last time I ever see him. Not because of what might happen to me, but because he's still flying BARCAP, more now, even, because of the heightened alert status, and because I always have nightmares when he flies.

I have to get away from him. I lift my briefcase, thankful that it can ultimately go inside my sea bag once I'm in theater, and turn to go out to the plane.

Don't turn around. Don't turn around.

Damn, I turn around to find that Harm is watching me and all I want to do is run back to him and never let go.

"Take care of those babies of mine," he says, flashing the smile that makes my knees weak and my heart pound in my chest.

When I recover, I smile in return to let him know that I got it, and then I go out the door without another look back.

It's going to be a long two weeks.

25 March 2003

The clock inside the airbase terminal here in Doha tells me that it's 22 hours after I left Washington, DC. My stiff joints and aching back, however, think I've been sitting in that god-awful airplane for 36 or so, when the reality is that it's only been 14 hours since I left rainy, cold Maryland for hot, sunny, windy Qatar. It's not even today yet in DC.

Yikes, that's way too profound a thought for someone who would either just be getting ready to go home from Harm's or just be saying good-bye to Harm so he could go home if this were most other days... nights... whatever. The good thing, however, is that by the time I have a chance to call him to let him know I arrived, it will be just about the same time there as it would be if I were calling to let him know I made it home safely from his place. But I'll bet that he's fallen asleep in front of the TV and is already having nightmares.

I did, on the plane--unusual, since I don't often sleep on planes. I dreamed once that Harm was on a COD hop that went down in the Indian Ocean; in that one, Harm was on his way to a TAD billet with a Tomcat squadron. That probably happened when we bounced around through some pretty nasty turbulence over the coast of Africa. You'd think that a plane as big as a C-5 Galaxy would be a smooth ride regardless of the weather, but I'm not sure the Air Force teaches its pilots to handle roiled air. I'll never tell this to Harm, but I'd rather fly Navy anytime. Unless Marine Aviation is available, of course.

The other one had a frightening vividness to it, like I was watching it in real time. Harm was flying lead in a pair of Tomcats on the DC Barrier Combat Air Patrol when Iraqi fighters came out of the sun and let loose with heat-seeker missiles that locked on and killed him before he even knew they were there. The fact that the Iraqi air force has less of a chance of getting fighters to DC than the French do of becoming the favorite visitors to America anytime soon means nothing in the realm of my nightmares, nor does the fact that no enemy fighters could sneak past the AWACS or Sentries that patrol American airspace as reliably as Catholic priests say mass every morning. I watched the man I love die horribly; that I came awake makes the sense of terror no less real.

I have to talk to him, right now. Unfortunately, I will have to wait another 20 minutes or so until I've checked in at Centcom; there's a big sign here in the terminal that warns people not to use cellular or satellite equipment of any kind on the airbase.

A Marine staff sergeant approaches me and salutes. "Good morning, Colonel Mackenzie. We'll get your sea bag for you later; I have orders to get you to General Jasper ASAP."

Well, that at least explains how someone knew that a Marine existed who meets the criteria. The then-Colonel Jasper was my brigade commander in Bosnia; he liked me because I was "a valuable intelligence asset". Mostly, I was the only staff officer who spoke any foreign language other than Spanish, French, or German, which made it much easier for me to pick up the various patois of the area--dialects related to both Russian and Farsi, interestingly enough. I also happed to pick up the whole magic of ground-based Bomb Damage Assessment with such alacrity that he took to calling me "Lt. Gypsy". He sends me a card every once in a while to let me know that he's still following my career; he tells regularly me that he'd welcome the chance to put me on staff at the regimental or force level if I ever want to leave JAG.

I only think seriously about it when Harm has really gotten to me.

Maybe once a week for ten seconds.

Okay, twice a week for twenty seconds, tops.

Then he gives me that damned smile and the world tilts back toward the normality that passes for life at JAG HQ as my heart flip-flops in my chest.

The twelve-minute ride to Centcom HQ passes swiftly as the staff sergeant gives me a running commentary on life along the Persian Gulf during war. He was here during the first furball, got out of the service, and reupped a couple of years later after he found civilian life to be rather dull. I can relate, but since I didn't get my commission until May of ‘91, I missed the fun here.

"I got to freeze my ass off instead of roast," I say as he's slowing to a stop in a huge parking area outside the main building of the compound.

"Bosnia--heard about that, ma'am. I missed that and Kosovo, too. I guess I'm a desert rat."

I laugh and wish him well as I clamber out of the Hummer inelegantly (you try it in a regulation dress skirt and heels!). I can only hope my sea bag catches up with me at what passes for the BOQ around here because my dress uniform is conspicuous among the ubiquitous desert battle dress. It's hard to tell which branch of the service the many scurrying men and women represent unless they're coming right at me--and most of those who approach me salute. In the twenty three steps to the front door, I return salutes 15 times and give three of my own to ranking officers, all of them Army. You have to respect the rank, if not the service.

Jasper's adjutant is waiting for me just inside the door, where neither of us salute because we're uncovered. "Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie, I'm Major Gerrity." He extends his hand and we shake as good Marines do. "The General asked me to let you know that he'll be ready for you at 0830 and if there's any communicating you need to do with the States, you'd better do it now because we're hoping you'll be airborne by 0915 to beat the storms."

"Will I have the chance to change?" I am not getting into a helo to fly into a war zone in a skirt and 2" heel pumps, no matter how comfortable they are.

"Yes, ma'am, if you can do so in less than ten minutes." The major looks skeptical, and I'm guessing that the woman at the other end of his wedding band is, in his estimation, slower than molasses on a cold day.

I smile. He has no idea what female Marines go through in Basic, at either the enlisted or officer level. In ten minutes I can unpack my entire sea bag, change uniforms back and forth five times, and hang up the one I don't wind up wearing with 45 seconds to spare. "That will be no problem. Can I call from outside?"

He nods and points out a window to a small park that, except for the three short benches, looks like every other unpaved part of this camp in the absence of grass and flowers. It will do.

Before I can sit down on one of those benches to get my phone out of my briefcase, Stuart Dunstan of ZNN and two other reporters I recognize from the inescapable television coverage materialize beside me.

"Colonel Mackenzie, what a pleasant surprise," the ZNN man announces. I'm surprised that he really does seem pleased to see me; after our last go-round in court last spring, I'd have expected him to keep his distance. "Mr. Dunstan."

He introduces his companions, then asks about my partner. "Commander Rabb, right?"

Give me a break--he doesn't remember the name of the man who helped me get him convicted of aiding and abetting an enemy during wartime? On the other hand, acknowledging his pick-up line might get me a way to keep Harm informed, since that's what embedded reporters are all about. "No, Harm isn't here with me. Someone had to stay home and mind the store."

"Harmon Rabb? Isn't he the Navy pilot who nearly let a dirty nuke fly up his tailpipe last spring?" one of the other two asks.

"He's the one," Stuart confirms before I can. "I'll bet he's not real happy that you're here and he's there."

I sense that there might be an offer coming. "You'd win that bet."

"Hey, Colonel, could we do an interview with you later, maybe? You know, just to give our viewers at home a sense of what a female officer might be doing?"

This is the guy from the network news agency; before I have a chance to answer, the third guy, from another cable network, looks at his watch and reminds his friends that there's a briefing coming up.

Dunstan waves them off. "Go ahead, I'll be along," he says, and waits for them to shrug and walk away before he picks up right where I want him to. "So, would you object if I get permission to tag along on whatever your little mission is? And by the way, how's Bud Roberts?"

Score one for the journalists. "He's doing well, actually, thanks for thinking of him. And no, I wouldn't object."

He trots off with a big grin toward the building; I now have 5 minutes and 57 seconds to talk with Harm before I go crazy. Assuming he answers in a timely fashion, of course.

Harm picks up his phone in DC after the third ring and promptly drops it to uncarpeted floor that has to be at the end of his couch. I start to laugh as I hear him grunting and groaning to chase down the receiver; even so, I hear pain in some of the groans and realize that he's been on the floor for a while doing God knows what.

There's desperation in his voice when he finally gets control of the phone. "Where are you?"

"Doha," I say, and then I have to soften the blow because I'm sure he was hoping for the same thing I'm wishing right about now--that I could have said "Andrews". "Sorry to disappoint you. Is your floor comfortable?"

"How long do you have?" He's so worried he didn't even get irritated that I guessed right--and I know I did because he would have denied it otherwise.

"Five minutes and three seconds. I have to meet with some folks very quickly to get the down and dirty briefing and then we have to get in country and back out before the storms pick up again."

He groans; I'm not even sure he realizes he did and I don't know why that sound came out. "How was the flight?"

"Not nearly as much fun as a ride in a certain Stearman would be." Or, for that matter, what might happen on the ground between legs, if I'm really lucky. I bite back the laugh that threatens at that double entendre.

"We'll have to find out, won't we?"

Oh, baby, the promise in that voice. "You bet, Flyboy. You've been watching ZNN, haven't you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because I think I can wrangle a camera shot from the crew that's embedded here at Centcom. I'm famous, remember?"

"Work the whole pool, Mac. I want to see your face on every channel as I surf."

I'd pay money to see him channel surfing. The man actually watches commercials, but then again, since his TV is relatively new and the cable even more so, maybe it's just the novelty and it will wear off before too long. "Would you surf to see me, Harm?"

"I'd rather see you surf."

Well! That came out before he could censor it, and I'm tingling all over at the thought of him looking at me... "No, you'd rather see me wipe out," I shoot back, laughing again. "More precisely, you'd rather see me all wet in my blue bikini, right, Commander?"

"Yeah." His sighed confession sends a shiver coursing through my body. "So, should I get a blue Speedo or a black Speedo?"

"Black," I say without a moment's hesitation, but because I know exactly what he's trying to get out of me, I have to deflate him a little until he gets the whole message. Part one: "Trunks, Harm."

Huh? "What? You don't think I--"

Part two: "I don't want anyone else eyeing the merchandise that closely. I gotta go, Harm. Check your personal e-mail tonight."

"I will. Mac, please..."

"Yes?"

"Be careful. I'm waiting."

Damn him, we were doing so well. "I'm coming as soon as I can. Just wait alone, would you?" Maybe I shouldn't have said that--but hopefully he'll get caught up in the Speedo thing and forget all about it.

I refuse to give him the opportunity to say my name to calm me down, so I end the call there. It may be good to be just a little angry going into a potential combat situation.

Now I know why General Jasper really wanted me here, and it seems as though everyone involved except perhaps the highest echelons of Centcom were misled. I'm not complaining, mind you, but it does mean that I'm going to have to lie to a whole bunch of people for a while, starting with Harm and Stuart Dunstan. And remember how I'd let Clayton Webb off the hook? Not anymore.

The official story is that I'm here to retrieve a particularly sensitive prisoner from a Marine company outside An Nasiriyah and then interrogate him at Centcom until they can figure out what to do with him. The cover story is that I'm going in to take over as Officer-In-Charge of a forward Observer Post doing Bomb Damage Assessment on the outskirts of Baghdad because the sandstorms are too bad to get me to An Nasiriyah. Confused yet? Try this: my real mission at that OP full of Force Recon Marines--in addition to being the OIC and doing BDAs--is to evaluate the current reliability of an known informer and then to act on his information if it appears to be valid, in hopes that we will catch someone very important. Apparently, he hasn't said who or how many VIPs he might be able to lead us to, but he did drop Clayton Webb's name into the conversation, which got General Jasper's attention and in turn led him to me.

I hate namedroppers.

I also hate reporters.

Let me rephrase that. I hate the work that people who report the news do when it interferes with my mission and my life. In general, most people who do that work are okay people. I mean, even Stuart Dunstan has a heart and a soul, although I doubt that Harm would agree with that. I bring this up because the aforementioned Mr. Dunstan is approaching, undoubtedly to tell me that he's going to shadow me in the field. At least I know him, and I know that he's seen firsthand what I can do to people who break the rules. So if I have to have a barnacle in the combat theater, better him than some wet-behind-the-ears newspaper writer who only got sent here from Dubuque because everyone else is married with kids.

Or so I overheard one of them saying outside the briefing room.

"Colonel, I hear we're going to war," Dunstan says by way of greeting as he shifts a field pack on his shoulders.

I'm impressed; most journalists would have trailed a rolling suitcase. "That we are, Mr. Dunstan. And since we're going to war, we can be a bit less formal. Call me Mac." I have to be nice to him; General Jasper said so. I think Stuart might have been hoping for "Sarah" though; he frowns for a moment before he nods. Not on your Waterman pen, Video Boy.

"Okay, Mac." He motions back to his cameraman. "This is Bob Heffernan. Bob, Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie, known to her friends..." his voice rises in question; I nod and he goes on, "...friends as ‘Mac' but always in a combat situation as ‘Colonel Mackenzie'."

He obviously went through the media boot camp; hell, he was probably Object Lesson A in how not to cover a unit in the field. "Bob," I say, waving. "Let's set one absolute ground rule right now, gentlemen. When I tell you to turn the camera off, it goes off, no questions asked, until I tell you it can go back on. I will use that option as little as possible, but it's an absolute."

Both men nod in agreement and I can see in Stuart's eyes that he knows he is still on probation with the military and especially with me, his excellent coverage of Bud's injury and subsequent treatment in theater only partial redemption for his deadly mistake last winter.

"Can we set up now, Mac?" Heffernan asks me. "We can do a taped segment for broadcast later, since we'll be in transit during the morning shows." He shoots me a Marine-to-Marine look that tells me he's done his time in uniform and can keep Dunstan in line.

"Sure," I say, stifling a laugh. These guys don't know yet that we aren't going where they think we are; Jasper is too clever by half and has a plan in place, down to the times he wants my prewritten e-mail note out from the Centcom servers. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes," I say to my shadows, because I have to change in to my BDUs and type out four e-mail notes in the 31 minutes before we lift off--and strut for my public, of course.

It takes me 2 minutes and 10 seconds to change, four minutes to write two notes to Chloe, and most of the remaining 8 minutes and 50 seconds to compose two notes to Harm.

To Chloe, I first wrote, Hi, Sis. Wanted you to know that my mission has been delayed, so I'm hanging here in Doha for a while. Watch ZNN--you'll see me! Hot, windy, and very sandy--wish you were here and could bring the ocean for a beach party. Well, not that you were HERE so much as that we could have a beach party back home. Got to run--love you! Mac.

The second note, which will be sent out around 1345 after I'm well on my way to Baghdad, is even shorter. Hey, got a substitute mission. Running off now for my ride, will write when I can. Watch ZNN!

Harm's notes are a little harder because as much as I want to write "I love you" at the beginning of the first one and fill the screen, I can't. He isn't ready to cope with that yet, and won't be for a long time. If ever. There is nothing, however, that prevents me from continuing to flirt with my sailor in writing, so I title the first note to him "Save the Speedo for me".

Harm, choppers grounded early due to incoming sandstorms. May be taking on additional work in the meantime, waiting to hear about possible injury to a forward observer doing BDAs. More when I can--satellite quality not good enough for voice transmission, surprised this is working. We're surviving, counting the days until we're okay. Mac.

That ought to give him lots to chew on, but I'm not done with him yet. My Flyboy took the time to give me two of his softest, most luxurious T-shirts as a surprise in my sea bag; under my BDUs, no one can tell that the undershirt I'm currently wearing is three sizes too big. Nor can they tell that just the thought of having him this close in a metaphysical kind of way has me hot and bothered in a way no 100-degree morning could replicate.

I title this one, "On the Move." Harm, going forward into observer post to relieve injured post commander. Replacement due Thursday then will continue with original assignment. Storms due to be over by then and better to be busy than be in the way. Watch ZNN; SD coming to OP with me. May do "day in the life" piece. Joy--wouldn't but for you close to me all day. Surviving, will be okay. Mac.

I hope.

I am occasionally reminded that this is still more a man's Marine Corps than a fully integrated corps. The major I am replacing--the ostensibly injured one--isn't any too happy that he's being relieved; that his relief is a woman seems to gall him tremendously.

"What the hell were they thinking, sending a JAG to the front lines, and a woman at that! Damned fools," I hear him mutter as he stalks past me toward the armored personnel carrier in which I just arrived.

"Major Felden," I say in as conversational a tone as I can muster around my instantly raised hackles, "the ‘damned fools' to whom you are referring possess personal command experience of my abilities as an intelligence officer, a lawyer, and a front-line commander. That they decided that my abilities are more suited for the current circumstances than yours is something about which I am as unhappy as you are, but at least they have found a way to assure that your record does not suffer for the change." Harm says he can always tell when I'm ready to blow because I speak with excruciatingly correct grammar. Except when I don't, which confuses him.

Felden doesn't know me; he has no way to read just how close to reaming him a new one I am. "I'll bet they have personal experience of other things, as well." He lets the implication hang and I feel rather than see the other men in the unit take a step back and come to rigid attention.

The smirk in his eyes is too much. "I will attribute that last comment to the stress of combat and let it go with a very strong verbal warning that will be reported to General Jasper." I step up to him and put my face a few inches from him; the cringe I get in return pleases me, but I don't let him know he's just handed me the moral victory. "You will adjust your attitude and do so quickly before it causes you trouble in your next command. Am I clear?"

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" he barks in good Marine form; female or not, I'm a superior officer who has just given him a direct order.

"You are dismissed." I take his reluctantly offered salute before he resumes his stalk toward the APC. I look around me at my new command and am pleasantly surprised to see that the 11 men--a very green second lieutenant, a veteran first sergeant and a staff sergeant, and 8 lance corporals who are fresh, literally, from advanced training--are all trying very hard to control the smiles that tug at their lips. It's an amusing site, actually; I'm guessing that Major Felden wasn't that popular with his men. Stuart and Bob, however, are howling, not at all worried about looking the fools as their laughter permeates the small encampment. I bet they wish they had that on tape, but they haven't finished setting up yet.

"At ease," I say; the smiles do appear now as we watch the APC lumber off toward the nearest safe landing zone, which is about 60 miles southwest of here. Major Felden is welcome to the ride; I'm happy to be outside and in the field again, although I really do wish Harm were here.

And that we were alone.

In the desert where it gets cold at night.

I'd do a few things differently this time than I did last time, starting with the absence of friendly fire interrupting what probably--let's face it--would have led to something a lot more fiery than merely friendly.

Focus, Mackenzie. Hot and bothered needs to have a completely different meaning in this particular desert with these men.

General Jasper is no fool; he's followed the best and brightest of those ever under his command to make sure that in times of crisis, he can find them and bring them back into his fold. First Sergeant Henderson is no exception; Jack was the photographer and photoanalyst for same company I served with in Bosnia and proved himself many times over to be gifted at reading between the pixels, as it were. I'm delighted that he's here--I know his skill and his strengths, and he knows mine.

I have no doubt in my mind that the youngsters here were at the top of their various training school classes, either; the general believes in pairing the best with the best. According to him, it means fewer "I regret to inform you..." letters both at the time and in the future. I pray he's right.

Stuart and Bob have their camera and microphones out for "B" roll footage, as they call it in the industry. I guess it's time to address my new, albeit temporary, command. "My apologies, gentlemen. You should not have had to see that display of conduct unbecoming an officer wearing the same uniform as you. I'm Lt. Col. Sarah Mackenzie; you may hear our shadows over there," I wave in the general direction of the ZNN crew, "address me as Mac. If you hear them call me Sarah, you have my permission to shoot to wound."

That earns me a big grin from Jack Henderson and a small titter of laughter from the others in formation; Dunstan and Heffernan just shrug and act like they don't think I'm serious. I wish I could be serious about that, at least as far as Stuart is concerned. "I don't know how long I will be here; General Jasper says two weeks at the most but I personally want to be back in DC before the cherry blossoms are all gone, so I'm hoping for a week at the most. We will continue with the BDA work, but our primary assignment is going to be..." I remember the camera and turn to the ZNN guys, making a slitting motion across my throat. Heffernan takes the tape out of the camera and flops the battery pack out to make sure that I know the camera is truly off before I continue. "...connecting with, interrogating, and evaluating the data of the informant who came to you Monday morning."

When the CIA and the military want to, they can move with astonishing speed. Webb's name came out at 0730 local; seven hours later, AJ Chegwidden was calling me to tell me to pack my sea bag and three hours after that I was in the air. It was merely the Marine Corps' misfortune that no supersonic aircraft were available to have me flown over faster than the 14 hours it took; I'm sure a certain aviator I know would have been more that willing to do the flying.

"Obviously, we want as many others as are willing to talk, as well, so we will interrogate with an eye toward that goal. How many of you are Arabic speakers?"

Surprisingly, three of the young corporals raise their hands. This is a mark of the new U.S. military.

"Farsi?" None, as I expected. "Russian?" Again, none--Henderson's language abilities are in converting pictures to English words, not English words to anything else.

This further clarifies the issue; the potential informant speaks only broken Arabic and no English at all but is fluent in his native Farsi and in Russian. Unusual for an Iraqi, but not at all for an Iranian on the run, an al-Qaeda member trying to hide from U.S. forces, or an Afghani who just wanted out and picked the wrong country to which to run.

"Well, I guess I'm the lead interrogator, then. We will have BDA missions each morning for the next several days, as the weather weenies have promise that the weather will clear in time for a strike tonight. I'll be going out on the first mission; First Sergeant Henderson, let's divide the men into two teams for BDA work and guard duty; leave at least one Arabic speaker here at camp at all times. Meanwhile, make friends with our embedded reporters so you can get your face on camera to reassure your folks at home and make sure you get some rest this afternoon because it's gonna get real noisy later."

Together, they snap to attention and give me the proper answer. "Dismissed!" I call, and again as one they step back, turn about sharply, and break ranks. I love Marines.

26 March 2003

We had a bit of an exciting night. There's something about getting shot at that makes one glad to be alive, at least after the fact when one proves to be alive. I'd forgotten how intimidating the sound of bullets hitting the outside of an APC can be. But we got them all in the end, without civilian casualties, and made it to the assigned reconnaissance site without further trouble. I don't envy the men and women who will be on the ground here after the Hussein regime is finally gone; these Fedayeen groups and the other less organized resistance groups will be a major thorn in the occupying forces' sides for a long time to come.

I finally have a chance to check my e-mail. I am not the least bit surprised to see a dozen from Harm from his personal e-mail, all of which alternate between whining about my absence and worrying about my safety. Chloe has sent two, both cheery and full of her teenage wit. Imagine my surprise, however, to see an e-mail note from TrishRabbBurnett@Artsgallery1.com pop down into my inbox.

Mac, Trish wrote, I just saw you on ZNN. You look great in those awful desert BDUs, in case my son never gets around to telling you that. Speaking of my son, Harmon Rabb the Dense, and it dawns on me that she wrote this after she talked to him about my appearance in the war zone on ZNN, he's really terribly worried about you, far more than he will let on to either of us. I honestly think that if something happens to you and you don't come back, he will die from a broken heart. Men are such idiots, dear. He loves you to the point of pain and wears it like a badge of honor--then hides the damn thing under his coat of pride. Since his father did the same thing to me, I'm going to solve my problem the same way Sarah solved her problem. With your permission, I'm adopting you as my daughter. When and if my son gets around to marrying you, we'll add the "in-law" part to that. If he doesn't, I'll still have a daughter of whom I can be proud, even though we've never met in person. And you'll be around to take care of me in my old age, because if he doesn't at least ask you to marry him at some point in my lifetime, I will rise from my deathbed to kill him. Remind me to show you the letter from Sarah when you come to visit me, Mac. I've quoted it almost verbatim. Frank says to tell you that he's always wanted a Marine for a daughter and lays claim to you, as well, if you would honor him thusly. So, daughter of mine, know that you are loved by more than one person in the Rabb/Burnett clan (Sarah has said she enjoys her conversations with you immensely and likewise is included in this adoption scheme) who CAN say the "L" word and that we are praying for your safety and for Harm's rectal-cranial inversion to correct itself soon. Hugs, Mom.

I laugh so hard that my nose starts to run and I think I've given poor Corporal Valencia heart failure with the noise I'm making. Once I assure him that I'm fine, I craft a reply to Trish and Frank, with whom I have had numerous enlightening conversations over the years.

Dear Mom and Dad, I write, smiling to myself, I would be honored to be your adopted daughter. I have one request, however. Would you please tell that big, cocky, hotshot Naval Aviator brother of mine to put out or shut up? I'd really like to be your daughter-IN-LAW sooner rather than later. I really am fine, although I enjoyed my time in Afghanistan with Harm last year more simply for the company. How's Easter to come visit us? I'll invite Chloe down for her spring vacation and Harm and I will take a few days off. Got to go now--need to e-mail aforementioned hotshot Naval Aviator in response to his 12, count them 12, e-mail notes since Tuesday morning his time. Love and hugs, your daughter, Sarah. And that seals the deal; Trish and Frank are officially my family.

Stuart and Bob are set up now with a live link to ZNN headquarters in Washington; it's breakfast time in the States and the footage Bob got from his morning with us--it was an hour before dawn when we left our camp for the bomb site and almost noon when we got back--has been edited and sanitized for presentation to the masses. I've cleaned up as well as I can, but I'm certainly not anyone's version of a cover girl right now, even though the reporter is waving me over for a comment. He's obviously gone to the tape.

I go, not particularly willingly, but knowing that Harm will be glued to his TV right about now as he eats his boring breakfast of cereal and a banana. Wait, that sounds good right about now. MRE breakfasts haven't quite caught up with the other prepackaged repasts in taste and quality. Oh, well.

I smile at Heffernan as he counts down from five on his fingers. Stuart resumes his report with a question. "Colonel Mackenzie, not everyone will agree with your decision to hold fire until you were clear of the settlement. What do you say to them?"

"We're here because we volunteered to serve in the Marines, and that means we've taken the risk that we might get hurt or even killed doing so. The men who chose to come after us also knew the risks of combat, but the innocent civilians in that small settlement had no choice in whether the war came their way. I refuse to be party to the loss of innocent lives as long as I have acceptable options otherwise, which in this case I did."

It must be a great answer; I haven't seen Dunstan smile like this since the court martial suspended his sentence. "The words of a brave, capable Marine officer, Lt. Col. Sarah ‘Mac' Mackenzie. This is Stuart Dunstan with the Second Marine Intelligence Battalion somewhere in Iraq. Any final thoughts, Colonel?"

You bet. I look right into the camera the way I looked at Harm back on that damned bridge in Sydney. Let's hope he's a bit more with it sitting there on his couch in D.C. "We're surviving, and we'll be okay when we get back." If he doesn't get that, the man has rocks in his head.

He might still have rocks in his head, of course. Not that it matters; I love him, rocks and all.

I've drawn the first guard shift of the evening, which is just fine with me because I can sit outside and enjoy the relatively clean air and early twilight sky as I patrol with Corporal Valencia and Sergeant Waggoner. Valencia--"AV", as he's known in the unit--seems quite recovered from his exposure to my laughter earlier today; he's been telling us about growing up in a county in South Texas with a population of 500,000 cattle and 500 people and doesn't seem fazed at all by my laughter now. Waggoner's deep, rumbling guffaws shake the air around us, but he proves Jack Henderson's assessment of his detection abilities to be right on the money when he waves us silent with a quick flip of his wrist.

How he heard it over his own laughter I'll never know, but after a moment of silence I hear what alerted him. "AV, go back to Lieutenant Taris and tell him we've got visitors, status unknown."

"Yes, ma'am." The bantamweight fighter moves off noiselessly.

"Waggoner, go right. See if you can get a visual around the wall." Our encampment is made up mostly of our vehicles and the tents in which we sleep, but somewhere along the line the crew found 30 feet or so of 8-foot wide corrugated tin that they used to secure the space between two of the four APCs. There's space at either end for a lookout, which we post after midnight. I go left, but before I can check out that end, Waggoner gives a hiss that carries on the night air without giving anything away.

I read his hand signals; we've got visitors of the extraordinarily unwelcome kind.

Sure enough, three seconds later the first grenade comes over the wall. Either it's a dud or they're using very small load explosives because it barely leaves a dent where it explodes harmlessly against the sand, although the sand spray is impressive. Note to self: watch for flying silicone.

Things move too quickly for me to track adequately; at one point, I see a much larger grenade come over an APC into the compound and throw myself into Corporals Patterson, Correia, and Leavitt, hurtling all of us to the ground just as the explosion crashes around us. I land on my wrist, but under the circumstances, a quick shake to make sure it's in the proper number of pieces and a check of the guys to assure they're unhurt is all I can spare just now. The whole firefight takes 31 minutes and 15 seconds; we end up with 6 POWs and 3 minor injuries--two of the men have some bruising where they caught bullets in their Kevlar vests and my wrist is slightly sprained. I also have a small cut on my cheek, which Corporal Correia, our medic, assures me doesn't need stitches.

Bob Heffernan saunters up to me with a grin that almost qualifies as "flyboy." The retired Marine Reserve gunnery sergeant hasn't lost his touch; I saw him standing out in the compound with his camera going when a grenade landed less than 2 feet behind him. The film will probably be a bit herky-jerky, but he threw the big rig off his shoulder and took Stuart down with him to the ground as the shrapnel settled over them. Then, as if it happened every day, Heffernan was on his feet and filming again. Stuart, on the other hand, sat and watched while he shook his head numerous time to clear it.

"Mac, you're gonna love the footage of this," the man says. "Come see." I'm not sure I'll love it, but it will be interesting. At least this way I'll know exactly what Harm will see in about 20 minutes.

27 March 2003

I don't know whether to kiss him or kill him, and it's an unusual occurrence because it's not Harm with whom I'm annoyed. Dunstan signed off his broadcast last night with "She continues to say that she's surviving and will be okay when she returns home to Washington, and if I had to hazard a guess, to a very special man." I didn't know about it at the time; Jack let me in on that little secret just before I sent him with Lt. Taris to do another round of BDA after the six hours of bombing overnight. Wisely, Jack and Zeke took both Stuart and Heffernan with them this time, which ought to make for interesting "B" roll commentary.

Bob Heffernan must be Stuart's inside source. Bob and I had a long talk under the roar of the APC's engine on the way back yesterday, on background. I mentioned Harm a few times too many to go unnoticed; I'm sure he had heard Stuart talk about the lawyers who convicted him long before we ever met--and I'm equally sure that someone as observant, if not exactly bright, as Stuart Dunstan could observe Harm and me together for 10 seconds or so and see what everyone else who knows us sees: that we are deeply in love with each other. Yeah, I know everyone sees it. I also know that almost everyone thinks neither Harm nor I is aware of the way the very air shimmers and vibrates around us whenever we're in the same room. They would be wrong. Harm may very well be oblivious to it, but I most certainly am not. That would be why the t-shirt I wore yesterday has already been washed and hung up to dry so I can wear it tomorrow--because I want the essence of that energy with me every second I'm away from him.

Then again, a part of me thinks that if he weren't aware of that force of nature that charges the atmosphere around us, he would have done something crass like stash a Victoria's Secret bra-and-panty set into my sea bag (one he bought for someone else, certainly, because otherwise why would he have one ready at 0720?). The t-shirts are a much more intimate gesture, one that feels of permanent belonging rather than transient sexuality. Although if he were ever to know that I'm washing the t-shirts in the makeshift shower of cold rainwater before I take them off because there isn't much in the way of privacy, there would certainly be an element of sexuality...

Three words. That's all I need to hear from him.

And then he can put as many Victoria's Secret bra-and-panty sets as he wants to into any sea bag, suitcase, or dresser drawer of mine he can find.

It's just about noon and our informer has finally reappeared. He's disheveled and clearly dehydrated but even as Corporal Correia starts a saline/dextrose IV on him, the man is anxious to talk.

He tells me first that his name is Faisal and that he grew up within the USSR on the border between Afghanistan and the old Soviet Republic of Uzbekistan. Russian is his first language, but he deserted to Iran during his service with the Soviet Army in 1984. The Iranians put him to work under a new identity in their intelligence service. He was sent to Bosnia to assist the Muslim Serbs and it was there that he first heard of Clayton Webb; last year, he was at the Iranian Embassy in Islamabad when Webb threatened the Chief of Station there during the whole dirty nuke situation. After the dust settled, Faisal found a way to make contact with the CIA although never directly with Clayton. He's been doing his best to provide the CIA with intelligence on al-Qaeda fighters who have escaped Afghanistan while doing his best to pretend to be an Afghani refugee as an undercover Iranian agent.

That, at least the part about his information to US agencies about al-Qaeda, matches what I was told back in Doha by General Jasper.

Faisal goes on, alternating between Farsi and Russian as though he's trying to keep anyone else from possibly comprehending what he's saying. "The Iraqis don't know what I'm telling you. One entire al-Qaeda cell is hiding near the airport. They have a pilot with them and are hoping to steal a plane soon to get out before you Americans get here."

"Who is the leader?" I ask in Russian, just for the hell of it.

"Alim Abdullah-Razzaq."

Oh, joy. Razzaq isn't known publicly, but he's been on the list of most wanted al-Qaeda leaders since day one; he's suspected to be the quartermaster and logistician for the organization, in US military parlance, the -4 man. But just because he's the supply guy doesn't mean he isn't a good fighter; before he went to ground last spring, Razzaq is believed to have been responsible for the death of dozens of Afghani militia and at least six American soldiers and Marines during the war in Afghanistan.

This time I let fly in Farsi. "Tell me everything you know about his camp and his people."

He does, which, unfortunately for us isn't much. But what he does say is easily enough corroborated; I order the duty squad to keep him under armed guard while I take Waggoner and one other from the on-deck team on an excursion in the Iraqi countryside.

There will be no sleep for anyone this afternoon or tonight.

28 March 2003

I think the B-2s have arrived. I also think they're dropping bunker-busters within two miles of here.

Let me tell you, it's not a pleasant sensation.

But I still prefer it to the sensation of bullets hitting the outside of a vehicle inside which I'm riding.

Faisal's information was genuine; when we arrived in the rundown area near the airport in the old battered pickup truck Faisal had secured for us before he came, I got a visual on Razzaq and even managed to snap a couple of pictures on the digital camera Waggoner carries with him everywhere.

We aren't sure exactly what happened to draw the close attention of the armed men in the neighborhood as we drove through, but we came under sustained gunfire for nearly half a mile before the young man at the wheel was able to floor the gas and get us moving more quickly than the mob could keep up. There were bullet holes all around the gas tank but not in it; I am convinced that someone's fervent prayers--or maybe a lot of someones'--kept us from blowing up during the fusillade.

When we got back here, Taris, Henderson and I sat down with Faisal to plan a takeout strategy. An hour later, Faisal was on his way back to the hovel in which he lives and Zeke and I were on the unit's satellite uplink to General Jasper explaining our battle plan.

Ezekiel Taris, a graduate of the Corps at Texas A&M University, handles the briefing with much more confidence than I would have expected from a man who hasn't even been out of basic for 9 months.

"I like it," the general told us unequivocally when we finished. "But I have to run it by the theater command staff for timing. Let's hope for tomorrow night." By that, he meant tonight--Friday.

Which means that I'd better try to get some sleep between the bombs, because sunup is still four hours away--and sundown more than 16. I'll just dream of unlocking Harm's heart and hearing those three essential words spill over and over again from his lips as those same lips and his firm, talented hands traverse my body, worshipping at the altar of my femininity.

I've been reading too much Nelson DeMille and not enough Tom Clancy lately.

29 March 2003

We sat around on our thumbs all day waiting for the go on the raid, but didn't get it. I think I know why now. The bombs are falling far closer to us than they have in the past several days and moving closer and closer to the airport. I'll bet this mission was already laid on for tonight and it was too late to cancel it.

I don't believe the guts of our favorite embedded reporter. Stuart is standing up doing a live feed to the States--it's 0025 here and 1625 in DC--as the earth shakes around us from the bombing. He has a microphone in my face and I am trying my best to explain the schedule for my non-existent replacement. I react to the unmistakable thunder of exploding ammunition directly overhead before anyone else does. "INCOMING!" I shout. I'm already pushing at Stuart, who is standing frozen right in the middle of the encampment. He doesn't move; I take two steps back to build forward momentum such that when I collide with him, he falls like a sack of rags into a nearby trench.

As I'm saving Stuart, Zeke and Jack jet from their respective sleeping alcoves and take Bob down, one from the side and one from behind, which I'm sure will cost the Marine Corps an expensive video/satellite camera at some point.

A moment later, there's a crater where Stuart and I had been standing and shrapnel flies over me where I'm still covering his body with my own. I hear Zeke and Bob spluttering dirt out of their mouths and Jack's expletive-laden exclamation of astonishment at the size of the hole that now exists in what had been Bob's favorite camera location. I'll look at it later; there's still too much debris flying for me to risk getting up off the civilian I'm protecting. I hear rather than see that Corporal Valencia, bless him, is on the satellite radio trying to convince someone that the bombs are falling in the wrong place; apparently, he gets the message through to the forward air controllers because two minutes and thirteen seconds later we hear the roar of the planes as they turn away abruptly.

I give everyone 45 seconds to collect themselves before I ask for a headcount. I worry for a long minute when two of my corporals don't respond, but then they call from outside the compound on the far side of the outermost APC, where they had been on patrol. Just a few scrapes and bruises amongst the 14 of us, which is nothing short of amazing considering that each bomb has something like 5,000 bomblets inside.

Stuart is still shaking when I pull him up out of the trench; he manages, however, to stammer his thanks with a chaste hug before Bob helps him back to their little piece of home away from home. I'm sure that Bob, combat veteran that he is, has a small stash of something liquid and strong for just such occasions that will help the reporter with this. However much Stuart saw and experienced in Afghanistan, there's something about having a bomb put a crater in the space you just vacated that will make even the steadiest man or woman tremble. Thankfully, I have things to do that will keep me busy.

An hour passes as we tidy the camp; only as I'm settling back into my own private little sleeping space under cover of an APC and two dozen sandbags do I realize that Harm and the rest of my friends and family at JAG HQ must have been watching Stuart's report. They will be worried--Harm will be frantic. I decide that e-mail, or better yet, a phone call, is more important than sleep; I reach for my satellite phone inside my sea bag, only to realize that the vibrations of the bombing must have shaken the instrument out into the sand, and I do mean into the sand. It's more than half buried and when I extricate it and try to turn it on, nothing happens. I open the battery compartment to find that fine silicon grit has insinuated itself into every crevice.

No phone. No e-mail. Stuart's broadcast was a sop to him before he and Bob leave because as of midnight, we're into Special Ops mode--technically, Valencia violated an order calling out the way he did, but I'm certainly not going to press charges against a man who had to have saved at least one life. So I will just have to send my thoughts toward Washington and pray that the cords that bind Harm and me to each other will sing with my love until I can call him from Doha.

Bob understands more clearly than Stuart why the two are leaving on the return trip of a supply run from the nearest safe airfield, now only 35 miles west of here.

"You of all people, Stuart, ought to understand operational security," he tells his ZNN colleague as the other man begins to protest loudly when their ride arrives. In the short time I've known him, Gunny Heffernan has never pulled a punch and this is no exception. "And before you say anything else, I guarantee that any reporter, even Walter Cronkite, would be sent packing at this point in the action, embedded or not."

"They're picking on--"

"Stuart, what did I just say about Walter Cronkite?"

Dunstan wisely shuts up, not even muttering under his breath as he stomps off to retrieve his gear. Their APC will be leaving here in 10 minutes or so. Bob smiles at me. "Colonel Mackenzie, there's a reason I'm his new cameraman and field producer," he says slyly, waving toward his comrade. "ZNN wanted to make sure that no one from the network ever faced you or your partner in the courtroom again."

I smile back; I can see the logic in the decision. "It's appreciated, believe me."

"I'd really like a chance to meet your Commander Rabb sometime, Mac. He must be quite a man to have you for a best friend and whatever else." That "whatever else" comes out with a heavy dose of "lover/wife/mother of his children" in it; my heart-to-heart with this happily married grandfather obviously showed him much more than the just words I said. Harm and I don't even have to be in the same hemisphere... "That he is, Gunny. Drop by sometime without the pet and I'll introduce you around."

"That's a deal, Mac." He almost comes to attention--once a Marine, always a Marine--but stops himself and extends his hand instead.

We'd better get this right tonight. As much as I value Jack Henderson's friendship, we're both still on active duty and that severely limits the topics of conversation. Zeke, sweet though he is, is incredibly young. Without Bob around to talk to, I just might go crazy if I'm here much longer.

"Without Remorse, ma'am," Corporal Valencia whispers to me as we flatten ourselves into the brush that lines the street of disheveled masonry homes where Alim Abdullah-Razzaq and his cohorts are occupying three houses.

"We're not planning to rescue anyone, AV," I whisper back. "Just capture them alive."

"Yes, ma'am. Just like John Kelly on his revenge missions."

Hadn't thought about it that way. One thing about Marines: we're all Clancy fans and can discuss each of the Jack-Ryan-universe books in detail. Which we did last night over our MREs.

"Look sharp," Waggoner's voice comes over my earpiece. He's got three men at the other end of the street. "The car Faisal said is Razzaq's just turned the corner."

Nice car. You'd think a bunch of internationally wanted criminals would lay low, but here in Baghdad they apparently have no need. The Mercedes 300 Series sedan sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb in this neighborhood as it cruises toward us. It turns into the potholed circular driveway of the middle house Faisal noted; five men get out and go into the house. Through the night vision goggles, I can see four more figures milling out of the house on the right, and then seven come out of the house on the left. All 11 go into the center house.

"Sixteen," I say into my own radio. "Say again, one-six at a minimum in the middle house. Unknown in the structures on either side."

"Roger that, six," Waggoner replies. "Too bad we can't have air support." Well, in another week, we'll be in Baghdad openly and then we could, but if these guys are half as smart as we think they are, they're planning the final details of their escape as we wait. The only person under any illusion that Iraq is winning is the Iraqi Information Minister, and he's entertaining us daily over state radio.

"I hear you, Wag," I assure him. "We move in ten."

Zeke responds from his post a half-mile off; we aren't happy with the total lack of concealment that his post affords the two APCs in which we came, but it's the best we could do. "Roger that, six." I wish Jack were here instead of Zeke, but someone had to guard the home front; as Jack pointed out to me during a private consultation earlier, Waggoner isn't senior enough to leave behind and Zeke needs the experience of mission follow-through. This is why the Marine Corps runs on its NCOs, not its officer corps.

My mind wanders a little as we wait for those ten minutes to pass. It's 1321 on a Saturday afternoon in Washington. If I weren't in a war zone, Harm and I would be flying on a sunny day or just hanging together doing chores at one of our apartments or errands on a rainy one. Today, he's probably doing BARCAP to take his mind off of my predicament.

And once again, I've managed to terrify myself in 12 seconds as images of Harm's Tomcat blowing up swim behind my tightly closed eyelids. I had been doing so well the last couple of nights--then again, with so many bombs in the neighborhood, sleep was in short supply. These awful pictures that my mind conjures up could drive me over the edge without some way to check in on Harm; I don't think he would actually tell me if he's been flying, but at least I'd know that he was still alive at the end of each mission.

Damn him. I know I can't ask him to give up flying anymore than I can ask him to give up eating or breathing--but I'll live a lot longer if he does. Speaking of living longer, I've got a mission to lead.

"Dog Mama six to puppies, go in three-zero seconds," I declare. I never should have told the general about Jingo. He remembers everything.

"Two-six and counting, roger, Dog Mama six," Zeke checks in without a trace of humor, telling me he's trying very hard not to crack up. I know he really wanted to laugh when the mission codes were established, but he didn't--for which I may very well nominate him for a commendation that reads "restraint under difficult circumstances."

"Two-one and counting, roger, Dog Mama six." Waggoner really will be a great senior NCO, I think; he's got a smile in his voice but there's no hint of nervousness or fear.

All hell breaks loose at exactly the thirty-second mark. Valencia and Leavitt are with me; each man throws a flash-bang grenade toward the center house with Major League accuracy. The windows on either side of the front door break simultaneously as the explosives finish their perfect arcs.

I don't even need to give the command to move as the three of us and Lt. Taris' team of three rush the center house. Someone inside recovers more quickly than I would have thought from the flash-bangs and begins to fire from the broken window on the left. Leavitt opens up; the bullets from the gun inside walk part-way up the trunk of the palm tree behind me before they stop flying.

"AV--flash-bang ‘em again," I order.

Valencia is good; he lobs one through the left window and before it explodes he's got the pin pulled and his arm cocked back to throw one through the right window. There is no return fire this time; the six of us from the two teams get through the front door and into the two front rooms before anyone among the fifteen still alive moves. We roust the four men from the left room into the room on the right as one or two begin to move in there; it's pretty simple to keep order when the six people standing are holding M-16s or 9mm semi-automatic machine pistols. Or in my case, one of each, because a 9mm can do a lot of damage even when it isn't properly sighted and aimed and it's easily stowed in a utility belt.

One of our Arabic speakers starts talking to the group; by the blank looks on the strange faces in the room, it's apparent that the only Arabic most of these men know is the Koran, although if they're al-Qaeda, they probably know most if not all of it by heart. Of course, if they're al-Qaeda, they're probably Afghanis, which means there's a pretty good chance at least some of them speak Farsi.

"You're now in the custody of the United States Marine Corps. You will be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention until you are either released or indicted for crimes against humanity." Unfortunately, these men have probably seen Al-Jazeera coverage of Camp X-Ray at GITMO. They look like they believe what I'm saying about as much as I believe in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and the superior ideals of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. Their loss. "Everyone face down on the floor, hands behind your back."

None of them move from their positions, even though most of them need only roll over to comply. Only one makes eye contact with me, however; the man's piercing gaze and arrogant sneer mark him as Alim Abdullah-Razzaq.

I hate myself for doing this, but I'm in a man's world doing a man's job now. I hand my rifle off to Taris and take the two steps necessary to plant myself inside the terrorist leader's personal space; leveling the 9mm at the bridge of Razzaq's nose, I grind out my next Farsi words. "You got taken down by a woman, Razzaq. That makes you an insignificant little worm. I can make you even more insignificant if I have to." My pistol moves downward and he pales. Some things are universal. "Turn over and put your hands behind your back, or I'll take them off one at a time."

That gets him moving, albeit slowly; when the others see that their leader has capitulated, they, too, comply. Soon, all fifteen of the live ones are bound with our nylon handcuffs and await what will be our very crowded rides back to base camp.

30 March 2003

We've been busy here for the last 6 hours, preparing our prisoners for transport to one of the POW centers further west of here. General Jasper has ordered me to bring Razzaq to him personally, so I'll be off to Doha as soon as the chopper delegated to the task arrives. What a difference 5 days make! We'll get to go by helo the entire way, thanks to quick work by the frontline troops who have secured so much territory so quickly.

The best part is that the general has found me a seat on a C-5 headed back to Dover AFB this afternoon. He says he's got the experts available to him to do the initial interrogation of Razzaq without me--meaning an anti-terrorism team from CIA and FBI, no doubt--and that he's putting the entire forward team up for at least one commendation above and beyond the OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM COMBAT ACTION COMMENDATION for which I've just qualified. I should be back in DC before midnight East Coast time.

"Colonel, I'm really sorry that you're leaving us," Zeke Taris says to me as he watches me repack my sea bag. "I learned a lot more from you in five days than I did from Major Felden in five months."

"Thanks, Zeke," I reply. He's a good kid and will go far, I think. "You'll like Major Lukas, Lieutenant. He's good--he and First Sergeant Henderson and I all served together in Bosnia. And remember that Henderson and Waggoner are your best resources."

He nods thoughtfully beside me. "Yes, ma'am." We're both silent for 36 seconds before he fidgets a little and asks timidly, "Ma'am, how do you stand being away from the people you love like this?"

It's a plaintive plea for help; I recognize the "I have a sweetheart at home" tone in it as well as the "I want my mommy" whine that I hear from Little AJ on occasion when I've had to chastise him for misbehavior while Harm and I are babysitting. Harm is never the disciplinarian; in fact, he's usually the cause of the trouble, which gets him chastised, too. One of these days that chastisement will take on a whole new form because I'll be in a position to deny him certain activities...

Focus, Marine. One of your men needs you.

"Prayer," I say, "and knowing that they are praying for me, as well. Trust. Knowing that they do love you helps a lot." I smile at the young man beside me. "And making sure that they know you love them is always a good move. Does she know?"

He blushes; it's endearing. "I proposed over Thanksgiving, before we knew we were going to be deployed."

"When's the wedding?"

"As soon as I can get a license after we get back. We'll worry about the big ceremony later." He pulls an already tattered new letter out of his pocket; the boys got mail yesterday on the supply truck. "Haley and my mom have put up yellow ribbons all over town and the council of churches had a prayer service for me and six other guys from the town who are over here. She says she's counting the number of times she thinks about me every day so she can kiss me that many times when I get home."

"That's nice," I say, thinking that if I did that to Harm, we'd never be able to go to work again.

Zeke is blushing again. "Then she says that the Marine Corps probably wouldn't accept kissing as a reason for being AWOL."

I start to laugh even as I'm saying, "I'll defend you, Lieutenant."

And if Harm were opposing counsel, I'm quite sure I could convince him to drop the charges. As long as I remembered to secure leave for myself first, of course.

It's 0346 Sunday morning here, which makes it... 1946 in Washington... and means that I'll see Harm in about 29 hours. Because if you think I'm going back to my apartment before I see my Flyboy to get him unlocked from his self-imposed prison, you've got as many rocks in your head as he does in his.

I've just turned Alim Abdullah-Razzaq over to General Jasper and his team here in Doha and have an hour and 4 minutes before my flight for the States leaves. As I'm walking out of the headquarters building, though, Major Gerrity comes running out of the general's office suite.

"Colonel Mackenzie, you have a phone call!" he shouts to me. "It's Clayton Webb."

I groan; what the hell does he want?

Gerrity ushers me back into the empty reception area and motions at the phone. "Line three."

It still amazes me how much like a normal base office this place is--in Bosnia, the closest we came to an office was a small cubbyhole in an abandoned building that had no electrical connectivity save our gas-powered generator. I sit down at the desk and punch the line. "Mackenzie."

"Mac! Well done," Clayton begins, and I recognize the effusiveness in his voice. He wants something. "I think I can safely say that you've averted another 9/11."

Which makes it how many in the past 18 months? "We'll see, Clay. What do you want?"

He laughs a little. "Actually, I'm calling to offer to go tell Harm that you're okay. But I need you to cover my ass for me."

I'm confused. Why does he need me to cover his ass if he's going to tell Harm that I'm okay? "What?"

"Well, you remember that your cover mission hasn't happened yet, right?"

"My cover mission is real?" Now I'm really confused.

"Well, of course, but someone else was tapped to do it anyway. That's not the point. Marine Intel will be meeting you and sequestering you when you arrive, so don't try to get a ride from anyone. I'll tell Harm that you still have to be debriefed about something that happened when I see him before you come home. Then when we're done with you, you can call him."

"To come and pick me up?"

"No. You'll have to go to GITMO to meet Razzaq."

"Clayton..." If he doesn't recognize that tone by now, he's an idiot.

He sighs; he isn't an idiot, after all. "Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do."

"Clayton..."

"Fine, you're done as soon as you've been debriefed."

That was almost too easy, but I've gotten what I wanted and Harm will know I'm okay. "Thank you, Clay. See you tonight?"

"Probably not. I'll have someone there who will know what to do, though."

This flight is much better than the one over in terms of the ride. Unfortunately, I think it's mainly because there are three caskets on board, each containing the body of a brave man killed in action.

It feels good to be back in my dress uniform after those BDUs. However unfeminine the Video Princess thinks the olive drab skirt and jacket are, at least a woman has some curves in them. No one, and I mean no one, has anything but a rectangular form in BDUs. The t-shirts, however, had to be packed away, so I don't feel as close to Harm now as I did in the field, even though each minute brings me nearly 7 miles closer to him.

I wonder as the pilot, an Air Force reservist who has come back to chat with me a few times on his breaks, announces that we are now under Washington, DC air traffic control if Harm is flying tonight. Maybe it will be his Tomcat that approaches us in a little while to make sure we're exactly who and what we say we are; if it were daylight--and if this plane had windows--I might be able to look out the portal to see if "Hammer" were the call sign on the fighter.

Damn it. Why did I have to think about Harm flying again?

I spend the rest of the flight worrying and envisioning horrible things happening to my Flyboy, although I don't fall asleep. Just as well, I'm sure, as I'd have had nightmares instead of daymares. And damn Clayton Webb for keeping me from Harm tonight when all I want to do is hold him in my arms and tell him over and over again how much I love him.

The crew chief sits down beside me and straps in as we make our final approach to Dover. "I hate to tell you this, ma'am, but we're stuck on the aircraft until the caskets have been escorted off."

"I know, sergeant," I sigh. I've flown bereavement flights before, but never for combat related deaths. "How many of these have you done lately?"

"This is only our second, ma'am. We've had convalescent flights already; I suspect as long as we're needed to ferry things over there, the powers that be will find things for us to ferry back." He looks at me. "No disrespect, ma'am, but are you a lawyer? You look like that Marine lawyer who was on television a while back."

Suppressing a chuckle, I nod. "That's me, sergeant."

"So your partner is that Navy pilot and JAG who let a dirty nuke fly up his tailpipe last spring?"

"He'd be the one, Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr." Does everybody in the military know that story?

"And you work with Alec Baldwin, right?"

Sturgis is going to love this. "Commander Sturgis Turner. You've got some good connections, Sarge."

He smiles at me. "On my day job, I'm Congressman Goldman's chief of staff. He and Bobbi Latham are good friends. She has newspaper clippings and official photos hung up all over her office, especially of Commander Turner."

Really? Now isn't that interesting...

Our pilot is very, very good. It takes me a minute after we've landed to realize that we're on the ground. The wait for the caskets to be off-loaded with the appropriate ceremony takes 34 minutes, after which the nose ramp goes up in preparation for our deplaning and the loading of the materiel going back to the war zone.

I heft my sea bag to my shoulder and join the crew at the top of the down ramp as we wait for the all clear sign from the ground crew chief to deplane. His conversation with our load master has gone on for a minute and 19 seconds when I look away from the plane crew out toward the base.

My heart skips a beat when I catch sight of someone on the tarmac. I would know that figure anywhere, and I don't really care how or why he's here, just that he is, wearing his dress blues and standing uncovered as close to the plane as he can.

My Flyboy. My Sailor.

Harm.

The load master waves to us and I run down the ramp at full speed, pumps and tight skirt notwithstanding. Six seconds later I am in Harm's embrace and I can tell by the way he crushes me to his body that the key has been turned and he's set himself free from his prison.

Maybe those three words aren't so essential, after all.

A long moment passes before I tip my head back to look at him; those green-blue hazel eyes are now deep, tear grazed blue; my own eyes are also wet as my heart thuds in my chest. I fight for words; the first ones I find are the ones that matter least.

"How'd you know? Marine Intel said I'd be met and sequestered until I've been debriefed."

Harm chokes a bit before he answers me. "Clayton. He scared me to death first, of course. But I'm okay now."

I heave a sigh of contentment. "So am I," I admit, and we stand wrapped in each other's arms for 36 seconds before I realize that the tears that filmed his eyes are now flowing down his freshly shaved cheeks. "Harm?"

"Sarah," he whispers, and all I want to do when he owns my name like that is ravish him with kisses. "Sarah, I have to let go. You took my heart with you to Iraq and I've been dying since you left. I can't let another minute pass without you knowing how much I love you."

I don't believe it for a split second, then the words penetrate my soul. I love you. He just said the three most important words of my life. But I can see that he's not finished.

"I've been holding myself prisoner for so long and now if I don't let myself out I'll wither and die. Marry me, have my children, grow old with me, just say you'll always be with me, please."

Oh, my God, thank you! I can feel his love crashing into me in waves, bathing me in joy. I bite my lip a little to keep my sobs under control so I can reply to what he's just said, but I've given up on the tears that stream down my face. This is the most perfect moment of my life so far.

Harm moves one arm from around my waist and brings his smooth, warm palm to my cheek. His thumb caresses my lip with a delicacy I wouldn't have thought possible from anyone; I burrow against him, wanting to melt into him forever. He's still not finished; I hear him take a deep breath.

"I love you, Sarah Mackenzie. I will give up anything you want me to just to have the chance to make you happy for the rest of your life."

I think I could play with the silky hair at the nape of his neck forever, although I want something else more right now. I pull him toward me as he moves his hand from my cheek to the back of my head. Our lips meet in a soul-baring, searing kiss that leaves us both breathless after several long moments.

"Harmon Rabb, I love you," I whisper against his ear, and I know that I've turned the key I can now throw away forever.

Lock and Key: The Keymaster
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