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The Cost of Courage
Author: Pixie Rating: PG Category: JAG Story Spoilers: This story is part of the summer 2004 Virtual Season. As such, anything up to and including the season 9 finale (Hail and Farewell) and the first three VS episodes is fair game. Disclaimers: Neither JAG nor its characters belong to me. I'm not making any money from this little escapade, so please don't sue me. Acknowledgements: This story turned out to be more of a community effort than I ever would've guessed when I started it. To Ann and Susan – thanks for helping with the beta work. Jen and Ann, thank you for helping me find a solution when I didn't think there was one. Cath – your artwork is stunning. Bree – writing a story is one thing, getting it up on a web site is a whole different issue altogether. Thanks for making it happen. Also, thanks to Josh and Joey for your technical advice. And finally, thanks to Captain. You're a wonderful friend and a fantastic editor – not to mention the fact that you can come up with some truly off the wall commercials….
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2047 Zulu (2347 Local) Darkness. Silence. The smell of sweat, of fear, of waiting. Sand, gritty and tasteless, coats him, surrounds him, invades his senses, until it's so much a part of him that he stops noticing it and just lies there. He isn't entirely sure what he's waiting for. His orders, for whatever reason, had been vague, but even at his rank he has to follow them, and he does it without question. A quick glance assures him that his men are doing the same. Stay. Hide. Wait. Then he hears it. The distinctive high pitched whine of incoming artillery slices through the preternatural silence and he turns his head just for an instant, unable to resist the natural human instinct to locate its source. There's nothing to see, though. Or at least, not at first. At first there's only the sound, its pitch rising until he has to force himself not to cover his ears. Seconds seem like minutes, seem like hours, seem like days, as the whine approaches, gaining intensity. Then the world explodes in sound, light, and flying debris. The waiting is over. He scrambles to his feet, rising out of the shallow pit of sand like an avenging spirit. His body, painted, clothed in black, and honed by years of training, blends with the dancing shadows. He checks his weapon, signals to his men, then dashes forward, rushing to meet the battle that is itself rushing to meet them. In minutes, it's all over. Silence, broken only by the crackle and roar of scattered fires, creeps over them again as they look around. First he assures himself that his men are uninjured, then he walks through the scene, mentally cataloging the dead, and assigning his men to collect the fallen weapons and the fallen bodies. It isn't until he reaches the end of the street that he hears it, and he instinctively turns his head, straining to identify the source of the faint sound. So it is that he sees somebody emerge from the glare and the heat and the light, and he automatically raises his weapon. The figure is running toward him, arms waving frantically, voice raised in panic. He doesn't understand the words, but he's a man, and a human being, and when he makes out the figure of the terrified woman, then glances from her to the burning building, he knows instinctively what she's trying to tell him. He breaks into a run, barely aware of her plucking at his sleeve as he passes. He brushes her off and keeps going. He's nearly there, the heat and the flames reaching out to him with long searing fingers, when somebody grabs him, forcing him to a stumbling stop. "You can't go in there, Sir!" "I've got to!" He gestures back at the still screaming woman. "There's a child in there!" "You can't know that!" The master sergeant screams in his face, his expression frantic, desperate, fearful. "It could be a trick!" They both hear it then, the terrified wail of a small child, barely audible above the roar of the flames. He looks at his friend, shakes his head once, then pulls away, only vaguely aware that Logan has followed. The inferno surrounds him, chokes him with heat and smoke, but he fights it off and struggles forward, determined to locate the crying child. There. She's huddled in a corner, a thin blanket pulled around her shoulders and over her head. She stares at him, screams again, and it occurs to him that he must be a terrifying sight indeed. He doesn't have time to soothe her. He grabs her, slings her slight, struggling body over his shoulder, turns, and makes his way back outside. He deposits the child in her mother's arms and turns back. That's when it occurs to him that the master sergeant is still inside. He runs forward, desperate to find him, oblivious to the frantic shouts of his men, the continued screams of the woman and her child. He dashes inside, peers through the smoke and the glare, but he never sees the falling beam. There's a flash of light, excruciating pain, and then… Nothing.
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1730 Zulu (1230 Local) Mac looked up from the case file spread across her desk to see Harm standing in her doorway. She shook her head sharply once, scattering the dry facts and figures of the fraud case to the nether reaches of her mind. Then she smiled at him. "What can I do for you?" she asked. "I am the lucky beneficiary of an honest to God hour of free time." He indicated the bright sun filtering through her window. "I thought I'd take a walking lunch. Care to join me?" She looked down at the papers scattered across her desk, then out the window at the gorgeous afternoon, then back at Harm. "I'd like that. Give me five minutes?" "Sure. I'll meet you outside." He left, and she gathered the scattered papers together, tucked them safely back into their folders, and stood, ignoring the twinge of pain in her back. A few minutes later, she found Harm leaning against a wall while he waited for her. "Are you ready?" "Absolutely." They followed a route they'd taken many times before on days such as these, a route they'd timed perfectly through practice and experience and which would have them back at headquarters in well under an hour. While they walked, they caught up on the news of the day, their words flowing easily back and forth in the exchange of information and ideas. They were discussing the fraud case when Mac stopped abruptly, her hand on Harm's arm. "Harm." "Hmm?" He looked in the direction she indicated, stiffened slightly, and then motioned to her to stay put. She rolled her eyes at the protective gesture and followed him to the bundle of rags tucked into the narrow space between two buildings. They crouched down, and Harm eased back the top layer of grubby fabric. Mac caught her breath, then exchanged a look with Harm before standing up and pulling out her cell phone to call for an ambulance. While she waited for the call to be answered, Mac watched Harm ease a hand under the man's collar to check for a pulse. In a sudden flurry of movement, an impossibly thin arm shot out from under the pile of rags, and bony fingers locked around Harm's wrist, yanking him away. One eye opened in the battered face. "Get your hands off of me." The voice was guttural, intense. Mac started to step forward, but a gesture from Harm stopped her. "Easy. We're not going to hurt you." Harm's voice was calm, the words meant to soothe. The eye glared at him. "What do you want?" "We just want to make sure you're okay." "I'm fine. Now go away." He shoved Harm's hand away, but the movement was weak, his strength draining away when the burst of adrenaline left his body as suddenly as it had arrived. Mac completed her call and crouched down next to the man. "You need help," she said. "I don't need anything from you." Harm and Mac exchanged a look, then Harm spoke to the man again. "An ambulance is on the way. Is there anybody we can call for you?" The man closed his eye, slumping into the pile of rags in a gesture of absolute defeat. "No. There's nobody." He didn't say anything else, and after a few moments, Harm and Mac realized he'd dropped into unconsciousness. They stayed with him until the ambulance arrived, then watched while the paramedics pulled the rags away to reveal an emaciated body, the skin struggling to cover the knobs and planes of his bones. Mac cringed when she saw the cuts and bruises, and was grateful to the paramedics for the care they took in bundling the man onto the backboard before loading him on the gurney. They were preparing to load him into the ambulance, when Harm stopped them and gestured to Mac, staring down at the man's bare right arm. She looked, and caught her breath, her eyes meeting Harm's in silent communication. She turned to the paramedics. "This man's a Marine," she said. "He needs to go to Bethesda." The medic glanced at the tattoo and shrugged dismissively. "We can't take him to Bethesda because of that, Ma'am. We'll take him to Fairfax. They'll ID him. If it turns out that he really is military, he'll be transferred." Angered, Mac stepped closer to the medic, invading the man's personal space. "You may know medicine, but you don't have a clue about Marines. He goes to Bethesda." Harm stepped forward, laying a hand on Mac's shoulder. "He's just doing his job, Mac." Unappeased, Mac continued to glare at the paramedic, her mind tormented by images of the pitiful condition of the man in the ambulance. "I'm following you to the hospital." "Fine." Unintimidated by either Mac's uniform or her angry scowl, the medic signalled to his partner, and the two of them climbed into the ambulance. The doors slammed, and it pulled away. They stared after it for a moment, then started walking briskly toward headquarters. Mac looked over at Harm. "I have to go." "I know you do, Mac." There was no surprise in his voice. He knew her too well for that. "I don't have any court appearances this afternoon. Will you let Admiral Blankenship know where I am?" "No." "No?" She raised an eyebrow at him, puzzled. "No." Harm stopped walking and turned to her. "If he really is a Marine, somebody needs to make sure he gets transferred to Bethesda." "And somebody needs to find his family." "Yeah." She sighed. "The Admiral isn't going to like this." He smiled over at her. "It won't be the first time we've annoyed a CO" Mac shook her head wryly. "Probably won't be the last, either." They shared a meaningful look. It hadn't taken anybody long to realize that their new CO was a "by the book" political type, and both of them knew that traipsing all over town after a homeless man who might or might not be a Marine wasn't going to go over well. Neither one of them cared about that right now, though. Something about the bedraggled man they'd discovered had touched their hearts, and they felt a need to help that couldn't, or wouldn't, be overridden by concerns about their CO's reaction. ********* 1930 Zulu (1430 Local) Harm and Mac walked into Fairfax Hospital together and moved to the reception desk. "We're looking for a patient," Mac said, when she was finally able to get somebody's attention. "Name?" "I don't know." The attendant looked puzzled by this, and Mac explained. "We found him on the street. The ambulance brought him in." "Ah… A John Doe. He's probably in the ER." At Mac's puzzled look she gestured vaguely off to the left. "Through those doors, then follow the signs." "Thanks." By the time they found their way to the Emergency Room, Mac was beginning to wonder if they should have left a trail of breadcrumbs by the time they finally found the triage desk. "Can I help you?" "We're looking for a patient," said Harm. The nurse glanced at his computer, then back at Harm. "Name?" "Um…we don't actually know." "Male or female?" "Male," Mac answered. "John Doe." He typed it quickly, then looked up again. "When did he come in?" "Recently. Maybe an hour ago?" said Harm, after a glance at Mac. "Let me see what I can find." They waited while the nurse keyed in the information. "Here it is," he said after a few moments. "John Doe." He scanned his screen, then looked up at them. "Looks like he's being examined now. His physician is Doctor Merick. Would you like me to page her?" "Yes, please," answered Mac. "Are you family?" "No." "Then the doctor might not be able to tell you much, but I'll have her come and see you after she finishes her exam.” "Thank you." ******** The diminutive doctor who approached them twenty minutes later looked busy but kind, her gray hair neatly folded into a bun at the back of her head, obligatory stethoscope draped around her neck. She smiled warmly and extended her hand in greeting. "I hear you're the guardian angels who rescued our friend from the clutches of evil," she said. Harm and Mac laughed. "I don't know about 'the clutches of evil,’" said Harm, "but yes, we're the ones who found him." "It's a good thing you did. I'm not sure he would've made it through another night out there." "Is he going to be okay?" asked Mac, concerned. "He will be. Looks like he took quite a beating from somebody," the doctor probed gently, hoping to learn more information about her patient. "We don't have any idea what happened. When we found him, he was huddled under a heap of rags in an alley. Any idea who he is?" asked Harm. "Not yet. It's customary in a case like this for us to run the patient's fingerprints." She paused to take a chart from a nurse. She flipped it open, made a note, and handed it back before returning her attention to Harm and Mac. "That tattoo on his arm makes me think he has a military background, so we'll check their records first. It'll be a while before we know anything." "He isn't awake?" "Not at the moment. He's been unconscious since he came in. Why?" "He seemed alert enough when we found him," said Harm. "I'm not surprised. This is probably the first time he's slept in a real bed in months. I'm going to admit him for a few days. He's got some injuries that I want to keep an eye on." "Can we see him?" asked Mac. "Yes, but don't stay long. He needs rest and quiet. He's down the hall. Third door on the right." "Thank you, Doctor." She left to attend to her other patients, and Harm led the way to the room, guiding Mac inside with a light touch at the small of her back. They stood at the bedside for a few minutes, looking down at the stranger. "I'd bet he has quite a story to tell," said Mac, watching the swollen features relaxed in sleep. "We can only hope he'll tell it," Harm agreed. Mac sighed, "For now, though, there's nothing we can do. We should probably get back to the office before Admiral Blankenship loses his patience." Harm quirked a smile at her. "Something tells me it's too late. He wasn't too happy that we took personal time to do this." "I know, but there's something about this man…" Mac shrugged. "I couldn't just send him off and not make sure he was going to be okay." "I know." With a final glance at the man in the bed, they turned and left the room. *********** The speaker on Jennifer's desk came to life abruptly, startling her and drawing her eyes away from her computer screen. "Petty Officer Coates." She pressed the button to open the channel. "Yes, Sir?" "Have Commander Rabb and Colonel Mackenzie returned?" "I haven't seen them, Sir." There was a moment of silence, then aristocratic irritation. "When they return, please ask them to come to my office." "Yes, Sir." She stood, automatically straightening her skirt, then went to look for the errant officers. They weren't in their offices or the break room, but they entered the bullpen just as she'd decided they hadn't yet arrived. "Sir, Ma'am. The admiral wants to see you." Harm and Mac exchanged a knowing glance before Mac replied. "Thank you, Jennifer." They waited by her desk while she spoke briefly to the admiral. At her signal, they nodded to her and went inside, closing the door behind them. Jen sat down with a long sigh. The new admiral couldn't have been more different from A.J. Chegwidden if he'd tried, and she was finding the adjustment challenging. With a slight shake of her head, she went back to the supply requisition that lay, half complete, on her desk. ********** Harm and Mac came to attention in front of Admiral Blankenship's desk. He ignored them for several moments while he typed something into his computer. He continued to ignore them while he made a telephone call to the Secretary of the Navy. By the time he finally looked at them, they were both fully aware that they'd just been treated to a not so subtle reminder of their place in the food chain. Evidently convinced he'd made his point, Admiral Blankenship focused his attention on the two officers. "At ease." He watched them relax into the familiar position, still alert, but somewhat less stiff. Both officers kept their eyes forward, shoulders back, and chins up. "Has your… personal business been satisfactorily resolved?" he asked them. "Yes, Sir." Harm and Mac answered together. "Fine." He kept his tone dry, polite. He stared at the two officers for several moments before speaking again, but if they were unnerved by his perusal, they didn't let it show. "In the future, I expect you to handle personal business on your own time. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, Sir." The tandem response caused the admiral to snap his eyes from one officer to the other, suspicion clouding his craggy features. He'd read their service records. He'd heard the rumors. He didn't trust either of them as far as he could throw them. They were renegades. Rabb more than Mackenzie, but both of them had loose cannon reputations that could pose a threat to his own career. He intended to keep a tight rein on them. He brushed an imaginary piece of dust off his desk blotter, then recapped his favorite Mont Blanc pen. "In your absence, I took the liberty of depositing additional case files on both of your desks. I expect preliminary assessments on them by 1730 today." Maybe if he kept them buried in paperwork, they wouldn't be able to get into too much trouble. That was his hope, anyway. Besides, from all accounts, Rabb and Mackenzie were excellent lawyers. There was no reason to waste all that talent on personal leave time. "Yes, Sir." Two part harmony. Lovely. Admiral Blankenship sighed inwardly. He hadn't really wanted this position, had only taken it as a stepping stone to bigger things. And now that he was here, now that he'd read the service records of the personnel he was supposed to keep in line, he found himself wishing heartily that there'd been a way to fulfill his ambitions without having to step on this particular stone. "Dismissed." He watched the officers execute a perfectly timed about face and exit his office, closing the door quietly behind them. Then he sat back in his chair, steepled his hands across his chest, and stared thoughtfully at nothing, considering the delicate tightrope walk he'd have to do for the two years during which he would hold this office. With another sigh, he reached into his desk drawer, withdrew a pack of antacids, and popped four of them into his mouth. *********** It was several hours later when Harm looked up from the last case analysis, checked his watch, and rolled the tension out of his shoulders and neck. He needed a break, a distraction from the tedious work of reading preliminary case data and translating it into summaries that would communicate the most information in the fewest words possible. He sighed, closed the folder in front of him, and then clicked the print button on his taskbar. When he looked up, Mac stood in his doorway. She looked as tired as he felt, he decided, and offered her a welcoming smile. "Hey." "Hey yourself," she smiled back. "I just heard from the hospital. I thought you'd like to know what they found out." "Already? I thought it'd take a day or two." Mac shrugged. "Apparently, they made the same assumptions we did. They checked military records first." "And?" "And we were right. He is, or was, military. Colonel Calvin Martin. He's a retired Marine." "Did they give you his social security number?" "Sure did. And they're transferring him to Bethesda in the morning." "Good." "So, I have a question for you." "What's that?" "Well, I'd like to pull Colonel Martin's service record. I'm a little curious as to how a Marine Colonel wound up lying in a heap of rags here in Falls Church." "I'd kind of like to know that, too." "But I suspect Admiral Blankenship would rather we let this go." He shrugged. "So? If we find anything he needs to know, we'll pass it on. It shouldn't take too long to pull the records." She laughed. "I take that to mean that you want to stay involved in this case, too?" "Well, I at least want to know what his service record looks like. Besides, there's probably family to contact." "I thought of that, too. I told the hospital we'd pull the colonel's records and notify his family ourselves." He smiled ruefully at her. "You never were one to avoid the tough stuff, were you." "You know me better than that." She shrugged. "Besides, if it were me, I'd rather hear the news from a Marine than from a doctor at the hospital." "You have a point there. Calls from hospitals rarely bring good news." "So…you're in?" "Absolutely." ************** 2423 Zulu (1923 Local) Admiral Blankenship eyed the golf ball on its tee. He adjusted his stance, pulled the club back, and hit the ball with a satisfying thud that sent it flying down the fairway. Beside him, the former Secretary of the Navy duplicated his actions. Both men waited to see where their balls would land before they teed up a second one. "So," said Nelson conversationally. "How's life at JAG?" Blankenship glanced curiously at him. "Why do you ask?" Nelson shrugged, the motion almost too casual. "No reason." "Ah…" Blankenship hit the second ball, driving it well past the two hundred yard marker. He allowed himself a slight nod of satisfaction before he turned to look at his companion again. "I am finding my new position to be quite satisfactory, thank you." The other man laughed, then drove another ball down the field before commenting. "Satisfactory, huh?" He selected another ball, tossed it lightly in the air, and then caught it again. "Rabb and Mackenzie still there?" "Yes." Blankenship eyed his mentor suspiciously. "Why do you ask?" "No reason." Blankenship mulled that over while he sent another ball flying down the field. Then he turned back to his friend, tapping the head of his club lightly against his golf shoe while he waited for Nelson to look at him. "You and I have been golf partners for more years than I care to think about," he said. Nelson laughed at that. "This is true." "And in all those years," he went on, "I have never known you to ask an idle question." He reached into the bucket of balls, selecting one at random, rubbing it absently in his palm while he spoke. "So tell me. Why do you ask about Commander Rabb and Colonel Mackenzie? Is there something I should know?" Nelson turned, regarding the younger man for several moments before speaking. "Let's just say that their… relationship is a bit unusual." "Relationship?" Blankenship raised an aristocratic eyebrow. "Should I be concerned about lovers' quarrels?" Nelson snorted at that. "No." "Then I'm afraid I don't understand." "Look, rumor mill has it…" He paused, biting back a grin at Blankenship's failed attempt to look as though he couldn't care less about the rumor mill. "Rumor has it that those two are more than just working partners." "How much more?" "The rumor mill doesn't know that, apparently." "I see…" The newly-appointed Judge Advocate General said nothing more. Instead, he very carefully positioned his ball on the tee, drew back his club, and hit it with a resounding whack, shading his eyes as he watched it fly down the fairway. "Well," he said then, "I will certainly keep you informed of any…developments." Nelson laughed. "I look forward to hearing all about it."
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