Oh, God, please…just let me die!

The desperate plea flashed through Harm’s mind as the last vestiges of sleep slid away. Every time he went to sleep, he prayed he wouldn’t wake up and every time he did, the despair sank a little deeper into his soul. He’d long ago lost track of time. He didn’t know if he had been here a week, a month, or a year. It didn’t matter anyway, for somewhere along the line, he had become convinced he would never leave this place – except the way he prayed for every night.

The minute he rolled over and sat up on the thin, flea infested mattress, he heard the now familiar rattle and clank in the corridor outside his cage. His captors were coming. They knew he was awake. They always knew.

The solid metal door opened with its usual earsplitting creak and one of his captors ducked through the opening. He carried a gas lantern, the yellow light stabbing into Harm’s eyes. With a groan he couldn’t stop, he flinched away from the painful brightness. After a moment, he carefully opened his eyes a tiny slit, gradually widening it as he adjusted to the light.

His captor stood looming over him, a huge nightmarish shadow splashing on the wall behind him. It was the one Harm had dubbed "The Behemoth". The man was as big as a mountain, his loose fitting utility uniform not quite hiding the rolls of extra flesh protruding above his belt. Settling his considerable bulk onto the chair he always brought with him, he leaned back, supremely comfortable and confident. Coal black eyes bored into Harm with the cold, hard gleam of pure obsidian.

"Who is Mac?"

Icy fear slid through Harm and he fought hard not to react.

The behemoth waited a moment, then went on, his thick accent marring the casual tone he was trying for. "Several times in your sleep, you have spoken the name Mac. Who is this person? A friend you think will rescue you? It will not happen, you know. No one can find you here."

"Good," Harm spat. "I wouldn’t want her anywhere near here!"

"Her?" The man’s eyebrows went up and Harm instantly realized his mistake. "Mac is a woman?" His expression altered into a smile of understanding. "So, it is your lover you long for during the long, cold nights."

The ache that rose within Harm threatened to swamp him…not because the behemoth was right, but because he couldn’t possibly know how wrong he was. Struggling to keep his expression neutral, Harm simply glared at the man. They traded stares for a long, silent moment, playing out the latest round in a battle of wills that had begun the moment Harm awoke in this stinking, airless cell.

And, as always, the behemoth eventually slapped his thighs, smiling widely as he rose to his feet, claiming victory where none existed. "Very well, Commander. Keep your secrets…for now."

Picking up his chair, the big Iraqi walked silently to the door. He ducked out and another much smaller man stepped in carrying a battered metal bowl. His face a mask of pure disdain, he tossed it on the floor beside the mattress as if grudgingly feeding an unwanted animal. Without a word, he turned and strode out, taking the light…and all vestiges of the outside world…with him.

Harm knew from experience that the bowl would contain nothing more than a few scraps most animals would turn their noses up at. It had taken a very long time for his hunger to override the wrenching of his stomach at the strong fetid smell.

Now, he didn’t even notice it as he grabbed the bowl and eagerly stuffed the scraps into his mouth.

"Has there been any word yet, General?"

Cresswell’s head came up, his keen, sharp eyes locking onto Mac like a laser guided missile. She had asked the same question at least once a day for almost three months, and she knew he had to be getting sick of always answering her the same way, but she couldn’t just stand idly by, waiting for news to work its way through the chain of command.

"No, Colonel, there isn’t. If there were, you would have heard by now."

A twang of guilt wound through her. She knew he would let her know the moment he heard anything, but it had been so long! "Of course, sir. I didn’t mean to imply—"

"Neither did I," Cresswell interrupted. "Our people in Iraq are doing everything they can to locate Cdr. Rabb. I’m expecting an update within the hour. If they have anything significant to report, I’ll let you know."

"Thank you, sir." She just barely managed to repress a sigh.

"This is a frustrating situation for all of us, Colonel, but I want you to keep one thing in mind. The fact that no one has claimed responsibility for the commander’s disappearance is actually a good thing. It means he’s not a political prisoner. If he is being held by Iraqi resistance fighters, they aren’t planning to use him as a bargaining chip."

"If, General? I think it’s safe to assume the commander is being held captive."

"It’s never safe to assume anything, Colonel, and you should know that. The convoy the commander was riding in was attacked, several marines were killed and several others, along with the commander, couldn’t be located. That is all we know at this point."

"Sir, if that’s supposed to get my hopes up…"

"It’s not. Just the opposite, in fact. It’s a reality check, Colonel. You…we all…need to prepare ourselves for the possibility that everyone in that convoy was killed in the initial attack. The missing men may have been dragged away because of equipment they carried or…" Uncharacteristically, the general hesitated, a flicker of emotion skimming over his features so fast, Mac didn’t have a chance to read it. "…Or just to mess with our minds. The resistance fighters are well aware of how marines feel about leaving a man behind, alive or dead."

Mac clamped down on the cold fear slithering through her. She knew he was right, but there was a part of her that knew he was wrong, too. There was a place down deep in her soul where she was certain Harm was still alive. Wisely, she didn’t tell the general that. He wouldn’t understand the intense yet indefinable link she shared with Harm. She wasn’t sure she did.

Time had long since become a construct that held no meaning for Harm. There was no day, no night. The day of the week or even the season of the year were utterly irrelevant. He slept when he was tired, woke when the cold or the rats or the bugs became intolerable. He ate at the rare and irregular times the guards brought him something even remotely edible. He drank the foul, brackish sludge in the bottom of the bowl to try and ease the fierce and relentless thirst.

And in between all of those things, he remembered. The faces of his mother, his grandmother, his friends and colleagues all danced through his mind. Sometimes, they got so jumbled he had trouble remembering who was who, but always, one face came through clear and bright in his mind’s eye.

Mac.

Always, the thought of her brought a wave of regret that washed over him and threatened to consume him. He regretted not having the chance to say goodbye to her, regretting knowing she would never hear the words he had always longed to say. He regretted the hurtful things he’d said to her over the years, regretted never apologizing for half of them.

The one thing he could never bring himself to regret was that they hadn’t fulfilled the deal they’d made so long ago on the steps of HQ. He did regret that the Rabb name would end with him, but he would never want to see Mac have to raise a child alone, or another kid named Rabb grow up without a father. He wasn’t that selfish.

There would be no more Rabbs proudly serving in the US Navy, but if that’s the way it had to be, he would accept it, but he couldn’t help the part of his heart that wished it didn’t have to be that way.

The low rumble of the prison’s outer doors cut through his thoughts, heralding the start of another round of interrogation. Marshalling the little physical and mental strength left to him, Harm sat up straight, tugging at the torn material of his pants in a futile attempt to cover the bony knee sticking through.

Smiling with false amiability, the behemoth ducked through the low door. As always, the light he carried blasted Harm with pain before he adjusted to it. He was certain he heard the behemoth chuckling softly as he set up his chair. "Good evening, Commander."

Evening? It was evening? Harm thought he’d masked his reaction but the behemoth’s eyes flared in subtle triumph. Damn! It was getting harder and harder to keep from revealing anything to his captors. He was so weary, weary all the way to his soul, and it was getting too damned hard to keep his guard up all the time.

Still gloating, the behemoth brought forth a file folder and flipped it open in his lap. This was new! Harm tried to look uninterested as the big man scanned the contents of the file.

"Lt. Col. Sarah MacKenzie, a US Marine currently assigned to the office of the Navy Judge Advocate General." The behemoth looked up from the file. "This Mac of yours is a lawyer, just like you, Commander. Do you work together every day and play together every night?"

It cost Harm everything he had not to react to that.

"She must be missing your company, just as you are missing hers…or is she? Don’t you wonder why she hasn’t come for you yet? This is no ordinary woman, this is a marine, a trained warrior with all the skills needed to free you from this place and yet, here you are."

Harm couldn’t help it. He couldn’t let that one go. "You said yourself no one could find me. It’s not Mac’s fault I’m still here."

"Then you believe what I tell you? That is good to know."

Harm took a slow deep breath, buying time for his sluggish brain to work out an answer. Keeping up with this guy should have been a walk in the park, but it was as if his whole brain was slowly shutting down.

"I believe you salt your string of lies with just enough of the truth to make it believable," he said slowly.

"Leaving you to wonder which is which," the behemoth pointed out. He closed the file folder and gestured with it. "And I must wonder about this lady marine of yours. This location may be difficult to find, but if anyone had been searching for you as hard as she should be, I would have heard about it." Dark eyes fixed on Harm. "I haven’t, Commander. There have been a few enquiries through the usual channels and a few extra patrols, but that is all. Are you surprised by this? I am. Perhaps you are not as important as you think you are, to your superiors…or to this Col. MacKenzie."

Gritting his teeth, Harm steadfastly refused to react in any way.

"If even your lover can’t be bothered looking for you, then you have no one to depend upon but yourself. If you are ever to see daylight again, you will have to make it happen. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

Again, Harm simply glared at him in silence. It was a common refrain. The man had been harping on the fact that Harm was on his own from the moment he awoke, but it was a useless tactic. Harm knew the facts, knew he couldn’t count on someone else to get him out of this. He had learned a very long time ago the dangers of depending on other people. Sometimes they couldn’t come through for you, even if they wanted to.

He traded glares with the behemoth for a long moment before the man abruptly rose to his feet and picked up his chair. "Very well, commander. I have other ways of learning what I need to know."

"If that was true," Harm ground out, "you wouldn’t need to keep me here."

That brought a roar of laughter. "You overestimate your importance, Cdr. Rabb, just as I suspected. I captured you for some very specific information, yes, but the details I needed were obtained from other sources only a few days after you were captured."

The news shocked Harm thoroughly. "Then…why keep me here, interrogating me every day and playing these stupid mind games?"

The behemoth’s laughter echoed through the tiny room. "The answer is simple, Commander…because I can."

Stepping out into the early morning sunshine, Trish Burnett walked slowly to the tall, sturdy flagpole standing in front of her home. From the small wooden box at its base, she removed two carefully folded flags, unconsciously running her hand over the smooth material. Until three months ago, there had only been one flag in this box, a simple American flag Frank had purchased years ago, but now that flag was stuffed in a drawer in the house. The day she received the second flag now in this box, she had taken away the store-bought American flag and replaced it with one that hadn’t seen the light of day in thirty-five years.

Sensing a movement behind her, she turned briefly as Frank stepped up beside her. Gently, reverently, he took the first flag from her. As he began to attach it to the cord on the flagpole, he spoke, his voice low and a little rough. "Harm would be proud to know you’re flying this flag for him."

She nodded, knowing full well what this small gesture would mean to her son. "This…this used to be his job. Before his father was shot down, he insisted on coming out every morning to raise this flag. After we got word about Harm, Sr., he wouldn’t do it anymore. I took this one down and put it away, thinking I’d give it to him someday."

Frank turned and put his arms around her. "You still can. He’s coming home, Trish."

She swallowed against the burning lump in her throat. Pulling back, she gazed down at the other flag in her hands, its stark black and white symbolizing the bleak emptiness in her soul.

"And when he does," she whispered, "I’m going to bury this in the deepest hole I can find."

His own expression grim and tight, Frank took the flag from her and attached it to the cord below the American flag. As he raised them high on the pole, he watched them flutter in the soft breeze. Never in his deepest nightmares had he ever imagined he would be doing this…raising a POW/MIA flag in honor of his stepson.

Nearly three thousand miles away, the staff at JAG had also found a way to honor their missing friend and colleague. One morning a week after Harm disappeared, Bud Roberts walked into Ops. Unnoticed at first, he calmly picked up a wooden chair and carried it to the window of Harm’s office. A few heads turned when he carefully stepped up onto the chair. Silence claimed the room when he unfurled a POW/MIA flag and pinned it over the window.

Stepping down from the chair, he turned to face the now frozen, staring officers and enlisted personnel. From across the room, Mac saw Bud’s eyes dart to the right and turned to see Gen. Cresswell step out his office. She watched Bud’s expression harden ever so slightly as he met their CO’s gaze. It was clear this was Bud’s own idea and he hadn’t cleared it with Cresswell. The very building itself seemed to go still, awaiting the general’s response.

For a moment, he simply gazed at Bud, then his eyes flicked briefly to the flag and rebounded. Very slowly, he gave a small nod. Bud immediately snapped to. "Attention on deck!"

As one, the staff responded, coming to attention as a single entity, facing the bold black and white flag in silent tribute. The silence stretched and grew, expanding to fill the moment until Cresswell very quietly ordered, "as you were."

Breaking her stance, Mac whirled and marched rigidly to her office. Very deliberately, she closed the door and lowered the blinds. Her spine ramrod straight, she rounded her desk and sat down. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t make them stop. Slowly, the tremors overtook her entire body as her defensive walls crumbled one by one. Burying her face in her hands, she gave in at last.

Quietly, desperately, Mac broke down.

That was the only time she allowed herself to cry for him. Ten weeks later, her fear and grief were steady but silent companions, riding with her throughout the day and hovering at her shoulder throughout the long, often sleepless nights.

In a bizarre sort of way, the flag hung on Harm’s office window became almost a surrogate for him, as strong and tangible a presence in Ops as Harm himself had always been. Every time Mac stepped into the bullpen, she felt his spirit, still woven into the fabric of the gestalt that was JAG HQ. It was her greatest comfort…and her deepest sorrow.

Everything possible was being done to find him, but what if it wasn’t enough? Harm himself was living proof that MIA’s sometimes never came home. Would she spend the next thirty years looking for him, as he had done with his father? Would she spend decades consumed by the certain knowledge that he was out there somewhere, only to at last discover she was wrong?

With stunning clarity, she suddenly understood what had driven Harm all those years, the desperate need to find closure, to say all the things that had never been said, undo the things that had been said and never should have been.

How had he survived all those years with the threads of a relationship severed and dangling, all the raw ends exposed, pain flaring deep inside every time they brushed against the rest of his life? Somehow, he had survived, even flourished. Feeling her own version of his pain, she got just a glimpse of the inner strength it must have required to grow up as Harmon Rabb, Jr., an inner strength she could respect and admire…but didn’t share.

Lunging to her feet, Mac was halfway across the bullpen before she was aware of moving. Coates was away from her desk, but Mac didn’t even slow down. She knocked on the general’s door and waited for admittance. The moment it came, she stepped inside and strode forward.

Stopping in front of the general’s desk, she came to attention. Drawing a breath, she opened her mouth to speak but before she could get a word out, he lifted a hand to stop her. "Yes, Colonel, there is some news."

Mac’s heart slammed into her shoes, then rebounded, racing at a frantic pace. She had to swallow against the sudden dryness in her throat. "Good or bad, sir?"

"A little of both. Have a seat, Colonel."

She tried to ease herself gracefully into a chair, but it felt more like she was slithering into it. In her lap, her hands were clenched together so the general wouldn’t see them shaking.

"An informant deemed to be reliable has confirmed there were survivors from the attack on the convoy."

"Does he know where they were taken?" she asked, the words tumbling over themselves in the rush to get out.

"Not at the moment, but he believes he can find out. He’s working closely with Col. Nasco, the area commander, and a recon team is standing by."

Mac made a snap decision. "Sir, permission to travel to Iraq."

The general’s eyes widened slightly. "Why, Colonel? Do you believe Col. Nasco or the recon team are incapable of doing their job?"

"No sir," she replied quickly.

"Then let them do it."

"Yes sir," she answered, this time with far less enthusiasm.

Cresswell folded his hands together on the desk, regarding her silently for a long moment. "Colonel, despite what you may think, your presence there isn’t going to get the commander out any sooner. It’s tough on everyone when a colleague is missing, especially under circumstances like this, but the best thing you can do right now is concentrate on your job and let the officers in Iraq concentrate on theirs."

"Respectfully, sir, that’s what I’m trying to do. Cdr. Rabb went to Iraq to investigate Col. Nasco’s contention that the rules of engagement are too restrictive and are endangering our troops. I think the attack on Cdr. Rabb’s convoy may bear that out."

The intensity that always surrounded Gen. Cresswell abruptly kicked up by several degrees. He gazed at her for a very long moment, his eyes narrowing in scalding scrutiny.

"Col. MacKenzie," he said slowly, "are you trying to play me?"

"No sir." She met his gaze evenly and in that moment, her answer became the truth. "What I’m trying to do is make sure what happened to Harm never happens to any other US serviceman."

Cresswell continued to scrutinize her for another long moment, then nodded slowly. "All right, Colonel. The attack on the convoy may lend credence to Col. Nasco’s claims. Get yourself on the next flight out."

Mac shot to her feet. "Aye-aye, sir!"

Mac, where are you? I need you! Harm didn’t actually speak the words, they were all around him, woven through a thick gray mist that enveloped him. The mist didn’t just float around him, it clung, weighing him down and making it nearly impossible to move. Stubbornly, he pushed on, wading through a mire he couldn’t see.

Come to me, Mac. Help me get out of here. I can’t do this alone. Please, I need you, Mac. I need you to help me!

The mist was getting thicker, pulling at his clothes, dragging him down. He was tired, so tired of fighting. He couldn’t keep it up any longer. The mist turned warm and welcoming and he felt himself give in to it. Slowly, it pulled him under to an unknown but not unwelcome fate.

And then something was dragging him back up. At first, he didn’t know what it was, but there was something… A sound? Yes, it was noise, indistinguishable but getting louder. Voices shouting, the clang of metal doors and…gunfire? The rapid rattling noise sounded like automatic weapons fire.

Far more slowly than he should have, Harm returned to consciousness. The sounds didn’t fade with the rest of his dream, however. They continued, becoming louder and more distinct. An icy rush washed over him as he realized what he was hearing. The prison was under attack.

Instinct kicked in and he rolled over, coming up in a crouch. A wave of vertigo slamming into him, but he somehow managed to stay on his feet. Keeping low and to the side, he scrambled over to the door. It was solid metal, slotted into the concrete walls so tightly not even air would pass between. He couldn’t tell what was going on out in the corridor, but the sounds were definitely getting louder.

Then, so abruptly it made him leap back, there was a pounding on his door. Skittering backwards on his heels, he pressed himself against the wall. He had no idea who would be coming through that door and readied himself for a fight, but deep in the back of his mind doubt blossomed and took hold. If he had to, he would fight with everything he had left in him, but that was frightening little.

The door slammed open with a resounding crash that nearly ruptured his eardrums and two figures ducked through, rifles at the ready. In one broad sweep, two strong beams of light swept the room, then slowly came down. One of the men reached up and pulled away the knit cap he was wearing, taking with it the cloth that covered the lower half of his face. Beneath blond hair, the man’s deep blue eyes twinkled as he grinned at Harm. "Sir, your taxi is here. We apologize for the delay."

It took a moment for the young man’s words to sink in. The moment they did and Harm understood the significance of them – and of the marine’s presence – the adrenaline flooded out of his system. Staggering backward, he crashed into the wall and slid down it. Before his six even reached the floor, the young marine was at his side, gripping his arm in a firm hold. "Easy there, Commander. Let’s get you out of here."

"Mac?" Harm’s eyes darted involuntarily toward the door. "Where’s Mac?"

Harm was suddenly having trouble focusing on much of anything but he thought he saw the young man frown. "Who, sir?"

"Col. MacKenzie," he managed to mumble. He tried to shove to his feet, but nothing was cooperating anymore and with the marine’s firm grip on his arm, he wasn’t making any headway.

"She’s in Washington, sir." The marine sounded thoroughly confused. "She’s not in Iraq…never was."

The confusion Harm was fighting flared outward, swamping him completely. What did he mean Mac wasn’t in Iraq. She was looking for him…wasn’t she? She was supposed to be looking for him. That mist was beginning to rise again, frosting his vision and washing out the face of the young marine. He couldn’t fight it any better now than he had earlier. From a great distance, he heard someone groan and then the mist closed over him completely.

Mac’s gut threatened to turned inside out when a member of the flight crew told her an urgent message was being piped through for her. Sucking in a shuddering breath, she brought the headset mike closer to her mouth then clamped earpieces tighter with both hands. "This is Lt. Col. MacKenzie. Go ahead."

"Col. MacKenzie, Col. Nasco here. I thought you’d want to know we’ve recovered Cdr. Rabb and the three marines captured with him."

"That is good news, sir. How…how are they?"

"I’m afraid one of the marines didn’t make it. The others, including Cdr. Rabb, are in reasonable shape. They’re being transported to our medical facility as we speak. I imagine you’ll want to go straight there when you land. Report to me when you’re done there."

"I will, sir, and thank you."

Releasing the death grip on her headset, Mac flopped back against the seat and blew out a sigh. Harm was alive and safe. The nightmare was finally over.

But when she arrived at the medical facility, she quickly realized that assessment might not be entirely accurate. A doctor, Lt. Cdr. Something-or-other, took her aside the moment she stepped into the converted building. He rattled off his name so fast Mac didn’t have time to process it before he hit her with news that knocked his name right out of her mind.

"Physically, Cdr. Rabb and the others should recover quite quickly."

"Physically?" she repeated, not really able to hear herself over the roar of blood in her ears.

"Yes, ma’am. It appears all three survivors were subjected to little in the way of physical torture. They’re dehydrated and under weight. One of the marines has a badly infected cut on his leg, but we’re hitting it with everything we’ve got."

"What about…mentally?" she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

"That’s a little more complicated," the doctor replied cryptically. "There’s bound to be some psychological trauma from an ordeal like this, but that will be assessed when they’re transported to our facilities in Germany."

"May I see him?" Her voice came out a little shaky and she covered it with a soft cough.

"I think that would be a very good idea. He’s in the cubicle on the end." He pointed to a row of curtained off treatment areas.

"Thank you," she replied hesitantly, wondering what he meant by the cryptic remark.

"Yes ma’am." With the brief nod of respect that often passed for a salute in working situations, the doctor left her alone.

Not knowing what to expect, Mac crossed to the cubicle and ducked through the curtain. Harm lay on a low, narrow bed. An IV bag hung above him and he was covered to the chest with a thick blanket. From here, at least, he looked fine and her heart gave a little kick.

He turned his head when she came in and the moment he saw her, his eyes widened and, to her utter surprise, filled up with tears.

"Mac…you’re here," he choked out, weakly lifting a hand to reach for her.

Despite her shock, she instinctively lunged forward and grabbed his hand. "Yes, I’m here. Take it easy."

"But they told me you weren’t," he slurred, the small burst of energy fading quickly. "I thought you were looking for me, but the marine, he said you were in Washington."

"I was, but I’m here now. You need to rest. Go to sleep and we’ll talk again when you wake up."

He nodded slowly. "I…I am tired, but…" His eyes flooded with fresh tears. "I’m just so glad you’re here. I knew you had to be."

Mac didn’t know what frightened her more, that he wasn’t making any sense or that he was so emotional. He seemed so…fragile, as if he was about to shatter at any moment and that shook her to the very core. She had seen him go through hell itself and bounce right back with that maddening nonchalance that seemed endemic to aviators.

But not this time.

He clung to her hand with what little strength he had left. "You’re going to…stay, right? You’re not…going anywhere?"

"No," she whispered, gently stroking a strand of hair off his forehead. "I’m not going anywhere. Rest now and we’ll talk again when you wake up."

"Now that…" He was fading fast, being dragged under even as he spoke. "…is a reason to wake up."

Stunned, confused and terrified, Mac stayed with him a few more minutes, but he was out like a light. When she could finally tear herself away, she immediately went in search of the doctor.

"What happened to him?" she demanded, remembering at the last second to keep her voice down. "He’s…he’s not himself."

"That’s probably the medication," the doctor answered quickly. "What he needs most is rest but he’s been fighting the sedation harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s also been asking for you from the moment he came through the door. That’s why I thought it would be a good idea for you to see him. I assume he’s sleeping now?"

"Yes," she said softly, still shaken.

"Good. He should be in much better shape the next time you see him. Hopefully, he’ll sleep for several hours now, Colonel. Why don’t you check back later?"

Nodding absently, Mac turned for the door. She was relieved to have some kind of explanation for Harm’s strange behavior, but she still didn’t understand why he was asking for her.

She traveled with an armed escort to the command post. It was in an abandoned shop on the other side of Baghdad and thanks to the circuitous route they were forced to use, it took a while to get there. Throughout the trip, she kept thinking back to the combination of sadness and relief she had seen in Harm’s eyes. Sedative or not, something fundamental within him had been affected. What on earth had those bastards done to him?

Luckily for her, Mac didn’t have much of a chance to contemplate once she arrived at the command post. She was taken immediately to a small room at the back of the shop that had been converted into a makeshift Ops. Col. Nasco looked up from the map spread on the desk and Mac snapped to attention. "Lt. Col. MacKenzie, reporting as ordered, sir."

The colonel straightened to his full height. "How are Cdr. Rabb and the others?"

"Resting, sir." It was the truth, even if it didn’t begin to explain it all.

He nodded. "Good. Now, I’d like to brief you on exactly what occurred during their attack, and several others that have happened since. The rules of engagement need to change, Colonel, and fast."

Mac spent the next forty-five minutes listening to an account of the attack on Harm’s convoy and details of two others that had taken place since. In all three instances, the marines involved indicated an attack was likely, but despite seeing the signs all around them, they were powerless to act. The resistance fighters had perfected the art of setting up an assault without presenting a clear, imminent threat until it was too late.

"Cdr. Rabb’s convoy radioed that they were gradually being surrounded by civilian vehicles. The team leader said it didn’t feel right, but the trucks were filled with livestock and personal possessions. There was nothing except their behavior that gave them away, and under the current rules, they were powerless to act until one of the vehicles actually opened fire on them, and by then it was too late."

The marine in her shared his frustration but the lawyer in her immediately saw the ramifications of expanding the rules of engagement. "This is a very delicate area, sir. If US Marines start initiating firefights with what appears to be Iraqi civilians, our credibility here will be seriously compromised."

"So, instead, we compromise the safety of our people," the colonel replied sarcastically.

"For what it’s worth, Colonel, I agree with you completely and I will be recommending a change in the rules of engagement. It won’t be easy, but somehow, we have to find a balance between protecting ourselves and coming across like an invading force occupying a country against the will of its citizens."

The colonel regarded her in silence, his steady, piercing gaze boring into her. "If you can do that, Col. MacKenzie…you’re a miracle worker."

Mac spent the next two hours gathering more information on the attacks, interviewing some of the marines involved and arming herself with as much ammunition as she could for her report. It was going to be a hard sell, but something had to be done to ensure no one else had to suffer as Harm had…as his family had…as she had.

When she finally finished her interview, she arranged to travel with a detail returning to the medical facility. She wanted to interview the two marines who had survived capture, and Harm as well, assuming he was…up to it.

Bracing herself against the pain of seeing him so…different…she again ducked through the curtain. This time, he was propped up against a stack of pillows. She took a moment to look at him, really look at him. His cheeks were gaunt and sunken, topped by huge dark circles beneath his eyes. There was little color in his face, making the smudges stand out all the more. His eyes were closed but popped open when she took a hesitant step forward. A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes twinkling with the same bright light she had always known.

"Hey there," he said softly, his voice still a little rough and scratchy.

"Hi," she replied, shocked by the change in him. His expression turned quizzical at her hesitance and she mentally kicked herself into gear. Stepping up beside the bed, she smiled down at him.

"You’re certainly looking better." It was the truth, even if he did look like hell.

"Then you were here," he said almost to himself. "I wasn’t sure if it was real or if I dreamed it."

"Yes, I was here, but you were pretty…out of it."

"I bet I was. I don’t know what they hit me with when I came in here, but it knocked me for a real loop." He hesitated, a frown wrinkling his brow. "Uh, Mac, I…I don’t remember much after they sedated me, but I think I said some pretty…strange things."

"Forget it," she said with a dismissive wave.

He gazed at her for a very long moment, his eyes roaming her face as if trying to memorize it. She gazed back, acutely aware of the low level current humming between them. In moments like this, she could literally feel the connection that inexorably bound them together, the elastic and unbreakable thread that kept this man on her mind and in her heart.

Abruptly, he shook off the mood, snapping the moment as he gave an almost casual wave. "So, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing here? I’m visiting you," she replied, still a little flustered by the soul deep communication of a moment ago.

"I mean what are you doing here in Iraq? I doubt Gen. Cresswell would let you travel halfway around the world to visit a colleague."

A colleague? He was so much more than that, and he knew it…didn’t he? "I…uh…I came to take over your job. Ever since the attack on your convoy, Col. Nasco has been even more adamant that the ROE have to change."

"I agree with him," he replied with a long, weary sigh.

"So do I," she said softly, "but it’s not going to be easy to convince the Washington types that our people need to be able to initiate conflict."

"Stuff ‘em all in a troop transport and send it out on the streets of Baghdad," he muttered. "If any of ‘em survive, they’ll change their tune."

There was a bitterness in his tone Mac had never heard before, and it worried her terribly.

"Do you…want to talk about it?" she asked quietly.

"No." His tone was hard and flat. "No, I don’t."

His answer didn’t surprise her, but his next words did. "What I want is to go home. Get me the hell out of this hospital, Mac, and out of this country…the sooner the better."

Read Part 2!