"Cmdr. Harmon Rabb, having pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter in the death of Lt. Col. Sarah MacKenzie, you are hereby sentenced to twenty years confinement at Leavenworth." Harm flinched as the gavel fell, only one thought ripping through his mind. It’s not enough. It’s not enough!

JAG HQ – 08:42 EST Four and a half weeks earlier

Mac watched the slow grin spread across Harm’s face. "The only reason you want to deal, Mac, is because you don’t have a case."

She laughed, loving the mental dueling match she so often played with him. "The only one here who doesn’t have a case is you. Your client—" She was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

"Enter," he called out.

Petty Officer Tiner swung the door open, coming to attention. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, ma’am, but this was just delivered by courier." He stepped forward and handed Harm a plain white business size envelope.

Harm took the letter. "Thanks, Tiner."

The petty officer withdrew, closing the door. Harm examined the envelope, clearly curious. "It’s from a legal firm in Phoenix, Arizona."

He flipped it over, tore off the end and removed a single piece of paper. Unfolding it, he began to scan it quickly, but his eyes seemed to stick on one particular spot. The curiosity slid from his face, replaced by a combination of shock and sorrow as the color drained from his cheeks.

"Harm, what is it?" she asked quickly. "What’s wrong?"

It took him a moment to recover enough to answer. "Uh, a good friend of mine passed away three days ago."

"I’m so sorry," she said quickly. "Are you okay? Do you want some time? We can pick this up later."

"No, I’m okay." His frown said otherwise. "Besides, we’d better see if there’s any way we can wrap up this case. I’m going to need a couple of days off."

"Of course, the funeral," she replied, feeling like an insensitive lout.

"It’s more than that, Mac. Ryan Taylor was a fellow aviator. We went through flight school together. We made a pact that if one of us was ever killed, the other would take the body home."

A lump rose in Mac’s throat. "That’s a tough duty."

"I know," he said softly, "but I made him a promise."

Mac couldn’t help the practical side of her that kicked in. "Why were you notified by a civilian legal firm instead of through navy channels?"

He shrugged. "I don’t know. The letter only says that they’re the solicitors for his estate." He pushed to his feet. "Let’s see what we can find out."

Mac followed him out to the bullpen and over to the desk of Gunnery Sergeant Galindez. "Gunny, what can you find out about a naval officer named Ryan Taylor? He’d be at least a commander by now."

Gunny turned to his computer and tapped a few keys. "Not quite, sir. He was discharged two years ago at the rank of Lt. Commander."

"Discharged?" Harm repeated. "That doesn’t make sense. What were the circumstances of his discharge?"

Galindez consulted his computer again. "Voluntary separation, sir."

"He quit? What the hell is going on? Ryan Taylor would never quit!" He spun on his heel, headed for the admiral’s office.

Mac watched him go, knowing Harm was going to be in for a rough couple of days. He and Taylor had obviously lost touch over the years and now there were going to be some questions Harm might never find the answer for.

His mind buzzing with unanswered questions, Harm asked Tiner to announce him to the admiral. A moment later, Admiral Chegwidden told Tiner to send him in. He strode into the office and stopped in front of the desk. He explained the situation with Taylor and accepted the admiral’s quick condolences. "Sir, I thought it was strange that I was notified by a civilian law firm, so I had Gunny check and the records indicate Ryan was discharged from the navy two years ago. That just doesn’t add up. Ryan was a career man. He wouldn’t just up and quit."

"How long has it been since you talked to him?" the admiral asked.

Harm hesitated. How long had it been? "It’s got to be at least three or four years, sir."

"People change," Chegwidden pointed out.

"Not Ryan, sir. He was the most gung-ho aviator I ever met. He made the rest of us look like we were sitting still. Admiral, Ryan didn’t have any family. That’s one of the reasons we made the pact. There’s no one I can ask to find out why he suddenly left the navy. His last posting was aboard the Henry, sir. I was wondering if you would—"

"If I would talk to the skipper and see what I can find out?" the admiral finished for him.

"Yes, sir," Harm replied, hating that he was so easy to read. "I know it’s a lot to ask, Admiral, but he was a friend. Something must have gone sideways for him or he never would have taken a voluntary separation. I’d like to know what happened."

The admiral nodded slowly. "All right, Commander. I’ll make a few informal inquiries. I should have something for you by the time you get back."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"You're welcome, Commander, but while you’re gone, give it some thought. Make sure you really want the answers to what you’re asking."

Harm frowned, hearing a warning in the admiral’s words, but not quite understanding it. He decided not to question it, for now at least. "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

AJ watched his hot-shot aviator/lawyer execute a snapping turn and stride from the room. He had three days to decide how much to tell Rabb. The moment he’d heard the name Ryan Taylor, AJ remembered the file that came across his desk two years ago. If it hadn’t been for some last minute intervention by the Henry’s skipper, Harm would have no doubt seen that file, too. AJ hadn’t known then about his friendship with Taylor, but now that he did, he was just as glad the situation had been resolved without legal action. The question now was, how much should he tell Harm about his friend?

Mac was waiting for Harm when he returned to his office. "How did it go?" she asked, a deep concern marring her features.

Harm swung around the desk, starting to organize his files. "Fine. I’ve got three days off."

Mac was silent a moment so long, Harm glanced up at her. She was watching him with a sad expression. "Do you want someone to go with you? My caseload’s pretty light right now and I’ve got a few days leave banked."

He stopped shuffling papers, meeting the compassion in her dark eyes. "No, but thanks, Mac. This is something I’ve got to do alone."

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.

She wouldn’t understand, not completely anyway. He and Ryan made that pact one night when the two of them were so plastered they could hardly stand up, but the next day, Ryan had come to him, making sure he understood that Ryan was serious. He didn’t have any family and his only close friends were fellow aviators. Harm could still see the look in Ryan’s eyes as he gripped Harm’s shoulder. "I mean it, buddy. You’re all I’ve got. If anything ever happens to me, make sure I get home safe."

Shaking off the memories, Harm dug up a smile for her. "I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a few days."

PHOENIX AIRPORT – 12:00 MST

Discretely stretching his back muscles, Harm stepped off the commercial jet. Despite what the advertisements said, there wasn’t a commercial plane flying that had enough knee room for someone his size. It was funny, really. He could spend hours crammed into the cockpit of an F-14 and come out feeling like he’d been lying in a hot tub, but a couple of hours on a commercial jet and he felt like a pretzel.

It only took a few minutes to collect his luggage and pick up a rental car. As he walked to the car, already beginning to feel sticky in the oppressive Arizona heat, he debated whether to go to his hotel first or go straight to the law offices of Kensington and Steele. He opted for the latter. He might as well get the unpleasantness out of the way.

A few minutes after arriving at the law firm’s office, he was shown into the plain, unpretentious office of Dale Kensington. The young man rose to his feet, extending a hand across the desk. "Cdr. Rabb, thank you for coming so promptly."

Harm nodded, taking the seat the lawyer offered. "I wonder if you can clear up a few details for me. What happened to Ryan. How did he die?"

Kensington’s already pale features turned a shade or two whiter. "Oh, of course you wouldn’t know."

"Know what?" Harm asked, his senses suddenly on alert.

"This is a difficult thing to hear, Commander, and a difficult thing to have to say. Mr. Taylor...took his own life."

For a second, Harm couldn’t breathe. That Ryan Taylor would commit suicide was utterly ridiculous. The man had a love of life Harm had always admired and at times deeply coveted. There was no way Ryan would ever....

"Commander, are you all right? I’m sorry. I know this must be a shock."

"It’s more than a shock, Mr. Kensington," Harm managed to say. "I don’t believe it."

If it was possible, Kensington looked even more uncomfortable. "I assure you, the investigation into his death was very thorough."

"Not thorough enough," Harm replied bluntly. "The Ryan Taylor I knew would never consider suicide an option."

Kensington took the wisest course and backed out gracefully. "Yes, well, if you’ll just sign these papers, I’ll inform the funeral home that they may release his remains to you."

Harm accepted the papers, scanning them quickly. "Are you also handling his will?"

"Yes. Mr. Taylor doesn’t have an extensive estate, only a few personal belongings. He named us as executors and instructed us to dispose of everything as we see fit. I’d be happy to give you an inventory if you think there may be anything you’d like to have."

This whole thing was beginning to sound more wrong by the minute! If Ryan had still been serving aboard a carrier, Harm could understand why he wouldn’t have many possessions, but he’d been out for two years. He should have accumulated a few things by now. "What about his pension? Do you know who he named as beneficiary?"

"No, I’m afraid I don’t."

"Well, I can find that out." Harm deftly signed his name to the forms, taking responsibility for Ryan.

"He didn’t indicate any wishes regarding the disposition of his remains," Kensington pointed out.

"That’s all right," Harm replied. "I know what he wanted."

Harm went straight from Kensington’s office to his hotel. He called the funeral home and made arrangements to pick up Ryan’s remains the next day. In the meantime, he had more than a few questions that needed answers.

He started with a call to the Phoenix police. He explained who he was and asked to speak to the officer who investigated Ryan’s death. A moment later, a low feminine voice came on the line. "Detective Ruben."

Harm again explained who he was and asked for the details of the investigation.

"There weren’t many details," she told him. "The police were called to his residence after reports of gunfire. We found him on the bed, a single shot to the head. The medical examiner concluded the circumstances were consistent with suicide. There was no reason to suspect anything else."

"Well, I’m giving you a reason," Harm replied. "There is no way in hell Ryan Taylor would ever take his own life. He was an ex-naval aviator with a distinguished career."

"That may be," she agreed, "but when was the last time you saw him, Commander?"

"Several years ago," he admitted.

"I thought so. From the condition of his apartment, I’d say Mr. Taylor had been having a few...problems you might not be aware of."

"What kind of problems?" Harm demanded.

"Maybe you should see for yourself. I’d be willing to meet you at the scene if you want."

"I want." He grabbed a pen and paper. "Give me the address."

A short time later, Harm pulled up in front of a rundown three-story brick walk-up. He climbed slowly from the car, looking the place over with a sinking feeling in his gut. This wasn’t the kind of place he ever imagined Ryan living in. A plain dark-brown car pulled up behind his and a tall woman in her late forties stepped out. She joined him on the sidewalk. "Cdr. Rabb?"

"Yes." He held out his hand.

"I’m Darlene Ruben," she said, shaking his hand. "Shall we go up?"

Harm gestured for her to lead the way. He followed her through the dingy hallway and up a rickety flight of stairs to the second floor. She glanced at him as they approached the door to apartment C. "Near as we can tell, Mr. Taylor had been living here for the past six months."

"Where was he working?" Harm asked.

"He wasn’t," she replied bluntly.

No job? That made even less sense than Ryan leaving the navy.

Detective Ruben produced a key and unlocked the flimsy door, swinging it wide to let Harm go in first. The room was dark, with only a small amount of light peeking through the cracks around a tattered blanket tacked up over the window. Detective Ruben snapped on a light, but the single plain light fixture in the middle of the ceiling didn’t help much. It was too covered in dirt and dust.

The apartment consisted of one room, with a tiny closet-sized space walled off in one corner to serve as the bathroom. Against one wall stood a single size bed. It had been stripped bare, but the bloodstains on the mattress were clearly visible. Harm closed his eyes against the gruesome sight of his friend’s blood and turned away.

When he opened his eyes and began to really look around the apartment, what he saw was, in some ways, just as gruesome. The entire room was filthy, littered with empty beer bottles and cans. An ashtray on the table was filled to overflowing. That one small item stuck out more than all the others. Ryan had always been vehemently against smoking. Then Harm realized the ashtray didn’t contain cigarette butts. One slightly longer remnant sitting on the edge of the ashtray confirmed it. The remains were from marijuana.

Completely stunned, Harm walked in a slow circle around the room. "Ryan lived here?"

"I’m afraid so," she said sadly.

"But...He was always the most squared away member of the team. What the hell happened?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea, but it’s obvious the man who lived here wasn’t the same man you knew. Something must have changed him."

"No kidding," he replied with more sarcasm than he intended. Almost wishing he had a pair of gloves, Harm began sifting through Ryan’s belongings, starting with the battered old dresser beside the bed.

"What are you looking for?" Ruben asked.

He didn’t look up from his search. "The one thing that will make me believe this room really belonged to Ryan Taylor."

And then he found it. Tucked in the back corner of a drawer was a small hinged box. Steeling himself, Harm slowly opened the box. Nestled inside were Ryan’s wings.

With a whispered curse, Harm snapped the box shut. He couldn’t deny it anymore, couldn’t tell himself this room belonged to a stranger. It was Ryan’s room. This dingy, dirty hell-hole was the narrow world Ryan had spent his last hours in. What in hell happened to him?

A deep resolve settled over Harm. His friend’s life had degenerated into a tailspin that ultimately proved fatal, and Harm hadn’t known a damn thing about it until it was too late. He couldn’t do anything to help Ryan now, but he was damn well going to find out what happened. He owed Ryan at least that much.

STEINBERG’S FUNERAL HOME – 11:00 MST The next day

As per Ryan’s wishes, stated in his will, his remains were cremated. When Harm arrived at the funeral home, he was presented with a simple cardboard box, printed with a pastel pattern of trees and leaves. It weighed maybe five pounds.

His guts in a knot, Harm carried the box out to the car. For a moment, he couldn’t decide what to do with it. Somehow, putting it in the trunk seemed disrespectful, but setting it on the back seat seemed kind of silly. It was a box of ashes, nothing more. And it was nothing less than all that remained of one of the best friends Harm had ever had.

He finally opted to put in on the floor of the front passenger seat. It couldn’t accidentally fall that way, but it wasn’t stuffed in the trunk, either.

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT – 16:23 EST

Harm stepped off the plane, Ryan’s ashes tucked carefully in the bottom of his carry-on bag. He picked up his luggage, and as he headed for his car, he dug out his cell phone and hit the speed dial. Mac answered on the first ring.

"Hey, there. I’m back."

"Hi," she said brightly. "How...how did it go."

"Rough," he admitted. "Listen, Mac. Ryan’s will said he didn’t want a funeral or memorial, so I’m going to...give him a send-off tomorrow. I...I could use some help. Think you can get the day off?"

Her reply was filled with warmth. "I’m certain of it."

"Good. I’ll pick you up about eight tomorrow morning. Sound all right?"

"I’ll be waiting."

And she was. Mac made sure she was outside her apartment building by eight o’clock the next morning. She had a pretty good idea where they would be going and when Harm pulled up wearing his leather flight jacket and ball cap, she was even more certain.

As expected, Harm took the highway leading out to the airfield where he stored his plane. The restored Steerman was probably his most prized possession. Although it was merely a coincidence, Mac got a kick out of the fact that the plane’s name was Sarah. She always thought of it as the other "Sarah" in his life.

Harm had called ahead and the plane was gassed up and ready to go. He gave her a hand up into the front seat then handed her the small green cardboard box while he climbed into the rear seat. Once he was settled, he tapped her on the shoulder and held out his hand for the box.

Mac noticed immediately how quiet Harm was. He usually rattled on like an excited little boy whenever they took the plane up, but today, he said not a word. Mac respected his need for distance, knowing what he must be going through.

He took the plane up and headed for the rugged tree-covered hills near by. They passed several small clearings before a larger one opened up. Near the center was a large lake. Harm took the plane lower, flying only a few hundred feet above the ground. "Take the controls!" he yelled above the engine noise. "Just hold her steady for a minute."

Mac had flown the plane for brief periods before and didn’t hesitate to take the stick.

Behind her, Harm eased his hand off the controls, making sure she had it before reaching for the box tucked beside him. Swallowing hard against the lump rising in his throat, he eased the lid off the box and opened the plastic bag inside. Carefully lifting it out of the box, he turned to the starboard side of the plane, holding the bag over the side and letting the ashes escape into the wind. He watched the gray cloud swirl away, rapidly disappearing against the brilliant blue of the sky. Blinking away tears, Harm snapped a salute, whispering. "You’re free, Ryan. You don’t need tons of metal to let you fly."

Mac was starting to get a little worried about how close the end of the lake was, but then Harm tapped her shoulder. "I’ve got it."

He banked the plane sharply, and Mac wondered if he would stay up here for a while or go straight back to the field. As she suspected, he stayed up, but not for long. When they touched down, he helped her down from the seat, then pulled off his headset and goggles. On his cheek, trapped by his goggles, was a tear. Her heart aching for him, she gently brushed it from his face. "You okay?" she whispered.

To her surprise, he didn’t pull the macho aviator routine. Instead, he looked away quickly. "No, I’m not okay."

Before she could reply, he turned, striding quickly toward the hangar.

Mac hurried after him, catching his arm. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not right now, Mac, but yeah. In a day or two, I’d like to tell you all about Ryan and why his death is so much more of a tragedy than it would have been if he’d been shot down or crashed. He died the kind of death no one should ever face, let alone a man who had the kind of pride he did."

He turned and walked away. Mac watched him go. Harm was really hurting and she was certain she knew why, for he possessed every bit of the same pride Ryan Taylor had. If something had stripped that pride from his friend, Harm would feel it as if it were his own.

JAG HQ – 08:02 EST

The moment Harm arrived at work, he reported to the admiral.

"Welcome back, Commander."

"Thank you, sir. Admiral, I found out some pretty disturbing things about Cdr. Taylor. From what I can tell, he was heavily into drugs and alcohol and it appears he...took his own life. At first, I didn’t believe it, but there’s no evidence that it was anything but suicide and plenty of evidence that it was, but Admiral, I still have trouble believing Ryan ended up like that. Did you find out anything from the Henry’s skipper?"

"I did," the admiral replied. "Have a seat, Commander."

Harm took the chair, waiting, but the admiral seemed hesitant. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Two years ago, I received a file from the Henry’s shipboard JAG. It described some serious problems developing with one of the aviators."

"Cdr. Taylor," Harm supplied.

"That’s right," the admiral confirmed. "There were some discipline problems, minor issues with over-indulgence on liberty, and the like, but these escalated until he was close to losing his flight status."

Harm frowned, a part of him not wanting to hear the rest, but the part of him that still felt connected to Ryan demanded more. "Did he provide any explanation?"

"Not on his own, but the skipper didn’t want to give up on him. He ordered a psych evaluation."

Harm almost groaned. He’d been through an eval. and knew how Ryan would have reacted to the prodding questions, especially if something really was bothering him.

"The results showed Cdr. Taylor was facing a total burn-out. He’d been on more combat missions than any pilot in the battlegroup. The evaluation showed he was having some problems dealing with the...consequences of those missions."

Harm’s heart squeezed in his chest. he’d seen it before. Some combat pilots ended up haunted by the faces and names of people they’d never met, never even seen, but who were dead because of a simple flick of the pilot’s thumb. He’d had a few nightmares like that himself.

By the time Harm left the admiral’s office, he had a pretty clear picture of what had gone wrong in Ryan’s life. What no one could tell him was why. Why had Ryan succumbed to the horrors every aviator faced? Harm had received the same training Ryan had, performed the same duties, flown the same types of missions. If it hadn’t been for the crash that cut short his aviation career, Harm probably would have flown more missions by now that Ryan had.

Why had Ryan been eaten alive by the actions his career demanded of him when Harm had not? Did that fact speak more of Ryan’s weakness, or his own? These questions, and others, haunted Harm throughout the day and followed him home that night to an apartment that suddenly felt very empty.

Restless and not wanting to admit why, Harm prowled the apartment, examining small mementos of the high points in his life – and a few reminders of the low points, too. His law degree, framed and hung on the wall, the photo of his father sitting on the shelf right below it. He looked around the room and saw bits of himself everywhere. What had he seen in that dingy Phoenix apartment that had been a piece of Ryan, besides the beer bottles and an ashtray full of spent marijuana joints?

JAG HQ – 13:00 EST Three days later

Mac was worried about Harm. Ever since he got back from Phoenix, he’d been steadily withdrawing from everything and everyone around him. Mac knew what it was like to lose a friend. She knew it was normal to be down and depressed for a while afterward. She also knew Harm.

He’d lost friends before, sometimes in some pretty horrible ways, but nothing, not even Jordan’s murder, had affected him this way. She tried to talk to him about it, but he’d shut her down every time. If she pushed a little harder, he simply left the room. Harm had a bad habit of dealing with things by not dealing with them, but this time he was taking it to the extreme.

Harm’s office door was closed, as it had been so much of the time lately, but she could see him through the window. His chair was turned so that he faced the far wall. Even in profile, the grief and sorrow in his expression were painfully obvious. Her heart aching for him and what he must be going through, she moved to the door and knocked softly. He didn’t respond, didn’t so much as blink. She knocked again, a little louder, and he finally stirred. Swinging his chair around abruptly, he called out admittance.

Mac shoved the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. "Hi."

"Mac, I’m a little busy right now. Can whatever it is wait?"

"Like hell you’re busy," she snapped, hating the way he could close himself off from the whole world. "You were sitting in here staring at the wall."

"I was thinking!" he declared defensively. "What are you doing, spying on me?"

"Only because I care," she said softly. "Harm, I’m worried about you."

He heaved a sigh. "Don’t be. I’m okay, or at least, I will be. Ryan’s death hit me kind of hard, that’s all."

"I know it did." She drew a chair up close to the desk and sat down. "What I want to know is why, or rather, what you need to know is why. His death hit you a lot harder than other tragedies have and I think you need to look at the reason for that."

"Oh, I know the reason," he told her.

"Care to share?" she asked gently.

"No. Not here anyway. When we...scattered his ashes, I promised you I’d tell you about him, and I still want to, but not here. Let’s meet for a drink after work."

"All right. Benzinger’s?"

"No. We’ll probably run into half the staff in there. Let’s make it somewhere else."

"Name the place and I’ll be there," she said quickly.

"I can’t think of anywhere right now. How about we meet in the parking lot and we’ll go in one car. We can decide on a place then."

"Deal."

RINGER’S PUB – 17:30 EST

Harm picked up a beer for himself and a soda for Mac from the bar and carried them to the table she’d secured near the back wall. The place was filling up fast, but it wasn’t overly noisy. It would be a good place to talk.

He handed Mac her glass as he sat down and took a slug from his beer, letting the cool, tangy liquid wash away the dryness in his throat. He promised Mac he’d tell her about Ryan, but should he tell her about the Ryan he knew or the stranger whose life he’d walked in on in that dark, dingy apartment in Phoenix? That was a man he didn’t know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Abruptly, he turned to Mac. "I knew Ryan was a loner from the day I first laid eyes on him."

He spent the next hour telling her about Ryan, about their sometimes-not-so-friendly competitiveness during flight training, about the camaraderie that developed in spite of it. He told her about the serious young man who wanted nothing more out of life than a seat in a cockpit, the occasional beer to take the edge off and a rack to pile into when it was all over. "Ryan often said the only place he felt at home was in the air."

"So that’s why you scattered his ashes the way you did. That was your way of keeping up the bargain to ‘take him home’."

He nodded. "Ryan was originally from the west, Oregon I think, but he didn’t have any family or ties there anymore. He wouldn’t have thought of it as home."

"Harm, when are you going to tell me how he died?"

With effort, he met her gaze, seeing no morbid curiosity, only a deep concern. He took another pull on his beer, but then his gaze sought hers again. "He killed himself."

Mac winced, but she didn’t look overly surprised. "I assumed it was something like that," she said softly.

"How? How did you know?"

"Because you’re so upset. You said he died in a way no man should have to, especially not one as proud as he was. I got the feeling it was something like suicide. If he was such a proud man, what happened? Did you ever find out why he left the navy?"

"Yeah, I did." He told her the story he’d learned from Admiral Chegwidden. "He crashed and burned, Mac. Not in a jet, but it was just as fatal. I’ve seen it happen before, but I never thought it would happen to Ryan."

"What is ‘it’?" she asked. "You sound like you’re talking about something specific."

"I am. Aviators are a different kind of warrior, Mac. Unlike infantry and a lot of other ground troops, we never see the people we kill. We’re usually hundreds or thousands of feet above the ground, wrapped in our own private little bubbles. We lock on, punch a button and go home. Then we get up tomorrow and do it all over again. Some pilots have trouble living with the sterile way we do our jobs. If you don’t find a way to deal with it, it will eat you alive."

"So how do you?" she said so softly. "How do you deal with it?"

He shrugged. "I don’t have to, not anymore. When I was flying, and I had to live with it every day, I just kept reminding myself that the targets I was hitting were carefully chosen and represented a clear threat to American or allied troops." He banged his empty bottle on the table. "Listen to me! I sound like a politician justifying himself in front of a press conference!"

"No you don’t!" she protested.

He gave a snort. "You know what I do sound like? A lawyer. That would be one hell of an opening statement in the courtroom."

"Harm, you don’t have to defend yourself, to the press or in court. You’re right. The missions you flew were against well defined targets."

He looked her in the eye. "Mac, do you know how many people you’ve killed? Can you quote a number?"

She hesitated, glancing at the nearly untouched soda in her hand. "Yes," she said finally.

"I can’t. I have no idea what the actual total is. I can tell you the number of targets I’ve destroyed, but sometimes the destruction was so complete, no one will ever know how many people were inside. No one can tell me for absolute certain that there was never an innocent kid in the wrong place at the wrong time, or some old man just looking for a place out of the cold."

Mac’s dark, expressive eyes filled with compassion. "Harm, you—"

"I had to find a way to live with that, and I did. Ryan couldn’t, and it eventually killed him, so who’s the bigger monster here, him for taking what we call the coward’s way out, or me for not needing to?"

She reached across the table and gripped his arm, hard. "No one is a monster. We chose to make a career out of defending our country. Sometimes that asks some pretty ugly things of us, and we have to find a way to live with that, to make some peace for ourselves."

Harm gazed at her for a moment. "When you spend your whole life preparing for war, how do you find peace?"

Mac met his gaze, wishing desperately for some magic answer to his question, but there wasn’t one. All she could do was be here, listen, and offer what support she could. It was something she’d learned a long time ago. You couldn’t show anyone else how to find peace, because the road there was different for every person.

She picked up Harm’s empty bottle and her warm soda. "Next round’s on me."

ADMIRAL CHEGWIDDEN’S HOME – 00:32 EST

AJ rolled over on his back when the phone rang, his stomach automatically clenching into a painful knot. The ringing of the phone in the stillness of night never brought good news. It rang a second time and he reached over to snag the cordless off the bedside table. "Chegwidden."

Less than five minutes later, he was on his way out the front door. Why in the hell couldn’t the police officers in this country learn to provide a complete report? One of his "guys" was in an accident. Which "guy"? Uh, a Cdr. Harmon Rabb. Was he badly hurt? No idea, paramedics are working on him now. AJ rolled his eyes as he climbed into his car. If he wasn’t so worried about Harm, he’d be thinking up ways to teach the damned cops how to file a decent report.

He made it to the accident scene in record time, but had to park nearly two blocks away, thanks to the emergency vehicles strewn around the site like an abandoned caravan. As he approached the scene, he realized why the vehicles appeared abandoned. The personnel were all up to their sixes in dealing with one of the most horrific accidents AJ had ever seen.

The car was upside down, hard up against a tree and fully engulfed in flames. Wreckage and bits of debris were spread over an area the size close to the entire second floor of the JAG HQ building. Off to his left, so far from the car he didn’t see them for a moment, a group of EMS technicians were working frantically over a figure lying on the ground. AJ headed in that direction.

Before he could reach the EMS people, a man stepped forward, stopping him with a raised hand. "Admiral Chegwidden?"

"Yes," he replied, looking past the man. "Who are you?"

"Detective Larsen. I’m the one who called you."

"Is Cdr. Rabb seriously hurt?" AJ asked again.

"It doesn’t look like it, but he’s out like a light." The detective put a hand on AJ’s arm, demanding his attention. "Sir, do you have any idea who he might have had in the car with him."

AJ was struck instantly by how strange the question was. A sinking feeling slithered into his gut. "Why?"

"There’s another victim...still in the car."

AJ whirled, staring in horror at the blazing hulk that was once a car. Somewhere in that inferno was a person – or what was left of a person – and with sickening certainty, AJ knew who it was.

Harm awoke slowly, swimming up through a thick heavy fog that was completely unnatural. He finally managed to force his eyes open, struggling to focus on the figure above him. It eventually resolved itself into Admiral Chegwidden. Sir...what...happened?"

"Take it easy. You were in a car accident."

Harm struggled to take that in. "I...don’t remember anything about it."

"Well, you’d better try, Commander. When you were brought in here last night, your blood alcohol level was more than twice the legal limit."

Harm felt as though he’s been slugged in the gut. "Then I’m facing disciplinary action?"

"It’s worse than that. You’re facing a general court-martial." The admiral’s face dissolved into a combination of emotions Harm had never seen before. "Col. MacKenzie was killed in the accident."

In that instant, Harm simply shut down. It was either that or go completely insane. In the one tiny part of his mind that was still functioning, a single thought seared all others away, repeating over and over in an endless, haunting loop. He’d killed Mac. He’d killed Mac.

WASHINGTON HOSPITAL CENTER – 09:31 EST

AJ left the hospital room a few minutes later. He hadn’t been able to get anything at all out of Rabb after telling him about the colonel, not even an acknowledgement. He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. He was only trying to impress upon Harm how important it was that he remember what happened. AJ didn’t believe for a minute that Rabb had climbed behind the wheel plastered and rolled his car, but at the moment, all the evidence was pointing that way. Mac’s tragic loss was more than enough to handle. They didn’t need to lose Harm too.

He decided to give Harm a few minutes to adjust to the shock. Heaven knows they all were still trying to do that. He made a couple of phone calls then went down to the cafeteria and grabbed a cup of coffee. The stuff tasted like mud, but he honestly didn’t know if it was really bad coffee or if it was just that his taste buds were as dull as the rest of him.

When he returned to the room, Rabb was still lying exactly as AJ left him, on his back, but with his face toward the wall. AJ approached the bed. He knew Harm was awake, but he refused to even open his eyes. "Commander? Harm?"

Nothing.

AJ took a deep breath, steeling himself and slipping into command mode. "Cdr. Rabb, look at me."

Very slowly, Harm turned to him with eyes that were completely empty.

"Look, son, I know this is one hell of a shock, but you’ve got to get a grip," AJ encouraged.

"Is there...any doubt?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"No," AJ replied gently. "We received dental record confirmation this morning. There were only a few teeth left, but enough for a positive identification."

Harm’s expression clouded with confusion and AJ realized he hadn’t given him the whole story. Oh Lord, this was going to be hard. He took another deep breath. "The car...burned...with her in it."

Harm’s eyes squeezed shut, a single tear slipping through to trail slowly down his temple. He was silent a long time, and then, without opening his eyes he whispered, "I don’t remember anything beyond going out for a drink with her last night. She wanted to talk...about Ryan and why his...death was hitting so hard." His eyes flew open suddenly. "Admiral, do you think...did I...?"

"I don’t know," AJ admitted, "but the evidence is pretty compelling. It was your car, she was found in the passenger seat, and your blood alcohol level was almost twice the legal limit. If you hadn’t been thrown out of the car, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Unless you can remember some details, defense is going to be damned tough."

"No," Harm said flatly, turning again toward the wall. "No defense."

AJ’s frown deepened. "What do you mean no defense?"

"I’m pleading guilty."

"Now wait a minute. I know you feel responsible but—"

Harm’s head snapped in AJ’s direction, his eyes filling with an agony deeper than AJ had ever seen. "I am responsible! For Christ sake, I killed her! I killed Mac!"

He rolled over this time, completely shutting out the world. AJ tried for several minutes to talk to him, to convince him not to go the route he planned, but he couldn’t get a thing from him. It was like talking to a wall.

He finally left the room, hoping time would take the edge off Harm’s grief and guilt and help him see he could choose another course. He drove back to the office, hating that he would have to deliver yet another blow to his already stunned staff. When he arrived, he asked Tiner to send in Lt. Roberts and Cdr. Turner.

They arrived a few moments later and AJ waved them both to a seat. He came around the desk, parking a hip on the corner and folding his arms across his chest. "Cdr. Rabb is taking full responsibility for the accident, even though he can’t remember anything about it.. He’s planning to plead guilty to any charges arising." He watched the wavering expressions on both men’s faces as they struggled to absorb this latest impact. "I’m going to talk to him again a little later, but I doubt it will do any good. The guilt is tearing him apart."

"But sir," Roberts said finally. "Cdr. Rabb would never drive drunk. We all know that."

AJ shoved off the desk. "Then find me some evidence to prove it!"

Lt. Bud Roberts left the admiral’s office a few minutes later, his head still reeling. Harriet saw him coming and, ignoring protocol, leapt up and hurried to him, catching his arm. His throat was suddenly as dry as dust. "Uh, the admiral just told us Cdr. Rabb is going to plead guilty."

Harriet’s wide, beautiful eyes filled with tears for what seemed like the fiftieth time since they first got the news. "What...what will the charges be?"

Bud’s gaze hit the floor. Sometimes he hated knowing the law as well as he did. "Drunk driving, of course, but..."

"But what?" she breathed.

Bud took a huge breath and forced the words out. "They’ll probably charge him with involuntary manslaughter as well."

Her grip on his arm tightened painfully. Instinctively, they both looked toward the far wall to the now empty offices, where for years, they had watched the interplay between their two favorite officers. With a cold, desperate certainty, Bud realized the lives of everyone at JAG had been changed forever.

WASHINGTON HOSPITAL CENTER 15:12 EST

Someone had raised the head of the bed for him. So he could look outside, they said. He didn’t want to look outside, didn’t want to watch the sun move across the sky, marking the passage of the world’s first day without Mac in it. So he kept his eyes turned away. He tried closing them, but that brought only memories, as bold and vivid as Mac herself. He recalled every smile she’d ever given him, every tear she’d ever cried for him. Why couldn’t he cry for her? The one or two tears that had slipped from his eyes didn’t begin to measure huge gaping hole in his life. He wished for tears, prayed for them, needing something to wash the bitter acid of grief away, but they wouldn’t come.

The door opened and the admiral came in. Harm wanted to turn away from him, too, but there were only so many directions a person could turn and all of them held the same thing, the stark reality that he’d done something he had condemned other people for, sometimes literally, and it cost him the most precious thing in his life.

Admiral Chegwidden crossed to the bed. When he looked down at Harm, there was no condemnation in his eyes, no disgust or contempt. But there should have been. Harm switched his gaze to the wall across from the end of the bed.

"Commander, we need to talk. I know you’re in shock right now, and I know you feel guilty, but you’ve got to pull it together," the admiral told him. "I’m not being given any latitude on this at all. I’ve been ordered to charge you with everything I can." He paused, letting out a hard sigh. "That includes involuntary manslaughter."

So what? Involuntary manslaughter didn’t permit the death penalty, and even if it did, his own death wouldn’t begin to repay the loss of Mac’s. Only trading places with her would do that and so far, God hadn’t seen fit to grant him that.

"Damn it, man, snap out of it!" the admiral snarled. "You can’t just sit there and offer no defense, no explanation for what really happened!"

"Admiral," Harm whispered hoarsely, "I don’t have a defense and I don’t remember what happened. Like everyone else, all I have is the evidence in front of me."

"So you’re just going to cave in and accept whatever the court hands you?"

Why not? There was no possible way it could ever be enough. He didn’t care what happened to him now. There was nothing left to say or do, no way to change the past. There was nothing left of his life but the hollow echo of his own empty soul.

JAG HQ – 14:20 EST Two weeks later

Bud couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept it. There was nothing he could do about Col. MacKenzie except grieve, but he couldn’t just sit by and watch Cdr. Rabb’s career, his entire life, go down the tubes. The admiral had tried talking to him more than once, but he wouldn’t change his mind. He was determined to enter a guilty plea and accept whatever sentence was handed down. After his last trip to the lockup, the admiral had ordered everyone to abide by the commander’s wishes, but Bud just couldn’t let it go.

He’d learned a lot from the commander and the colonel over the years, not the least of which was to follow his instincts and his instincts were telling him something wasn’t right.

Deep in thought, he nearly went through the ceiling when someone knocked on his office door. He looked up to find Harriet, gazing at him with that worried look of hers. "You’re frowning," she observed.

He hadn’t done much besides frown the past few weeks, but he didn’t bother mentioning that because the same could be said for Harriet, not to mention the rest of the JAG staff. Instead, he waved her into the room. "I was just thinking about Cdr. Rabb."

"I figured you were," she said softly.

"Things just don’t add up," he insisted. "I don’t care what anybody says, I don’t think the commander was driving that night!"

"Bud, the admiral told you to let it rest," she warned.

"I know, but I can’t. Look, first, there’s the commander’s character. Everyone in this office can attest that he’s always been responsible. We’ve seen him opt for a cab or accept a ride after he’s been drinking, and even if, by some miracle, he did try to drive that night, do you think Col. MacKenzie would have ridden with him? She had better sense than that."

"Unless Cdr. Rabb starts to remember what happened that night, we’ll never know why she might have gotten into the car with him," Harriet pointed out.

"Cdr. Rabb will probably never remember the accident, or the time right before it. Traumatic amnesia is very common. But even the objective facts don’t tally, Harriet. If Cdr. Rabb had worn his seatbelt that night, he’d have been trapped in the car, too. Have you ever seen the commander not wear his seatbelt?"

"But if he was drunk..."

"Which goes back to my first point!" He threw his pen down with a sound that was halfway between a groan and a growl. "I keep going around and around, and I never end up the same place the police did."

"Maybe that’s because you don’t want to," she said very softly.

Bud gave her a look that asked for more credit than she was giving him. "Harriet, I may have a preference for the outcome, but I know how to look at facts objectively. Hell, I learned it from the colonel and the commander! They taught me a long time ago to put my own feelings aside and look at things objectively, and objectively, this case stinks!"

"So what are you going to do?" she asked.

"I’m going to do what I was taught to do, follow my instincts."

"But the admiral—"

"The admiral told me to find him some evidence that Cdr. Rabb didn’t cause this accident, and that’s what I’m going to do!" He shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "I’m going to follow through on this, Harriet. I owe it to the commander – and the colonel. Do you think she would have wanted him to sacrifice his whole life like this?"

"No," she replied quietly. "I don’t."

"Neither do I."

RINGER’S PUB – 13:15 EST

Bud walked up to the bar and waited till the bartender came over. "I’m looking for Thomas Olsen."

"That’s me," the man replied cautiously.

"I’m Lt. Roberts, from the Navy’s Judge Advocate General Corps. I’d like to ask you a few questions."

"Is this about that accident a couple of weeks ago? I already told the police everything I know."

"I’ve read the police report," Bud told him, "but I’d like to hear it from you."

"I’ve got work to do," Olsen protested.

The man’s reluctance instantly put Bud’s sixth sense on alert, but he maintained a friendly attitude. "It will only take a minute."

The bartender rolled his eyes. "Whaddya want to know?"

Bud smiled at him, as though he was really helping him out. "You told the police you served Cdr. Rabb the night of the accident. How many drinks did he have?"

"Five or six."

"Really? The police report says you told them seven or eight."

"Six, eight, what’s the difference. The guy was plastered when they went out of here. ‘Sides, if you already know, why are you asking me?"

Bud ignored the question. "What about the woman who was with him?"

"Naw, she only had soda."

"So, did you see them outside the bar. Did you actually see which of them got in to the car on the driver’s side?"

"What, you figure I followed them? Mister, I got better things to do than tag around after every couple that has a lover’s spat."

Olsen’s words caught Bud off guard. "What do you mean a lover’s spat?"

"I mean a spat. They weren’t exactly on the best of terms when they went outta here, if you know what I mean. He tried to leave, but she jumped up and ran after him. I remember that because she bumped into one of the waitresses and damn near spilled a tray of drinks."

"I see." Bud tucked this information away, needing to pick it a part later to decide what it might mean. "Well, thank you for your time."

As he left the bar, Bud realized he had just uncovered more evidence that could be used to support the drunk driving theory. If Cdr. Rabb and Col. MacKenzie had a disagreement and he got up a head of steam, it might have clouded his judgment. He wasn’t expecting this and now he had to decide what to do with it.

He put the thoughts aside for now, concentrating on Olsen’s nervousness and reluctance. Bud was convinced the man knew more than he was telling and he had a feeling whatever it was would be in Cdr. Rabb’s favor. Olsen didn’t seem to have any trouble giving damning information.

Bud added this to his growing list of inconsistencies. The problem was, it didn’t matter how long that list got, he needed more. He something concrete that would prove Cdr. Rabb wasn’t behind the wheel that night, but he was running out of time. In just a few days, the commander would be making his first court appearance, and if Bud couldn’t find something between now and then, Cdr. Rabb would plead guilty and that would be the end of it.

Bud shook his head sadly. The burden of proof was supposed to be on the prosecution. He wasn’t used to trying to prove innocence, and he’d certainly never had to work this hard to convince the accused.

SECURE BARRACKS – 08:34 EST One week later

Harm sat on his rack, waiting. In a few minutes, the guards would be arriving to transport him to court. It would be his first time outside since they transferred him here from the hospital. The guards all joked about needing a shoehorn to even get him out of his cell, but the fact was, Harm didn’t give a damn where he was.

From the moment he awoke in the hospital and looked into the devastated eyes of his CO, Harm had tried to remember the events of that night, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t remember anything past sitting down for a drink with Mac. He remembered talking about Ryan, about the guilt some pilots felt over killing in such an impersonal, antiseptic way. That kind of guilt trailed away like useless engine smoke in the face of the pain he felt now.

He heard the now familiar rattle of the door that led into this cellblock but didn’t bother to look up. It wasn’t a surprise when someone stopped at the door to his cell, but the voice that spoke came as a complete shock.

"Commander Rabb?"

Harm dragged his gaze off the floor and looked up at Bud Roberts. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you before your court appearance."

"Why?"

"To try and convince you not to plead guilty, sir."

Harm heaved a weary sigh. "Save your breath, Bud."

"But sir, I don’t think there’s enough evidence to prove your guilt."

"There’s enough to prove it to me," he replied, "and if I plead guilty, they don’t have to prove anything." He turned away. "Go back to work, Bud. Go find a client who wants to be saved."

"No."

Harm turned back quickly. The expression in Bud’s eyes was hard and determined. Harm met that gaze, expecting Bud to back down. "What did you say?"

"I said no. You may have given up, sir, but I haven’t."

Harm heaved another sigh. "Look Bud, I appreciate your confidence, but it’s misdirected this time."

"With all due respect, sir, that’s your guilt talking."

"Probably," Harm admitted, surprising himself just a little. "But this is my business."

Bud gazed at him for a moment. "That, sir, is the most selfish approach I’ve ever seen you take."

Harm stared at Bud, wondering where this new pit-bull attitude was coming from. His words stung and Harm wasn’t quite sure why. "It’s not selfish, Bud. I’m doing what’s right."

"At least let me represent you at the sentencing hearing. We can argue mitigating circumstances."

Harm came off the rack in a rush, lunging forward so abruptly Bud took a reflexive step backward. "What mitigating circumstances? It was my car, I was driving, and I was drunk! What the hell could mitigate that!"

Bud swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand up to a man he had respected from the moment they met. "We all know how much the death of Cdr. Taylor upset you. You were depressed. We might be able to argue—"

Cdr. Rabb made another lunge forward, actually crashing into the bars that separated them. For the first time since all this began, Bud saw a spark of life in his eyes, but that spark blazed with an almost violent intensity. "You will not make excuses for me, Lieutenant!"

"You’re right, I won’t," Bud replied, his tone low and hard. "I shouldn’t need to, sir, because I don’t believe you were driving that night, and if you’d drag that sorry six of yours up out of the pool of guilt you’re wallowing in, you might not believe it either."

Bud turned on his heel and strode away. Inside, he was trembling with anger, grief and maybe even a little bit of fear. He’d already lost one friend and mentor. When the gavel dropped in that courtroom later today, he would lose another.

Harm watched Bud go, struck by the drastic change in him. He’d called Harm selfish and for the first time, he was forced to admit that maybe he was being selfish in a way, but what the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t responsible, hiding behind a flimsy string of conjecture to avoid the consequences of his actions. Throughout his legal career, he’d always hated that kind of defendant, and he be damned if he’d turn into one because it suited his purposes.

He didn’t have much time to think about it. A moment later, the guards arrived to transport him to court. When asked, he turned around and felt the handcuffs snap into place around his wrists. He’d made the trip from these barracks to JAG HQ more times than he could count, but this time, it would be in the back of an armored van.

JAG HQ – 11:00 EST

As Harm was led into the courtroom, he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, but the peripheral vision that had served him so well as a pilot meant he was still aware of the large group of friends seated in the gallery. The whole damn JAG staff seemed to be here. Why the hell couldn’t they stay away? Admitting his guilt in front of all of them would only complete his disgrace.

He couldn’t help firing a quick glance toward the prosecution table and instantly wished he hadn’t. The admiral himself sat there. What the hell was going on? Admiral Chegwidden knew he intended to plead guilty. Why would he represent the government himself?

The court session got underway with a reading of the charges. Harm listened as the list was read out. He could think of a few more to add, charges he would have pressed if he’d been the prosecutor. That almost made him laugh. In a way, he was the prosecutor.

And then came the words he’d been expecting, and dreading. The judge turned to him. "How does the defendant plead?"

Harm swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat. Coming to attention, he took a deep breath. "Guilty, your honor."

Her lips pursed tight, the judge reached for the gavel. "Very well, we—"

Admiral Chegwidden was on his feet. "Your Honor, the government does not accept the plea of guilty."

Harm turned slowly to stare at the admiral. What in God’s name was he trying to do? The admiral knew how Harm felt about this!

"And why not?" the judge asked.

"We don’t feel there has been adequate exposure of the events surrounding Col. MacKenzie’s death," the admiral replied.

"Oh, does the government feel there was criminal intent, then?"

"No," Chegwidden replied quickly, "but there are still discrepancies, your honor."

She shook her head. "There are often discrepancies, Admiral. Unless the government wishes to contend that the charges to which the defendant has pled are insufficient, I see no reason to disallow his plea."

All eyes turned to the admiral. AJ felt each and every gaze, boring into him from every angle. He could say yes, arguing for stiffer charges in the hopes that Rabb’s suddenly dormant self-preservation instincts would kick in, but what if they didn’t? He could plead to the greater charges and then they’d be in a worse mess than they were now. It was too great a risk. "No, your honor. The government doesn’t wish to seek further charges."

"Then the plea is accepted. A sentencing hearing will be convened one week from today."

The gavel dropped and AJ slowly slid into his chair. He hadn’t really thought his tactic would work, but he had to try. He glanced toward Harm as he was led away, trying very hard not to hate the man for putting him in this position. His staff was in shambles, the caseload scattered from one end of the building to the other as they scrambled to fill not one but two yawning holes in the fabric of their world. His own life had been one long hell since all of this began. Losing the colonel was a devastating blow, but watching another of his officers systematically destroying himself was, in some ways, even harder.

He couldn’t help drawing a parallel between Rabb and his friend, Cdr. Taylor. Now perhaps Harm understood how guilt could drive a man to do something he’d never thought himself capable of.

Harm was drowning. His mouth and nose were filling with water and someone was holding him down, holding him beneath a never-ending flow that poured over his face. He couldn’t breathe. Coughing and choking, he swallowed gulp after gulp in a desperate attempt to clear his airway long enough for a single breath.

At first, he thought he was back in the rough Atlantic Ocean, battling the seas after dumping the Tomcat, but it didn’t feel right. He wasn’t floating, he was on hard ground. The rough, graveled surface dug into his back and shoulders as someone held him there, a knee across his chest.

And then, magically, he was free. He wasn’t just unrestrained, he was floating, drifting through the air to land lightly behind the steering wheel of his car. Mac was there beside him, smiling at him, her dark eyes glowing in the pale beam of a streetlight.

Feeling giddy and silly, he leaned across the space between them and kissed her. It was a quick, impulsive act but he hadn’t counted on her response. He expected her to return the kiss in a platonic way, then move back, but she didn’t. Instead, she slid her hand behind his neck and drew him to her, her lips opening beneath his.

Their tongues dueled, tangling, retreating, then thrusting forward again until his breath was coming in gasps. So was hers as she finally drew back, her breasts rising and falling in a ragged rhythm. "Take me home," she whispered. The look in her eyes was unmistakable. She wanted him and this time, nothing was going to get in their way.

He reached for his keys, but when his hand came up from the seat, there was something heavy in it, something impossible but still very real. It was a gun, a gun shaped like a whiskey bottle. He made a move to throw it away, but his hand wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of releasing the strange weapon, his hand pointed it straight at Mac. The passion in her eyes evaporated, replaced by fear. "Harm, what are you doing?"

Powerless to stop it, Harm watched helplessly as his thumb cocked the weapon.

"Harm, no! No, don’t!"

At point blank range, he pulled the trigger.

With a strangled shout, Harm came up off his rack, tangling in the blanket and almost falling.

"Shaddap!" someone hollered from outside the cell.

The cell. He was in his cell, not his car. He sank back onto the bed as reality slowly replaced the nightmare. But reality was a nightmare. Here, just as in his dream, Mac was dead, and he was the one who killed her. The horrible irony of it washed over him again. Mac had fought a long and hard battle with alcohol, but she’d won. She’d beaten her demon, but in the end, it won anyway. Alcohol had killed her, and used him to do it.

JAG HQ – 22:35 EST

Buried under a mountain of open files, reference books and scraps of paper covered in scribbled notes, Bud pored over every last bit of documentation. The computer file open on his screen contained a list of the inconsistencies and niggling details that refused to leave him alone. There had to be something he was missing, some small piece that would make the whole puzzle suddenly make sense.

Order from chaos. He’d done it before on other complex cases that, on the face of it, didn’t make sense. Why couldn’t he see through the fog this time? Groaning, he rubbed his eyes to clear the grit accumulating there and reached for the next file on the stack. He glanced at the label and froze. It was the one file he hadn’t been able to force himself to open yet: Col. MacKenzie’s autopsy record.

He leaned back in his chair and slowly opened the file. Struggling to maintain the emotional distance he needed to keep the words in focus, he read through the file. Identification was made based on dental records. Three teeth provided matching reference points. Bud lowered the file to his lap, gazing unseeingly at the wall across the room.

Three teeth. Three small chunks of enamel. The forensic odeontologist was confident in his identification, stating the miniscule odds of any other person having the same dentition, but somehow, three small teeth seemed like such a paltry summation of all that Col. MacKenzie was.

Closing the file, Bud laid it carefully on the desk. He’d been at it nonstop all evening and his mind was clouding over with fatigue and hunger. Reluctantly, he saved the computer file and shut down the program. There was no sense beating his head against a brick wall he was too tired to see clearly. Tomorrow was another day. There was something here, he was sure of it. Maybe tomorrow, he’d find it.

But he didn’t. Nor did he find the next day, or the next. Bud was beginning to feel like a fence post, being slowly, inexorably hammered into the ground. The day of Cdr. Rabb’s sentencing crept ever closer and Bud still couldn’t find anything to help the commander. Not that he wanted any help. He still adamantly refused any attempts to act on his behalf.

When the day of the sentencing hearing arrived, Bud joined the rest of his colleagues in the courtroom gallery. Cdr. Rabb was led in, wearing the drab coveralls issued to prisoners at the secured barracks. He refused to look at anyone in the room, turning his back as he took his place at the defendant’s table.

Unexpectedly, Bud was hit with a wave of anger. He had been busting his hump to help the commander, and all he got for his trouble was a cold snub. Everyone in the courtroom, the judge included, had tried to do what they could, but he wouldn’t accept help from anyone. Bud had seen the commander sink his talons into a case and refuse to let go, no matter how slim the odds. Where was that fighting spirit now, when he needed it the most?

But the anger didn’t last. Bud had tried to put himself in the commander’s shoes, imagining how he would feel if he’d caused the death of someone as close to him as the colonel was to Harm. If he honestly felt he was responsible, Bud wouldn’t have been able to live with himself.

Bud yanked himself out of his reverie as the sentence was being read. He saw Cdr. Rabb flinch as the gavel fell, saw the admiral drag in a long breath, his eyes closing. Beside him, Harriet gripped his hand so hard it hurt.

It was over. Cdr. Rabb would have the next twenty years to relive the horror. As he rose to his feet, Bud had the strangest feeling they’d all received the same sentence.

Continued with "The Dawn's Mourning Light"