Disclaimer: The standard disclaimers apply. JAG is owned by Bellisarius Productions and Paramount. I do not profit from borrowing any of these characters.
Spoilers: Anything is fair game. In my head, the story takes place sometime during the current season (S8) but could probably fit anywhere.
Author Notes: This story began with a conversation I had with my brother, a professional firefighter, while we were standing in front of the temporary Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, PA. We were, quite naturally, talking about heroism and he told me he thought the heroes of 9-11 weren't the emergency workers killed, since they were fulfilling their duty, but the passengers who chose to fight the hijackers on Flight 93. It unnerved me to hear him talk about putting his life in danger so nonchalantly, but his take on duty versus heroism intrigued me. I wanted to explore the idea, using Mac and Harm, but in fiction, away from the obvious emotion of 9-11. I don't know if I succeeded, but I hope you like the story anyway. It's my second JAG fanfiction, so I expect it to be susceptible to "sophomore jinx" but I hope it's not too painful. I took the title from the quote on the back of a T-shirt I bought at the National Law Enforcement Memorial in DC. "In Valor There is Hope."
I dedicate this story to my brother and thousands of others like him who may someday pay the ultimate price for "doing their jobs".
Feedback, both negative and positive is appreciated. The story is archived in the usual places: Ex Libris, Between the Lines and the Jagnik Fanfic Central Archive.
Oh yeah, many thanks to my Beta reader, AG, who finds all the mistakes.
Day 1
0415 zulu
Georgetown University Medical Center
She was sitting on the edge of a gurney, her throbbing left arm cradled protectively in her right, her upper body rocking slowly back and forth and her legs swinging gently in tempo with her heartbeat. The hospital issue blanket draped over her shoulders did nothing to diminish her trembling, whether from pain or fear or anger or all three, she wasn't sure. She felt herself withdrawing from the chaos of the busy ER, trying to get control of herself before she fell apart completely. She jumped and gave a sharp gasp of surprise and pain when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Mac?" he asked, his tone loaded with unasked questions.
She turned to look at him and quickly averted her gaze, the concern on his face threatening to destroy what little control she had.
"I'm ok," she mumbled staring into space.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, his gaze sweeping from her rapidly blackening eye, to the bloody bandage on her knee and her obviously broken arm.
"I'm ok," she repeated more forcefully.
He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him, "Then look at me."
Reluctantly, she raised her eyes, knowing they would be filled with tears of pain and frustration. She cleared her throat and swallowed before speaking again. When she spoke she was relieved to hear that her voice was strong and clear, her Marine persona tacked rapidly back into place. "I'm ok, Harm, just some bruises and probably a broken wrist..."
"What..." he interrupted.
She cut him off. "I know you want to know what happened but I haven't given my statement to the police yet. I'd really rather not have to tell the story twice." She hoped her tone conveyed that there would be no further discussion.
"Ok," he relented, "I can wait. Have you seen a doctor yet?"
She sighed, "Yeah, I'm just waiting for somebody to read the X-rays." She shrugged. "They're pretty busy."
As if on cue, the curtain opened and a young woman in green scrubs entered the cubicle. "Colonel?" she asked.
0615 zulu
An unused treatment room
Georgetown University Medical Center
Two hours later, Mac was sitting in a treatment room. Her pinky and ring fingers were splinted and wrapped together. The rest of her hand and her arm, to her elbow, were encased in fiberglass and suspended in a sling, protecting the broken bones in her hand and forearm. Her knee sported 5 stitches and her eye was swollen shut. If she had been honest with Harm and the doctors, she would have told them she felt like crap and that the police could wait until later for her statement, but she knew they needed the information she had. So there she was, sitting across the room from the sex-crimes detectives, waiting to answer their questions.
Detectives Tate and Winston, white, 50-ish men, wearing the dark suits seen so commonly on law-enforcement officers that they seemed like uniforms, sat across from her in hospital issue chairs. Harm, insisting that she might need legal representation despite her protests, stood behind her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. All of them sipped from Styrofoam cups of lukewarm hospital coffee.
One of the detectives, Winston, she thought, cleared his throat. "OK. Miss MacKenzie, you want to tell us what happened this morning?"
Despite her promise to herself to remain unemotional, Mac bristled, "It's Colonel MacKenzie," she snapped, emphasizing her rank. She took a couple of deep breaths, willing herself to calm down and then continued, "I'm at JAG Headquarters."
Tate muttered, "Great, a lawyer," but then continued in a more conversational tone, "Who's your friend?" gesturing toward Harm.
"Commander Harmon Rabb, also at JAG Headquarters. I'm a friend of the Colonel's, we work together. She called me when she got to the hospital this morning." Harm held out his hand, which both Tate and Winston shook.
"He your lawyer, Colonel?" Tate asked, his tone mildly accusing.
"Not specifically, but yes, he has acted as my attorney when necessary," Mac answered warily.
Winston nodded sympathetically. "Look, Colonel. We just want to find out what happened in the park. Tell us what you saw or heard. We just want to get this guy off the streets."
Mac sighed and took another sip of her coffee, grimacing. Time and cooling had not improved the taste. "I was jogging in the park, my usual route. As I rounded the old carousel I heard whimpering. I, I guess I thought it was an injured animal, so I went to investigate."
"You always jog that route, Colonel? At that time of day?" Tate interjected, suspiciously.
Mac forced herself not to take the bait, as she felt Harm gently squeeze her shoulder. The detectives were just doing their jobs, being skeptical just like she would be if the situations were reversed. "Not always. I have a number of different places I like to run. Usually I run earlier than 0-7 hundred but I slept in this morning."
"OK, what did you find when you went looking?" Winston asked gently.
"I followed the path around the restrooms and I saw a man struggling with a young woman. When I got closer, I realized that he had pinned her to the ground and had a knife at her throat. He was trying to undress her." She paused, waiting for some comment from either of her interrogators, but Winston simply nodded for her to continue.
Mac continued, quietly, unemotionally, simply telling the story. "When I realized what he was doing, I ran toward him. I tackled him and managed to disarm him. I tried to subdue him, but his size and his skills were more than I could handle. He backhanded me a couple of times and had me on the ground." Her voice cracked and she paused, pulling herself back together as Harm's gripped tightened on her shoulder almost painfully. She could feel the tension radiating from him. She took another sip of the awful coffee, giving herself a few extra seconds to regroup and then continued, "I heard some voices, other joggers I guess. They must have scared him off. He ran into the woods."
Tate was immediately on the offensive, "You took on an armed man…" but Winston cut him off.
"Did you get a good look at him?"
Mac stared at them. Good cop, bad cop. She and Harm had played this game. She took another sip of her coffee. "He was 6'1" or 2", 250; military haircut, blond or light brown. He was wearing a long navy or black trench coat, government issue and desert cammies." She took another sip of her coffee, replaying the incident in her mind's eye, when it hit her. "You know, he seemed almost familiar."
"You think you know the guy?" Tate asked scornfully, still the bad cop.
Mac sighed and looked down, examining her immobilized hand. "No," she said slowly, thinking out loud. She looked up at detective good cop. "Not him, but guys like him. I think he's military."
Tate snorted but Winston leaned forward encouragingly. "Why do you think that, Colonel? His clothes?"
Mac almost laughed out loud. They had the game down pat. "That, along with the haircut, but that's not all. His hand to hand skills were very good."
"So, he watches Chuck Norris movies and works out at some Dojo." Bad cop again.
Mac refused to rise to the bait. She wasn't a suspect, she wasn't going to act like one, no matter how guilty she felt that she had let him get away. "It was more than that. He anticipated my moves. He used standard moves to counteract them. He's well trained and it’s recent."
"OK. I think we got what we need. Do you think you could identify him if you saw him again, Colonel?"
Mac was surprised. Was the interview over? "Um, yeah. I got a good look at him. Do you want me to get with a sketch artist? Make a composite?"
Tate and Winston stood. Tate spoke, for the first time not in his bad cop role. "No Colonel, that won't be necessary. We have a suspect. We just don't have enough on him. At least we didn't until today. We'll pick him up and put together a line up. Maybe we can get him for this one."
"This one?" Harm asked.
"Yeah, he's a suspect in a series of rapes going back three years. We been trying to get him. Now maybe we can." He turned to Mac and offered his hand. "Thank you, Colonel, we'll be in touch." Mac shook his hand and Winston's, and the detectives left the room.
Mac sagged back into the chair. The adrenaline that had been keeping her going during the interview suddenly disappeared and she had no energy to even hold up her head. Harm came around the front of the chair and took her good hand in his.
"C'mon, let's get you home and onto the couch with your feet up."
Mac managed to raise her head to look at him. "No, I need to find out how she is."
"Who?"
"The girl, Harm. Mary. I need to check on her."
"We can call her from your apartment, Mac. You need to get home."
"No!" she protested, doing a feeble imitation of her best command voice. "I'm not going anywhere until I see her. I mean it, Harm."
"OK. You sit here and I'll find out what I can, alright?"
She nodded. "I'll be here."
Within a few minutes, Harm was back to inform Mac that Mary had been treated and released and had gone home with her parents. In just that few minutes while she waited, fatigue had wrapped itself around her until she couldn't even conjure up feelings of disappointment at not being able to see the girl or relief that she was not badly hurt. All she wanted was to crawl into bed, curl up into a ball and moan softly to herself. She didn't tell that to Harm, of course. She even refused to let him bring the car up to the door of the ER, preferring to walk across the parking lot rather than admit how much today had punished her.
Harm took her home and helped her up the stairs and into her apartment. He offered to help her get dressed and into bed, but she refused his help, insisting she was fine. He offered to make dinner but she begged off, claiming that she wasn't hungry. He offered to stay the night and she told him that wasn't necessary, she could take care of herself. As he persisted, searching for reasons to stay, she chased him out of the apartment. He promised, as she shooed him out the door that he would be back in the morning with breakfast.
After Harm left, she struggled to change into something more comfortable than her tattered jogging outfit. She longed for a shower, but couldn't figure out how she would do it without getting her cast wet, or falling and hurting herself even more. What she really needed was some sleep, she finally decided, even if it was only 1500.
The phone calls started as soon as Mac crawled into bed. At first they seemed innocent enough: a profusely apologetic young man who had dialed a wrong number and then a soft expletive followed by a hang up. The calls seemed timed perfectly; every time she fell asleep, the phone rang, but spaced 37 minutes apart she chalked it up to coincidence. Then there was another hang up and another wrong number. The fifth call in less than two hours made her uneasy. That seemed like too many calls for coincidence. The sixth call, eerie silence followed by a soft hang up, alarmed her. She crawled out of bed and roamed restlessly around her apartment. She briefly debated calling Harm and then wondered what she would say. She didn't need him to protect her from weird phone calls. The events of the day had spooked her, sure, but she was a big girl, she could handle this. The calls were kids getting their jollies. Soon one would tell her to let Prince Albert out of his can or suggest she chase her running refrigerator or they would ask to talk to Harry Butts. She had made dozens of calls like that herself as a drunken adolescent. By the time the seventh call came she had convinced herself that they were just crank calls. She didn't bother to pick up the phone but simply reached over and shut off the ringer. Anybody important could leave a message.
Too keyed up to sleep, she tried reading but gave up after 31 minutes, unable to concentrate. She crawled back into bed but the tension had started her arm throbbing. With a sigh, she crawled out of bed again, poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and, desperate for some relief, took two of the pain pills forced on her by the ER doctor. She shuffled back to her bedroom, eased into bed and let the drugs take her.
Day 2
0410 zulu
Mac's apartment
Mac opened her eyes slowly, enshrouded by the confusion typical after too little, chemical-induced sleep. This, she remembered, was one of the nice side effects of not drinking: no hang- overs. Her mouth felt like someone had camped in it overnight and her head was pounding. Check that. Her face was killing her. And her arm. And her knee. And her neck. And everything. She turned onto her back, slowly, groaning. She closed her eyes against the bright sun pouring into her room and rolled onto her side, burrowing into the pillows, never really coming fully awake.
"Hey, sleeping beauty."
The unexpected sound of a voice triggered something in her, something primal, instinctive, like flipping a switch. She neither knew nor cared who was in her apartment or why. Her subconscious perceived a threat and she reacted, bolting upright. She flung herself out of the bed, still tangled in the bed clothes, searching for a place, any place, to hide. Weak and sore, she could not untangle herself from the blankets and ended up in a heap on the floor. She struggled to get up, but somebody grabbed her arm. She fought, but he was too strong. Her training kicked in and she began to withdraw emotionally from the situation, hoping to regroup, when his voice penetrated her protective shield.
"Mac? Mac? It's me, Harm. Mac! Stop it. Stop! You'll hurt yourself. Mac?"
"Harm?" she whispered.
"Yeah. You ok? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
She clutched his shirt, overwhelmed by relief. "N-no, it's my fault. I was only half awake, I d-don't know what happened. I'm sorry." She grunted in pain as Harm gently pulled her to her feet and lead her back to the bed. He helped her lie down and then tucked her in.
"You ok?" he asked gently.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. Do you need one of those pills the doctor gave you?"
"NO!" she answered, a tad too vehemently, "I just need to sleep for a little while more."
"Ok," he said uncertainly, "But if you need anything…"
"Mm, hmmm," she mumbled as she drifted back to sleep.
Day 2
0817 zulu
Mac's apartment
The sunlight made her eyes water as she pried them open and lay staring at the ceiling awash in memories from earlier in the day. How would she ever face him? She couldn't believe she had lost it like that, though she shouldn't really be surprised. She had known as soon as she took those pills that she would regret it in the morning. But she needed them. Didn't she? No. She didn't. She was stronger than this. She could handle anything. She wasn't that scared teenager whose mother had run out on her, who had escaped to the bottle and to Chris Ragle's bed. She could handle this better. She would handle this better. She had too. She made a mental to do list. Get rid of the pills. Hound the police about the line-up. Call the admiral to let him know about her injuries. Call Harm…and what? What would she say to him? How could she explain that creature who had inhabited her body? She lay there a few more minutes trying to figure out how to explain her behavior until her growling stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten in nearly 27 hours. Her resolve reconstituted, however shakily, she eased herself out of bed and shuffled out of the bedroom.
To her surprise, Harm was sitting on her couch reading the Sunday Post. He looked up and smiled tentatively. "Feeling better?"
"Y-yeah, some," she stuttered, unsure how to react to his continued presence. "Um, why are you still here?"
"I thought you might need something."
She raised one eyebrow, unsatisfied with his answer.
"Well, ok, I was a little worried about you, um, you know, after this morning."
Embarrassed, Mac stared at her feet, trying to figure out what to say.
"Hey, Mac, it's ok. I didn't mean to scare you like that. I should have made some noise or something so you would know I was here. I'm really sorry I startled you."
Mac looked up at him. "It's not your fault, Harm. I don't know what came over me." She stood there for a moment, the voice telling her to be truthful warring with that part of her that wanted to keep her secrets. Coming to a decision, she walked to the kitchen and grabbed the pill bottle. "That's not true, Harm. I do know part of what came over me. These," she said, throwing him the bottle, which he caught. "I took a couple last night, even though I knew it was a bad idea. Get rid of them, please." She turned and opened the refrigerator, under the pretense of looking for food, but really trying to avoid eye contact with Harm.
"But Mac," he protested, "these were prescribed for you. The doctor wouldn't have given them to you if they weren't safe."
"None of that kind of stuff is safe for me, Harm. I'm an alcoholic. I react differently to narcotics that most people. I can take some Tylenol if I can't handle the pain."
"But he knew that you were an alcoholic, Mac."
"Am an alcoholic, Harm, present tense. I knew what happened the last time I took something like that - paranoia city - just like what happened this morning. I am so sorry about that. I'm sorry you had to see that."
"Mac, it's…" He was interrupted by the telephone, but the look on his face told Mac everything she needed to know. He truly didn't think anything bizarre had happened this morning. Maybe she hadn't lost it as much as she thought. She felt herself lock the door to yet another room in her mind.
"Mac!" The urgency in his tone broke into her reverie. She looked up to see him handing the phone toward her. "It's Tate."
Day 2
1000 zulu
DC Police Headquarters
After some trial and error, and some relatively embarrassing help from Harm, Mac had managed to shower and dress and make it to Police Headquarters in plenty of time for the line-up. Harm had insisted on accompanying her for both moral and legal support and she had not resisted. She had only so much physical and emotional energy to spare and she wouldn't waste it fighting a losing battle with Harm in his mother-hen mode. Tate and Winston met her in the lobby and led her into a small dark room with several chairs and a window on one wall. Mary, they told her, had already come and gone, the suspect's attorney, who was waiting for them by the window, insisting that Mac and Mary have no contact. Mac ignored the proffered chair, opting to stand. Harm moved behind her and put his hand gently on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and then turned to smile at him, apologetically she hoped. She needed to face this alone. Harm backed away a bit, but reached for her hand instead. She did not resist.
Once Mac was situated, the suspects entered the room on the other side of the window, single file. They were all dressed in cammies and trenchcoats. All had short blond or light brown hair and were the height and weight she had described. She had to hand it to them, they had done a good job putting together a line-up. Nobody was really distinctive, that was, until man number five entered the room to take his place against the wall. She stiffened involuntarily and felt Harm squeeze her hand. She extricated herself from his clutches and stepped up to the window.
"That's him," she said calmly. "Number five."
"Take your time, Colonel, they aren't even in place yet. Get a good look," Tate admonished her gently.
Mac stood looking at the men. She didn't have to see them all. She knew her nemesis. That was him-- she'd stake her life on it.
She turned to Tate. "I don't need more time," she stated calmly. "That's him. I'm sure of it."
"Colonel, don't make any snap decisions, take a really good look," Winston implored her, clearly disappointed.
The defense council added her voice to Mac's protests. "If Colonel MacKenzie is sure, then I think we're done here. She has ID'd a suspect, now let's move on."
"She hasn't had time to really look at the line-up. Stop badgering her," Tate demanded.
Mac glanced back and forth between the detectives and the attorney, like she was watching a tennis match. She was confused. Obviously the defense attorney was pleased and the detectives were not. She looked back toward the window, gazing at each of the suspects. Again, number five jumped out at her. That had to be him. That was him. Nobody else was really close. She was sure.
She turned toward Winston who touched her shoulder in a gesture he probably thought was kind, but she found patronizing. "Do you need them to turn around, Colonel, or speak? Anything you want."
Perplexed, Mac turned toward Tate, who was fuming, and Harm, who looked as confused as she felt. Before she could reply to Tate or ask any questions, the council for the defense jumped in.
"That's enough. Your witness has made her identification. This is over. I expect my client to be released immediately." She turned on her heel and left as the men filed out of the line-up room.
"Terrific!" Tate fumed, glaring at Mac. "I wish you had taken more time, Colonel and made sure of your ID."
"Hey, Jimmy, take it easy. She did her best, here, ok? It happens," he said quietly, clearly trying to diffuse the situation. He turned toward Mac. "I'm sorry for the outburst, Colonel. We've been frustrated for months with this case and thought you really were our break. It's not your fault. Nobody has been able to id him."
His words, apparently intending to comfort her, did exactly the opposite. She was reeling. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, "I ID'd the guy I fought with in the park. That was him. I'd stake my life on it."
Harm tried to calm her, "Hey, Mac, take it easy. Nobody…"
She whirled on him. "Back off, Harm. I know who I saw and who I fought with. That's him. I'm positive," she hissed.
Tate could no longer control his frustration. "You're mistaken, Colonel. That's not the guy." He stalked out of the room.
Mac stood watching his retreat, shell-shocked. It wasn't possible. He had to be the guy. She was so sure. She knew it was him. How could she have been so wrong?
Winston touched her again, making her feel even smaller than she already did. "I'm sorry for my partner's behavior, it was out of line. We don't mean to seem ungrateful. Thank you for your help. We'll call you if we need you again for anything." He motioned toward the door and escorted them back to the lobby. He offered his hand, which Mac shook unenthusiastically. "You should remember what you did in the park yesterday. You saved that girl's life. For what it's worth, Ms. MacKenzie, you aren't the only one who ID'd a ringer in this case. Nobody has been able to finger the guy. But we know it's him. We'll get him, don't you worry. Commander, take good care of her." He shook hands with Harm, patted her shoulder one more time and retreated back into the building.
Overwhelmed by shame and guilt at having let the monster get away again, Mac turned toward Harm. "Don't say anything, Harm, OK? Don't try to comfort me or tell me you understand. Just take me home?" She started to walk toward the car, dragging her feet, almost staggering, the day's events leaving her wobbly at best.
Harm gently grabbed her arm. "Hold, on, I'll get the car."
Mac started to protest but thought better of it. What was the use? He would just argue with her and she didn't have the stamina to fight with him over this. She just wanted to go home and crawl into bed.
Day 3
Given her black eye and broken arm, Mac was not sure she could navigate well enough to drive, so she called a cab to take her to work. The day was exceedingly boring except for being punctuated alternately by gasps of shock and expressions of dismay over her physical condition. The admiral had been upset at her for waiting more than 48 hours to notify him of her injuries, and then alarmed when he finally managed to pry the details from her. Her messages at police headquarters had gone un-returned. By 1500 she was done. She was on restricted duty until she was cleared by Bethesda so her cases had been postponed indefinitely or passed on to someone else, and she had had enough of Harm's hovering. She requested a few hours off, which the admiral granted, and took a cab back to her apartment.
Rebuffing Harm's offer to pick her up for work in the morning, she spent the evening icing her eye, hoping she would be able to see well enough to drive herself to work in the morning. A nagging feeling of unease from the back of her brain told her to keep the ringer on her phone turned off, so she did. She watched a little TV and tried to read the latest Nelson DeMille, to no avail. At 1613, she fell asleep on the couch waking an hour later when her answering machine picked up an incoming call. It was Harm, naturally, resubmitting his offer to drive her to work in the morning. She listened to the message and realized she would have to decide soon. She couldn't afford to keep cabbing it to work every day. She closed her good eye and tested the vision in the other. The ice had worked. She could open the eye enough to see. Her arm was feeling pretty good after a few Tylenol. Nah, she wouldn’t need Harm tomorrow morning if she was careful. Good. Project number one, successful. Next she had to get those boobs down at Sex Crimes to take her seriously. Her guilty feelings aside, she knew she had ID'd the right guy. She just had to convince T & W. Maybe their ringer had an evil twin? She chuckled at the idea, knowing how much it would enthrall Bud. She went to bed, sure that tomorrow would be a much better day.