Under the Desert Sky

Under the Desert Sky

Summary: Bud and Mac are called in to assist Webb with the investigation of a helicopter crash in northern Arizona.

24 May 2003
2325 LOCAL
Outside the Kaibab National Forest, Arizona

As the two female passengers of the small pick-up truck made their way to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon for a weekend of hiking, their constant stream of conversation was cut abruptly short, as both sets of eyes trained on an unusual, and very bright, white light in the sky

“Hang on a sec, Felicia. Do you see that?” Colleen Watanabe said, stopping her friend in mid-sentence.

“Yeah. What the hell is it?” Felicia Beck slowed the car down to a snail’s pace, while craning her neck to get a better look, through the front windshield, at the source of the light.

“I totally feel like we’re in The X-Files.”

As she maneuvered the car to the side of the road, Felicia and her friend of ten years, Colleen, stared at the oddity in the night sky. Suddenly, the light appeared to explode into a shower of white luminescence, which then fell behind the ridge above the road.

“Jesus, Colleen, that was really weird.”

“No shit. What’s over there anyway? Is that a town? Was that a helicopter, or a crop duster, or something?” Colleen’s voice betrayed her confusion, as she searched her mind for a logical explanation of what they just witnessed, and hoping her friend, who’d been living at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon for nearly two years, could explain it.

“There’s nothing over that ridge. There’s pretty much nothing anywhere near here. And we don’t exactly have crop dusters in this part of Arizona,” Felicia stated with certainty. Although she’d heard about strange things happening near the Canyon, she’d never witnessed anything more than Mother Nature’s effects on the stark, but beautiful, wilderness.

“Well, someone should really tell Mulder and Scully about this,” Colleen laughed, ending their discussion of the unidentified phenomenon. Felicia pulled the truck back onto the black-top road to resume their progress towards the North Rim, each woman, now riding in silence, contemplating the strange event they’d just witnessed.

24 May 2003
2330 LOCAL
Paria Canyon, Vermillion Cliffs Wilderness Area, Arizona

“We need a rescue team out here ASAP!” With a restrained calm, yet firm, voice, Master Sergeant Ted Samuel called for help over his field radio, while rubbing his eyes, which were still suffering the effects of the blindingly bright explosion. A small group of Army Rangers, dressed and geared up for desert maneuvers, which Samuel was leading, had just witnessed the crash of the helicopter that was scheduled to insert eight Marines into the drop zone. The Marines had been slated to accompany the band of Rangers on the final leg of their training mission.

“Master Sergeant!” Approaching fast and out of breath, Corporal Jordan Jameson appeared to be shaken by the sight of the crash, “Most of the guys are still having trouble seeing, Sir.”

“Jameson, did you see what happened?” Samuel asked the Corporal, whose vision seemed unaffected.

“No, sir, I was looking the other way.”

The Master Sergeant urgently relayed the information about his men back to the training operations center. He was certain that all eight Marines, as well as the Navy pilot and co-pilot of the helo, were dead; and now some of his own men were suffering, as well.

‘I guess this is why it’s a training. I’d hate to have something go this wrong in combat,’ Samuel bitterly thought, as he made an attempt to regroup the Rangers, who were trying to make sense of what had just happened.

26 May 2003
0922 LOCAL
Clayton Webb’s Car, en Route to Falls Church, Virginia

//WEBB//

I hate my job sometimes. And, by now, it's been nearly seven months since I last felt much goodwill at all about my position. Being banished to Suriname will do that to you. It was a big hit to my career. I have no misgivings about what I did; but it set me back a few years, in terms of climbing the intelligence community’s version of the corporate ladder.

Since my return to the Langley office, just six weeks ago, I've been forced to report to Deputy Director Michael Mitchell, one of the most backward-thinking bureaucrats in the Company. He completely lacks any ability to think outside a straight, and narrow, line of often faulty logic; and, when factors enter the picture that don't fit into his pre-determined vision of the world, he refuses to see them. It’s a dangerous way to operate in any job, but especially one with the CIA. I think he’s really insecure about his abilities, something that manifests itself into a dangerous predilection to hold back information from even those who need to know. It’s a puzzle to me how Mitchell even got his job in the first place; he’s probably the nephew of some high-ranking senator, or something.

As a result of my unfortunate position of having to report to Mitchell, I’m very nearly in the dark about my latest assignment, which is to investigate a joint training accident in Arizona. The Army Rangers that were on the exercise were also being trained by our guys to do ground recon, using some of our new, specialized equipment. I know Mitchell isn't telling me the real reason I'm being sent there. Nevertheless, I'm determined to do my job, and to do it well. It’s not in my nature to surrender to the bureaucracy that way, just because I’m disgruntled with my current situation. But, after six weeks of Mitchell’s bullshit, I’m nearly at the end of my rope. I try to stay optimistic, thinking that my hard work will eventually be my salvation, rescuing me from this guy's tyranny on the CIA's organizational chart. Though, the chances of that are looking slimmer, and more non-existent, as the weeks, and my resolve, wear away.

For this assignment, Mitchell informed me, in his snide way, I really ought to use some JAG officers to help me out. I’d been tempted to tell him to shove it, and go it alone in Arizona. Instead, I let him think I hadn’t already thought of it on my own, hoping that if I fed his ego, it might do me some good in the long run. And, using a couple of JAG officers really is the smart thing to do. We need all three branches of the military that were involved in the exercise to be represented. Even if I can’t tell them the real reason we’re looking into this, I can certainly use their investigative help.

As the phone was ringing on the call I’d placed to Admiral Chegwidden, I decided to request the use of Mac and Bud. I need Mac’s analytical skills, and she’s a Marine. As for Bud, he’s Navy, and has the smarts of Rabb without the ego. Frankly, right now, if I had to deal with Rabb’s self-aggrandizing know-it-all attitude, I’d be likely to break his nose the way his boss broke mine, no matter how helpful he was with the investigation. And that wouldn’t exactly be good for CIA/Naval relations.

Pulling my car into an empty spot in the JAG parking lot, I make my way into the building, and upstairs, where I expect Chegwidden and I will spend a few minutes posturing, and exchanging smart remarks. Then he’ll call Bud and Mac into his office to tell them about their unexpected assignment. I haven’t seen either Mac or Bud since I got back into DC, so I imagine they’ll be surprised to see me, as well as wary of what I’m involving them in. Sometimes it’s really not that fun to be the guy with all the secrets. Especially when you don’t even know them yourself.

26 May 2003
1017 LOCAL
JAG Headquarters

//MAC//

"Right away, sir."

I hang up my phone, and wonder what could be so important as to warrant pulling me off my current case, where I’m defending a Petty Officer very guilty of sexually harassing three of his superiors, two women and a man. As I walk to the Admiral’s office, things seem calm in the bullpen, so I don’t think it’s anything very high profile. Whatever it is, it can't be any more aggravating than dealing with Petty Officer Maxwell, who thinks he's God's gift to women, and men, too. I'm this close to bringing him up on a whole separate set of harassment charges for the inappropriate things he's been saying to me over the past three weeks.

On my way to Tiner’s workspace, Bud falls along side me, matching my brisk pace. If you didn't know about his prosthesis, you'd never guess he had one. I’m really proud of his hard work and dedication, which paid off when he was approved to return to full duty.

"Hey, Bud. Any idea what's going on?" I greet the Lieutenant, as we step up to Tiner’s desk and wait for him to get off the phone.

"No, Ma'am." Bud shakes his head in a negative response to my query, and we stand in silence as Tiner finishes setting up what sounds like a meeting between the Admiral and the SecNav.

When he hangs up the phone, Tiner stands and tells us to go on in, the Admiral is waiting for us. Bud and I take our places in the large office, standing at attention in front of the Admiral's desk. When he gives us the “have a seat” command, I quickly glance at the figure to the left, and see Clayton Webb. He's dressed in his usual dark three-piece suit, but he looks unusually tan, having recently returned, I assume, from Suriname.

"Colonel. Lieutenant,” Webb says, in a dry, neutral tone, as he nods with brisk acknowledgement that we’ve entered the room.

The Admiral begins to fill us in on our new assignment, which I’m now certain involves Webb, and about which I have distinctly mixed feelings. I also idly wonder what prompted his return from South America; maybe he’s out of the CIA doghouse at last.

"Two nights ago, a Navy helicopter, transporting eight Marines, went down during a joint training operation in northern Arizona. The Marines were due to rendezvous with small group of Army Rangers, when something apparently caused an explosion aboard the helo. The Rangers report seeing the aircraft coming over a ridge, and flying towards them at very low altitude, already on fire. Then, a ‘blinding series of explosions’ tore the helo apart, and brought it down. The explosions left some of the Rangers blinded for several minutes in the low level of ambient light. A preliminary look into the cause of the accident hasn’t turned up anything conclusive.”

Stepping forward to lean a hand on the corner of the Admiral Chegwidden’s desk, which elicits a frown from the Admiral, Webb speaks up to explain how the investigation will be run, and what part we’ll play in it. I'm curious, and a little suspicious, about most things where Webb is concerned. He's shown so many sides to his personality, it's hard to tell how often he changes his stripes, and what color those stripes are now.

"MacKenzie and Roberts, you'll be investigating the crash along side officers from the Naval Safety Center. They’ll be in charge of the actual crash site; you’ll be there to determine if there are any legal courses of action that need to be taken. I'll be in my Army Reserve uniform, posing as a Lieutenant Colonel from the Army’s Safety Center. The Rangers were coordinating the exercise, so I’ll be running this investigation, got that?"

I have to restrain myself from staring with incredulity, as Webb very clearly shows what color his stripes are today. As usual, he’s not revealing one whit about what he’s really up to. And, on this investigation, it might prove difficult to keep my temper in check, in the face of his blatantly arrogant attitude, especially if he's in charge.

“Webb, what will you *really* be doing, while Bud and I try to figure out what happened to that helo?” I don’t think the Admiral will mind my insubordination, and I’m positive we won’t get anywhere near the truth from Webb, but I feel compelled to ask anyway.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mac?”

The retort’s a little more flip and cavalier than normal, missing some of the usual Webb sarcastic conceit, which surprises me. He still won’t directly tell us that the information is “need to know,” or that we won’t be privy to anything, unless he considers it necessary. He simply smoothes over those details, and informs us that we’re expected to catch a military transport out to Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, first thing in the morning. From there, we’ll immediately drive to the training operations command center, which is about fifteen miles from the crash site.

I spend the rest of the day handing off my cases to Sturgis and Harm, which goes rather roughly. Sturgis was great, but from Harm there is, at first, a blustering bravado about why Webb didn’t ask for him on the investigation. He settles down into deep brooding, replying to my questions and attempts at conversation with one-word answers. I swear, sometimes I think he’s re-living his teenage years. And it occurs to me that he probably never really let himself live out his adolescence, the first time around. He was so focused on finding his father in Viet Nam, that he probably skipped that typically rebellious phase. Nevertheless, I need not bear the brunt of his second childhood. I just hope the man grows up someday, or he’ll be sad and alone at age eighty, and indignant that no one can stand to be around him long enough to visit him in the old folks’ home.

At home packing, I roll up my desert BDU’s and field gear. Part of me is looking forward to being out of town, and in the outdoors. And, I’m looking forward to working closely with Bud. We don’t often get teamed up together, just the two of us, but I’ve always found it to be a mutually agreeable partnership, and, these days, far less aggravation than working with Harm.

While my friendship with Harm has been on steadier ground than it has been in a long time, he seems to be having difficulty with some of his assignments lately, and has been taking it out on just about everyone. I suspect that my periodic stints as judge over the past several months have caused at least part of what seems to be a rough time for Harm. I’m hoping that he’ll do some “personal growth” this year; it would be really nice to see him happy, and not unhealthily obsessed with whatever, or whomever, comes across his path.

For some reason, as I’m grabbing my toiletries, my mind wanders to Webb. I have mixed feelings about working with him. He’s someone I’ve never been able to quite pin down. You sometimes get glimpses of a Webb that’s not so egotistical, but then he busts in like he owns the place, and wants to order us all around, like today. I groan in anticipation of butting heads with him more than once or twice over the course of this investigation. But I have no intention of completely surrendering control to him, even if he is in charge.

I know he takes his job very seriously, but I also know that as part of that job, it’s sometimes to his benefit to exploit people. What he’s doing can’t always be explained in the strict legal terms we’re bound by in this country, and I understand that. But, on a personal level, I resent the fact that, after all these years, Webb still feels that he can’t trust us. We’ve trusted him plenty of times. Hell, I trusted him with my life in Afghanistan. Would he place the same kind of trust in me?

Before I start to psychoanalyze the guy too much, I re-focus on my primary concern, which is to find the cause of that helo crash. Though, I’m well aware that if Webb’s able finds whatever it is he’s after, life will be much easier for Bud and me, in terms of getting to the bottom of what happened. Although, from the way Webb’s framed things, it sounds like we won’t actually be seeing all that much of him.

//WEBB//

I know they think I’m a real ass. And I guess I am acting that way; it’s hard for me not to, right now. My guard is up, because of what’s going on with my position at the Company, and I don’t really know what the hell is really behind this investigation. Ironically, this time, I’m not keeping JAG in the dark about the details because I think it will further my own objectives. Any information I’m holding back is because, if this turns out to be something really ugly, it will be better for them if they know as little as possible.

As I’m driving home to pack, I realize that this could all be a set-up, a trap designed to deliver the final deathblow to my career. Unfortunately, as much as I’d like to have Mac and Bud on my side – there are few people I trust as much as I do Mac and Bud – if this is a trap, I don’t want them unwittingly caught in the middle, or worse, to be brought down with me.

Momentarily, I imagine walking away from my job. But I know that’s not really an option, personally or professionally. I’d never work in the intelligence community again, or DC, that’s certain. Plus, I’ve got too much pride. There’s no way I would ever go away quietly, or without a fight. I’ve got a family legacy to defend, and, despite the nasty politics and bureaucracies, I really do believe in what I do.

Glad to be home after this long and frustrating day, I start to pack. I make sure my ribbons and insignia are in place on my Class A’s, although I don’t anticipate needing to wear them. I also try on several sets of BDU’s, to be sure that they still fit. I’m proud to say that they’re not even a little tight in the waist. Running my thumb over the Airborne tab on my sleeve, I wonder if Mac and Bud will believe that I’m really qualified to wear it.

It’s well past midnight when I finally collapse into bed. I sleep soundly, but, when the alarm clock goes off at 5:30 am, it wakes me up in the wrong part of my sleep cycle. I groggily dress, put my stuff in the car, drive through McDonald’s, and force down a cup of scalding coffee. Still not feeling fully alert, I meet Mac and Bud on the tarmac, and we catch a transport to Nellis. The plane ride itself is uneventful, but there’s distinct turbulence between me and the JAG lawyers.

I fill Mac and Bud in on the specifics of the crash, or as much as I’ve been told. I really don’t have a lot to give them, and there are some things I’m not telling them, so I can’t fault them for accusing me of holding back information.

“Webb, if that’s the way you’re going to handle this investigation, keeping your team in the dark, so be it. You may be heading this up, but we’re of equal rank, so don’t think you can order me around.”

That’s the last thing Mac says to me, until we get into our humvee at Nellis, and hit the road. When she finally did speak, her words took me completely by surprise.

“Webb, you didn’t sleep on the flight, and look exhausted; you want me, or Bud, to drive first?”

“Thanks, Mac. That would be great.”

She wasn’t even being sarcastic when she said it. And I was sincere in my thanks. I really appreciate her ability to separate her anger at me regarding the case, from the practicalities of our situation. Besides, I do need the rest. So, with Bud in the passenger seat, Mac at the wheel, and me trying to stretch out in the back, we begin our six-hour drive.

A stiff neck plagues me as I wake up to the sound of Mac and Bud laughing. I gingerly twist and turn my head to relieve the soreness in my muscles from sleeping in the cramped back seat. By the time I wake up completely, they’ve stopped laughing, but are still talking. I don’t say anything, choosing to just listen.

“AJ wants me to come to school with him for ‘Show and Tell.’ I thought he wanted to show my prosthesis to the other kids, but he wants me to bring in the models we’ve been putting together.”

“That’s great, Bud. How’s Harriet feeling?”

“Frustrated. Bed-rest doesn’t exactly agree with her temperament. But the doctor says it’s crucial for the baby. Why don’t you come over for dinner, when we get back, Ma’am? Harriet would like that.”

“Only if you let me bring dinner. Plus, I haven’t seen my Godson in a long time. I’ll bring a pizza and a couple of movies, and we can make an evening out of it.”

Their conversation makes me lonely. I used to be content with leading a solitary life, because my job kept me busy and challenged, and relatively fulfilled. My career has meant everything to me, for so long. But being transferred to Suriname, and the continuing fall out from the Angel Shark video incident, has forced me to realize that your job isn’t everything there is. Your career can’t be everything, because it can be taken away so easily. I’m beginning to realize that I want more in my life.

My desire to resume more productive duties at work hasn’t diminished, but I know now that I need to make some changes in my personal life. ‘Like getting one, for a start,’ I think to myself, bitterly. I wonder if it’s too late for me to become part of a circle of close friends, or to marry. The CIA taught me all too well how to separate myself from my emotions; and while the Company doesn’t forbid operatives from getting married, neither do they encourage it. I sigh quietly, and I feel myself ducking into a darker mood, loneliness in my gut.

I think my isolation was part of why I worked so hard to get Sergi out of that prison camp in Chechnya, and over to the States. I was envious of the opportunity Rabb had to suddenly have a sibling, as well as the fact that he had people in his life who were willing to fly half way around the world to help him find his father, and realize some closure on that set of demons. At JAG, they’re not just part of the same command group, they’re family to one another. And I wish I had friends like that.

I try to shake off that depressing line of thinking, sighing heavily, and stretching. Attracting Bud’s attention, he turns in his seat to face me.

“Mr. Webb… sorry, Colonel Webb, you want some chips, or a soda? We stopped at a gas station, and picked up some snacks.”

“This isn’t some college road trip, Roberts. I’ll stick to the MRE’s and water.”

There I go again, acting like a jerk, and cutting myself off from everyone out of some backwards reaction to being lonely. A fine way to make friends. I try to make it up to them by offering to drive next, but Bud says he’s ready to drive, so he takes the second shift after we stop at a roadside rest stop, and I climb into the passenger seat. As we pull out onto the road again, the sun’s just going down, and the stark beauty of the landscape strikes me when we roll over the top of another range of hills, and down into the next basin, before climbing up again on the other side of the shallow valley.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Mac trying to get into a sleeping position in the back seat. Military vehicles really aren’t made for comfort, and she’s trying to fold up one of her arms to rest her head on. I take my jacket off, and hand it back to her, simply saying, “Pillow.”

She looks at me with a puzzled expression, takes the jacket, and finally says, “Thanks.” Mac bunches it up, and wedges it between her head and the window, falling asleep almost immediately.

Bud and I are quiet for a long while, until he breaks the silence, saying, “That was nice of you, Sir.”

“The back of this vehicle is not very conducive for napping.” Again, I’m coming off as cold and merely logical, instead of friendly and caring. I think I need to work on my people skills.

“Do you want me to turn the heat on, now that you don’t have your jacket on, Colonel?” Bud, on the other hand, has the “kind and caring” thing down pat.

“Thanks, Lieutenant, I got it.” I lean over to make a minor adjustment to the temperature controls, aiming the warm air coming from the vents towards me. Then, I settle back into my seat, ready to resign myself to a dull and quiet ride.

However, Bud starts to make small talk about a mile later. It seems like he’s riding a fine line between getting along with me, and not trusting me. I can’t say that I blame him. After a while, Bud mentions his interview with the al Queda prisoner on the Seahawk. Following an awkward exchange, where I correct him by saying that our CIA guy had gotten the information about where to target the air strike against Ateef, I realize that the intelligence was the result of Bud’s efforts, not Dale Woodley’s, as Dale had led me to believe.

“I’m sorry, Bud. I didn’t know. That was great work. How’d you do it?” I’m genuinely surprised, and more than a little impressed.

“Star Trek, Sir,” Bud says, with a simple tone, as if Star Trek should be the foundation of every interrogation.

“What?”

“IDIC and Kolinahr.”

“Okay, care to explain that to me?” I’m trying not to laugh.

After he elaborates, I think, ‘Wow, Bud’s *really* a Star Trek geek.’ But it got us what we needed from the prisoner. I listen as he continues to talk about the show, and the parallels he’s drawn between some of Shakespeare’s plays and Star Trek. His ability to find literary analogies in a science fiction television series is kind of remarkable, albeit a little frightening. Now and then, as we talk, I look back at Mac, my eyes darting in the moonlight over her sleeping form. My jacket has fallen away from her head as she’s moved in her sleep. She’ll wake up with a stiff neck, just like I did.

All of a sudden, instead of feeling like an uncomfortable alliance between the CIA, the Navy, and the Marines, this does feel like a road trip; and I think I’m getting a glimpse of what it must be like to be on the inside of that circle of friends I wish were around me.

//MAC//

The plane ride out here gave me a massive headache; *Webb* gave me a massive headache. Luckily for everyone concerned, the Advil I took somewhere over Texas, and a nap, did the trick, and quite nicely. By the time we landed, I was feeling pretty good. Webb looked so tired and haggard when we checked out our vehicle, I felt bad for him, and started to think there might be a real reason he’s not telling us everything. But, so help me, if his reticence to share information impedes this investigation, or puts us in danger . . .

His wall of arrogance makes it impossible to tell what’s really going on, though. So I pushed all that aside, as I offered to take the first driving shift. I was actually looking forward to driving, rather than simply being a passenger in the humvee, after our cross-country flight.

I love the Southwest, and don’t often get to be in this part of the country. Arizona used to hold a lot of ghosts for me; but, this time, I feel more relaxed coming here, and that makes me really happy. It’s nice to finally heal the wounds I’d nursed for far too long. And the ride with Bud was fun. We played the “I’m Going On A Picnic” game, until I almost peed in my pants laughing so hard when, for the letter “S,” Bud said, “I’m going on a picnic, and I’m *not* taking Singer.”

Webb slept through most of my driving shift, and even through a stop for gas and snacks. I thought we would have woken him up when we were laughing, but he didn’t even stir until we were talking about AJ, and Bud invited me over for dinner. I almost felt sorry for Webb then, he seems to live such a solitary existence. But my moment of compassion was extremely short lived, because he was really rude to Bud, who was trying to be friendly, offering him a soda.

It was a good time to change drivers, though, so we all got out of the car to stretch, and switch seats. I was starting to feel the long day catching up with me, and was trying to get into at least a semi-tolerable position in the back seat, when Webb offered his jacket as a pillow. I was surprised at the gesture, but wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. And, as I slept, I dreamt about Webb. Nothing sexual, just weird stuff about being in the dark desert, with him talking softly into my ear, although I don’t know what about. But the whole thing felt really comfortable and “nice.”

Unless it feels like a real premonition, I try not to examine my dreams too closely for meaning, since I usually dream vividly every night, and it’s not unusual for me to dream about whatever’s on my mind right before I fall asleep, or stuff I’m working out emotionally. It’s no surprise that Harm has figured prominently in my dreams, over the last several years. And Mic for a while, too. But I haven’t dreamed about Harm in several months, which makes me think my subconscious has finally caught up with my conscious, in terms of feeling like he’s not really what I want in a relationship. It took me a long time to admit to myself that he *was* what I wanted, even if my dreams were screaming it, but that phase didn’t last very long. Maybe I just needed to admit that there was an attraction there, in order to move on, which I most definitely have.

I’m already awake, when Webb turns in his seat to tell me we’re stopping for a gas and a pit stop. I’m about to burst, so am grateful for the bathroom break. Webb takes final driving duty, and it’s Bud’s chance to doze in the back. Webb’s jacket continues to serve as a makeshift pillow back there, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He seems to be warm enough in his BDU’s, and I’m impressed with this side of Webb that’s so willing to share.

Once we’re back on the road, I sit in the passenger seat, and roll my head around; my neck is really stiff. Webb looks to me, quickly taking his eyes off the road, and darting them back again, “Stiff neck?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I did a very good job of using your jacket as a pillow. Thanks again, by the way.”

“I noticed that you’d shifted back there. But I didn’t want to wake you up just to tell you that.” He keeps his eyes glued on the road as he speaks this time.

I feel a little weird, knowing that Webb was watching me sleep. Well, I don’t know that he was *watching* me, per se, but it’s a little odd, nonetheless. We chit chat about the weather, and other benign things, and I think we’re both avoiding the subject of why we’re here, or anything that might get us into an argument. We probably know ourselves well enough to realize that we’re tired, and that there are some topics better left alone. We do, however, talk about Afghanistan. I thought for a moment he was going to give me a hard time about what happened in the prison camp. Instead, he expresses relief at the way the situation was resolved, complimenting Gunny, and quietly admitting that he’d never have forgiven himself, if I’d have been killed or wounded.

“Thanks, Clay.” I suddenly feel bad for having hostile thoughts about him earlier in the day; and the perplexing nature of his personality deepens in my mind.

Webb shifts in his seat, and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, before making a lame joke, obviously uncomfortable with the “moment” we were having, “Rabb probably would’ve killed me with his bare hands if I hadn’t brought you back alive, and well.”

”Nah. Harm’s usually so laid back . . .” I take his lead, and follow up with a quick, off the cuff remark.

We laugh at our sarcasm, and ride quietly, until we reach the dirt road that leads us in the direction of the joint training operations center. I pull the GPS out, and give Webb directions through the scrubby woods, until we reach the clearing, just outside the Kaibab National Forest, which houses a tight cluster of tents and temporary huts. It’s dark, but the camp is still pretty lively, because many of the exercises are continuing, in spite of the loss of life – just like in combat. Bud locates the CO’s tent, and we check in with him, before getting directions to our quarters from his assistant. Since this is a field operation, there aren’t many options in terms of sleeping arrangements, even though they knew we were coming. The three of us will be sharing a barely adequately sized tent with the two-person team from Naval Safety.

We grab our gear, and head towards the makeshift visiting officer’s quarters. As we enter the tent, I can see that there won’t be much privacy. It appears that the Naval Safety officers have already arrived; the two cots in the back right corner of the tent have sea bags on them. Bud grabs the cot in the far left corner; I take the one adjacent to it, along the left wall, leaving Webb to take the one next to the door. It’s the crummy bunk, but we’re all so tired, I think even Webb doesn’t care.

When the Naval Safety officers return, Webb introduces himself as Lieutenant Colonel Clayton Webb from the Army Safety Center. He pretends to have just met us recently, telling Lieutenant J.G. Ronald Marks and Lieutenant Matt Silver that we shared a vehicle from Nellis. Webb informs them that he’ll primarily be working on his own, but that he’ll rely on them to keep him informed of their findings. He offers any help he can give, cordially treating the four of us like strangers.

After the plane trip and humvee ride, I’d gotten used to Webb in his BDU’s, and he seems fairly at ease with military life. I’m not surprised, really. He was in the Army in the Gulf, and Webb was as comfortable, or even more so, than the rest of us in Afghanistan. But, with Marks and Silver among us now, it’s strange to see Webb in this context. I find I’m missing the cozy atmosphere of our ride here. When you travel with people for that many hours, you either end up hating each other, or it feels like an invasion when new people join the group. I’m almost sad that we can’t keep driving.

Going about our business to get ready for bed, the five of us steer clear of one another, attempting to create privacy in a tent where there really isn’t any to be had. It’s clear, though, that we’re all professional soldiers, and there’s an air of respect between us. When I’m finally in my bunk, I try to clear my mind of my swirling thoughts about the day, and the upcoming investigation, trying, instead, to concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep.

The light of day usually sheds better insight onto a situation, and, in the morning, we get a much better feel for what’s going on here. Operating under full combat conditions, there are MRE’s to eat for breakfast, although the CO of the camp did manage to bring in a coffee maker to hook up to one of the generators in a humvee. He apparently considers fresh-brewed coffee a necessity, even in war, and lets everyone in camp help themselves. I blow on the hot liquid in my cup, very happy to be drinking it, as I stand in the cold morning air, my breath forming a cloud as I do; it’s probably only about 40 degrees outside. Bud outlines what he thinks our approach should be. Then, while he munches on some cold powered eggs and bacon, I summarize his ideas back to him to finalize the plan.

“Since Colonel Webb has forbidden us from going anywhere near the Rangers, who were probably the best witnesses, until he talks to them first, we’ll start by interviewing the two civilians who saw the helo go down. Silver said they’re camping in the Kaibab National Forest, and will be at their campsite today. I’m glad they’re close by; the last thing I want to do today is travel too far,” I can’t help editorializing as I tick off the plan. “Then we’ll go directly to the crash site, meeting up with Silver and Marks. I’m interested to hear what they can make of the wreckage. Bud, find out where the helo pilot and co-pilot were flying out of, and see if you can place a call to secure their bunks and gear. We’ll have to figure out a time to get there as well.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bud says, taking notes on his Palm Pilot.

“Then I think we should at least try to meet with Webb, either tonight or tomorrow night. He’ll probably go directly to the crash site this morning, and then he’ll interview the Rangers who saw the crash. I want to know exactly what he finds out. After that, I want you and me to talk to them all as well.”

Bud and I split up before meeting back at the vehicle, which Webb agreed to let us use while we’re here. Apparently, he’s found another mode of transportation. Just as I roll my eyes, wondering if it was out of goodwill or selfishness, I see Webb pulling out of camp in another humvee, one that looks like it saw hard combat in Desert Storm. I guess he did give me and Bud the better deal, after all.

It takes us just an hour to get to the campground where Felicia Beck and Colleen Watanabe are staying. As we drive, Bud tells me that the Navy helo pilot and co-pilot were bunked at Camp Delta, an old airstrip near the North Rim of the Grand Canyon that the military is using as an airbase for the exercises. The Warrant Officer at Delta has already secured the bunks of the dead men.

Bud’s three steps ahead of me, when he tells me that he’d loaded the coordinates of the airstrip into the GPS, and confirmed that someone would be there to meet us after we’re finished interviewing the hikers, since we’d already be a little more than halfway there by the time we got to the campground.

We pull into Colleen and Felicia’s campsite, which is a nice grassy spot in a stand of trees. They’ve got a small tent set up, and are sitting at the picnic table playing checkers, when we arrive. Driving a large military vehicle in a National Park gets you some hostile looks, but Colleen and Felicia are extremely cooperative.

“When the ranger told us that some government people wanted to interview us, we thought maybe Mulder and Scully were going to show up,” Felicia, an outgoing woman in her early 40’s, laughs at her own joke. In fact, she’s laughing so hard, it’s difficult not to laugh along with her, and her easygoing nature sets the tone for the interview.

Colleen, who was not driving at the time, and, therefore, had a better view of the helo, describes seeing a bright, “mysterious” light in the sky that all of a sudden shattered into thousands of illuminated shards, which rained to the ground behind a ridge.

I think if Bud didn’t know about the helicopter crash, he’d have believed that what they saw was a UFO. But, from the picture they’re painting, parachute flares come to my mind. I start to formulate a theory that there were star grenades on board that were somehow ignited by whatever caused the aircraft to go down. And what Colleen and Felicia saw was the burning magnesium flares contained in the grenades. But, I can’t reconcile why they’d have those types of grenades on the helo; they’re typically used with grenade launchers from the ground, and they weren’t on the cargo list for the helo.

The real question is, who, or what, would ignite them, while they were still in the air – unless there was a fire on board, and the ordnance was inadvertently detonated. I question Colleen and Felicia again about the color of the light coming from the helo. Their answers stay the same – an extremely bright white light. It’s consistent with star grenades, but not the more red/orange fire that you’d expect from other items that could have burned inside the helicopter. So why would just the grenades have been detonated, and why did they go off *before* the helo went down?

We’ve gotten some great information from Colleen and Felicia. Interviewing a witness yourself is so much better than relying on someone else’s notes. Bud and I almost hate to leave the campsite; the gentle breeze cooling an otherwise warm day feels great, as we sip on the Kool-Aid that Colleen offered us.

Driving to Camp Delta, Bud and I wonder out loud if they’d have invited us to roast marshmallows with them, if we had stayed until dark. We arrive at the airstrip just in time for lunch, and, thanks to the small buildings with running water, gas, and electricity, they’ve got real food for lunch. The hot turkey sandwiches aren’t gourmet, but we’re happy not to have to eat our chicken enchilada MRE’s.

After lunch, Warrant Officer Gary Lam takes us to where the pilot and co-pilot, Masterson and Johansen, were bunking. Lam leaves us to sift through their gear, which yields nothing unusual. It’s the bare minimum, just as you’d expect on a war games exercise. The only out of place items were a 1980 issue of Time magazine, and a tattered copy of Clan of the Cave Bear. The presence of both things could easily be explained away, and didn’t raise any serious questions of foul play or wrong doing in my mind. Bud makes a note of them, just in case.

When Warrant Officer Lam returns, we inquire about the magazine and book. He laughs and tells us that a lot of stuff had been left in the buildings when the airstrip closed down in the 80’s. He fills us in on the tradition that’s developed over the years since the military’s been using it. The books and magazines are read by the service men while they’re here, and then they leave them for the next set of pilots and support crew that comes through. The Clan of the Cave Bear is apparently a hotly sought after item, usually going to the pilots first.

Bud tells Lam that he can pack up Masterson and Johansen’s effects for transfer to their next of kin. We thank him for the hot chow, and for securing the gear so quickly. Bud and I spend the rest of the afternoon interviewing the helo crew, and find nothing unusual about the three guys who had worked on the aircraft in the days before the crash. They all seem genuinely shaken by the accident, and express the normal levels of self-doubt about the work they’d done on the helo. By the time we’re finished, it’s nearly dark, and too late to go to the crash site. We call it a day, and drive back to base camp.

On the way back, we discuss our interviews with the crew. We had both interviewed all three men separately, but came to the same conclusions: there was nothing to even raise a hint of suspicion about them. The only person who could remotely be considered questionable is Warrant Officer Lam. He’s either very efficient, or wants to cover something up.

“I don’t know, Colonel. He seemed pretty upset, and I think he felt bad about laughing at the Clan of the Cave Bear book. My hunch is that he’s a stand up guy, just doing his job very well.”

I trust Bud’s instincts, and we cross Camp Delta off our to-do list. I ask him put star grenades on the list, telling him I want to know exactly what’s in them and how they work.

“Aye, aye,” he says with a smile. I think he knows where I’m going with this.

//WEBB//

My frustration and confusion over this case have only increased since arriving here. I’m almost back to the quitting stage, but my inherent curiosity is keeping me going. It’s only been one full day since we pulled into the ops center, but it feels like an age. I was feeling comfortable and fairly at ease with Bud by the time I was in the driver’s seat, and even felt like we’d come to understand one another better. But with Mac in the passenger seat when I took my driving shift, I was a little nervous.

I tried to show friendly concern over her stiff neck, but ended up feeling like a jerk for saying that I’d seen how my jacket hadn’t served very well to prevent it. I hope I didn’t creep her out by revealing that I’d seen her sleeping. When you sleep in a car, it’s usually far from attractive. Although, with Mac, I can’t imagine a situation where she wouldn’t look beautiful.

Inevitably, as with Bud, the conversation turned to Afghanistan. It was a pretty intense time for all of us. I confessed to Mac that I’d been really worried about the outcome of things at the Darya Bulkh camp. The gratitude in her voice brought me right back to those tense and frightening moments, when I thought I was going to see her throat slashed right in front of me. To alleviate the vision in my head, and the awkwardness I was feeling at her appreciation, I tossed out one of my usual sarcastic cracks. I figured she’d get annoyed at me for it, but for most of my life, I’ve used that dry humor to avoid confronting uncomfortable emotional situations, and I just wanted to get out of this one without Mac realizing how shaken I’d been about her brush with death.

Instead of chastising me for the joke, I think Mac understood what I was trying to do, and thankfully, she joked along with me. It was a revelation of its own to hear her make fun of Rabb. If there was ever a guy ripe for making fun of, it’s Harmon Rabb. I felt glad to know Mac isn’t so wrapped up in his pilot’s confidence that she can’t see past it. Looking back, I confess that I would have been a bit envious if she’d defended him. That bastard Rabb gets all the breaks.

I wish it weren’t necessary to pretend not to know Mac and Bud. I’d much rather be working this case with them, minus Marks and Silver, regardless of the excellent work the Naval Safety officers have been doing so far. I much prefer to rely on people I know, and now that I’ve gained a better understanding of both of them, I’m even more positive that having Bud and Mac on my side would be a huge advantage, in any situation.

This morning I drove out to the crash site, following behind Marks and Silver. The helo had gone down on the edge of a small ridge that was covered in low, scrubby bushes. The investigation would have been much more difficult if the crash had been in the trees; this was a small consolation, if there was any to be had, amidst the tragedy.

I relied on Marks and Silver to tell me what was what, since all that was left of the helo was small pieces, with a metal panel from the siding, or part of a rotor blade, identifiable here and there. The remains had already been removed, thank God. The stench of death is something you don’t get used to. And I know it’s cliché, but I don’t think you’re supposed to get used to it.

I could see why most of the dead were ID’d primarily by dental records and their dog tags. The charred smell of the burnt wreck was still in the air, and I was glad to conclude my brief tour of the site, leaving the Lieutenants to do their jobs of piecing back together what they could of the aircraft and its contents.

Once back in camp, I arranged to have small interview room set up in a sectioned-off part of the mess tent. Of the 14 Rangers, some were obviously suspicious of me, and a handful were nervous kids who just didn’t want to end up like their Marine colleagues, killed in an as-of-yet unexplained helicopter crash. Corporal Jordan Jameson and Private Victor McKenna were unusually cool and detached about the whole thing; either they’re hiding something, or they’re really good at projecting the macho bullshit. I made some notes, and hoped my hunch about them would pan out, since they were my only lead in sight.

In a longer interview, Master Sergeant Ted Samuel provided what information he could about his men that their official files couldn’t tell me. He didn’t think there was anything unusual about the men he was leading, and he was proud of the way they’d handled themselves in the situation. I also got the medical records for the Rangers who’d had trouble seeing after the crash. They’d described the fire on the helo, and subsequent explosions, as “hot and white.” I made a note in the margins of my legal pad that said, “Magnesium?” Strictly speaking, my mission here has nothing to do with the crash itself, I’m supposed to be concentrating on the Rangers, but only God and Michael Mitchell know why the hell I’m really here.

All in all, the Rangers have been doing an outstanding job with the CIA equipment; the recon exercise that they performed last night went flawlessly. And, while they’re out in the field tomorrow, I plan to accompany them for the first part of the day, then I’ll see what I can find from a little trip to their bunks during their absence.

When I reach the mess tent for dinner, I’m looking forward to spending the evening reviewing my notes, and going over the day in my mind, to see if anything else seems out of place. Mac, Bud, Silver, and Marks are already seated and eating. The meal’s not hot exactly, but there’s hot water available to mix with my beef stew MRE. Bud waves me over to join them, and I feel like the geeky kid in class who’s thankful for being invited to sit with the cool kids. I know that’s not the case, but, since the others are here in pairs, I feel kind of alone.

Dinner passes fairly innocuously. I think we all know we’re holding back bits of information from each other, at least Mac and Bud and I do. I don’t think Marks and Silver think anything’s going on here but professional collaboration.

“So, Colonel Webb, I understand you went to the crash site this morning,” Mac begins to surreptitiously quiz me about my findings.

“Lieutenants Silver and Marks can probably tell you more about the site that I can,” I pass the buck effectively, as Silver outlines the work they’d done today. I know Mac was hoping something about the way I would have described what I’d seen would tip her off to any additional information I have. Instead, she gets the dry and scientific run-down from Silver.

“We finished marking off the larger, and easily identifiable, parts of the aircraft, and we demarcated where the remains were found. This afternoon we started setting aside samples of the wreck to test for chemical residue, which we’ll do at the site tomorrow. I hope that’ll give us an indication of what caused the original internal fire before the crash. And if the fire was the cause of the crash.”

Marks puts the rest of their cards out on the table, “As of now, I think we’re ready to rule out pilot error, and probably mechanical failure. If we can piece together the source and nature of the fire, we might be able to cross off any procedural causes, too; then it’ll be up to you guys to figure out what happened. Bit of a murder mystery, you might say.” He points to Mac and Bud as the “detectives,” and, at the words “murder mystery,” we all know that he means sabotage.

But Marks is right; once the Naval Safety Center is satisfied that there were no mechanical or procedural problems with the flight, that really only leaves something more intentional as the cause, and that’s Mac and Bud’s area of expertise.

Sitting on my bunk later in the evening, I make notes to check in with Marks and Silver tomorrow afternoon, as soon as they’re back from the crash site. I want to know what their tests can tell me about the fire. Bud and Mac are also making plans for tomorrow, but I can’t hear what they’re saying, and Mac keeps looking my way. Damn, I wish we could compare notes. I meet Mac’s gaze once again, and we stare at one another for much longer than is polite. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing as I am; I’m having trouble reading her. I get increasingly uncomfortable as we continue our staring contest, and, when I realize that I’ve gotten wrapped up in thinking about her, instead of the crash, I look quickly back to my notes.

But, even after three or four minutes, I still can’t quite clear my head, so I take my notes, my toothbrush and toothpaste, and leave the tent. I take a long walk, and try to figure out what the hell just happened. I wonder if I’m having some kind of mid-life crisis, as evidenced by my recent feelings of solitude, and envy of Bud and Mac due to my lack of friends and loved ones. Staring at Mac, a beautiful and sexy woman, is not such a terrible thing, though; but there’s never been anything between us, other than work. I’m curious, however, about certain aspects of her personal life. Rabb, for one. Although her willingness to make fun of him yesterday left me with the impression that there’s nothing there. And what on earth did she see in Mic? Nice guy and all, but certainly not the brightest bulb in the pack. I guess I just can’t work out why someone like Mac is still single, and why the hell can’t I find someone like her for myself?

I’ve always thought she was amazing looking, and very capable professionally, but I don’t think I ever viewed her as those things in any more than an analytical light. I did have fun picking out that dress for her to wear to the Sudanese Embassy, though; and it did look great on her. But why am I now having less than professional thoughts about her? I’ve never really viewed her as a friend before, or as someone other than a soldier who happened to be female. Maybe with my bout of self-examination is coming a different take on the people I know. People I could be friends, or even lovers, with.

I loop back around to the latrine, and brush my teeth. When I’m done, I find the communications center, and place a satellite call to the CIA. I can’t get a hold of anyone I know, so I have to settle for the kid who’s on duty at the Domestic Resources desk. I ask for anything they can find on Jameson and McKenna, but am not sure he’ll do anything more than report the fact that I’ve asked for the information to his superior, as he’s supposed to. But then that guy will tell his boss, because he no doubt heard a rumor about me and Suriname, and strangely, I won’t get any information other than their Social Security numbers. I swear, the CIA has such a small-town rumor mill; it’s a wonder that we ever manage to do anything productive at all, with all the in-fighting and gossip that goes on.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and end the call.

When I return to the tent, finally ready for bed, Mac and Bud are quietly playing chess. I glance at the board, and see that Bud has the advantage; but Mac’s got a chance at checkmate in about 5 moves, if she’s smart. I untie my boots and take them off, then stand to strip to my boxers and t-shirt, catching Mac glancing at me as I do. I turn away and smile, feeling vindicated for all the weight lifting I did in Paramaribo; like prison, there wasn’t much else to do down there. I’m really flattered, and a bit turned on. If I were alone, I might consider jerking off, but there’s not a chance in hell that I’d try that here. So I climb into my cot, pull my stocking cap on my head for warmth, and try to go to sleep. As I’m dozing off, I hear Bud congratulating Mac on winning the game.

The next day, I get up before everyone else, join the Rangers on their 5-mile hike, and observe them as they scout another band of soldiers, who are supposed to be enemy combatants hiding in the brush. Jameson and McKenna are teamed up together, which raises my suspicions, and I follow them at a discrete distance. The team will be tracking the “enemy” for at least a day and a half, but I stick with them just through the morning. McKenna re-joins another set of three Rangers, and Jameson lets himself fall back from the group. The Ranger’s medic approaches Jameson, who practically starts a fistfight with the Private, and nearly gives their position away. He’s endangering them all, and my instincts are telling me that Jameson had something to do with the crash, and that he’s getting nervous about the investigation.

I find Master Sergeant Samuel, and tell him to be sure Jameson doesn’t disappear, and to report to me when they return. He doesn’t question my order, and seems to understand what I’m getting at. Maybe he’s had his own troubles with Jameson, although he didn’t inform me of any during our interview yesterday. I jot down a note about it, with the intent to quiz Samuel about it later.

We’d covered a few more miles since the morning, so I’ve got eight miles to go back to camp. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this much hiking, and am very glad that I don’t have a 40-pound pack on my back, like in basic training.

I wolf down lunch, not caring that it doesn’t taste like anything, and I don’t even bother to douse it with the tiny bottle of Tabasco sauce that comes in the MRE. I then go immediately to Jameson’s bunk, and start sifting through his stuff. I don’t have anything more to go on than a hunch, but it’s all I’ve got right now. And again, I wish I could be pooling my information and suspicions with Mac and Bud.

I do find something interesting in Jameson’s footlocker, though. It’s what looks like his personal phone book, and it’s all in Farsi. For a guy named Jameson, you wouldn’t guess he could read or write Farsi. But, right there on the front, inside cover, is his name and rank. I also find a pair of civilian manufactured night vision goggles among his dirty laundry, which I was not happy to be going through, but at least it was worth it.

I remember that in my first round of interviews, Jameson said he’d been lucky enough to be facing the other way when the helo came into view, and that he’d still been turned away when the explosions that caused the low-light blindness in most of the other Rangers occurred. In retrospect, when I’d asked Jameson about why he hadn’t been temporarily blinded by the light, that’s when he turned on the macho Ranger act, telling me that he’d gone to take a leak, and was “just lucky.” But why wouldn’t he have turned around to see what was happening? He had to have seen at least the illumination on the trees in front on him from the explosion. He should have seen at least some of what happened.

Even though it’s not against regs to have civilian equipment in the military, I’m pretty sure that most guys wouldn’t keep their personal, and expensive, night vision goggles in with their dirty underwear, and not on a war games exercise. I’m positive now that Jameson is our man, I just can’t figure out how exactly he’s involved, or what his motives were. For about the hundredth time in two days, I want to consult with Mac. Instead, I place another call to the CIA, and try to fill my boss in on my findings. Mitchell tells me to “keep up the hard work,” and hurries me off the phone. I regret making the call in the first place.

Bud, Mac, and Lieutenants Silver and Marks, and I eat dinner together again, and I take my frustrations out on them, but mostly Mac. I act like a real jerk, taking my cues from Jameson, apparently. I’m blustering with false bravado about the Army, and what a bunch of squids they all are, even Mac. It’s one of those things that Marines hate – reminders that they’re really part of the Navy, and not their own wholly separate branch of the armed forces.

Bud looks really uncomfortable, and a little hurt. I can tell Mac is seething inside, but she’s not about to make a scene. Marks and Silver just look surprised.

“Well, we’ll just see who figures this thing out first.”

I storm away, knowing full well that I’m acting like a five year old, and really wishing I could go home, have a glass of scotch, and figure out how to act like an adult. Instead, I spend the evening going through the dead Marines’ gear and personal items, coming up with nothing. I’m even more frustrated when I hit my rack long after every one else has gone to bed, and I sleep fitfully.

//MAC//

This case is really taking its toll on me. I’ve experienced an impressive range of emotions in the past two days, and I feel like we’re just getting started on this investigation. The most frustrating thing of all has been Webb. I’d started to feel like I had a better understanding of his position when we arrived at the ops center camp. Feeling forgiving about whatever his reasons were for not sharing his side of the case with us. But he’s been Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde since we arrived here.

At dinner last night, I tried to encourage some collaboration between us and Webb, hoping he’d give us some hints about what he was really up to. But he quite efficiently got Marks and Silver to share their preliminary findings, without revealing any of his. Marks had the situation pinned down really well. If all the mundane causes for the crash are ruled out, we’re looking at investigating a multiple homicide, and Bud and I will have to take the lead on that.

Later, sitting cross-legged on Bud’s bunk, he and I went over our notes, and sketched out our plans for the following day. As always, Bud’s been a pleasure to work with, and although it’s not as . . . well, let’s just say “exciting,” as working with Harm can be, I’ve been enjoying the way we hear each other’s theories out, and take advantage of, at times, having two differing opinions.

Just after we firmed up our plans to see the wreckage first thing in the morning, I silently speculated what we could all learn from each other, if Webb were willing to share his take on the situation. Looking over to his cot, where he was going over his own notes, I caught Webb’s eye. He didn’t look away, and neither did I. Damned enigma of a man.

I was on the verge of feeling uneasy with our little stand off, but held my ground, not sure why we were staring at each other, and unsure of why I didn’t want to look away. I felt like if I’d “won,” I would have gained some advantage over him, and would be better able to tell what was going on with him, which had become increasingly interesting to me.

In the end, Webb looked away first, a little embarrassed, I think. And Bud had to say my name to pull me back to reality. We finished up our strategy session, and hit the head. On my way back to the tent, I was still wondering what the hell that was all about, with Webb. It felt like we were trying to do ESP, or something. I decided to give up analyzing the obviously unsolvable, and made a beeline for the tent. Looking to the left just as I was stepping inside, I saw Webb going into the communications tent. I assumed he was going to touch base with the CIA, and check out whatever suspicions he had about the Ranger team he’d interviewed today. Or maybe he was telling his superiors what Bud and I were up to, I thought, cynically.

To unwind before bed, Bud and I played a game of chess on his travel-size set. I don’t think he’d go into combat without it. It was clear that I was losing, and was just about to give up, when Webb came back into the tent and got undressed for bed. I couldn’t help looking. In his Army brown t-shirt and standard issue white boxers, he looked much more muscular than I’d expected, although, I don’t know why. It’s not like his job doesn’t require him to be physically fit.

I know Webb saw me looking at him, but I couldn’t tell from his expression if he was embarrassed, or flattered. Either way, there was something about that moment that made me feel confident. I guess I was hoping he was flattered, or at least flustered, by my attentions. When I went back to concentrating on the chess board, I immediately saw ahead more moves than I’d been able to before, and I won the game.

“Congratulations, Ma’am!”

“Thanks. Coates taught me all your moves, you can blame her,” I say with a smile. Bud’s such a good sport.

In bed later, I thought about Webb’s apparent inability to trust us. It was possible that his hands were tied on this case. If that were true, I couldn’t figure out why, then, I couldn’t bring myself to trust him to be doing the right thing. Just as I dozed off to sleep, I wondered why I still have such trouble trusting people. Men, in particular, and especially those I have the potential to become involved with.

First thing in the morning, Bud and I went to the crash site. On the way, Bud filled me in on the information he’d gotten on star grenades. He read from his notes as we drove the winding dirt road. I was impressed that he didn’t get carsick.

“Star grenades fire a cluster of five small magnesium flares that burn with an intense white light. They’re mostly used defensively by ground troops, to blind the enemy during nighttime combat, by temporarily destroying their ability to see in the low light of night, or by overloading their night vision scopes and goggles, causing the image to black out.”

“Perfect, Bud. Thanks. How’d you get the info so fast?”

“There was an internet uplink available this morning while you were in the head. You’re thinking that someone on that helicopter had star grenades that were intentionally detonated, to distract or temporarily blind the Rangers on the ground, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Bud I am,” I said, trying to concentrate on following the tire tracks in the dirt that demarcated the way to the crash site.

When we got there, Marks and Silver were already at work, starting the chemical analysis of the wreckage.

“Lieutenant Silver,” I called over to the tall, blonde man. “Any progress this morning?”

“Actually, Ma’am, we pulled out the Geiger counter, and found some unusually high levels of radiation,” he responded, walking over to me, and handing me a print out.

“Is that unusual for this type of helo?”

“Extremely, and there was nothing that was supposed to be on board that would put out these kinds of readings, so we can’t really say what it means at the moment. We’re doing chemical tests on the residue on the interior portions of the body of the helicopter, hoping that will fill in a bigger piece of the puzzle.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

Bud and I walked the perimeter of the crash site, and took a few digital pictures for our file, jotted some notes, and thanked Marks and Silver again, asking them to get back to us ASAP on the chemical analysis.

Back in camp, we ran into an exhausted looking Webb, who gave us a curt, “Bud. Mac,” and hurried on his way. As we’d arranged earlier, the supply team for the Marines were waiting to be interviewed right after lunch. The one cooperative gesture Webb extended to us was to share his makeshift interview room.

We talked to all six men who helped load the Marines’ gear for the insertion, and got nowhere. As with the helo’s ground crew, these guys were visibly upset, and concerned for the families of their deceased team members. Bud and I both asked each man several obtuse questions about the chance of star grenades being packed in the gear that went on the helicopter. No one even denied the possibility that there were any onboard, which, in my mind, put them all in the clear.

A guilty man, unless he’s very good at lying under questioning, would have answered one of our queries with a vehement denial, picking up immediately on our hypothesis that there were star grenades somehow involved in the crash, and would appear cooperative while taking himself off the suspect list.

I spotted Webb walking by three separate times during the afternoon; I’d almost describe his walk as “sulking.” Bud and I finished up at nearly 1700, and headed outside in time to see Webb stepping again into the communications tent.

At dinner, Webb got completely unprofessional. I don’t know what happened on that phone call, but I was glad that Marks and Silver weren’t privy to the fact that I’ve known and worked with him for seven years. All that Army beats Navy crap was totally out of line. If we weren’t of equal rank, I’d have made him drop and do 40. He left issuing a challenge, “Well, we’ll just see who figures this thing out first.” The whole thing was childish and uncalled for.

Bud takes his relationships with people very seriously, and I think he was kind of hurt by Webb’s outburst. I couldn’t help thinking that Webb was acting like Harm. Throwing on my jacket and taking a walk after dinner, I thought about how unattractive that huge ego is. No wonder things never worked out with Harm. I hoped a good night’s sleep would do us all some good.

It’s not until the next morning that Silver and Marks have the results from their chemical analysis of the wreck. But what they find confirms the theory that Bud and I were developing. It also pretty much finishes up the Naval Safety Center’s role in this investigation. Extremely high concentrations of magnesium residue were present on the inside of the helo.

“Is this particular type of magnesium, by chance, used in star grenades?” I ask Lieutenant Silver.

As an answer, he turns his notes to me, and I see that he’s written in the margin, “Cause: star grenades???”

“Gotcha.”

“Star grenades will be our official finding for the cause of the crash, Ma’am. As for why they were on board, I guess that’s your department.” He sort of shrugs, and begins to gather his notes back into their folder.

“I’m afraid so. Send us a copy of your completed report, will you?”

“Of course, Colonel. We’re heading back this afternoon, hoping to catch a late transport heading east tonight,” he says, nodding in the direction of Lieutenant Marks.

“Travel safe,” I say in farewell, but Bud jumps in.

“Lieutenant Silver. Can we ask you a favor before you and Lieutenant Marks leave?”

Silver looks to me, then back to Bud, “Sure, what can we do for you?”

“Can you tell us if there are any abnormal levels of radiation in the dead Marines’ gear?”

Thank God for Bud. I can’t believe I missed making that connection. I figured the radiation source was going to turn out to have been some material from the helo.

“Sure thing Lieutenant Roberts. Let’s do it now.”

Bud, Silver, Marks, and I go through every piece of equipment, clothing, and personal items of each Marine. Bud and I are looking for evidence of star grenades, Marks and Silver take their Geiger counter around the entire room, finally honing in on the footlocker of Private First Class James T. Kenton.

We take down the readings from the Geiger counter, thank Silver and Marks, and send them on their way. They should make the last transport out of Nellis. Bud congratulates Marks on the impending birth of his first child, and I understand now why they were in such a hurry to get home.

Although we found no evidence of the grenades, the high radiation levels on Kenton’s clothes are a big break. Pouring over our notes from the past couple of days, we look for something that might make the radiation fit with the rest of the clues we’ve got. Nothing exactly clicks into place, but we find another piece to the puzzle about Kenton, which just increases the suspicions about him; Bud reads from his notes that Kenton was the Marine who was identified only by the presence of his dog tags at the crash site. No remains could be confirmed as belonging to Private Kenton, and not even dental records or DNA tests were used to verify his death.

As Bud and I walk around camp, bouncing theories off one another, we simply can’t connect the dots. We’ve got the detonation of star grenades inside the helo, before and during the crash; Kenton’s death in the crash confirmed only by his dog tags; and high levels of radiation on his personal effects, as well as at the crash site. None of it makes much sense, although I’m getting an uneasy feeling that Kenton isn’t really dead, and that the presence of radiation spells something very dangerous.

We see Webb three times on our circuit around the compound. It’s like he’s stalking us, and I elbow Bud the third time I see Webb matching our pace about a hundred yards to our left. Bud looks at me questioningly.

“Webb again. Nine o’clock.”

“Ahhh. I wonder if he’s gotten anywhere with his investigation. I bet he’s as in the dark as we are. And I get the feeling that he’s not getting much support from his superiors. Now that Lieutenants Silver and Marks are gone, he might be more open to pooling what we’ve got.”

“Interesting take on Webb’s situation. You know something you haven’t been telling me?” He might be right, but I want to know more before we open ourselves up to a potentially hostile Webb.

“No, Ma’am. More of a hunch, I guess. He’s just been testier than usual, and I thought we were getting along pretty well on the ride out here. But he hasn’t even asked us what we’ve found, and he’s just been hanging around here all day. Something’s definitely not right. It must be difficult to do his job sometimes.” Bud sounds sympathetic, and I instinctively know he’s right.

“Bud, have I mentioned what a pleasure it is to work with you? You’ve got great people skills, unlike a certain Commander we know who tends to go around, guns blazing.”

“Thanks.” Bud smiles, and we watch Webb walk in another direction when he sees us turn our heads his way.

Bud and I split up for the afternoon, deciding just to stay around camp and nose around; no more direct investigating for the rest of the day. We need a break in this case, and I don’t think we’re going to get it from anyplace but here. Kenton is dead, or so he wants us to believe, and we have no other real leads. Bud might be right, maybe we should talk to Webb.

To get a little exercise, I start off on a walk along the dirt road leading away from camp, and think about what Bud said, and about the false bravado that Webb puts out there for the benefit of others. I keep coming back to the same question – why is he so reluctant to trust us? I’m still annoyed at Webb, but not for acting like a jerk, per se. Now, it’s because he won’t open up.

I wish I had my running shoes, or a punching bag to take out some of my nervous energy and aggression on. Instead, I pick up my pace, check to be sure I’ve got enough water to last the afternoon, and I start off on a fast hike along the road, intending to loop back through the trees and brush on the way back.

//WEBB//

I was at a complete loss as to how to proceed with my sham of an investigation, and had decided to wait until I could talk to Master Sergeant Samuel again, when he and the Rangers returned to camp later in the afternoon. Michael Mitchell was insisting that I start checking in with him on a regular basis, like I was a twelve year old, so I was on my way to the communications tent when I saw Mac and Bud going through the dead Marines’ tent and gear. As I got closer, I could see Marks and Silver sweeping the tent with a Geiger counter, and decided that I was finally ready to ask Mac and Bud what they’ve found.

I went over the same stuff with Mitchell that I’d been going over in my mind – Jameson, the night vision goggles, and the address book in Farsi. Mitchell told me that “his guys” would look into Jameson to find the Farsi connection. I was sure that the only “guys” Mitchell had doing any work were his administrative assistants that kept his coffee mug filled.

After the phone call, I was even more frustrated, and was starting to feel depressed. I just couldn’t make sense of anything, beyond my hunch that Jameson had known that the crash was going to happen. I radioed Samuel, and gave him some specific questions to ask Jameson, which I thought might give me a clue as to what he was up to. But when Samuel radioed me back, he said he got nothing but attitude from Jameson, and that, as soon as they returned, Jameson was going to be sent packing, Samuel was kicking him out of the Rangers.

Finishing up with Samuel, I went back to the tent in time to say good-bye to Marks and Silver. They told me that their final assessment of the cause of the crash would show no pilot error, or mechanical failure. They intended to report the presence and detonation of star grenades on board, and that, if I’m curious about it, I should ask Mac and Bud, because they were on to something really interesting.

All in all, Marks and Silver were really nice to me, considering my behavior last night. And, before getting in their humvee, they saluted me. Saluting them back, I returned to the tent intending to take a nap. However, all I did was toss and turn, so I got up within fifteen minutes of lying down. I went outside, paced the camp complex, and saw Mac and Bud doing the same thing. On my final lap, I saw them spot me again, so I took off the other way. I hoped they didn’t think I was following them.

I walked for about a mile into the lightly wooded area adjacent to the ops center camp, and tried to figure out how to approach Mac and Bud. In the end, I decided to, uncharacteristically, go with “honesty is the best policy,” and to just lay it all out on the table. Thinking that things would certainly be easier with the Naval Safety Center officers gone, and the way things have been going with Mitchell, I felt like I pretty much had nothing to lose.

On the way back to the tent, I ended up next to Bud in the latrine. He asked me if I’d seen Mac; he hadn’t seen her in a few hours, and was starting to get a little concerned for her safety.

“If there’s anyone in this camp that can take care of themselves, it’s Mac,” I retorted, zipping up my pants, and liberally applying the liquid sanitizer to my hands.

“Yes, Sir.” Bud and I walked outside together, but, as he turned to leave, he changed his mind. “Colonel Webb?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Never mind.” He was obviously struggling with whether or not to say something to me, and I had a feeling what it was about.

“I should apologize for my behavior, Lieutenant. I wasn’t given the most clear set of orders for this mission, and I may have taken it out on you, and the Colonel.”

Bud doesn’t look surprised at my admission, and I’m relieved. I don’t think I could have stood an “I told you so” or “it’s about time” attitude from him. On the other hand, I’m a superior officer, so maybe he’s covering up.

“No apology necessary. But I did want to ask you if it’s still out of the question to work collaboratively on this, Sir. We’ve hit a dead end, and could use your help.”

“With the CIA is treating me like I’ve got the plague, I’m not sure what kind of help I can be.”

Now Bud looks surprised. And a bit pleased, which kind of makes me mad. “You enjoying the fact that I’m the low-man-on-the-totem-pole at work, Lieutenant Roberts?”

“No! I mean, no, Sir. It’s just that Colonel MacKenzine and I were talking earlier, and that was my hunch – that you’d been given a tough assignment, and weren’t getting the support of your superiors. My instincts were right.”

“You ever consider a career in intelligence, Roberts?” I ask, meaning it; the guy’s good. Bud smiles at me, and, before I can start talking about the case, he insists that we wait until Mac shows up.

“Maybe I should look for her,” I suggest.

“Now who’s being overly concerned about a Marine?” Bud says, obviously feeling comfortable with me.

“You’re right; she’d kick my ass if she thought I went looking for her, just because she was a little late.” I feel like a jerk for suggesting I scout around for her, but it’s getting to be dusk, and to be honest, I’m not all that comfortable not knowing where she is.

“It’s still very much a ‘man’s military.’ I think Colonel MacKenzie feels like she has to do everything faster and better, and be more aggressive about some things, just to prove herself,” Bud shares his thoughts about Mac with me.

Walking and talking with him, I again appreciate Bud’s insightful personality, and great diplomacy. I’m willing to bet he had a similar conversation about me with Mac. He’s dead on, though; she and I both tend to be stubborn and to jump to conclusions about people; in this investigation, we really need to set that aside and work together.

Bud and I eat dinner in the tent, which now feels very spacious, with just the two of us in it. Mac finally shows up at about nineteen-thirty, as we’re describing the worst MRE’s we’ve ever eaten. In spite of the dropping temperatures, which are probably in the high 30’s now, she looks hot and sweaty in her BDU’s and field jacket.

We stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s been hurt, or was maybe running from someone, but I think we’re both afraid to ask. Taking off her desert cover, she stares at us like we’ve lost our minds.

“What were you two laughing at?”

She must’ve heard us from outside the tent. Bud rushes to answer, and it comes out sounding like he’s making something up to cover what we were really laughing at, but he’s telling the truth.

“Mr., I mean *Colonel* Webb was just telling me about the twenty-year-old MRE’s that he had in Desert Storm. They were from the Nixon administration. And, well, I guess you had to be here. . .“

Mac looks at me with disbelief written on her face. “I’m gone for a few hours, and the two of you start talking behind my back? Well, Webb, you have this case solved yet? Or can’t you tell us?”

She’s really irate. But her accusations make me even madder. I stand up, and come toe to toe with her, “No, Colonel,” I spit out, “I haven’t solved this case, thank you very much. I just assumed that’s what you’ve been doing all this time.”

I should’ve known better than to try to intimidate her physically, because she just leans into me, invading my personal space even more than I had hers. And since she’s not exactly flat-chested, to say the least, I have to lean back to keep her breasts from hitting my chest, which would’ve been completely inappropriate, even though it would have been her actions that put them there. I think she was counting on me backing away; I bet she’s used that move before.

“No, Colonel,” her voice is dripping with sarcasm at the use of my rank, for which I’m sure she has no respect, “I was not. I wouldn’t even think of going any further on this case without Bud. But I’m sure that kind of loyalty is foreign to you, isn’t it?”

Her remark stings. She obviously has no idea about the loyalty I displayed on Rabb’s behalf getting his brother out of Chechnya, or on behalf of my own country getting shot in the leg and faking my own death to keep sensitive technology out of the wrong hands. It’s because of my sense of loyalty to the families of the Angel Shark men that I betrayed my superiors, and am in this position, in the first place. But if that’s what she thinks of me, so be it.

“Fine, MacKenzie. If that’s what you think, go ahead, look at my notes, read through my orders, they’re all yours.”

I start to jerk my body around hers to get out the door, when I feel a hand catch my arm. If that’s her, she’d better not mind getting a punch in the face. I whip around, and cock my other arm back, ready to throw the punch. But it’s Bud holding on to me, so I drop my arm.

He’s angry, and I have a feeling Mac and I will be getting an ear full of scolding from him in a minute. Bud lets go of my arm, and looks at the two of us.

“Sir, Ma’am. I’m going to assume I have permission to speak freely here. . . You’re both acting like spoiled brats. This case is taking its toll on all of us, but going at each other’s throats won’t do anyone any good. And starting to argue before anyone’s had a chance to explain anything won’t get us anywhere, either.”

Mac’s stiff posture softens, and I go to sit on my cot, as Bud continues, “Colonel MacKenzie, you should know that Colonel Webb has some information he’d like to share with us. We were waiting until you returned to get started.”

Mac looks at me, varying her expression from incredulous to relieved. While Bud gets his notes out, and I turn to dig for mine, Mac sits on her bunk, unlaces her boots and takes them off, then digs in her pack for an MRE. I step forward and hand her a fresh canteen of water, watching her closely as she looks at the canteen, then at my hand, and lastly, at my face.

“Sorry, and thanks,” she says.

“Me, too, and you’re welcome.”

That’s all it takes for us to move on. I’m glad to see Mac’s not holding a grudge. I’m not, either; there’s no sense in it, and the last thing I want is to fight with her. Although, I have to confess that my feelings are still a little hurt by her remark about my lack of loyalty.

Before we share notes on what we’ve discovered since arriving in Arizona, I reveal to them that I have no idea why I’m on this case. I explain that I’m not certain there was even a real case here for me to be involved with, in the first place. Although I’m now positive that there’s something big going on, even if Mitchell doesn’t believe me.

“But, I think originally, this was some kind of wild goose chase, or a kind of a test that Mitchell was putting me through, just for the hell of it. Or to get to me screw something up, or disobey him. I think he’s looking for a reason to send me back to Suriname, just because he can. He’s the kind of asshole that gets off on his own power. I was worried that if he was trying to bring me down, and the three of us were working together, then you’d have gotten tangled up in it, too.”

I don’t expect them to thank me, and am glad that they don’t. But Bud looks at me like he’s a proud father, and Mac puts her hand on my shoulder. And I feel like I’m maybe making the kind of friends that have been absent from my life.

We move the cots together that Silver and Marks were using, and turn them into a kind of conference table, where Bud spreads out three-by-five cards as he writes out the facts we’ve uncovered so far with a black Sharpie pen. When they’re all laid out, it’s clear that Jameson and Kenton were working together, and that Kenton used the star grenades to distract, and temporarily blind, the Marines, while he somehow got out of the helo, faking his own death. Whatever they’re involved with, it’s got something to do with radioactive material.

“It’s too bad Silver and Marks aren’t still here with their Geiger counter,” Mac says.

“Yeah, I wonder how ‘hot’ Jameson’s gear is,” Bud voices our thoughts.

“Speaking of the Rangers, they were due back here by seventeen-hundred,” I look towards the door of the tent, wondering where they are.

I jump when there’s a knock at the door, while I’m looking at it.

“Enter,” Mac says loudly.

A private from the camp CO’s office comes in, and informs us that the Rangers have just returned, and that Master Sergeant Ted Samuel is dead.

“Apparently, he slipped and fell into a ravine. Died of a blunt trauma to the skull,” he tells us.

“Thank you, Private. That will be all,” I dismiss him.

When he leaves, I tell Mac and Bud about my last conversation with Samuel, “I radioed Samuel earlier today, and had him quiz Jameson about a few things. When he reported back to me, Samuel said Jameson was giving him a lot of attitude, and that, as soon as they got back, Jameson was out of the Rangers.”

“Damn,” Mac says, “Samuel was a good guy. And probably the best source of information on Jameson.”

Mac’s right; I was counting heavily on Samuel to help with Jameson. And, even with the findings we’ve pooled tonight, we don’t have much to pin on Jameson, without more evidence. Plus, we probably need to set up some surveillance to catch him revealing something about what’s going on. Otherwise, unless he talks, which isn’t likely, or we get a lucky break that we can’t foresee, we’re still in the dark.

Mac goes to the communications center to check in with Chegwidden, and I drop by the Rangers’ tent on the pretense of giving my condolences to the guys over Samuel’s death. Some of them are talking, but most appear to be asleep, including Jameson. A big beefy guy, named Sergeant Watts, tells me that this is the first rack time they’ve had in two days, and they’re scheduled for a three-day exercise starting tomorrow night. As I leave, I look again at Jameson’s bunk, and confirm that he’s sleeping soundly. We probably should all get a good night’s sleep, but that won’t happen for me unless I know that Jameson’s not going anywhere. We’re going to have to take turns watching him.

I hit the head, and then go to our tent, where Mac’s telling Bud that the Admiral has given his full approval of continuing the investigation, and to call if she thinks they’ll need any back up.

“Webb, he was sympathetic to your situation, but said not to let that go to your head,” she says to me, smiling; I’m familiar with Chegwidden’s gruff, but fiercely loyal, style. I get that warm feeling of camaraderie again, and smile back at her.

I fill them in on the Rangers’ training schedule, and they agree that we need to keep a close eye on Jameson. Bud volunteers to take the first watch, leaving Mac and me alone in the tent.

We leave our notes on Marks’ and Silver’s cots, and sleep in the same arrangement as we have the past two nights, even though there’s more space now. I lie down, with my feet near the door, and my head near the foot of Mac’s cot. I’m feeling a bit wound up with nervous energy; it’s always unsettling to know there’s radioactive material unaccounted for, and we really need a break with this case. I punch my jacket, which has been serving as my pillow, into shape, and wake up sometime around 1 am, trying to decipher a dream I’d just had about Mac caressing my shoulder. It wasn’t all that sexual, just intimate, obviously triggered by her gesture earlier. Before I can get any further in my self-analysis, Bud comes in, and whispers to me that there’s been no sign of Jameson, and that it’s my turn to stand watch.

//MAC//

I don’t know why I overreacted the way I did when I heard Webb and Bud laughing. My hike was supposed to have calmed me down, and cleared my head. But I think it just wound me up even more. When I came in the door, I was raring for a fight, and Webb did not disappoint. If Bud hadn’t been there, it probably would have come to blows. Although I suspect that Webb wouldn’t have followed through with his punch; his mother probably taught him not to hit a woman, unless she was an enemy agent or operative.

But Bud was there, and he set us straight. Webb and I admitted defeat pretty easily, though. I think we both were cognizant of the fact that we had acted-out from the stress we were under. And I had no trouble taking his peace offering of water when I sat to eat my dinner.

The revelation that Webb had been trying, in a way, to protect us, hit me hard. I felt really bad for questioning his loyalty. Laying a hand on his shoulder, I tried to convey my appreciation. It felt really good to be working together, and only the fact that we still weren’t any closer to figuring out what had really happened to that helo, or where Kenton was, detracted from the feeling of companionship among us.

Then we found out that Samuel was dead. That, and the unnerving fact that there was likely unaccounted for radioactive material, gave us a new urgency. Webb went to check on Jameson, and I made a call to the Admiral. I told him everything, and he offered his unconditional support.

“Mac, I trust you and Bud to see this through. Keep me posted, and let me know if you need back up. Oh, and tell *Mister* Webb, that I’m sympathetic to his situation, but not to let it go to his head,” the Admiral can never resist a dig at Webb, but I conveyed the message with the same undertone of understanding that the Admiral had used.

We concurred that Jameson needed to be watched through the night. Bud took the first shift, and I climbed into bed, which was still warm from where I was sitting on it after returning from the communications tent. And, dozing off, in one of those weird semi-conscious things, where your train of thought turns into a dream, I considered nudging Webb in the head with my feet, just for fun.

I wake up, hours later, to Webb shaking my shoulder, telling me that it’s my turn to stand watch. I pull on my pants, jacket, and boots, then decide to put on a stocking cap, too, before emerging into the pre-dawn chill. Standing across from Jameson’s tent as unobtrusively as possible, I think about how badly I want to take a shower. I hope the water rations are in my favor today; it’s going on two days, and I need to wash. At 0517, I see Jameson quietly leave his tent. He’s carrying something bulky that I can’t discern in the gray morning light, and I follow him a couple of hundred yards out of camp, where he slips behind an outcropping of boulders. I listen as he places a call on a satellite phone. ‘Where the hell’d he get that?’ I think, as I strain to hear his side of the conversation. Knowing that Webb found his address book to be all in Farsi, I’m not surprised to hear Jameson speaking it on the phone.

“They even cried for the bastard. You should have seen the look on his face, as I pushed him over the edge. God damned Jew, deserved it.”

Jameson being Samuel’s murderer doesn’t surprise me in the least.

“And Kenton’s such a sucker. I think he’s already on the way to the mine. I’m leaving today to meet him there. He’ll probably be so sick from the radiation by the time I get there, getting rid of him will be easy. Don’t worry, we’ll get the stuff out. I have a plan to take care of the money.”

I hope he’s not planning on leaving right now for wherever Kenton is, I need to tell Bud and Webb.

“It’s perfect, at 1400 I’m scheduled to drive a vehicle to the training site. I’ll be miles away before those idiots figure out I’m gone.”

I run back to Bud and Webb, and tell them exactly what I heard; Bud copies down what I’m saying. We need to decide what to do about following Jameson.

“Mac, you stay here with Bud and call the Admiral. I’ll follow Jameson --” Webb starts, but I cut him off.

“Webb, that’s ludicrous. God knows what could happen, and I’ve got more survival training than you do. We both need to go, and you know it. Stop trying to be so noble, or some kind of martyr.”

Webb stares at me expressionless, until a smirk breaks out on his face. He knows he’s been caught, and I smile at him smugly. While we’re looking at each other, Bud tells us exactly what’s got to be done: “The two of you need to make sure you’ve got enough supplies; you don’t really know where Jameson is headed, or how long it will take to get there. I’ll get an uplink, and find out about uranium mining in this area. Ma’am, you should probably let the Admiral know what’s going on, as well.”

Webb and I simultaneously turn to Bud, nod in agreement, and don’t even question the fact that a Lieutenant is giving orders to two Lieutenant Colonels.

We immediately go in different directions to accomplish our tasks. Webb rounds up the equipment we’ll require; I set out to stock our food and water supplies, and to gas up the humvee. Bud goes to the communications tent to get onto the Internet as soon as he can. By the time I’m done, Webb’s back in the tent, too, shoving his sleeping bag, a tarp, and a flashlight into his pack.

I toss the supply of MRE’s on one of the cots, bring in the jugs of water that we’ll have to carry, then go back out to try to call Admiral Chegwidden. I see Bud in the communications center, busy downloading some maps into the GPS; he nods at me when I walk in. The Admiral isn’t in the office, and Tiner seems genuinely distressed to tell me that he has no idea where the Admiral is. I’ll have to try again later, or have Bud track him down after Webb and I leave.

Back in the tent, I fill my pack with my gear, and my share of the food and water. Then Webb and I clean our weapons in silence, no doubt hoping we won’t have to use them. By noon, Bud is back, and the three of us eat lunch in our tent, going over the plan. Bud informs us that he’s sure Jameson is going to the abandoned Orphan Mine, on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

“The mine is a few miles west of Grand Canyon Village, along the Hermit Road. It was started as a copper mine in 1893, when ore was discovered about eleven-hundred feet below the rim of the canyon.”

He takes a sip of water, and scrolls down a page or two on the laptop before continuing. Webb and I look at each other, impressed with Bud’s research.

“In 1953, years after the copper ore had become too expensive to extract, uranium was discovered on the site, and a tramway from the canyon rim to the mine entrance was constructed. The head-frame of the structure is still in place, but the tram itself is long gone. In 1988, the government took possession of the property, shut down the mine, and, due to higher than normal radiation levels, fenced off the area.”

Webb asks the question that I want the answer to, as well, “How sure are you that this Orphan Mine is where Kenton and Jameson will meet?”

“Positive, Sir. It’s the only uranium mine in the area that Kenton could have easily reached. He probably had a change of clothes with him, so he could blend in as a hiker; and it would’ve been easy for him to hike to a road, hitchhike to the North Rim, and hike to the mine.”

Bud turns on the GPS, and shows us the route that Jameson is likely to take. He’s also loaded the other roads in the area, as well as the trails in the Canyon.

“Once you get to the mine, I’m not sure what you’ll be facing, in terms of an entrance. There are still a series of short trails, connected by ropes and ladders that go to some of the older openings, but I wasn’t able to find any accounts or pictures of what the mine presently looks like.”

“This is great Bud. But, I hope by the time we get there, we’ll have Jameson in custody, and he can tell us exactly where to find Kenton,” I say.

“The only problem, Ma’am, is that you don’t want to stay in the vicinity of the mine for too long, because of the radiation.”

We surmise that Jameson was masterminding the plan that had he and Kenton going into the mine, and packing out weapons-grade uranium while they’d been stationed in the area, for training, for the past four and a half months. The most frightening thing is that we don’t know if they were selling the uranium, or smuggling it, or to whom.

Webb points out that we don’t know who Jameson was talking to on the phone, and that we don’t know, for sure, who’s in charge of this scheme. Plus, we can’t be sure that no one else in camp is involved. By mutual decision, we agree not to tell the camp commander what we’ve found out about Jameson, or what we’ve got planned.

Bud hands off the GPS, extra batteries, the paper maps he was able to find, and a radio. We’re to check in with him as often as we can, but we can’t make any firm arrangements, because we won’t know if we’ll be too close to Jameson to use the radio without giving away the fact that we’re tailing him. Before we leave, Webb and I try to reach our respective bosses one more time.

//WEBB//

Thank God for Mac understanding Farsi. We got the break we needed, thanks to her overhearing, and understanding, Jameson’s phone call. I still can’t figure out where he was stashing that satellite phone. It wasn’t in any of the gear in the Rangers’ tent, that’s for sure; I had gone through that place with a fine-toothed comb. And, thank God for Bud, too. The maps and information on the mine are invaluable. I’m starting to remember what teamwork is all about.

After firming up our plans, Mac and I walk to the communications tent one last time. She still can’t get a hold of Chegwidden. Bud will keep trying, which makes me feel better. At least there will be someone out there on our side, who has the power to send in back up, if we get into trouble.

I take my turn on the phone, and wait for Mitchell to pick up, expecting him to laugh, and happily send me off into the Grand Canyon, probably hoping that I never return. Instead, in the course of our conversation, I finally get something useful out of him. When I disconnect the line, and turn to leave, Mac is standing right behind to me. She’d been so quiet during the call that I didn’t know she was still in the tent. But I find I like the fact that she was there, sort of watching my back.

I tell her I’ll fill her in when we’re back with Bud. As we walk across the compound, she says, “I’m really sorry about questioning your loyalty.”

“That’s okay, but thanks. I think we were both feeling the stress of this case.” I’m sure it really was the stress, but it makes me feel good that she didn’t mean what she’d said. Her respect has become very important to me.

Once we’re back at out tent, I fill them in, “While Mitchell still thinks we’re delusional to suspect that Kenton is still alive, and that there’s uranium in Arizona,” I roll my eyes at his ignorance, “he did let slip some useful information. The reason I was sent here in the first place, was that one of the Rangers had raised red flags at the CIA several weeks ago. Jameson, of course,” I say, preempting their question.

“Why?” Mac prompts.

“The Company keeps all CIA-trained military personnel under surveillance – I know, I know, we’re not supposed to spy domestically – but Jameson had apparently been blabbing to his family about his CIA training – in Farsi, and making jokes about auctioning off the CIA technology on eBay, and Osama bin Laden paying for the shipping. I think Mitchell, the sadistic bastard, wanted to see if I could figure out which Ranger was under suspicion. The helo crash was actually a coincidence, but it provided a good cover for my investigation.”

They nod seriously, in understanding. Because I still don’t have Mitchell’s support, and Chegwidden can’t be located, I get the feeling that we’re embarking on something of a renegade operation. If anything happens to Bud, before he’s able to get Chegwidden on the phone, no one will know where we are. It reminds me of some action/adventure movie where the rag-tag gang of misfits has to go against the brass to save the world. It’s almost comical. Almost.

At 1330, we say goodbye to Bud, and load up our humvee as if we’re leaving camp for good, trying not to raise any suspicions in case anyone’s paying attention. I take the wheel, and we bide our time until Jameson’s humvee pulls out of camp. After an agonizing minute, we pull out to follow him, not wanting to be too obvious. Jameson’s easy to tail, though; he takes the exact route that Bud had laid into the GPS. At Jacob Lake, where Jameson turns south onto Highway 67, we drop back a ways, letting an RV and a Suburban get between him and us. Driving a humvee to follow someone isn’t the best scenario, but I think we’re managing to stay out of his sight, while not losing him.

As predicted, Jameson ditches his vehicle close to start of the seldom-used North Bass trail. We’d guessed that he would use an older trail, and one that’s not maintained by a trail crew. It’s amazing to me that Jameson got as far as he did with his uranium mining plans, because he’s sure being stupid now. He’s been incredibly easy to predict.

While Jameson uses the pit toilet, Mac and I grab our gear, and jog down the trail a little, hiding in the brush, until Jameson, his gear clanking loudly in his pack, comes down the trail. We let him pass, and then emerge onto the trail again, following him until dusk.

//MAC//

The guy Webb’s reporting to is unbelievably asinine. Not only does he sound like an egomaniac, he’s downright dangerous. I really feel for Webb, and have gained a lot of respect for him. I probably already had respect for him, he’d just made himself so unlikable and unpredictable, it was easy to overlook. Now, it’s almost like he’s been part of the team with me and Bud all along.

Webb drove as we followed Jameson, but we didn’t talk much. He was concentrating on tailing Jameson, and I was studying the maps and notes Bud supplied us with. Webb did a great job of following Jameson’s vehicle; barreling along in a humvee isn’t exactly discreet. When we reached the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, seeing that Jameson was headed for the North Bass trail, I radioed Bud and updated him on our progress. Then, while Jameson was in the head, Webb and I quickly got our gear in order, and hit the trail.

Crouching in the bushes, we watched Jameson hike by. I was amazed that he even made it as a Ranger in the first place; he was incredibly loud as he passed us by, his gear noisily shifting in his pack with each step as he walked through the quiet wilderness. We followed him at a distance for several miles, seeing only one hiker along the way, a tall lean man, with farm-boy good looks, who was on his way out of the Canyon. After countless switchbacks on a rocky section of trail covered in loose gravel, making our way over stones lining a dry creek bed, and then heading back into a greener section of the trail with a dense underbrush, the sun was starting to go down on this long and tiring day.

The light just disappearing, I see Jameson veer off the barely-there trail. Holding up my hand with the “stop” signal, I sense Webb step up to my side. We watch Jameson scout out a place to camp for the night, and then choose a flat, but slightly elevated, spot to the left of the trail. Webb and I continue farther into the brush, and into a thick stand of manzanita trees, looking for a suitable location to suit our needs. We have to be situated where we can see Jameson, but not be seen by him. I point to a very small grassy clearing about forty-five yards from where Jameson’s pitching his tent; if we’re quiet, he’ll never know we’re here.

Simultaneously, Webb and I drop to the ground, and silently observe Jameson rolling out his sleeping bag inside his tent, and then eat his MRE, washing it down with a canteen of water. When he goes behind a tree, to presumably relieve himself, Jameson walks in the opposite direction from us. We take the opportunity to make a few decisions about keeping tabs on him through the night.

“It won’t be as cold, since we’re a little ways into the canyon, and we need to be as silent as possible,” I whisper to Webb.

“Agreed, no tent, no sleeping bags,” he concurs, his lips at my ear.

We forgo eating, and I think we’re undetected as we use the bushes for our personal needs, waiting to go until we’re as certain as we can be that Jameson is asleep. It’s pitch black; I don’t think there’s any moon tonight. Even though the skies are clear, we can’t see many stars through the trees, and the wall of the canyon that rises behind our position blocks a whole section of the sky. I really wish we had night vision equipment; and, since we know Jameson has night vision goggles, it’s critical for us to stay low and still. Luckily, there’s a fair amount of brush between him and us.

By 2143, Jameson is snoring loudly. Webb and I lay parallel to one another, on our stomachs. I feel, more than hear, him shifting next to me, as he clumsily finds my ear, “We should sleep in shifts.”

I turn my head to whisper, “Okay,” but in the darkness, I bump my nose into his, like a first kiss in junior high. Neither of us moves to correct our position – to get either father away, or closer to, one another.

“Okay,” I say anyway, not knowing what else to do.

The moment stretches out; I can feel the seconds marching by, and we’re still frozen here in the dark, face to face, nearly kissing. My heart is starting to pound, and his breath is on my lips. I can’t even tell how far apart we are, it’s that dark. But we’re close enough that I resist licking my dry lips, because just that little bit of movement might close the gap we’re teetering on. As appealing as it might be, taking that leap is one that I’m not sure I want to attempt, at least not right now. And definitely not while we’re tracking Jameson.

As always happens in the wilderness in the dark, we hear a noise. It jolts us back to our present situation, and Webb backs off, telling me to go ahead and sleep first. I move my pack around to the front of me to use as a pillow, and turn on my side to get as comfortable as I can. The ground isn’t too hard, but it’s chilly; that’s the worst part of sleeping out on maneuvers, the cold from the ground seeps right into your bones.

I try to unwind and curtail my thoughts, which are starting to race. I’m trying not to wonder what it would have been like to kiss Webb. It’s a surprise to me that I think it would’ve be really nice. I’ve never thought of him sexually before, but sometimes chemistry just happens; and it was definitely happening. Although, I wonder if it was happening for him, too. No, I tell myself, you can’t feel that kind of thing unless it’s mutual.

I really need to get some rest; we’ve got a long hike ahead of us, and we haven’t yet decided when to apprehend Jameson. We agreed that it should be tomorrow, but we’ve still got to plan a signal for the go-ahead. Now, my mind is starting to think about how we’ll deal with Jameson, and that helps me focus back on why we’re here. That in mind, I fall asleep quickly, my body knowing it needs the rest.

Webb whispering in my ear awakens me, exactly four hours later. It’s barely a breath of a whisper, and in my sleepy haze, I can’t understand what he’s saying. I’d much rather keep dozing; his voice in my ear is kind of pleasant, so I don’t move. I suddenly remember the dream I’d had in the humvee on the way from Nellis, where I’d dreamt of Webb whispering into my ear in the dark. I don’t know if it was my subconscious foretelling of an attraction to him, or another one of my premonitions.

“Mac!” He’s much louder this time, although it’s still quiet, so as not to alert Jameson.

That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I was thinking how nice it was having him talk in my ear as I slept. So much for my warm fuzzy thoughts about him. I roll over and give Webb a dirty look, which I know he can’t see in the moonless night. I tap him twice to let him know I’m up and alert.

I can tell Webb’s taking a long time to fall asleep, and I’m tempted to talk to him. I know we need to keep silent, though, and he needs to rest. His breathing eventually turns into the regular and relaxed pattern of sleep, and I spend my hours on watch thinking about him.

What the hell am I doing, thinking so much about Webb? I have a great deal of respect for him, and apparently affection, too, which appears to be growing. We’ve actually been through a lot together in the past seven years. In spite of my initial anger and frustration, I feel good about being teamed up with him on this investigation, and I’m glad to have gotten to know him better. I trust him with my life, and I believe now that he would trust me that deeply, too.

I don’t want to over analyze that weird moment between us earlier, but I tell myself that imagining we’d played out the moment, and kissed, will help keep me awake and attentive as I tick off the hours until morning. I know that spending the night a quarter of the way into the Grand Canyon while tracking a felon, and likely terrorist, is hardly the place to kiss your co-worker, or to imagine him continuing to whisper in your ear in the dark, but it sure is a nice thought.

As the night passes, Webb and I draw closer together in the cold. I feel his warmth all along my side, and, when the sun starts to illuminate our surroundings with a murky light, I can see, as well as feel, that he’s pushed right up against me. I’m still on my stomach, and Webb is to my left, facing me, his head at my shoulder; the rest of his body has curved to follow the contours of mine.

It’s one of those situations we’d never be in, had it been light this whole time. But darkness seems to lessen inhibitions, and only as the dawn gets brighter and brighter, does it seem a little odd to be this close to Clayton Webb. I start to cautiously stretch one of my legs, and suddenly hear Jameson getting up. Webb jerks awake, and looks worriedly at me. At least he didn’t leap up, and give away our position; his training serves him well.

I look at Webb, and mouth, “He just got up.”

Webb nods at me, and I can seem him take note of our physical proximity. If he’s got any thoughts on the matter, though, I can’t tell. His expression isn’t giving anything away. Any speculation about an attraction between us is put on hold, as we watch Jameson pack up his things. He’s not moving with any speed or urgency, so Webb and I take turns in the bushes, and it’s nearly 0930 before Jameson gets going.

I am incredibly grateful when at last, he throws on his pack, and walks back to the trail to continue down into the canyon. My legs are incredibly stiff, and I’m starving. Webb and I switch off being in the lead, which allows the person in the rear to eat, and feel a little more relaxed. We have to stop short four times in the next couple of hours, as Jameson takes some course readings. So far, according to Bud’s route on the GPS, he’s made the right choices, leading us down to the Colorado River, where we’ll cross over old bridge, and begin the trek up the other side of the canyon to the mine.

Soon, we’re following the Shinumo Creek downstream, and we have to make frequent crossings to continue after Jameson. There’s no trail here, just the path of the water. Crossing isn’t easy; the wet rocks that are submerged under the rushing water are like walking on wet bowling balls. Fortunately, the noise of the water covers our progress as we stumble across the river and back again countless times. It also gives us an opportunity to surreptitiously discuss our strategy for confronting Jameson. We agree that the best time will be when the trail leaves the course of the water. According to the information Bud plotted into the GPS, the trail rises to a ridge before it begins its descent to the Colorado River. This is where we decide to apprehend Jameson.

//WEBB//

Mac was in front when Jameson stopped for the night, and she found an ideal place for us to keep an eye on him, too. She’s as good a soldier as she is a lawyer; not that I doubted it. We spent a couple of hours lying in wait before he finally went into the bushes and turned in for the night. Taking advantage of his absence, we easily agreed not to set up any kind of camp ourselves, deciding to play it safe. We both knew he had the advantage with his night vision goggles, so we were, quite literally, in the dark.

It was another hour before we were sure that Jameson was down for the night. In the blackness, I suggested to Mac that we take turns standing watch. I had no idea exactly where her ear was, but I whispered to her, “We should sleep in shifts.”

She must have turned her head in order to answer me; instead, she nudged her nose right into mine, and we froze that way. I couldn’t move, wanting to back off, knowing it was a clumsy accident that landed us in that position, but I stayed still, because part of me wanted to move in closer. And Mac wasn’t moving, either. There was a palpable tension between us, as she finally whispered, “Okay,” in reply. Her breath hit my lips when she spoke, which made me want her to keep talking, to feel that sexy tickle on my skin some more.

A noise in the brush to our rear broke us apart. When we’d decided it was nothing threatening, I told Mac to go to sleep first, and she put up no argument. She moved her gear around to get somewhat comfortable, and I could hear her breathing as she fell asleep. I studiously watched in the direction of Jameson’s tent, and listened to him snore in the distance, and to Mac sleeping next to me, while I thought about what I was doing here.

I’d spent the night in much worse situations in the line of duty, and in some much more pleasant ones, too. But this was kind of a turning point in my career. I realized that I really was no longer on my way to the “top” in the intelligence community, carrying on with the career path that my father never had a chance to. I considered my mother’s attitude towards me in the past few months, and decided that I was really the only one beating myself up about it. I wondered if my quest to bear out the work my father had been doing was one of the things that had kept me so solitary. I was hopeful that hashing it all out in my head would sort of liberate me from the obligation I’ve felt to his legacy all these years; freeing me up to consider something I never would have in the past – a serious relationship with someone.

Mac started out as someone I thought I had pegged easily – crappy upbringing, poor family, alcoholic lifestyle, crazy uncle, and extremely driven in her career to make up for it all. A closed off frigid bitch. But the passion Sarah MacKenzie has demonstrated in her work since I met her had been impressive, and attractive. She’d proved herself to be dedicated to her job, and to her friends. Mac hadn’t made the best choices in her personal life, but who has? And at least she was smart enough not to marry Brumby, or fall into bed with Harm. Or, at least, I always assumed that she hadn’t. With Mac and Harm, you’d be able to tell. One, or both of them, would give it away; it would’ve completely changed their working relationship.

Once, during the night, Jameson started to move, and I hesitated as long as I could before starting to wake Mac. In the end, he just took a leak, and went right back to bed. I had started to whisper to Mac to get up, but didn’t have to. And, in the middle of this insane trek, I found myself enjoying the warmth of her skin radiating out against my face, and stayed near her for much longer than I should have.

It hit me that I really need a personal life – one that involves a woman. But, I had to admit, that I was really starting to like *this* woman, and boy, was this the wrong time to make a pass at someone. I resolved that, when this was over, I’d make a real try at being social, and, if she seemed receptive to something between us, as she had earlier in the night, I would ask her out.

After four hours on watch, I woke Mac up, saying her name, and silently cursing the fact that she smelled really good – a little sweaty, but like the outdoors, and something kind of “soft,” too. After she got set up, I rolled on my side, falling asleep with great difficulty, trying to get some rest, and knowing we’d have a long way to go the next day.

Just at dawn, I woke up with a start, alert immediately. Looking to Mac to find out what was going on, she mouthed that Jameson had just gotten up. Then I noticed how close I’d been sleeping to her. No wonder I was so warm and cozy. But she didn’t protest or push me away, and it seemed by mutual agreement that we just let it slide.

After a late start – Jameson sure wasn’t in any hurry – we followed him through several terrain changes as we went deeper and deeper into the gorge of the canyon, past thousands of years of rock strata. During a clumsy stretch back and forth across a low, but swiftly moving, river, where walking on the slippery rocks took a fair amount of concentration, Mac and I solidified our plan to corner Jameson.

A half a mile out of the river’s path, we spot him resting on the ridge overlooking the last drop to the Colorado River. Nodding at each other, we simultaneously pull our clothing out of the way to let our hands rest at the ready, on top of our side arms. We’re coming out of a narrow alley of rock, onto a kind of “Y” outcropping, with the trail leading to the floor of the canyon to our left. I can see Jameson sitting with his left side to us, looking down the path, and out over the canyon below, sipping from his canteen in the shade of a lone tree that sits at the rim of the ledge.

Mac and I move slowly, hoping that Jameson is sufficiently distracted by the view before him. Suddenly, as we come within about 15 feet of him, Jameson jerks towards us, his hand on his weapon in a second. Mac and I draw our guns simultaneously, as Jameson alternately points his at me, then at Mac, deciding who to aim at.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Corporal Jameson, calm down. We want to talk to you,” Mac says, trying to sound womanly and appealing. It would work with me, I think. But Jameson’s not buying it.

“Yeah right, bitch,” Jameson yells at her, making the words sound dirty and repulsive, just the way I feel about him.

My heart rate picks up immediately at the situation; but, in less than 30 seconds, I get myself under control, lowering my pulse to near normal. Mac glances my way, and I allow a second to check her position. In that moment of strategic weakness, I’m hit, and on the ground. The shot is deafeningly loud in the reverberant canyon, and everything that happens afterwards seems to be in slow motion.

My left arm feels like it’s numb at first, and a second later it starts to burn intensely. At least Jameson is a bad shot. I look to my upper arm, and see the blood starting to soak through my clothes. From the look of the tear in my BDU shirt, I think the bullet just grazed me. At least he’s not carrying his M-15, or an MP-5; from what I saw, he’s wielding an older 9-millimeter handgun.

I see Mac charge forward, just as Jameson is assessing his situation, probably deciding if he needs to shoot me again. He’s going to have to, if he thinks he can get out of this without getting shot himself. As Mac reaches him, Jameson spins around, and kicks the gun out of her hand, giving me time to stand and come after him myself. We really need him alive and coherent, so, instead of taking the shot, I come forward to relieve him of his weapon. I manage to knock the 9-millimeter to the ground, as Jameson punches at me wildly. He lands a hard hit on my wounded arm, and I stagger backwards, stunned by the pain. My footing is unsteady, and I find myself right at the edge of the outcropping, slipping farther and farther over, as I try desperately to compensate for my loss of balance, and the gravity that’s pulling me towards the bottom of the canyon.

Mac reaches for Jameson’s weapon, which is closer to her than her own, and they begin to struggle. My fall downwards, to certain death, is stopped by a scrubby bush that looks like it’s hanging on to the side of the canyon just as tentatively as I am. I have no idea what’s going on above me, and right away, I’m forced to ditch my pack, easing it off my back as quickly and smoothly as possible.

As it falls to the canyon floor below, I hear a shot. My body stiffens, and my heart stands still in fear, and a second later, relief floods through me when I hear Mac calling my name. That would have been a hell of a way to go, shot by a crazy Army Ranger, my body falling and falling into the Grand Canyon. Now, I just need to figure out how the hell to get back up there.

“Mac!” I answer.

Her head appears at the top of the ridge, about twelve feet directly above me.

“Webb. God,” is her reaction to my predicament, “I thought you were shot.”

“I was. I am. Not badly, though. What the hell happened?” Her face is dirty and sweaty; even from here I can read the strain in her expression.

“We struggled; I shot him.” I clearly hear the upset in her voice.

“I need your help getting up there.” I state the blatantly obvious, feeling an incredibly urgent need to get my feet back on solid ground.

She disappears for a minute. Now that my pack’s gone, my position is stable for the time being. Though, getting me back up is going to take some effort. I try to control my heartbeat, using my marksmanship training to slow it down as much as possible. Mac finally comes back, after what feels like forever, and she lowers down a climbing harness that’s got a carabineer attached and looped through with rope.

“Can you get that on?”

“I think so. Hang on.” I catch the harness, and plot my moves carefully.

Keeping my center of gravity as low and as close to the same place as possible, I step one foot, then the other, into the harness, and fasten it snugly around me. I look up to see Mac checking a set of pulleys that she’s got on the other end of the line, and around the trunk of the tree Jameson had been sitting under.

“Okay,” I call to her.

“Ready?” I nod in reply. “Here we go,” she says, but doesn’t move at first.

We stare at one another; this is a critical moment. My life is completely in her hands. If she’s assembled the equipment improperly, or doesn’t have the upper body strength to hoist me, I’m dead. I refuse to think about that outcome, and try to convey my confidence in her.

“It’s okay Mac. Let’s do it.” I trust her; I don’t really have a choice right now, but I do trust that she’ll come through for me on this.

She nods, and we break eye contact as she concentrates, putting all her energy into the task of pulling on that rope with her gloved hands, one over the other. I’m in mid-air in no time. The last foot is the most difficult, but as soon as I can reach it, I grab a tree branch, and swing myself over to solid ground. When I do, Mac lowers me, and is at my side immediately.

We’re suddenly on our knees, and hugging tightly. No longer able to keep control, my heart is about to come out of my chest, it’s beating so hard. The relief is indescribable. We forget about my bullet wound, and Jameson’s body lying just ten feet away, for several long minutes, as we cling together, breathing hard, and unyielding in our embrace.

Mac leans back to rest on her heels, and wipes away her tears with a gloved hand. I’m so moved that she’d cry for me, I reach to hug her again, brushing the hair from her sweaty face as she puts her head against my shoulder. But I wince when she grabs my arm, and she jerks back.

“Webb, your arm,” she says, with insistent worry in her tone.

“It just needs to be cleaned up a little, and you might have to do some field surgery, and put in a few stitches, if you’re up to it.” I look to my blood stained shirt, gingerly fingering the wound.

“Sure. Hang on a minute – here, wrap this around it,” she pulls a bandana from an outside pocket on her pack, and ties it around my arm.

While she’s digging for the medical kit, I get out of the harness, and look at Jameson. She shot him right in the chest. He was probably dead before he hit the ground. Mac looks up, having found what she was searching for, and sees me staring at Jameson. Her expression sours, “We need to radio Bud to tell him what happened, and to get some Park Service Police out here for the body.”

“That would be a great idea, but the radio went over the edge when I tossed my pack.”

“You tossed your pack?” Mac is incredulous.

“It was either the pack, or me *and* the pack. Radio’s gone, the tent’s gone, my sleeping bag, my share of the water and food. I hope you’re willing to share.”

Mac just nods, as she walks to me with the first aid kit open. Kneeling in front of me, she unrolls my shirtsleeve, and cuts a slit in the material all the way up my arm to get at the gash. Pouring water over it, to wash away some of the blood, she dabs at it with clean gauze, and an alcohol wipe. I suck in a sharp breath, as the alcohol hits the exposed wound.

“Sorry,” Mac looks at my face, which I’m sure is telling of the pain I’m feeling.

“It’s okay. I’d do the same for you,” I smile wryly, trying to distract both of us from our circumstances.

Mac concentrates as she applies some topical anesthesia, to numb me as much as possible, before putting in five stitches. I watch as she sews me up, hovering just this side of nausea at seeing my skin being pulled on and sewn.

“Looks like you learned a few knots from the Navy.” The stitches are small and neat.

“Cute. Listen, we need to decide how to proceed.”

She’s not having any of my jokes. I guess laughter really isn’t the best medicine at the moment, so I get serious, too, “We need to move Jameson’s body back near the river where it’ll be cooler, and in the shade, and out of the way. Then we need to get to the Orphan Mine, as soon as possible.”

“Agreed. Do you think you can travel okay with your arm like that?” Mac asks, as she’s putting in some larger stitches in my shirtsleeve, with the sewing kit, to keep it intact for the rest of our hike.

“As long as there’s Tylenol 3 in that first aid kit, I should be okay.”

“Okay, let’s get it in gear, then.” She tosses me two packets of painkillers, and stands to get her pack back together.

Clumsily, we carry Jameson’s body between us. My arm is not much good, but at least I’m right handed, and my injury’s on my left. We stash Jameson a fair ways from the river, in an area of thick bushes, and then save the location as a waypoint in the GPS. Over the next two hours, we silently hike to the bottom of the canyon.

Once we’re on the edge of the Colorado River, we allow ourselves a lunch break. The scenery is awe-inspiring, with the river next to us, and the walls of the canyon rising in their stratified and contoured beauty high above us on either side. But it’s blindingly hot. I hope I’m not running a fever from an infection in my arm. But Mac assures me that it feels nearly 100 degrees out here to her, as well. We sit in the shade, leaning against the edge of an eroded rock wall, with the river below us.

“Thanks, Mac,” I say as she hands me a spoon to share the MRE we’re splitting; it’s beef raviolis, and there’s even a fairly decent version of garlic bread to go with it.

“For the meal, or for not letting you go ‘splat’ on the canyon floor?” she deadpans.

Apparently, humor is okay now. “Um, both?”

She smiles at me, before stabbing the ravioli I was just about to pick up with my spoon.

“Hey!” I laugh, glad for the light-hearted distraction. We need to keep our spirits up in order to keep going. We’ve still got a long ways to go.

Finishing lunch, Mac passes me a Nutter Butter cookie. “Did you really eat twenty year old MRE’s in Desert Storm?”

“They sure tasted that old.”

Mac makes a face, and we turn our attentions to our cookies; then take turns sipping from her canteen. When we’re done, I lead the way down a small path to the water, and dunk my desert camo hat in the rushing river. Mac does the same, and we let the water cascade over our heads and shoulders to cool us down. Mac takes her hat off again, and slicks back her hair. The water’s put a shine on her face, and in her hair. She looks stunning, in spite of the grubby clothes she’s wearing, and I surreptitiously watch her as long as I can.

Climbing back to the main trail, if you can call it that – I don’t think this trail’s been maintained in at least a few years – we hike west along the river, until we reach an old bridge that looks precarious, at best. Twice in one day, my life will hang in the balance. We cross one at a time, to avoid having the weight of both of us on the bridge at the same time. I tease Mac that she looks like Indiana Jones as she comes across the bridge to meet me on the south side of the river.

“Funny, Webb,” she says, stepping onto the path next to me, but looking relieved to have the bridge behind her.

We continue walking south and west, starting our climb back out of the canyon. The temperature is cooling some, and I’m amazed when we come to another creek. You imagine the Grand Canyon as a dry, desolate hole in the ground, but there are so many creeks and small rivers down here, and the amount of greenery is surprising as well.

My arm has been throbbing the whole way, but every time I start to feel sorry for myself, I remind myself of Bud losing his leg. He’s worked really hard to come back to full duty, and thinking about him keeps me moving.

Soon, Mac suggests we consult the GPS again, and we see that we’ve made really good time today, in spite of the late start, our altercation with Jameson, and my injury. A mile or two farther along Horn Creek, we find a small lush clearing; a good spot to stop for the night, before it gets dark. It’s about ten by six feet, surrounded by trees and bushes. Soft looking grass lines the ground, which I’m glad about, since I don’t have a sleeping bag anymore.

The sun’s already disappeared below the rim of the canyon, and the temperature is dropping faster and faster. It’s still in the 80’s, and will probably only get down to 65, which will feel good after the long, hot day. However, I’m not looking forward to another night on the ground without the benefit of my sleeping bag; as I get older, sleeping on the ground has lost any of the romantic, adventurous appeal it once had.

Mac insists that I sit and rest while she digs a small fire pit in the center of the clearing, away from any potential fuel. Then she goes to the creek to purify some water for boiling and drinking.

“I think we both need a full meal tonight. We’ve got enough food to last us another couple of days, if we’re conservative, sharing breakfast and lunch.”

“I’ll heat up the food, you should rest some yourself,” I instruct, getting up, and sorting through our MRE meal choices.

Mac must be near exhaustion, because she doesn’t protest at all, and simply sits down, leaning back on her pack. She watches as I hover over the fire, keeping the MRE baggies of stew and noodles submerged in the hot water so they’ll heat up evenly. As our meal cooks, the ambient light is fading as the sun goes down in earnest, even though it’s been gone from the canyon for a while.

At the five-minute mark, I pull our food out of the water, gingerly opening one bag of stew, and one bag of noodles, stirring them together. Mac gets up, and squats next to me, and I hand her the meal.

“Ma’am, you entrée is ready.”

“You’ve got quite the rapier wit there, Webb. Thanks,” she says taking it from me.

I prepare my stew, and sit across the fire from Mac. Firelight makes everyone look great. Well, almost everyone, but especially Mac. These aren’t exactly the circumstances I had in mind when I started thinking about having friends who would do anything for you, but I feel really close to Mac now. Part of me is afraid it’s because she essentially saved my life today, although, I guess it makes us even, after the incident at the detention camp in Afghanistan. And I’ve certainly had other women intervene in a life-threatening situation, without feeling an attraction towards them. Maybe getting to know Mac over these past few days, under such intense conditions, has forced me to see her in a different way than I’d ever have thought of her otherwise.

The warm glow of the firelight playing on her features is a flickering, dancing display of illumination and shadow, enhancing her eyes and mouth. Mac looks up at me, catching me watching her, and I’m more captivated than embarrassed. Staring at her is enthralling; and to my surprise, she seems to find me fascinating, too. Her expression is soft, and I watch a smile spread from the corners of her mouth upwards, accentuating her cheekbones, and making her eyes shine.

“Done?” she asks.

Taking a moment to get my mind in gear, I finally answer, “With dinner? Yeah.”

Mac gets up, and gathers up the trash from our meal, compacting it into a plastic bag to pack out. Sitting next to me, the dying fire in front of us, Mac and I eat our desserts in silence. She got M&M cookies in her MRE, I got spice pound cake; she definitely got the better snack.

“Jealous of my cookies, Webb?” I’m busted, staring at her cookies.

“I’ll share, if you share.”

“Sure,” she says amiably, handing me a cookie from her pack of two.

We go halves, and finish eating; the only sounds coming from the light wind in the trees, and the low flowing creek behind us.

Mac makes me stay seated while she sets up camp for the night, hoisting her pack into a tree to keep it out of reach of any hungry animals. I think the only thing we’ll have to worry about are coyotes or rodents, but I’d rather not share our remaining food, or our campsite, with them.

I watch Mac as much as I can get away with. Most of the time, as she works around the campsite, she’s out of the illumination of the fire, which is dying anyway. But I see her headlamp flashing in the bushes, on the ground, and on her pack. It feels kind of nice to be taken care of, so I don’t protest. Although, I admit to myself, that if it were my mother, I’d be objecting. But a beautiful woman, no problem. Plus, there’s really not much to do; otherwise, I’d insist on helping, my injury aside, since we’re both pretty exhausted.

Once Mac’s got everything stowed, and has spread her tarp and sleeping bag out on the opposite side of the fire pit from me, she says, “We’re going to have to share my sleeping bag.”

“You giving me the ‘we need to share body heat’ line, Mac?” I say, probably flirting more than I should.

“Well, that depends on if you’ll fall for it,” she answers, teasing back.

I’m smiling broadly, enjoying her attentions. But I know full well that this is hardly the time or the place to make any kind of pass at her, no matter how warm and cozy we’re feeling about each other. And, I keep reminding myself, it’s probably just the situation we’re in that’s drawing out this attraction between us.

Mac continues, more seriously, “It’s really not going to be that cold, we can sleep on top of my open bag, and use the emergency space blanket over us. It should be warmer than last night.”

I get up, moving my arm around a little, to keep it from stiffening up, and borrow Mac’s headlamp to go relieve myself in the bushes. When I get back, Mac’s already lying down, and starting to doze off. I take my hat and boots off, and lie next to her, trying to be quiet, as I pull the crinkly blanket over me. We’re close together, the curve of her spine touching my side as she lies on her side, and I on my back. Mac’s warm, and it feels good. Her sleeping bag protects us from the cold in the ground, and it’s soft enough to be comfortable. I close my eyes, and it matches the pitch black of the night.

“Your arm okay,” Mac mumbles.

I’m touched that she’s trying to stay awake to make sure I’m okay. I reach awkwardly to put my hand on her back, “Yeah, thanks,” I whisper.

She doesn’t say anything more, and her breathing slows, which lets me know that she’s asleep. I stare up at the sky, trying to find the North Star, so I can track the circular motion of the skies through the night.

//MAC//

While Webb was in the bushes, I unlaced my boots, and lay them upside down, so with any luck, they’d remain bug-free. Stretched out on my sleeping bag, it felt so good to be going to bed, such as it was. I quickly went through a body-relaxing exercise, then let myself think about the events of the day.

Hearing Jameson’s weapon fire and seeing Webb go down was frightening, although I could tell right away that he wasn’t hurt badly. I knew Jameson had taken advantage of the fact that Webb’s concentration drifted for just a moment, as he was checking on my position.

I hated the fact that I had to shoot Jameson, and, unless Kenton’s got more information than Jameson was giving him credit for, we’ve lost our best source of information on what’s happened to the uranium they mined.

I kept picturing Webb standing on that sloping ledge, totally dependent on the small bush to keep him from going over the edge. I was really scared; and then, so completely relieved, to pull Webb back up to me. I tried to concentrate on the positive outcome, remembering how he’d held on to me just as hard as I was clinging to him, and the way he’d gently swept my hair back to comfort and embrace me against him.

I considered how Harm would have held up all day under the pain and stress of hiking in this hostile environment with a gunshot wound. I chuckled to myself, thinking that he probably wouldn’t have managed to get nearly this far with out complaining every couple of miles. Bud, yes; the Admiral, without a doubt; and Sturgis probably would have jogged. But, Harm, no way.

Not only has Webb never once complained, we’ve been getting along with remarkable ease, too; approaching each tactical choice with a willingness to give and take in the decision-making process. Our little attempts at humor have served to lighten the mood enough to keep the stress from getting to us.

Before falling asleep, I noticed Webb had been in the bushes longer than I’d expected, and I started to get a little concerned. I was worried about his bullet wound; my field surgery class had been such a long time ago, and, while my stitches were neat, I hoped I’d cleaned the wound area well enough. Without the radio, and traveling on a trail that looked like it got used maybe two or three times a season, we’re really on our own down here. There’s no choice but to depend on one another.

Relieved when I heard Webb rustling around in the bushes a little, I acknowledged that I liked being teamed up with him. There’d been an affection building between us that I was enjoying, and I smiled to myself as I admitted that the womanly part of me was looking forward to spending the night close to him again. I knew that he’d been watching me while we ate dinner, and earlier when we dunked our hats in the river, too. The attention from him made me feel good inside.

At the river, I was flattered that he was looking at me; over dinner, he knew I was aware of his gaze. I don’t think he minded being caught, though, because I unashamedly stared back. He looked great in the firelight, with the light gleaming off his eyes, and illuminating his features. I couldn’t help the warmth that spread through me under his scrutiny; I liked the feeling, and wanted more of it.

Without benefit of a shower or shave, the beginnings of a beard had started to show up on Webb’s face, but he wears it well. It’s added another dimension to my image of Webb; a nice counterbalance to the three-piece suits, which aren’t too bad themselves.

I was only a little reluctant about suggesting that we share my sleeping bag. I didn’t want him to get all noble and try to make me take it for myself. But he didn’t protest. Quite the opposite, actually. Harm had sort of used that “body heat” line on me in Afghanistan, and there probably was a time I’d have hoped he meant it as a come on, but that time had definitely passed. Tonight, I couldn’t help but flirt back with Webb, when he made a joke out of it.

I couldn’t yet tell if the apparent attraction that seemed to be developing between us was something that could be explored and developed once we were back in DC, but lying there, waiting for him to come out from the bushes, I knew I’d be really disappointed if at least part of him wasn’t hoping something physical would happen, the way as part of me was.

My mind continued with that train of thought, sort of playing over in my mind those moments today that made me feel close to Webb. Just as I was dozing off, I heard him return, and sit down to take his boots off, and then felt him adjust the blanket over himself.

I wanted to make sure one last time, before I was really asleep, that he was okay, so I asked as coherently as I could, “Your arm okay?”

He shifted, and I felt his warm hand pressed on my back, “Yeah, thanks.”

His whisper, and the heat of his body so close to mine, were the last things I remembered before succumbing to a deep sleep. The next thing I was aware of, I was dreaming, and sweating, and trying to call out, with that raspy nightmare voice, where you can’t quite make the screams come out of your throat, but you keep trying anyway. Cognizant that I was making some noise as I started to wake up, I tried to wrap my mind around the here and now, shoving my dream to the back of my mind, and concentrating on the events of yesterday and last night. But a left over image of Webb, falling to the bottom of the canyon, still won’t leave my mind.

I roll to my other side to be sure that Webb is still here, and breathing. It’s a silly notion that he’d disappear or stop breathing in the middle of the night, but I feel the need to be certain. As I prop myself on my left elbow, I look down at him. There’s a sliver of a crescent moon, and the whole Milky Way is visible, but I still can’t see much of anything in the ambient light, although I do hear his soft breathing, and feel the breath being expelled through his mouth as he exhales.

I concentrate on matching his calm breathing pattern, willing myself to relax, and shake off the dream. I close my eyes, but open them a second later when Webb stirs. He’s moaning a little, and waking up, I think.

“Webb?” I say softly, hoping that if it turns out that he’s still asleep, I won’t disturb him.

“Mmm? Mac?” he sounds very tired.

“Are you all right?”

Before answering, Webb slowly repositions himself so that he’s mirroring my stance, leaning up on his elbow. He cranes his neck to look at his left arm, where the bandage bulges beneath his sleeve.

“Got any more of that Tylenol with codeine?” he says, looking back to me. I can barely make out his face in the dark, but I’m sure there’s pain in his expression.

“Sure. You don’t think it’s infected, do you?” I get up, slip on my boots, flip the elastic band of my headlamp on my head, and switch on the light, making sure to point the beam away from Webb

“No,” he replies, sounding sure.

The cone of illumination from my headlamp casts an eerie pathway as I get the pack down, and find the painkillers. Hoisting the pack back into the tree, I grab my canteen, and hand the pills and water to Webb.

“Thanks, Mac. I really appreciate. . . “

He’s not sure what to say, so I take over, “It’s okay; you’d do the same for me.”

I shiver a little in the cold, just now realizing how warm I’d been under the flimsy space blanket, next to Webb.

“Come back to bed, Mac,” he says, making it sound like we’re sleeping together in a real bed, under very different circumstances.

“Well, that’s awfully forward of you, Colonel Webb,” I say, not really expecting him to answer my silly retort, as I slip my boots off, and try to find my warm spot again.

“Almost falling into the Grand Canyon, after getting shot – you can’t blame a guy for trying,” comes his deadpan answer, framed in Webb’s typical dry humor.

He’s still propped up on his right arm, and, as I get back under the blanket, I face him. This flirting game we’ve started has me feeling confident, and I’m having a good time with it.

“I see you’re feeling better already, I think the codeine is going to your head.” My try at mock seriousness goes unnoticed, as Webb suddenly turns our game serious.

“Not the codeine, just you,” he whispers.

I sense him moving closer to me, and, where we had trouble finding each other in the dark last night, tonight, our lips fall perfectly together for a short, soft kiss. His closeness, combined with the first taste of his lips on mine, lights up something inside me. The idea that I’d just gotten to know Webb, and then almost saw him plummet to his death, makes me feel like it’s critical that I not let the moment pass, now that we’ve crossed this physical barrier.

I lean forward to find his mouth again, and cover it with mine. We move in tandem, bringing our bodies closer, as our lips press together in an increasingly sexy kiss. Breaking apart for a moment, I catch my breath, just in time, before Webb’s lips hit mine again, gently parting them with his tongue to discover my mouth. Reveling in the pleasurable sensation, I slowly move my tongue over his, and, my breath quickens with the taste of him.

Our location, situation, and previous antagonistic relationship are forgotten. All I can think about, and feel, is the way he’s kissing me – the way we’re kissing each other. It’s exploratory and slow, almost deliberate in pace, as if we’re studying one another. Although the rapid rate of my heart contrasts with the measured speed of our kisses.

Parting for a moment, I feel like I need to be sure we’re not crossing a line that isn’t okay to cross, “You okay with this?”

“Are you asking if I’m acting out of some feeling of near-death gratitude or fever induced stupor? The answer to both is no. The answer to your original question is, yes, I’m very okay with this.”

I laugh at his reply, “Good.”

From that, we’re drawn together, over and over. There’s no fireworks, or heated divesting of clothing, not yet, anyway. Rather, there is a steady building of desire between us. With each set of kisses, we explore one another, deeper and longer.

“You were beautiful tonight, in the firelight,” he whispers against my cheek.

I smile at how I’d stared back, “So were you.”

Webb moves his mouth to my jaw line, and down to my neck, where he kisses and tastes my skin. I nuzzle my nose in his hair, which smells sweaty and dusty, but I want to be as close as I can to the scent I just now realize I’ve come to identify with him, after spending those nights in the tent, and last night even closer to him, while we watched Jameson.

I lean back to lie down again; Webb hovers over me, and we keep on kissing. When I feel his weight on my chest, my body arches up instinctively to increase the contact. This situation could quickly get out of hand, and while my body wants that to happen, I’d like to be a little more . . . well, clean for one thing. But I’d also like for us not to jump right into bed together. My feelings for Webb have surfaced so fast, and I think it would be a mistake for us to consummate our attraction under these circumstances.

However, his erection pressing against my hip makes me forget my sensible reasoning, and I pull him all the way on top of me. Webb laughs at my sudden move to take control of the situation, but he doesn’t protest.

“Mac – Sarah,” he kisses me softly on the lips, a chaste kiss, to contrast the hardness he’s grinding against me, lower down. We’re rhythmically moving against each other, pressing our groins together. “I wish I could see you,” he continues, his fingers caressing through my hair.

“Well, I’m wearing a filthy desert battle dress uniform, my hair is greasy, and I’m going on day two in this pair of underwear.” I say, seriously.

“I see. Well, me too. Oh, and I have five very well placed stitches in my left arm, which, right now is throbbing in pain.”

I try to get him off of me, to protect his arm from whatever pressure I’ve put on it while we’ve been making out. But he won’t let me.

“I’m okay, really. I was just further illustrating your point, which, I believe, was that this isn’t the most ideal of situations in which to get physical.”

“Well put,” I say, looking up at him, though I can hardly see in the darkness.

Webb rolls off of me, and we’re now on our sides again, face to face. He’s keeping his injured arm close to his side, so I reach to touch him; wanting to maintain the connection with him.

“This beats the dream I was having earlier, where you went over the edge into the canyon.”

“You’re right, this is better,” he says, punctuating his remark with a kiss that ends with a swipe of his tongue across my lips.

I shiver at the feeling, and chase his lips with mine, wanting to expand on that kiss. I’m aggressive, and I thrust my tongue into his mouth to pass over his tongue, and feel my way around.

We spend the rest of the night like that – talking and kissing; the urgency we were teetering on earlier is held at bay, but barely. I ask him if he was scared today. And he asks me if I was scared at the detention camp, when we were looking for Mohandess. I don’t answer; I guess being afraid isn’t something either one of us is comfortable talking about. I do confess, however, how upset I was when we thought he was dead a few years ago.

“I wondered what every one would have to say about me, thinking I was gone. When you set up your own death, you can’t help thinking about that stuff.”

“I told Harm I thought you were kind of loveable,” I say, thinking back all those years. In the wake of so many other deaths around me, his “death” had hit me hard.

“Now, *that* I never would have guessed.” The smile in his voice is unmistakable.

“We were all really upset. Harm, as much as anyone. I think he felt responsible. But, when I saw his notes with ‘Lt. Abbey Cowan’ jotted down, I got a weird feeling; and my hunch was right about your anagram.”

“You solved that? Harm let me think it was him. Jerk,” Webb snorts.

I laugh, knowing that not so long ago, it would’ve really bothered me, but I think I’ve accepted the fact that Harm is Harm, and I’m not going to change him; no one is. “It doesn’t really matter. I was glad you were alive, and very glad for your mother that you didn’t let her believe you were dead.”

“She knows what my line of work is, but I think it would just about kill her, if something happened to me, too.”

I know he’s referring to his father’s death in the line of duty, and I run my fingers through his hair in a lame attempt to convey my understanding. We’re quiet and still for a long time, but move to entangle our legs together, and to kiss now and then, as we doze on and off through the night.

I’m amazed at how much has changed in the past week. Well, the only things that have changed are my feelings about Webb – the fact that I have feelings for Webb, for one thing. Maybe they were there all along, but just never had the chance to surface; buried, perhaps, by our working relationship, and the consuming nature of our jobs.

I try not to think about Kenton and the Orphan Mine. Choosing, instead, to concentrate on everyplace Webb’s body is touching mine, feeling the involuntary shivers up my spine, and the nervous warmth in the pit of my stomach that surface every time he presses against me, kisses my lips, or breathes warmly against my neck as he sleeps.

I wake up fully as the sun is lighting up the sky. We’re much closer to the fire pit than I had thought, and suddenly the stream sounds louder than in the night. I hear some birds, as well, but close my eyes to the light of day, wanting to pretend for a while longer that we’re not where we are, and that we don’t have to do today what needs to be done. I won’t let myself think past the next few precious minutes, but can’t help hoping the day ends the way this one is beginning, with Webb.

//WEBB//

I know Mac is awake; her breathing has changed from the slow even tempo of sleep. But I refuse to recognize that morning has arrived. I haven’t even opened my eyes yet. I want to stay holding her, so I can conjure up last night in my imagination, in case I won’t have the pleasure of being in this position ever again.

I’d awakened sometime during the night because of the pulsing pain in my arm. Not fully aware that I was vocalizing, I heard Mac say my name. I hoped that I hadn’t woken her up, but I liked that she was hovering over me, making sure I was okay. That Tylenol with codeine was a lifesaver. And it gave me a corny, but effective, line to use on Mac. I think we’d been working our way towards that kiss since I tossed her my jacket to use as a pillow in the humvee on the way from Nellis. Everything that happened between then and that first kiss was like a clearing of the air. It set things straight between us, and we could finally see the attraction that I now think, had been present for a long time – at least for me.

I suspect that if my arm weren’t out of commission, we might’ve made love last night. It’s probably a good thing we didn’t, though. Not that I didn’t want to. God, tasting her lips and mouth under my tongue, feeling her bend her hips into mine over and over again . . . But it would have been stupid, and probably not very comfortable. I want to be with her in a bed, where I can feel her soft skin against equally soft sheets, and to make love to her, coaxing her body to release, over and over again.

Just thinking about it gives me an erection, which I reflexively press against Sarah’s hip. Now she knows I’m awake, for sure. Although she’s not saying anything, she angles her hip toward me. I smile, thinking how much I want this to continue, not just this moment, but also this germinating relationship with Sarah.

I don’t want it to be a fleeting thing. It’s like the awful end of summer camp, where you’ve gotten so close to someone, that leaving behind this person you didn’t even know four weeks earlier seems like the end of the world. But, as an adult, you know it was the intensity of camp that made the relationship seem so special. I know with a firm certainty in my heart that, in this case, Sarah is special all the time, not just in the Grand Canyon on the trail of smuggled uranium.

Thinking those words helps me re-focus on what has to be done; we need to get up and get moving. “I know you’re awake,” I say quietly, sitting up to look at her.

Her face looks tired, but when she opens her eyes to look up at me, there’s a beautiful brightness there. I lean down to kiss her, and, in the light of day, she opens her mouth to me, and we get caught up in a long, lingering kiss. I’m so glad she didn’t come to her senses, and decide that last night was a mistake.

“We need to get up, Clay,” she intones unhappily, but her use of my first name makes me smile.

We put our boots on, and find bushes in opposite directions to relieve ourselves. Walking back to the campsite, I realize that I’m long overdue for a check-in with Mitchell.

“You know, Mac, I haven’t checked in with Mitchell in much longer than he’s probably comfortable with. And Bud hasn’t heard from us in over 24 hours. I wonder if they’ll figure out that something’s happened, and send in the cavalry to save us.”

“I hope we won’t need saving, but I wish we were able to get word to someone about what happened to Jameson.”

Resigned to the fact that we’re on our own, we make quick work of eating and packing up our gear. There are no more kisses, or even touches, as we do; a mile or so into our hike, I wonder if we should talk about it. I don’t bring the subject up, though, probably out of a fear of rejection. I guess I’m unsure of how to express my feelings. Making a real connection with someone is extremely rare for me. I’ve never even had a best guy friend; and very few girlfriends, none that I felt I could really share how I was feeling with, or at least none that I ever wanted to share that with. If there’s a chance of having something with Sarah, I don’t want my lack of experience in relationships to drive her away.

The hike out of the canyon is much harder than going down. But, without the stress of following Jameson, we’re free to go at our own pace as we hike. Making sure to stay hydrated, we walk for miles, up and up, until Mac stops us at a trail junction.

“The entrance to the mine is that way, about five hundred feet up in elevation,” she points to her left.

“Right. We should rest here for a while, before charging in.”

We sit in the shade of a large rock formation, and share the last of our potable water.

“I guess that’s a sign it’s time to head out,” Mac says, tightening the cap on her canteen, and securing it to her pack.

I suggest that she ditch her pack here, since we’ll have to double back this way to get out of the canyon after we leave the mine. She leaves it off to the side of the trail, and we pull our weapons out to have them at the ready, just in case.

Moving cautiously up the trail, the fourth sharp switch back reveals the entrance to the mine. It’s clear that the trail we’re on has been used recently, so we know we’re on the right path. Soon, we’re staring into the large, gaping hole in the side of the canyon wall, and I call into the cave, “Private Kenton!”

“Jameson?” comes the response, almost immediately. Kenton sounds panicky and weak, but angry.

“No, it’s Colonels Webb and MacKenzie. Drop any weapons you have, and come out showing us your hands.”

I squint into the dark passageway, the bright sunlight behind me making it difficult to see what’s going on inside. I’d rather have him come to me, than to take the time for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. Mac is to my right, slightly hidden, covering me, as Kenton comes out, shuffling his feet, but holding his hands in the air.

“Stop!” Mac barks at him, and comes forward to let him get a close look at her gun.

He shoots his hands higher up in the air, and falls to his knees. Kenton looks pale and sweaty, his body shaking all over. I’m sure he’s suffering from radiation poisoning.

“You want to tell us all about your little mining operation here, Kenton?” Mac asks.

“Jameson’s operation,” he corrects.

Mac has to step closer, training her weapon on his skull, to get him to continue, “Okay, okay. He said it was like free money – taking the uranium out of the park that no one else wanted, and selling it.”

“Who were you selling it to?” I demand.

“Where’s Jameson?” Kenton wants to know, his voice anxious.

“Jameson is dead. And you’ll be on death row for treason, if you don’t tell us who that uranium was going to,” Mac threatens, playing this exactly as I would.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. That fucker played me. I know I’m dying. I guess there’s a reason they put this stuff in nukes. And a reason Jameson only came here once himself.” Kenton laughs bitterly.

“So, you’ve got nothing to lose. Spill it,” Mac now jabs her pistol against his neck. Kenton knows she could make him suffer a lot more with a well-placed bullet, so he starts talking.

“Jameson thought he was so smart, coming up with this grand plan. When we met in high school, he always had a get rich scheme going. His parents were divorced, and he hated his dad, who was like Irish or something. He wanted to go live with his mom in Iran, someplace on the Pakistani border. That’s who the uranium was supposed to go to, the Pakistanis or some terrorists or something.”

“Go on,” I step forward, and say harshly when he pauses.

“When we met up back home a couple of years ago, I was on leave from the Marines – was going to desert. Jameson talked me into staying and ‘getting my money’s worth’ out of being in the service. I hated the Marines, still do. Now, I just hate Jameson more.

“He planned the whole thing, had some cousins who were working for some lame-ass terrorist group. I think they were trying to sell the stuff to al Queda. But, it never made it there. His cousin’s connection in the shipping business was arrested as an illegal alien. All the stuff I picked out of this god damned hole in the ground, with my bare fucking hands, is sitting in his garage in Flagstaff.”

Mac and I exchange very thankful glances. Knowing that the uranium is still in this country, and isn’t going anywhere soon, is a relief. And Kenton’s story sounds credible. Given what Mac overheard of Jameson’s phone call, he was probably talking to his cousin.

I take notes as Mac questions Kenton for about 45 minutes, giving us all the details he knows, including the cousin’s name, and an approximate address in Flagstaff. He tells her how Jameson had insisted that they needed to hustle to get more material out, because a possible new contact had surfaced, but he wanted larger quantities. Kenton had been requesting emergency leave to visit his sister in the hospital on the weekends, but, instead, was driving to the south rim of the canyon, and extracting the uranium.

On his own, Kenton had come up with the plan to fake his death, and to take out a number of his hated team members in the process. He’d snuck the star grenades onto the helicopter, ignited them, and escaped down a zip line, before remotely detonating an explosive device to down the helo. After the crash, he put his dog tags next to the remains of his fellow Marines, and, as we’d suspected, Kenton changed into civilian clothes, hiked to a road, and hitched to the rim of the Grand Canyon.

Mac tells him we’ve got no water to offer, and that he’s got to hike out with us immediately. Her statement sparks a violent reaction from Kenton.

“No fucking way. I’m sure as hell not going to jail, to be gang raped by a bunch of fags until I’m dead, thanks to Jameson, and this fucking mine.”

With a sharp movement, he steps forward to punch Mac hard in the solar plexus, and to take her weapon, aiming it at his temple a second later. I drop my pistol, and hold up my hands in a conciliatory gesture, hoping to calm him down. Mac backs off, rubbing her chest, where the blow landed. In answer to my questioning look when I glance, she nods that she’s okay.

“It’s okay, put the gun down. We’ll see that you get medical attention immediately,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, right.”

That’s all he says. No other protest is made, no additional explanations are offered. He just pulls the trigger, and that’s it. Mac and I jump from the noise, and recoil from the sight. With the shot, Kenton’s body instantly jerks back, part of his skull gone immediately, and a half-second later, he crumples to the ground.

“Oh, God,” Mac says, on top of my exclamation of, “Jesus.”

I walk to her, turning both of us away from his body, with my arm around her.

“Are you okay? He punched you pretty hard.” I ask, trying to get both of us to focus on something other than the horrific scene behind us.

“Yeah,” she says, her hand at her chest. Mac’s voice is shaky, and I feel adrenaline coursing through my veins, too.

We should get out of here, and up to the South Rim. We need to get the information about Jameson’s cousin in Flagstaff to someone as soon as possible. And the bodies of Jameson and Kenton need to be retrieved sooner rather than later.

Mac breaks away from me, looks to Kenton briefly, turning back to say, “Let’s go.”

We hike back down the dusty trail to retrieve her pack, and make the south rim in just two hours. Reaching the top, we find ourselves in the middle of crowds of tourists. We look a mess, I’m sure, so we’re the subject of quite a few stares and whispers. Mac and I automatically move closer together, as we walk up the paved path from Maricopa Point to the Grand Canyon Village. Rounding the last curve leading to the main lodge, we see several military vehicles in front of the building.

“Bud must have made a few calls.” If I weren’t so exhausted, physically and mentally, I’d laugh at Mac’s wry statement.

No one notices us, until we walk into the lobby of the Bright Angel Lodge. Swinging the front door open, and stepping inside, we’re immediately assaulted.

“Ma’am! Sir!” It’s Bud. At the sound of his voice, several heads swing in our direction.

Admiral Chegwidden looks relieved, “Corpsman!” he calls out, while looking at my bloodstained sleeve. His shout sets in motion a small-framed man, who grabs his bag, and hurries towards me.

“Mac, are you okay?”

Oh, hell; it’s Rabb. I knew it was all too good to be true. She’ll probably make some cinematic run into his arms, our night in the canyon forgotten. I’m spared the scene, if it actually does play out, since the corpsman is blocking my view as he examines Mac’s handiwork on my arm. When he’s satisfied with the stitches, and has made me swallow the first of a ten-day course of antibiotics to guard against infection, he finally moves out of the way. I only see Chegwidden questioning Mac about her health, and handing her some water. Rabb isn’t in sight.

Bud and Chegwidden approach me, with a man who’s obviously CIA. The three-piece suit uniform is unmistakable. I wonder if I always stand out that much. Chegwidden introduces him as Brian Hansen, and, in the Admiral’s tone, there’s an odd lack of his usual distrust of the CIA.

“Admiral Chegwidden tells me that you have some notes that need to be followed up on.”

“Yes, I do. Are you going to be doing that follow-up?” I’m reluctant to hand over my information to this guy before I know exactly who he is, and if Mitchell sent him, or what.

“Mr. Webb, let’s find a place to discuss this matter, where we aren’t in the way.”

I have no choice but to follow Hansen. I search the room for Mac, and am looking over my shoulder to find her, while Hansen leads me behind the reception desk into a small office. As I disappear from view, I catch a glimpse of her, talking again with Rabb, and being looked after by the corpsman that attended to me.

The bubble has burst for good now, I guess. I sigh, resignedly dropping into a chair across a small desk from Hansen. He hands me a bottle of water, that I hadn’t noticed him carrying, then removes his suit jacket to hang it over the back of a folding chair before taking a seat himself.

“Mitchell didn’t send me,” he says right away.

I merely raise my eyebrows. If he’s trying to draw a reaction out of me, I’m not biting.

Hansen continues, “In fact, Mitchell’s not at all pleased that I was sent out here to meet you – by the DCI.”

“Unofficially, I assume,” glad that he’s not one of Mitchell’s minions; and I think might know what’s going on.

“Precisely,” Hansen confirms.

In a second, I’m sure I know what’s happening. I cracked a really big case, but the DCI doesn’t want to lose face by bringing me back into more a active job station, especially after he sent me to Suriname, and then stuck me with Mitchell. He doesn’t want it to be common Company knowledge that he was essentially tossing away my services to Mitchell, when, in fact, I can actually be of some use.

“You’re lucky that Lieutenant Roberts is so outspoken,” Hansen speaks up again in his gravely voice, as he pulls a notebook and pen out of his inside coat pocket.

“Bud Roberts?” I’m not quite able to connect Bud with being outspoken.

“That’s the one. When Roberts was finally able to get in touch with Admiral Chegwidden, he informed the Admiral that you and Colonel MacKenzie had gone into the canyon after Jameson. While Roberts was still on the phone, Chegwidden had a conference call arranged with the two of them, the SecNav, and the DCI. Chegwidden explained the situation, but when the Secretary Sheffield didn’t want to approve further Naval involvement, Bud didn’t even give Chegwidden a chance to present an argument, he just launched into how you, he, and MacKenzie had put the pieces together, and that there was no way you’d have lost contact with him unless something had gone wrong.”

I laugh, picturing Chegwidden growing wide-eyed at Bud’s outburst, but probably wishing he’d been the one to chew out the SecNav. Hansen explained that the DCI just sat quietly, until Bud was done talking, then barked to the SecNav that he had his head up his ass, and that he was expecting full cooperation from the Navy, or there’d be a call from the President.”

I know the DCI and the President have a long history; the current President’s father appointed him to his post in the early 1990’s. The DCI could easily hand Sheffield a ticket out of town, if he were so inclined.

Hansen takes my notes, places a phone call on his cell, and assures me that law enforcement officers in Flagstaff will be raiding Jameson’s uncle’s house within the hour. After that, I’m able to relax, even though Hansen spends the next three and a half hours de-briefing me about the entire investigation. A Petty Officer brings us dinner, and we eat through the last hour of our “talk.” Hansen’s obviously really good at what he does. I’d never met him before, but it doesn’t surprise me. I think the DCI’s got a handful of people he keeps to himself, unofficially dispatching them when he needs something done that he wants kept quiet.

“Webb,” Hansen extends his hand to shake mine as he gets up, “nice job on this one. I have a feeling we’ll be working together in the near future; after you’re back from medical leave, that is.”

I look to my arm, which is now totally bare, from the corpsman unceremoniously cutting away the rest of my sleeve. I guess it probably will be a week or so before I’m physically fit enough to return full time. I take Hansen’s hand, and shake it, thanking him for everything. He leaves the office, and that’s the last I see of him for the night.

I go back out into the lobby, to find Bud waiting for me in the large, and now empty room. He’s sitting on a bench along one of the open-beamed walls, but gets up when he sees me. I briefly wonder what they told the tourists who were staying here, or the people who wanted to sign up at the desk for the mule ride into the canyon.

“Sir,” Bud says, walking to me, holding a duffle bag.

“I heard you gave the SecNav an earful, Bud. Thanks.”

Bud smiles, “Yes, Sir. The Admiral was remarkably lenient in doling out my punishment. Just a letter of reprimand.”

“I’m sure he would’ve done the same thing,” I say.

“I think he wishes he *had* done the same thing,” Bud laughs, and then gestures to the bag he’s holding, “I brought some of the clean clothes you’d left at camp, Sir; and a shaving kit.”

“Thanks, Bud.”

“Oh, and they’ve arranged for a room for you. We’ve pretty much taken over the lodge, for the night, anyway; we’ll be vacating tomorrow.”

I’m really grateful, and thank Bud again when he leaves me at the door to my room, handing over the duffle and my room key.

“No problem, Colonel Webb. If you need anything else, I’m one room down, to the left.”

I think about asking him where Mac is, but, before I can, he interrupts my internal debate.

“Colonel MacKenzie is in with the Admiral and Commander Rabb. But she should be done soon; and she’ll be staying in the room on the other side of you,” he says, pointing towards the room that will be hers.

Bud smiles, and walks back down the hallway, leaving me to enjoy a very long, hot shower, while being very careful of my stitches. I’m extremely glad to shave my face clean again, and, as I do, I sigh at my reflection in the mirror, picturing Mac and Rabb getting cozy over dinner, or in her room later on; and the image makes me feel slightly ill. Part of me wishes we’d had more time alone together in the canyon; just a little more time could have opened the door that I now feel is closing on our newfound attraction. The uncertainty of what kind of future there could be between Sarah and me makes me lonely, wishing again for a support system of close friends, in the absence of anyone special in my life.

//MAC//

As I soak in the tub in my room at the Bright Angel Lodge, I exhale heavily. Waking up with Webb in our camp spot on Horn Creek this morning seems more like a year ago, than just over twelve hours ago. As soon as the sobering reality of having found Kenton in the mine washed over us, it was as if our physical and emotional closeness had faded with the stars in the dawning light. It didn’t feel like either one of us had any regrets, though; rather, it was like it simply hadn’t happened.

I sit up in the tub, and wash my face, rubbing at my eyes, trying to make the image of Kenton’s suicide disappear from my memory. Unfortunately, it’s not something I think I’ll ever be able to forget. The only consolation in all of this, is that we were able to find that the uranium had only gotten as far as Flagstaff.

My head is still buzzing from the flurry of people and activity that Webb and I found ourselves caught in the middle of when we emerged from the canyon. I felt a degree of distress at the throngs of tourists we came into contact with, as we walked the path to the Grand Canyon Village. Although I was very glad to see the military vehicles and personnel at the lodge, my joy was tempered by a pang of regret when we walked into the lobby; I knew that Webb and I were going to be separated, and essentially whisked away by our respective “people.”

Knowing that Admiral Chegwidden was there, and appeared to be in charge, was a huge relief. His immediate order that a corpsman look at Webb’s arm made me appreciate him all the more. I was surprised when I saw Harm. I suppose I shouldn’t have been; he hates to be left out of the action.

Webb disappeared into a room behind the check-in desk, with a man the Admiral later identified as CIA. Meanwhile, Admiral Chegwidden, Harm, Bud, and I used the lodge manager’s office as a de-briefing room. I told my story, and when I was done, nearly two hours later, I felt my job was finished, and that I could finally relax a little. While Harm and Bud were getting dinner for the four of us, the Admiral started to fill me in on his conversation with Bud, when Bud was finally able to report on our progress. And, in a tone that told me laughter wouldn’t be the right response, he apologized for being initially unreachable – Meredith’s dog had chewed up his cell phone.

I managed to look serious, and the Admiral didn’t linger on the details before proceeding to reiterate Bud’s forceful, but compelling, speech to the SecNav. While the Admiral’s words explained that Bud was out of line, his expression showed admiration.

“The CIA has also clued into the fact that Webb’s probably one of their most valuable operatives. I don’t think he’ll be stuck with the shit-assignments anymore. Hansen was sent by the DCI, personally.”

I thanked him for everything, just as Bud and Harm came in, and we ate a dinner of salmon, spinach, and potatoes from the restaurant in one of the adjacent buildings. The hot, fresh food tasted so good. After those MRE’s, I would’ve even been happy to have Harm’s meatless meatloaf, as long as it was right out of the oven.

While we were drinking coffee after dinner, Bud excused himself, and the Admiral got a phone call a minute later, and left the room. As soon as he shut the door, Harm asked if I was really okay. I think he was worried I’d been putting on the brave Marine act.

“Very tired, but okay,” I had replied honestly.

“I wish I’d been with you guys on this one. I wouldn’t have let Webb get you lost in the Grand Canyon.”

Typical Harm. I took a breath, and answered, “Webb and I were never lost. Not once. We worked as a team, Bud included, even though we lost contact with him on the first day down there.”

“I know,” he grudgingly admitted, “I just hate feeling helpless. You did a great job, Mac.”

The Admiral returned from his phone call, as I said, “Thanks” to Harm, who replied with a devilish grin, surprisingly admitting his envy, “Well, next time, you just be sure to bring me along.”

I smiled back at Harm, feeling at ease with our friendship. His protectiveness towards me was, in a way, comforting. Sitting back down in his chair, the Admiral filled us in on the successful raid of Jameson’s cousin’s home in Flagstaff. The house was deserted, but they found six crates of uranium in the garage. The neighborhood was evacuated, pending the remove the material, and an environmental safety check by the haz-mat team.

It was a huge load off my mind. There was just one more loose end to tie up: Webb. I didn’t know when I’d see him again, and was reluctant to ask anyone where he was, fearing that they’d see my concern for what it was – a woman worried about the man she’d become involved with.

Harm walked me to my room, and said he’d probably be working through the night, wrapping things up with the Admiral, but said I should come find him, if I needed anything. I closed my door, feeling really good about my relationship with Harm. We seemed to have gotten back the affection we’d lost for a while, and, although I no longer see him as a potential romantic partner, I was very happy to have my investigative partner, and friend, back.

Two minutes later, Bud showed up at my door. He brought clean uniforms and new toiletries for me, as well as the bag of clothes I’d left with him before Webb and I set off after Jameson.

“I’m just two doors down to the left, Ma’am, if you need me. Colonel Webb has the one in between ours,” Bud had told me. I don’t think he could have any idea about me and Webb, but I suspected he’d added that piece of information, knowing I didn’t want to ask.

Stretching out as much as I can in the small tub, I dunk my head one more time in the cooling water. Wanting to really rinse the soap, and the rest of the grime off me, I pull the plug in the tub, and wait for the water to drain before turning on the shower. I take a really long time under the hot water, scrubbing everyplace I can reach, noting the scrapes and bruises I’ve acquired over the past week. I even allow myself the luxury of shaving my legs and under my arms. It flits through my head that I’m probably secretly hoping to see Webb tonight, but I console myself with the appeal of a real bed, clean sheets, and a clean body.

Finally turning off the water, and stepping out to dry myself off, I wander into my room where I put on clean underwear, a pair of black cotton/linen blend drawstring pants that I love because they’re really soft, but don’t look like “walk the dog pants,” a heather gray t-shirt, and clean socks; but I skip the bra in favor of comfort. Looking at the room, I note the simple and slightly rustic décor. There’s a framed photograph of the Grand Canyon in winter on the wall above the queen size bed, which has a sturdy-looking light-colored wooden frame. A bedside table and lamp, and a writing desk and chair complete the set of furniture. I just now notice the fireplace in the wall adjacent to the bed, and consider starting a fire.

Thinking about building a fire sparks something in me, “Damn it,” I say out loud to myself. I know Webb’s in the room next door. Does he know I’m in this room? Bud probably told him; I hope Bud told him. Maybe he’s asleep already, drugged out on more codeine. A lonely feeling knots high up in my gut, thinking that tomorrow we’ll all fly back to DC and resume our regular lives, as if none of this had ever happened. Is that what Webb wants? It’s not what I want.

I curse out loud again, regretting that I didn’t say something last night, when we were feeling so at ease with one another. It would have been so easy to just say, “I’m really attracted to you. I want to keep seeing you when we get home.”

I add some kindling to the already-stacked logs in the fireplace, and prepare to strike a long match to light the fire.

Oh, hell, it wouldn’t have been easy. It would have sounded totally ridiculous. It’s not like we were on a date, where saying, “I’d really like to see you again” makes sense. I wonder how many women Webb’s made out with while on a mission.

Admonishing myself for thinking that he’d be that unprofessional, I tell myself that there were extenuating circumstances in this instance. Although, that just confuses my line of thinking, leaving me to question if the extenuating circumstances were that we truly are attracted to one another, or if our attraction stemmed from the extenuating circumstances.

The fire flickers and brightens as more of the kindling catches fire, and ignites the log on top of it. I sit on the floor, my arms holding my knees to me, and stare at the fire, wishing I could read Webb’s mind. A half an hour later, I can’t stand it anymore, and make a decision to act. Before I can question my judgment, I get up, grab my room key, and walk out the door, not even bothering to put shoes on. Turning to my left, I walk the few paces down the hall to Webb’s room, and knock.

I’m almost ready to go back to my room to try and forget about the whole thing, when the door jerks open. Webb looks surprised to see me, “Sarah.”

He gestures for me to come in, apologizing for not getting the door faster.

“I was just finishing up shaving,” he says, running a hand over his smooth face. I had enjoyed his stubble, it was so different than how I was used to seeing him, but he looks wonderfully soft and fresh this way.

“Feels good to be in clean clothes, doesn’t it?” I say.

“Yeah, but you look much better in this outfit than I do,” he smiles, looking me up and down, pausing at my breasts, where I know he can tell I’m bra-less. Then he looks pointedly at what he’s wearing.

I laugh. I hadn’t noticed the similarity of our clothes, he’s got on black Docker-looking pants, and a form-fitting gray t-shirt – his feet are bare, though. I feel my insides churning with doubt about why I knocked on his door in the first place, and am not able to read him at all. Is this a friendly conversation that says, “It was great working with you?” Or is this flirting, that will soon lead to, “You’d look even better out of those clothes?”

“Thank God for Bud, bringing my clothes,” he says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “I think that’s probably about the fortieth time I’ve thought, or said, that in the past three days,” Webb laughs.

“Me, too,” I say looking around Webb’s room, seeing that it’s the mirror image of mine, minus the fireplace. I realize, too, that it’s probably not a good idea to leave my burning fire unattended. “I have a fireplace in my room, which I lit. I should probably get back to it.”

“You want company?” Webb says quietly, but meeting my gaze steadily, the effect of which, on me, is anything but steady.

“Yeah,” I say, trying my best not to betray my nervous excitement.

He follows me, and, as we walk from his room to mine, he puts his hand on my upper back, and slides it down to my waist, the long stroke heating me up from the outside in. I hope he keeps it there, or moves that hand to other places. After just one night of kissing and touching, I’ve come to crave his touch. As I put my key in the door, he steps in close behind me; I can feel his head bend, bringing his face into the crook of my neck.

My nervous stomach is substituted with an excitement that hitches in my chest, and lower down. We enter my room, and he closes the door. Clay puts the chain on, and walks quickly to me. Shifting his eyes between my mouth and my eyes, he stays with my eyes as his hands come up to my face, bringing us together for a hard kiss. We never turned the lights on, and I can see the flickering of the fire in the fireplace through my closed eyelids.

Clay’s tongue urgently pushes past my lips, to find his way into my mouth. I encourage him in, and caress his tongue with my own. The kiss accelerates rapidly, pushing away the doubts I’d had about his attraction to me being fleeting or temporary. I reach my arms around his upper body, and he moves his hands to caress my cheeks, and soon his fingers are in my hair, holding me close. But he doesn’t need to worry, I’m not going anywhere.

I taste the toothpaste in his mouth, but, beneath that minty-bite, is the taste of him that I’d experienced last night. Over and over, he swirls his tongue around mine, until our breathing is coming in gasps between kisses that are hardly broken. Finally, we separate and stare at one another, breathing hard, with the firelight casting constantly moving shadows on our faces.

“Think you can handle sleeping in a real bed?” I ask, wanting to move this someplace where I won’t need to concentrate on standing up.

“And will you be joining me in this ‘real bed?’” he wants to know; fully aware, I’m sure, that that’s what’s going to happen.

Instead of answering, I turn to pull back the bedspread, blanket and sheets. Facing Clay again, I decide to go for broke, and pull off my t-shirt, pants, panties, and socks, and climb into bed, lying on my side to face him. He just stands there, hands on his hips, like he can’t decide if he’s scared, or just won the lottery. I’m hoping for the lottery.

Clay, at last, takes his pants and boxers off, then his t-shirt. I snicker, thinking that most men *do* think with their lower-halves first. But, in this case, it’s fine with me.

“Giggling is not really the way to encourage a man in bed, you know.” He slides under the covers with me, pulling the blankets over us, and reaching out to put his hand on my hip.

“Just noting the difference between the way men and women get undressed. You went for the bottom half first; I took my shirt off. I was speculating that it might be a reflection of how men are motivated.”

“Well, you taking your top off sure motivated me,” he says, devilishly, choosing to flirt instead of engage in a battle of the sexes. With that, he slides the hand from my hip, up to my breasts, to make his point.

I think the time for this banter, as sexy as it is, is over. I push my chest towards his hand, and lean in for a kiss. As I do, Clay squeezes my breast, and moans into my mouth, before swiveling his very nimble fingers around to my nipple. I feel the skin there pucker and form a hard peak, making me ache for more of his touches, and a hot wetness surfaces at my core. Bringing his other hand up, he gives the same treatment to my other breast, while moving the first hand downwards.

I swing my leg over one of his, and scoot closer. This is so much better than last night. Not that last night wasn’t great. Kissing while camping out under the stars is romantic and all, but making love in a bed is much more comfortable. Which isn’t to say that I’m not looking forward to exploring other locations for this particular activity, but that can wait. Right now, I’m enjoying the simple pleasure of feeling his bare skin against mine.

Clay moves his hand from my breast, and hugs me closer, and our chests press together. I can feel the texture of the smattering of hair on his chest, as we undulate against one another. The sensation of it against my nipples is arousing, and Clay hums in my ear, only to then place kisses down my neck, and back up, making his way to my lips again. Reaching my mouth with his, he nibbles and sucks on my lower lip, while the hand that was on my hip gently rolls me away from him, and onto my back.

As Clay moves his body over mine, lying on top of me for a moment, he presses his hardness against me, making my groin ache for him. But, before I have a chance to tilt my hips to his, and give into some of the pressure I feel building down there, he moves lower. Clay’s smoothly-shaven face slides along my collarbone, and down between my breasts, while his lips kiss and nip at my skin. I link my ankles around him, and am now able to push my mound against his stomach.

Laughing a little at my effort to increase the friction between us, he quickly moves his mouth over a breast, and purses his lips together, my nipple between them. I splay the fingers of one hand on his shoulder, threading the fingers of my other hand in his hair, which is still slightly damp from his shower. It feels cool, and is a sensual contrast to the heat that’s being generated between us.

“That feels great,” I whisper, rolling my head back and to the side in pleasure.

“Good,” he smiles against my breast. “How about this?”

“This” turns out to be his body sliding off of mine, and one of his hands skimming down past my belly to find its way between my folds to my clit. I suck in air, suddenly in need of oxygen, “Even better.”

Clay looks up at me, still massaging the sensitive spot, “Sarah, you look beautiful.” To punctuate his compliment, he slides a finger down over my folds, and into my core. I’m so wet, and ready for him, I thrust into his hand immediately. Aligning his body with mine again, still working his finger in and out of me, while teasing my clit with his thumb, Clay looks at me seriously, before kissing me hard, any restraint he’d been harboring is completely gone.

We loose ourselves in a flurry of kissing and touching. I grab for his erection, fondling the smooth skin over his hardness with purpose. As I do, I can feel his cock engorge with even more blood. Clay moves his hips in time with my touches, which match the rhythm he’s established with the two fingers he’s pushing inside me.

I feel like I’m going to explode. It’s not just from being on the edge of an orgasm myself, but I can feel Clay’s excitement and pleasure building, too, and it’s very intense. We’re both so close to release. I really need to feel him inside me, but there’s also a part of my body that just doesn’t want to stop what we’re doing now.

Clay, apparently, is opting for making a shift; he pulls his head back from kissing me, and pants, “I don’t have any condoms.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay, and on the pill; I obviously can’t vouch for you.” I’m having a little trouble framing my thoughts. But he’s right, we need to think clearly at least for a couple of minutes, while we get this figured out.

“I’m okay, too. Pathetically okay. Though, fortunately, not on the pill.”

I smile. Figuring that Webb probably does live a pretty solitary life, I push the thought aside to think about later. Clay pulls me on top of him, and I instantly position myself over his cock. With just a moment’s hesitation, savoring the raw desire I’m feeling, I lower myself onto him. Clay closes his eyes, places his hands on my hips, and begins to rock us back and forth. He’s biting his lower lip in concentration; I can see just the slightest furrow in his brow. Wanting him to let go, I lean down and kiss the crinkling between his eyebrows. He opens his eyes to look at me, then relaxes his expression, and closes them again.

I continue to move on top of him, raising and lowering myself on his shaft, moving to put just the right pressure on my clit. Clay’s got his hands gripped tight on my hips, and feeling my tempo, he moves me increasingly faster and faster. The pace becomes frenetic as I reach release first, followed a moment later by Clay, who’s clutching me hard.

I collapse on top of him, and scrunch down so I can put my ear over his heart. It’s banging loudly against his ribs, and I can feel mine pounding, just as intensely, in my own chest. Clay runs a hand through my hair, over and over, until I’m almost asleep. We wake up enough to use the bathroom, and tumble back into bed to sleep soundly through the night. Only once do I wake up. I open my eyes to see that the fire in the fireplace has burned out, and I readjust my position in the bed. I coax Clay to roll onto his side, and then I turn away from him. Even in his sleepy state, he catches on to what I’m doing, and soon moves closer, holding me from behind, one arm stretched out under my neck, and the other around my torso, his hand lightly clasping one breast.

In the morning, the sun comes up earlier than it had in the canyon, and we’re awake right away, with the birds outside that are clamoring with the dawn. Silently, after slow and exploring kisses, Clay mounts me, grasping my hands in his, and weaving our fingers together as he pushes and pulls against me, bringing us both release as he stares intently down into my eyes. Afterwards, we doze off again, but eventually have to get up, and get on with the day.

“I’m technically on medical leave, for at least two weeks. When do you have to be back in Washington?” Clay says, coming out of bathroom, while I’m still in bed.

“I’m not sure. Harm and the Admiral were supposed to be finishing things up last night. I guess we’ll be going back today.” I sort of wish I could stay here with Clay for at least another night, but know that transportation’s probably already been arranged for me to go home. I wonder if they thought to make travel arrangements for Clay, too.

“Let’s stay a couple more days.” Clay practically reads my mind, as he sits naked on the edge of the bed, fanning out his fingers above my breasts, then running his hands down over my nipples to my stomach, where he lifts his touch to gently sweep his fingertips over my belly.

“I’d love to. After our little ordeal in the canyon, I think I can swing an extra day or two.”

We decide to shower and dress separately, in our own rooms, then meet for breakfast, where we can see what’s been arranged, before going forward with our own plans. Then we stand at the door, acting like he’s dropping me off at home after a high school date and we don’t want the evening to end yet.

Eventually, I shove him out the door, where he runs smack into Harm. Clay mumbles an apology, but he’s trying hard not to laugh, which makes me nearly snort with suppressed giggles. Clay disappears into his room, and Harm gives me a very puzzled look, leaving me sure that we’ll be having a little talk about this later.

But, at breakfast, Harm just keeps glancing from me to Clay, and back again, looking really confused, then eying Bud and the Admiral, trying, I think, to figure out if he’s the only one who knows what’s going on. Clay catches my eye, darts his eyes to Harm and back, and we smile at each other.

//WEBB//

As I showered this morning, I was trying to put together in my head what had happened to me in the past week. From the outside, you might consider it a complete 180 from my life just a few days ago. But, for me, it simply felt like the culmination of a lifetime of working out my own emotions, to the point where I could let someone into my life.

But feeling finally ready to do something about the loneliness I’d been repressing was a major shift. My dumb luck at being able to connect with Sarah was amazing. I was unsure, though, if my good fortune had run out as quickly as it had begun. I had just finished shaving, and was washing the leftover shaving cream off my face, when she knocked at my door. I’d pretty much given up any hope of continuing what we’d started in the canyon, figuring it was ‘Harm to the rescue,’ as usual. But there she was, all clean and rosy cheeked, even though we’d been slathering on sunscreen the whole time we were in the field. Since she took the first step and came to my door, I had to chance that she wanted me to come back to her room with her, and I was right.

The softness of her skin was everything I’d imagined. Smooth and almost olive, she was pliable under my touch; and, in me, it brought out passion and longing. I think that Sarah and firelight will be a necessity in my life from now on. Kissing her long, slender neck, I kept my eyes open, watching the dancing light play on her skin, as I kissed and tasted more and more of her. Tenderness was replaced by raw desire, as things ramped up. I think it was what the psychologist, Maslow, would call a “peak experience.” Only to be matched in intensity by our activities this morning. Seeing Sarah in the daylight was heart-stopping; I wanted her so badly.

We haven’t really discussed what this all “means,” and I know that’s the kind of thing you usually associate with women – wanting to know the status of a relationship, after sleeping together. But I want to know. Part of me is hesitant to ask, though; I think my desire to know has something to do with needing to be sure it’s safe to really open up, and hold nothing of myself back.

I almost lost it, when Harm saw me coming out of her room, but I think I managed to seem polite, and, I hope, discreet. He could probably cause a ruckus over what he clearly knows is going on. The way he’s looking at me over breakfast now, I’m positive he knows precisely what went on Sarah’s room last night. But he’s not acting hostile towards me at all as we eat, which is surprising. In fact, he’s being very friendly. I hope that’s a good sign.

After breakfast, we get back to business. And, even though my business has been concluded, I’m included in the meeting with Sarah, Bud, Harm, and Chegwidden.

“Transportation has been arranged for all of us to fly out of Las Vegas and back to DC, early in the evening. Mr. Webb – I assume you’re back to Mr. Webb?”

I give a typical half-smirk and nod, indicating that I am back to my civilian identity, and that he should continue.

“Mr. Webb, I’ve asked Lieutenant Roberts to include you in our flight plan, in case another itinerary hadn’t been planned for you.”

I don’t think Sarah’s had a chance to talk to him, yet, so I wing it, hoping fervently that I’m making the right play, so that she and I can have a couple of days together before going home.

“Thank you, Admiral, I appreciate the gesture. But I do have other plans.”

Chegwidden nods curtly, and dismisses his staff before calling me over, “Webb!”

I look to Sarah, who is talking with Rabb in a corner. From the way he keeps furtively glancing at me, I’d guess they’re discussing what’s going on with Sarah and me. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on that wall. I’d love to know how she’d describe what’s happened – is happening – between us.

I fall along side Admiral Chegwidden, and we walk from the restaurant, along the path that edges the canyon, and back to the Bright Angel Lodge, which is again filled with tourists.

“I wanted to thank you for your cooperation on this case, Webb. I know you weren’t given much to go on, and I appreciate you trying to protect my people.”

“Nothing JAG wouldn’t do for me.”

Chegwidden gives me a “yeah, right” look, and we laugh cautiously. We both know that any one of them would stick their neck out for me, but it seems this relationship of surface-antagonism that the Admiral and I have established works well for us, so we continue to play along.

Back at the lodge, Rabb approaches me, and we have essentially the same conversation that Chegwidden and I had minutes before, including the show of opposition. I guess there’s comfort in routine, and I even silently forgive the guy for being such an ignoramus about what I did for him over the Angel Shark. He is what he is, and that’s basically a really good and loyal man.

As our little party breaks up, so that we can all go to our rooms to pack, I look for Sarah, who’s talking with Chegwidden. They finish up, and I hear her say, “Thank you sir. See you in a few days.”

Sarah and I are the only ones left in the lobby now, barring the twenty or so mingling tourists. And, when she approaches me, I get fairly a wet and forward kiss from her. I smile, feeling a warmth of companionship from her, but with an underlying promise of more sex.

She tells me that Chegwidden approved two extra travel days for her. “So, I was thinking we could do the mule ride to the bottom of the canyon, and spend the night at Phantom Ranch.”

I frantically grasp at words and phrases in my brain, trying to figure out how to break it to her that the last place I want to be is the Grand Canyon. Sarah comes to my rescue a second later, though, not making me suffer long.

“Kidding, kidding,” she smiles mischievously, “I was thinking someplace really decadent and luxurious in Las Vegas.”

And in an extremely uncharacteristic move, I say, “Vegas, baby!”

I tell her that I’ll take care of it, and, once we’re back in our individual rooms, I make a call to my mother’s travel agent, Mark. Then I go to the lodge’s transportation desk, where I get assistance from a woman named Mary Ann, who cheerfully arranges for a private plane to take Sarah and me to Las Vegas. Mary Ann seems to have taken a liking to me, and I’m feeling so great about things with Sarah, that it’s easy to be friendly and flirty with her.

Once every thing’s arranged, I go back to my room, pack quickly, and knock on Sarah’s door. She’s all ready to go, and seems completely at ease with the fact that I’ve taken charge, and have made all the travel arrangements.

“It’s nice to be treated now and then,” she says. “But don’t expect that I won’t want to make at least half of the social calendar decisions in the future,” she informs me, pretending to be a shrewish wife.

We meet the pilot of the plane on the tarmac, after taking a taxi from the Grand Canyon Village, kindly arranged by Mary Ann. The flight to Las Vegas is smooth, affording us an amazing view of the inhospitable terrain we’d covered. I look at Sarah’s profile as she stares down at the scenery below. I think to myself that, since the canyon brought us together, the environment can’t be that hostile.

Once in Las Vegas, we check into the up-scale Bellagio, and, true to her word, Sarah insists on making the plans for us while we’re here. I’m happy to do what ever she wants, as long as the entertainment for each of the two nights we’re here includes us in bed together.

After successfully testing out the bed in our suite, we shower, and make a quick dash to the hotel stores so we can dress appropriately for dinner. I chose a pair of loosely tailored gray pants that look nearly black, and an uncharacteristically trendy black sweater, that my mother would tell me was too tight. I also pick up a pair of black in-style loafers to match. Sarah emerges from the store she went in wearing a short and very clingy dark blue dress, that seems to wrap in some complicated manner around her torso; it leaves her upper chest exposed, and shows off generous amounts of her cleavage. Plus, she’s got on the sexiest pair of strappy shoes.

She gives me an appreciative look up and down, and I step forward, drawn to the soft looking texture of her dress, and her nearly exposed breasts. Sarah runs her hands up my arms, over my shoulders, and spreads her fingers out over my chest. I wrap my arms around her waist and leer down the top of her dress, while fingering circles on her lower back.

“If I weren’t starving for actual food, I’d devour you as the main course. You look really sexy,” she says, to my delight. But we’ve been talking about a real meal since we decided on Vegas as a destination, and, right now, that’s our priority. Which isn’t to say that priorities can’t change later.

We savor our lobster and prime rib dinner, jokingly referring to our meal as the best MRE we’ve ever had. Afterwards, we walk around the hotel, admiring the extravagantly decorated lobby, commenting on how far Las Vegas has come in the past fifteen years or so.

Outside the hotel, we walk along the edge of the huge “bay” that’s been constructed in front of the Bellagio. People, in pairs or small groups, line the edge of the water, which comes to life as about fifty fountain geysers shoot high into the air. We watch, with everyone else, as the water’s surface becomes obscured with “fog,” and Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring starts to play, the water continuing to “dance” in time to the music.

Copland’s always been one of my favorite modern composers. I take comfort in his pieces when I’m far from the US, and wondering why I’m halfway around the world, spending the evening running down some grungy alley, chasing a man I think might have a miniscule piece of information, that may or may not prove to be important. The scope of the American landscape that Copland captures reminds me of why I do what I do.

I hold Sarah in front of me as the music swells my heart, my arms enfolding her in my embrace. Tucking my nose into the crook of her neck, we sway together in time, and she turns to whisper, “I love this piece.”

When the show is over, Sarah turns around in my arms, and we kiss. I’m ordinarily not fond of public displays of affection, but this is “Sin City,” after all, and already we’ve seen several other couples doing much more than we are. Her hips are invitingly pressed to mine, and when Sarah breaks our kiss, she tells me how much I mean to her.

“I’m pretty sure, though, that up until a few days ago, you weren’t all that happy with me,” I counter.

“There’s a degree of frustration that comes with working with you. But I feel bad now; I let all that time go by, without appreciating who you really are.”

“I’ll let you make it up to me,” I say, playfully.

Sarah gets serious again, before I can take advantage of the moment and kiss her.

“I don’t think I realized how much I needed companionship in my life. I’ve made a lot of bad decisions based on my emotions. Instead of learning and moving forward, I’d closed myself off. Tried to believe I didn’t need, or want, anyone in my life. But I do.” She looks longingly into my eyes, and I kiss her now, with a much more sober air.

It means all the more to me to know that she’s opened herself up to me, after putting up walls for others. And, I’d like to believe, that it was something about me personally that made her want someone in her life – *me* in her life. With my kiss, I try to convey how precious her words are to me, and the level of seriousness with which I consider her feelings.

When I move my lips to her neck and nibble at her skin, Sarah sucks in a sharp breath. I keep it short, though, not wanting to let the moment pass. I look her in the eye, and take a breath and clear my throat, deciding to be honest with her, as well.

“It’s ironic that you didn’t think you needed companionship. I’ve been envious, for longer than I’d like to admit, of the companionship you and Rabb share; and Bud, and the Admiral, too. We don’t get that kind of ‘bonding’ in the CIA,” I can’t help the slightly sarcastic tone in my voice. It’s difficult for me to be this candid about my feelings, without making a joke out of it.

Sarah considers my confession for a moment, before responding, “It’s funny; we’d all put our lives on the line for each other, but there’s a deeper intimacy that we’ve never shared, probably the nature of the military. I guess I feel like the Corps, and the Navy, have been my family, in the absence of a real family of my own. But finding someone just for me has been hard. Even with Mic, there was a barrier between us.”

“Was that barrier Rabb?” Damn it, I have to ask.

Sarah doesn’t even think about her answer, which makes me glad. “Partly. Although I think I was using Harm as an excuse; he sort of stood for the things I wanted from Mic, that I wasn’t getting. Mic was ‘tried and true.’ Because Harm is so passionate about the things, I think, at the time, he represented the passion I craved in my relationship with Mic.”

I take in what she’s saying, and mull it over in my mind. Sarah is remarkably insightful about her own emotional motivations. The CIA shrinks would be impressed.

She pauses, before going on, “From what I know, so far, Clay, you’re a rare mix of those things. There’s a steadfastness about you, but it obscures the passion you hide underneath those suits.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling touched to the core by her assessment of me.

The mood between us lightens as we walk for several long blocks along the strip, talking, and laughing at the people we pass along the way. This is truly a city that doesn’t sleep, and I’d love to stay up all night with Sarah, but exhaustion is catching up with me. We loop back through the hotel “Paris,” passing under the replica of the Eiffel Tower, and cross the street to the Bellagio. The water is now shooting into the sky to the tune of “New York, New York.”

“I keep waiting for an Elvis tune,” Sarah says.

Caught up in the Vegas mentality, I sing a few lines, “I don't wanna be a tiger, 'cause tigers play too rough, I don't wanna be a lion, 'cause lions ain't the kind you love enough.”

“Okay, now *that’s* funny.”

I put my hand over my heart, feigning insult. But I can’t keep a straight face.

“Let’s go to bed, Elvis,” Sarah says still laughing.

No argument here. Back in our huge room, I suggest a shower, and we step into the cavernous bathroom. Sarah pulls my sweater over my head, and runs her hands in flat circles over the muscles of my chest. I close my eyes, luxuriating in the attention. Soon, I feel her hands circle lower, and she runs her fingers under the waistband of my pants. My eyes fly open; this, I want to see. Sarah looks up at me, and licks her lips, leaving them parted, inviting me to capture them in a kiss. I slide a hand to the back of her head, and pull her to me. Thrusting my tongue into her mouth, Sarah plunges her hand into my pants, fishing for my cock.

With her other hand, she undoes the button and zipper of my pants, and I shimmy them down as far as I can. With better access, she’s got her hand in my boxers, stroking me over and over, grazing her nails on my shaft. It verges on painful, making the sensation all the more erotic. I moan into her mouth, and decide it’s time I took some initiative.

I run the tips of my fingers over her collarbone, and down between her breasts. I wind my hand down and to the side, to capture her breast in my hand. But I have to halt my caresses and untangle myself, when Sarah lifts her arm to unzip the zipper at the side of the dress, which she lifts up and over her head.

We take another moment to strip completely, and to run the shower to a warm temperature. I step under the spray, and gesture for her to come to me. Once in the shower, we are immediately together, body against body, and the water creates a different kind of friction, as we rub against one another. I turn her around and kiss the back of her neck, while exploring her body with my hands. She reaches around me, grabs my hips, and grinds her rear against my erection.

“Want something?” I tease.

“You know it.”

Her confidence in our coupling is sexy, and I give into my carnal desires, finding her folds with my fingers, and separating her lips to reach into her hot opening. I lean forward to push a finger inside her, and, in contrast to the merely warm water, she’s absolutely on fire. I step back, intending to encourage her to bend forward, but she’s already starting to lean against the tiles, offering herself up to me.

Holding my cock steady, I find her core, and begin to thrust slowly. I’m surprised when Sarah backs up into me, engulfing my erection all the way inside her. She emphasizes her action with a small “uh.” Sarah makes me feel so good, and I almost ache with the need to move inside her. Placing my hands on her hips, I thrust forcefully, and she meets my every move with equal vigor. Reaching around her with one hand, I find her clit, and she places her hand over mine, showing me how she wants to be touched. I’m all too happy to pleasure her, as I pleasure myself. And soon, we’re both hitting a hard climax together.

I slip out of her a moment later, and she gives an un-ladylike snort, “Elvis has left the building.”

//MAC//

I finally feel like my life is falling into place. Being instrumental in finding the smuggled uranium made me proud. But having the support of my co-workers and friends means more. I knew the conversation with Harm was coming. He would’ve had to be pretty dense not to know that Webb and I had started a relationship. Although, I wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d raised a fuss about it, protesting the propriety, or the suitability of the match. Instead, he just said, “If he ever hurts you, or strands you someplace, you call me. Not that he would, the bastard’s been raised too well.”

I don’t think the envy in his tone was over me, exactly. I suspected that Harm had finally come to terms with his “flying solo” lifestyle, realizing, perhaps, that he too, wants someone to share his life with.

The Admiral had readily agreed to let me take a couple of days leave. And I absolutely couldn’t resist pulling Clay’s leg about wanting to go to the Phantom Ranch. The bottom of the canyon was *not* where I wanted to go, but the look on his face was priceless. I think he was trying to decide whether to be honest about his displeasure at the idea, or to agree, just to please me.

I laughed at Clay’s unexpected use of the phrase, “Vegas, baby.” He’s turning out to be so many things, all wrapped into one. He can be serious and dedicated; either pompous or humble, depending on the situation; and, I’m glad to see, that what I imagine was a refined upbringing, hasn’t spoiled him for silliness and fun.

I think Clay had some help from the woman at the transportation desk in arranging everything. He smiled broadly at her as we left; and she gave me a critical once-over. I think he’d been flirting with her, but I found that I didn’t mind. It’s funny how when you’re falling in love, and that’s what I hope we’re doing, you feel lovingly towards everyone.

The flight to Las Vegas was great. Flying low, you can really appreciate the landscape. From our vantage point, I had tried, unsuccessfully, to trace the route we’d taken across the canyon. And, as the canyon fell away from view, I looked out across the expanse of land, and was lost in the beauty of it.

The Bellagio was more than I’d expected. Las Vegas has changed a lot since I was here. When I’d last visited, there was nothing this nice, or expensive – at least not where I’d stayed. That seems like about a million years ago. And it certainly was in another lifetime. After arriving, I took over the itinerary. I’d joked earlier, but I really didn’t want him to think I liked being “taken care of” all the time. I want this relationship to be a team effort – the way we’d made it through the canyon.

Of course, Clay and I had to try out the enormous bed right away. And it met our approval. Now and then I love to splurge on clothes or jewelry, so I let myself shop without looking at the price tags. I was impressed with the clothing choices Clay had made. They were much more fashionable than anything I’d ever seen or imagined him in, and was pretty sure that he would’ve have never bought them if we weren’t on vacation.

We had what you’d call the perfect romantic evening. The way he’d kissed and touched me through the night made me wet with desire. There was dinner, music, walking, talking, and laughing, all culminating in amazing sex. What more could a woman ask for? For me, though, the best part was feeling so comfortable sharing with Clay how I’d been craving this kind of intimacy in my life.

Although, maybe the highlight of the night was really Clay’s extremely bad Elvis impression. I change my mind a second later, when I see Clay walking from the bathroom, to join me in bed. He’s got nothing on, and the way his muscles contract and release with his motions, I flash back to stripping his sweater off of him in the bathroom. I’d loved the way the contours of his chest muscles rippled under my touch.

Clay walks to the bed, and, in a sudden motion, he strips the sheets down, and flips me on my back. Stalking me like a cat, he crawls towards my body, and begins to rain kisses all over me.

“Hmmm, don’t stop,” I smile. Clay looks up at me, and I say, “Hey, I said, don’t stop.”

A rumbling chuckle bubbles through his chest, and he resumes his attentions. First kissing, and sharply nipping at my skin, he follows up by placing his open mouth on those same places, his breath hot and soothing, igniting me from the inside. I can feel the fire start where his mouth is, and the heat spreads right through to my chest, and then down, landing between my legs.

When he nips at my mound, and rests between my legs, I’m positively burning. His tongue sooths the heat with tender licks at my folds, only to spark me up again when he flicks it over and over my clit. I reach to touch his head, the texture of his hair feeling sensual on my fingertips. Clay wraps an arm around my thigh, and holds on tight, as he moves to tease my opening with his other hand. I’m on the edge as soon as I feel his fingers there, and when he strokes my core, I’m exploding. The fireworks I see as I squeeze my eyes tightly shut are blinding.

Clay crawls up beside me, and embraces me tightly as I doze off, mumbling a promise to repay the favor in the morning.

//WEBB//

Feeling satiated myself last night, I really wanted to pleasure Sarah. I had a good feeling about the resurrection of my career, and was confident that my personal life was on the right track. My self-esteem got an even bigger boost later, when she fell asleep in my arms, looking extremely satisfied herself.

Touching, then tasting, Sarah’s impossibly smooth skin, and feeling it between my lips and under my tongue, was nearly enough to make me lose sight of my goal. Her skin was fresh from our shower, but her musky scent filled the space around us as she reached release. I watched her fall asleep, and thought about how beautiful and serene she looked right then, and how privileged I was to know not only how tough she can be, but also how tender and fiercely passionate.

Waking up late, thanks to the heavy drapes in our suite, I take advantage of rising first by sneaking down to position myself at Sarah’s sex. I knew she was awake as soon as I started moving, but I think she’s hoping that if she stays “sleeping,” she’ll get a repeat performance of last night. I’m more than happy to play along, running my tongue over her core to her clit, and bringing my hands into play as well. I kiss and caress her, until she says, “Okay, come here.”

Rubbing my erection along the inside of her thigh as I pull myself even with her prone body, I enter her in one stroke, pushing out a long breath as I do. We move in tandem to release, and sleep until almost noon. A guy could get used to this kind of exertion. I’m getting used to Sarah, that’s for sure. I wonder if it’s my age, or the fact that I’ve never been seriously involved with anyone before, but I have become extremely attached to her in a very short amount of time.

We have lunch in one of the restaurants, and find somewhat reasonably priced bathing suits to wear to the pool. Although, how asking anything over $20 can be justified for the scraps of cloth Sarah got that she claims is a bikini, is beyond me. We rent one of the private cabanas by the lushly accented pool, and spend the day between there and the water.

In the pool, we race each other, and do laps. Sarah’s really fast, but I’m faster. I teach her how to do flip-turns, and she gets the hang of it almost right away. I tell her about swimming lessons as a kid, and how I was attracted to the solitary nature of the sport. I enjoyed competing against not just other swimmers, but against the clock, and how when you’re submerged for a time after a turn, it feels like it’s just you and the water.

We decide to be really decadent, and order a snack to be brought to our cabana. Finishing our bruschetta, Sarah gets up, and closes the flaps, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside. I have a funny feeling it’s pay back time for the treatment I gave her last night and this morning.

She approaches me, with a sly sexy smile on her face, and places her palm flat on my chest. Sarah leans in to kiss me, long and slow, as she pushes me back into my lounge chair, so that I’m lying almost flat. Her tongue is sweeping over mine, and my cock responds, yearning to feel her do the same to my shaft. But it seems that I’ll have to wait. She breaks our kiss to straddle me, her knees on either side of my chest, and she rubs herself against me, while she takes her bikini top off. I moan her name and sit up a little to bring one of her tantalizing breasts to my mouth. I swirl my tongue around her nipple, until I can bite it between my teeth, and flick my tongue across the hardened tip. Sarah moves her hips lower on my body, and we grind together. I pause my attentions at her breast to grab her hips with both of my hands, and rub her harder against my erection.

As soon as I let go, Sarah moves even lower, and puts one of her knees between my legs. She unties the drawstring of my swimming trunks, and I rise up to help her get them off. My cock springs out, finally released.

Sarah takes hold of me with one hand and, and strokes the inside of my thighs with the other, using her fingernails to graze my skin, right up to my balls. I suck in a sharp breath each time she follows that path. I’m dying to have her do more to my cock. I can feel the blood pulsating there, and am about to beg, when she strokes me with her hand, and leans down to take me in her mouth.

“Ahh oohhh,” I unintelligibly utter.

Sarah smiles, and her teeth brush the hyper sensitive skin on my erection when she does. It feels so amazingly good. My head is spinning, and I can’t figure out if I want this to continue forever, or if I want to come inside her mouth immediately. Trying to control myself a little, so I can enjoy this for at least a bit longer, without exploding right way, I open my eyes and try to focus a little of my mind on something else.

It only works for about a minute and a half. The way Sarah is taking me in and out of her mouth, with her hands teasing my balls, I no longer want to think about anything else, and I let my body’s natural reactions completely take over. Another thirty seconds, and I’m there, thrusting into the back of her throat, and Sarah’s not letting up for a second.

“That was great,” I say, panting and covering my eyes with my hand in a futile attempt to stop feeling so light headed.

I hear Sarah sit up, and take a swig of water from her bottle. I move my hand away from my face, and open my eyes to watch at her. She’s looking cool and calm, as if what she just did was a walk in the park. I sit up a little, reach for her arms, and pull her to me, kissing her hard on the mouth. Sarah adjusts herself, so she’s lying right on top of me with her head at my collarbone, her nose in the crook of my neck. I stroke her back, and she kisses and blows against my neck.

I move my hand to brush the side of her breast, which is pressed against my chest. She immediately shifts to give me better access, and slowly I work my hand over and over her velvety skin, teasing her nipple now and then. Sarah moves again, so that her hips are putting pressure against me with her mound. After a few minutes of this touching and teasing, I ease her off me, and find that we just barely fit together in the lounge chair, face to face.

I reach between us, and easily slip Sarah’s bikini bottoms off. I kiss her, shoving my tongue against hers at the same time that I’m pushing a finger into her core. She’s really wet, and her breath his coming in short hot pants between our kisses. We duel our tongues back and forth, and I nip now and then at her lips, while caressing her center, and putting a rotating pressure on her clit. She says my name in a whisper as she comes, her inner muscles pulsing around my fingers.

We get dressed in our swimsuits, and shower in the outdoor stalls to wash off a bit, before napping in our cabana until it’s time to eat again. We opt for more casual dining than last night, and, after changing clothes back in our room, we walk to the buffet at Caesar’s Palace. Afterwards, we stroll through the shops, and again, the people watching is really entertaining. We also play a little game with each other in the casino, trying to spot the undercover security personnel. Later, I throw a few dollars into a quarter slot machine, and lose it all in ten minutes.

“Now I remember why I don’t gamble,” I say.

Back at the Bellagio, we make a spur of the moment decision to try to get tickets to see the Cirque du Soleil show, “O.” We’re in luck, there were tickets available, and we are really impressed with the beauty and strength of the acrobats. On the way to our room afterwards, we make all kinds of juvenile jokes about the title “O.” And, back in our suite, we fulfill all those jokes.

Too soon, morning comes. Though, we stay cuddled together in bed as long as we can, and I start to get really talkative. It’s so unusual for me to want to share how I’m feeling, that when the dam breaks, it all comes flooding out. I tell Sarah how I felt when I’d been assigned to Paramaribo; and how much I hated Rabb for not being grateful enough for my sacrifice – but, that I’d forgiven him for not being able to see that others might deserve credit, and that the bigger lesson, after all was said and done, was that there’s more to life than secrets.

“Those people deserved to know what happened. It wasn’t vital for national security, anymore, for them to be kept in the dark,” I say, “But I was jealous that they had families who were holding vigil for them all those years. I’d been so consumed with my career, and being a ‘super spy’ for so long, trying to follow in my father’s footsteps, that I thought having a family was beneath me. That it was somehow nobler to think I was alone on purpose, so I wouldn’t leave a family behind, the way my father had. It turned out, I was alone because I didn’t know how to open up to someone. I’d never learned how to do that.”

Sarah pushes my hair into place, as we lay on our sides, facing one another in bed. And, she reveals a little of her own solitude to me, “I think I’ve learned that it’s not just having someone in your life that makes you fulfilled, or chases away your loneliness. It’s *who* you have in your life.”

“I thought the CIA was my family, that they’d take care of me, no matter what. But there’s only so much of the void in your life that a government agency can fill. I need more than that. I need you.” It’s only now, as I confess it to Sarah, that I’m able to admit the fact to myself.

I look into Sarah’s dark eyes, hoping to read mutual feelings there, as she moves her eyes back and forth between each of mine. She kisses me with a solid, but tender feeling, her lips clinging to mine, promising more to come, and I know she’s got my heart for good.

We make love slowly and tenderly, exploring each other’s bodies with exacting touches that builds our arousal to an intense peak. We come crashing together in the final moments of climax, and we’re left breathless, clinging to one another.

Finally, Sarah says, “It’s ten-twenty-seven.”

She’s right, we need to get up. Reluctantly, we leave the bed to shower, dress, and pack. I’d booked a commercial flight for us out of Las Vegas, and we’re due to leave at one. Getting through security will be a hassle, but I make a few calls to ease the annoyance, arranging for an escort to take us from the airline counter to our gate. Sometimes, being in this business has its advantages.

//MAC//

If I thought the way Clay put me to sleep was impressive, his wake up call was even better. I could do with that every day. Although, I don’t think the Admiral would appreciate how late I’d be if that were the case, but having Clay with me on a daily basis back home is an idea that’s appealing.

We rented a cabana at one of the Bellagio’s pools, which could have been on the grounds of some enormous Mediterranean estate. Later, my competitive nature showed through in the water. I’d really hoped to beat Clay in our little swimming race, but had forgotten that he’d been a competitive swimmer. It was fun anyway, and I think, with a little practice, I might be able to match his pace.

The distinct advantage of getting a cabana is the privacy, and I put ours to good use, bringing Clay to the edge, and over. He was so sexy in his release that desire flooded me, and coursed through my body, as we held each other close. I think he wanted to draw things out as long as possible, and I was happy to be at his mercy. I seem to have no trouble giving up control with Clay, physically or emotionally. It feels so good to be with someone I trust completely; someone I want to lose myself in. With Clay, I don’t feel like he’s trying to make me any more or less of anything than what I am, to suit his life or temperament.

Enjoying Las Vegas on our last night there, we had a great time walking through Caesar’s after dinner. Clay asked if I would wear one of the skimpy cocktail waitress outfits, which had a distinctly Roman, yet risqué, theme to them.

“Only if you’ll wear an Elvis costume for me. And not one from the Elvis Army days, it’s got to be Elvis in the later years.”

“Yeah, right,” came his reply.

“O” was incredible. The physical discipline of the acrobats was impressive. Of course, we just had to make a joke about the title.

“It must be some kind of advertising ploy by Cirque du Soleil to get people to *come* to their show,” I said, laughing so hard I almost didn’t get the joke out.

“Well, it’s working for me,” Clay said, pressing me against the wall of the elevator with his hips.

We made love that night, and again this morning. And it amazed me how the sex act can be so different, even with the same person. Last night was fun and hard. This morning was tender and almost light, until we exploded at the end with intense passion.

I was surprised, but felt lucky, that Clay had talked to me so much about his feelings about Rabb, the CIA, and himself. I’d suspected he had some father issues, knowing that, like Harm, he’d lost his dad as a kid. But, the insight Clay’s gained into himself in the past few months is a far cry from the emotionally confused and reactionary Harmon Rabb.

We make it to the airport with plenty of time, but Clay had already arranged for a Homeland Security officer to get us through check-in and to our gate. We thanked him appreciatively, and sat down in chairs by our gate until the plane was ready to board.

I take a moment to stare down at my thigh, where Clay’s hand is resting, as he looks around the terminal, waiting idly for the time to pass. His hand touching me that way would have seemed completely outrageous a week ago. Now, I don’t want to travel anywhere without him. His words to me this morning ring in my head, “I need more than that. I need you.”

I lean to Clay’s ear and whisper, “I need you, too.”

He doesn’t turn his head, but keeps watching the stream of people filing past who’ve just gotten off of a plane. I think it’s taking him a minute to figure out what I’m talking about. I hope I don’t have to explain; it was such a perfect moment in my head when I decided to say it to him.

After a long pause, Clay shifts in his chair, and brings his gaze to meet mine. With a smile, he says, “Thanks for saving me from going into the canyon alone, without knowing it was you I was missing in my life.”

END