Title: "A Wing and a Prayer, Part I"
Author: Valerie Jones
Email: valerie_j@comcast.net
Rating: PG
Classification: Harm/Mac, Action story
Spoilers: "Adrift I", "True Callings"

Summary: Written for the 2003 Virtual Season. A series of events leads to a Navy ship's misidentification of a commercial airliner as a hostile target.

0628 EDT
U.S.S. Patrick Henry
Atlantic Ocean

"Commander Rabb? There's a ship-to-shore call for you."

Surrounded by his old squadron mates, Harmon Rabb, Jr. looked up from his coffee to find a perky young petty officer standing at the doorway to the pilot's wardroom. "You can take it there if you'd like, sir." She waved toward the black and gray phone bolted to the wardroom wall.

Harm nodded. "Thank you, Petty Officer."

The girl nodded and disappeared. Harm shook his head. "How old was that sailor?" he asked Skates, who was seated to his left. "Fourteen?"

Skates laughed. "Try twenty, Hammer. You're getting old."

Harm flashed her a wounded look before standing to answer his call. He picked up the phone. "Commander Rabb."

"Hey, sailor." Mac's rich contralto came across the line, bringing an immediate smile to his face. "You having fun showing the young punks how it's done?"

Harm had to laugh. "Geez, what is this? Pick on the old man day?"

"Why? Is Skates giving you trouble?"

He cut a glance at the newly-pinned lieutenant commander, raising his eyebrows when she noticed his gaze. "Nothing I can't handle."

Skates stuck out her tongue at him as Mac laughed. "Listen, I've only got a couple of minutes before my flight leaves." In the background, a cultured female voice made an announcement over some kind of loudspeaker.

Harm blinked. "Mac, where are you?"

She chuckled at his surprise. "London. I had to scramble to make the flight out of Riyadh so I didn't have time to call. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm headed home."

"Your investigation wrapped up already? I'm impressed, Marine." Mac had been sent to Riyadh two weeks earlier to assist with the investigation into an incident involving a Syrian fighter that had nearly collided with the U.S.S. Coral Sea. The carrier had shot it down with its Phalanx 20mm guns less than three hundred yards from the hull. The Syrian government claimed it was an accident, their own government suspected the attack was deliberate but didn't know whether it was the pilot acting on his own or at his government's instruction, and the intelligence community continued to track possible terrorist connections.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Conclusion?" Harm didn't try to hide his interest. Though Syria wasn't technically an enemy of the United States, the countries were far from friendly. Skirmishes happened, most often between aerial assets, and each, though a minor event on the larger scale, was quite immediate for those in the cockpit. The fighter pilot in Harm wanted to know everything he could about the potential threat.

Mac sighed. "There's no evidence the Syrian pilot was acting on any initiative but his own when he dove toward the Coral Sea. He might have had orders and he might not have. I doubt we'll ever know."

Harm leaned his shoulder against the cool metal of the wardroom wall. "You ruled out any kind of technical problem with his aircraft?"

"He never signaled an emergency. His flight profile didn't seem to suggest it, either." She paused, her voice turning somber. "Makes me glad you're not out in the Gulf right now."

Invisible to her, Harm shook his head. But he knew better than to argue the point. "Yeah, I'm sure things are a little crazy out there." He decided to change the subject. "Hey, what's your flight information?"

Her voice took on a distinct I'm-a-Marine tone. "You don't need to have someone meet me at the airport, Harm. I can take a cab."

"That wasn't what I was thinking at all," he protested. He wasn't nearly as overprotective as she seemed to think. "I'm going to be going up in about—" He checked his watch. "—nine hours, so I'll probably have your aircraft on my radar, at least for a little while."

"And I'll bet you think that's romantic." The laughter was back in her voice. "Oh, all right. I'm on United Airlines Flight 958. It's a straight-through from Heathrow to Dulles." She paused. "There's the boarding call. I've got to go."

"Have a good flight," Harm told her. "I'll see you in about nine hours."

She chuckled. "And I guess I'll see you when you get back to D.C."

"Bye, Mac."

He started to hang up the phone when her voice stopped him. "Harm?"

He put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Good luck on your quals." Her voice was quiet and deadly serious.

He smiled a touch sadly. Mac was never going to forgive herself for that. "Thanks." He forced himself to adopt a light tone. "Stop worrying, Marine. Nothing's going to happen."

Mac's confident persona snapped back into place. She laughed, the sound full of warm affection. "Famous last words, Butch. Just be careful."

"I will."

Harm hung the phone back in its cradle then went to rejoin the group at the table.

0940 EDT
United Airlines Flight 958
Over the Atlantic Ocean

Sarah Mackenzie couldn't sleep. She was wedged between a pudgy businessman in a badly outdated brown suit and a spiky-haired youth with headphones whose throbbing music couldn't be completely contained by the earpieces. Earlier, the businessman had tried to strike up a conversation despite being intimidated by the Marine uniform she wore, but had stalled out when he learned Mac was a lawyer. She hadn't encouraged him to try again, going so far as to tuck a pillow behind her head in the hopes of catching a nap.

Unfortunately, sleep eluded her. It wasn't hard to figure out why, either.

He's not even flying right now! Frustrated with herself, Mac sat up. She glanced past the businessman to look out the window. Pure, almost stark sunlight reflected off wispy clouds far below. Despite Harm's voice in her head telling her she shouldn't get out of her seat unless she had to, she decided to take a short walk around the airplane. The Boeing 747 was outfitted in a standard two-class configuration, which allowed her to roam nearly the entire length of the passenger cabin. She stood and stepped past the kid with the headphones who barely noticed her passage. Straightening her uniform, she headed forward.

#

A young Middle Eastern man seated by the window in the row in front of Mac watched the marine's passage with covert, but intense, interest. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a plain cotton shirt, and a backpack was tucked beneath the seat in front of him. After a moment, he turned his attention back to the PDA in his hand.

[Cue JAG music, go to commercials]

1543 EDT
Combat Information Center (CIC), U.S.S. Vella Gulf
Missile Cruiser attached to the U.S.S. Patrick Henry Battle Group
Atlantic Ocean

"What in the—?" Petty Officer Third Class Joey Davidson stared at his equipment, startled.

"What is it, petty officer?" The operations officer, Lieutenant Commander Benson McCollum, looked over at him.

"Sir, a commercial airplane just disappeared off my scope."

A frown forming between his brows, the commander walked over to where Davidson sat. He looked over the younger man's shoulder at the air plot, which displayed the position and heading of every aircraft in the carrier group's air-defense area. At the moment, that area eclipsed one of the commercial lanes crossing the Atlantic, adding nearly two dozen aircraft to the petty officer's display. Unbeknownst to the airline pilots, the Navy often used those aircraft as opportune targets for their various armament systems. Better to chase a real—if innocent and friendly—target than one conjured by a computer's imagination.

"What was it?"

"United Airlines 747, sir. It was right there." Davidson indicated the proper position on the screen with his grease pencil.

McCollum frowned. "Could they have lost their transponder? What does radar say?"

Davidson turned his attention to the traditional green scope. It was simple radar, most often used for weather determination, rather than the more sophisticated infrared systems used for the ship's targeting systems. However, it would tell them if there was still an airplane where one was supposed to be.

The petty officer frowned. "It's pretty crowded up there, sir, but it looks like that's our 747." He tapped an innocuous-looking dot.

#

Onboard Flight 958, the young man in the row ahead of Colonel Mackenzie snapped his PDA closed with a satisfied smile. Step One was complete. Now for Step Two. Dragging his backpack out, he slipped the PDA into an outer pocket, then delved into the main compartment. He emerged with a slender metallic case. He opened it to reveal three syringes carefully clamped into the black velvet interior. The older woman seated beside him looked over curiously.

"For my diabetes," he told her in heavily accented English.

She quickly returned her attention to her magazine as if embarrassed to be caught watching.

The man slipped one of the syringes from the case and raised it, making a show of examining the fluid for air bubbles, and then squirting a small amount from the end of the needle. As if by accident, the spurt of liquid landed on the plastic window liner that separated passengers from the actual aircraft window. The cheap plastic dissolved like spun sugar, leaving a ragged gash and a slightly acrid smell behind. Quickly, the man angled the needle through the hole and pushed the plunger down partway. The amber-colored liquid splashed across the double-paned glass, followed by a hiss and a tiny stream of smoke.

#

A harsh, chemical smell assaulted Mac's nose. She looked up from the crossword puzzle she'd found in a magazine left behind by some other traveler, sniffing. A veteran of many military flights, she was used to stale air and odd smells, but something about this one touched off her internal alarms. It smelled like something was... burning? Thoughts of an electrical fire flashed through her mind, bringing a jolt of adrenaline-fear.

Next to her, the businessman continued to snore as he had for the last three hours. The kid on her far side had his eyes closed, music still pounding, but his only reaction was to raise one hand to scratch his nose before letting it fall back into his lap.

Closing the magazine, Mac looked around, keeping the motion casual with an effort. People sat in their seats, unaware and unconcerned. The in-flight movie played silently on a screen mounted to the cabin divider. Somewhere a young child cried, a lackluster wail born of discomfort and exhaustion.

Quietly excusing herself, Mac rose and stepped past her row mates into the aisle. She brushed at the wrinkles marring her uniform skirt as she looked around. A flight attendant stood near the forward divider, bent over as she talked with a passenger. Mac was just about to take a step in that direction when something else caught her attention.

The man in the window seat in the row ahead of hers was holding a syringe. That fact alone didn't immediately strike her as a threat, but it was an oddity that required explanation. She turned to look more closely, and her eyes immediately picked out the irregular outline of what looked like a melted hole in the window. No, not the window—the plastic inner pane. The real window appeared to be slagging under some kind of chemical assault.

The man holding the syringe looked up at Mac. For an instant their eyes met. A cold hand of fear touched her spine. She'd seen his expression before, in the eyes of men who were about to die, and who welcomed it.

"Stop!" Mac lunged for the man's arm. As if in slow motion, she saw a smile flicker across his face as his thumb drove the syringe's plunger the rest of the way down. Liquid squirted onto the bubbling glass.

Mac's hand closed on his wrist. Off balance, she yanked his arm back, causing the last few drops of the chemical to splatter across both their hands. One droplet struck Mac like a heavy-gauge needle being driven into the bone. She reared back with a cry of pain.

Beside the man, the chemical completed its job as the first tiny hole appeared in the oval-shaped window. Unable to withstand the pressure differential, the glass filled with spidery cracks then exploded outward in a cloud of shards.

In an instant, the interior of the aircraft became a maelstrom.

#

In the cockpit of the Boeing 747 an alarm began to wail. Captain Alexander Andropolous—Andy to his friends—took one look at the indicator and swore.

"Cabin depressurization," his co-pilot, a capable Brit named Carl St. James, reported as he grabbed the emergency oxygen mask and fitted it over his nose and mouth.

Several staccato thuds shook the cockpit wall behind them. The two men exchanged alarmed looks. The blowout panels were designed to help relieve a sudden pressure differential between the cockpit and cabin, which meant they had a real—and severe—depressurization in the passenger area.

Carl grabbed the yoke. "My airplane."

Andy released the controls as the co-pilot initiated an emergency descent. Carl shoved the yokes forward, sending the aircraft into a steep, curving dive. They were cruising at 38,000 feet, which meant the passengers would be unconscious from lack of oxygen in less than a minute if they didn't drastically reduce their altitude. Andy was already starting to feel a little dizzy. He grabbed his own emergency mask, but the plastic seemed to have a life of its own. It slipped out of his fingers, tumbling to the floor beside his chair. Groaning, his head swimming, Andy bent down to retrieve it.

#

"Sir, the aircraft is deviating from its flight path." Petty Officer Davidson looked up at the Operations Officer, real alarm on his face. "They're losing altitude fast."

"Bearing?" Commander McCollum demanded. A commercial aircraft falling out of the sky was a bad thing.

Davidson looked at his instruments. "Bearing is one-niner-zero."

McCollum stared at the radarman as a cold hand squeezed his stomach. They're headed straight for us. "Are you sure, petty officer?"

He watched as Davidson double-checked. "Yes, sir."

Swearing to himself, McCollum grabbed the radio off the wall. "This is Commander McCollum in CIC. Get me the bridge," he told the com officer on the other end of the line.

"What's going on, Commander?" The ship's XO, Commander Ernest Ballantine, came on the line a couple of seconds later.

"Sir, we've got a commercial aircraft headed toward the battle group. It changed bearings a few seconds ago and has gone into a steep dive."

"Sir! Sir!" Davidson shouted from behind him. "It's not the 747. Target is now squawking a Syrian ident."

McCollum whirled to look at the Davidson, whose eyes had gone wide with horror. "It's a MiG, sir."

McCollum didn't waste any time trying to figure out how a Syrian fighter had gotten within five hundred miles of the American coast. The fact was, it was there.

What happened to the 747? a dreadful voice in his head asked.

He didn't have time to wonder, though. "SM-2s on line," he directed. Distantly, he heard the grinding whir as the MK 41 Vertical Launch System became active, elevating the missile launchers.

"I'm on my way," the XO said into Commander McCollum's ear.

McCollum hung the radio back on its hook, his eyes riveted to the screens that filled the small CIC.

"Target acquired," the fire controlman reported from his station.

McCollum spared a glance for the young seaman manning the radios. "Adjibli! Any chatter from United Airlines Flight 958?"

The seaman, whose skin was the darkest McCollum had ever encountered, glanced up at him. "No, sir. Nothing yet." His expression said that he, too, wondered if they would hear from the aircraft ever again.

#

Harm sat in the cockpit of the F-14 that was his for the duration of his time aboard the Patrick Henry, waiting for the signal to run his engines up. In the seat behind him, Skates was doing her own checks. The jet blast deflector had already been raised behind them and Harm's pulse was picking up in anticipation of a launch that was now only a few seconds away.

The shooter flashed him the signal that all was good, so Harm pushed the throttles forward. The roar of the Tomcat's two engines enveloped him, vibrating the entire aircraft and making him grin. A moment later, the cat officer saluted. Harm returned the salute and turned his gaze forward. The cat officer knelt on the tarmac, touched the deck then pointed down the bow. At that signal, the launch button was struck and the catapult immediately began to fill with steam.

With a snap that hurled them from zero to 130 knots in two seconds, the catapult launched them off the bow. Harm raised the landing gear as the CAG's voice filled his ears.

"Commander, an aircraft identifying itself as a Syrian MiG 29 just entered our airspace. It has initiated a powered dive toward the battle group."

Harm didn't have time to be surprised by the sudden change in his mission.

"I've got him on radar," Skates reported over the cockpit mike. "Turn on heading three-zero-zero to intercept."

Harm did so, knowing his wingman—who happened to be Tuna this time around—was doing the same. Together the two fighters raced toward the oncoming threat.

"ROE?" Harm asked the CAG.

Captain Pike's voice was grim. "If it gets within a half mile of any American ship, kill it."

"Yes, sir."

Just then, Harm saw the telltale bloom of fire coming from one of their cruisers—the Vella Gulf—as two missiles powered into the air on billowing columns of smoke.

"Vella Gulf is firing," Skates reported.

Automatically, Harm's gaze jumped ahead of the missiles' flight path, searching for their target, and his. His aircraft was closing the distance faster than the newly launched missiles, and as they climbed his eyes picked out a hint of silver that quickly resolved itself into the distant shape of an aircraft. His heart froze as he recognized the distinctive humpbacked shape of a Boeing 747.

"Abort missile!" he yelled into his mike. "Target is friendly! I repeat, target is friendly!"

The two missiles arced up behind the commercial aircraft, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. Harm heard the command to abort being echoed across the communication channels, but it was too late. He watched in horror as the first missile slammed into the outboard engine on the 747's port side. The wing was engulfed in a brilliant ball of flame as the engine and the outer portion of the wing disintegrated. The second missile, a few seconds behind the first, exploded just shy of the starboard wing. The 747 staggered.

#

The captain of United Airlines Flight 958 had finally managed to get his oxygen mask into place. The dizziness was receding, and he had just about decided he was coherent enough to radio Dulles Tower to let them know what was happening when the aircraft shook violently.

The two pilots shared a brief, frightened stare. "Explosion," Andy breathed.

In its wake the control panel lit up like a Christmas tree—Number 1 engine failure, outboard aileron, hydraulics and a half dozen other major warning lights went red. Audible alarms started blaring, creating a cacophony. As Andy watched, the Number 2 engine failure light winked on.

"We've lost the 1 and 2 engines," he told the co-pilot. "Shutting off fuel." He reached for the appropriate controls.

Carl nodded, his attention focused on his instruments as he fought to control the airplane. "I've got full rudder in to compensate." Both men were well aware that the decompression and the sudden cascade of major system failures probably meant their aircraft was coming apart mid air. The strain of holding the rudder pedal down showed in the co-pilot's voice. The pedal forces required for extreme rudder travel were high as a safety precaution, and with their current speed, he was using pure muscle to keep the rudder at the blow down position. "We need to slow down."

Another jolt shook them, adding a new set of alarms to the mix. "Number 4 engine failure." Carl swore as the airplane began to roll. He backed off on the rudder, concentrating on the feel of the airplane to cue him.

"Bringing the nose up," Andy told him as he grabbed the yoke. The airplane was still descending. The altimeter scrolled through ten thousand feet. "Come on, baby," he coaxed the 747 as he pulled back on the yoke.

Shuddering, the grand dame of the skies slowly responded. "We're losing hydraulic pressure," Andy said. The controls were mushy. They were also still sinking, though their descent rate had dropped to a mere seventy feet per minute. The airframe continued to vibrate, a jarring rattle that told both pilots their aerodynamic shape had been altered in some fashion. But, slowly, the situation stabilized and Andy began to hope that they'd be able to keep Flight 958 in the air.

[Commercial break]

1549 EDT
Over the Atlantic

Harm watched as the 747 struggled to stay aloft. The outer third of the port wing was gone, blown off by the SM-2. Jagged, twisted metal hung out into the airstream, the remainder of the engine pylon. The inboard engine had streamed smoke before the pilots managed to shut it down. The outboard starboard engine also looked to be out of commission, damaged by the second missile's explosion.

"Can they fly on half a wing and one engine, sir?" Skates asked in a frightened voice as they closed with the damaged airplane.

Harm's mouth went dry as they got close enough for him to identify the United Airlines livery on the 747. It couldn't be Mac's plane, though, right? What were the chances?

Taking up a position next to the aircraft's nose Harm toggled his radio. "United Airlines 747, this is US Navy Tomcat at your ten o'clock. Please respond."

"We hear you, Navy," came the immediate response. "This is Captain Alexander Andropolous. Who are you?"

"Commander Harmon Rabb, from the carrier Patrick Henry." he returned the introduction.

"Commander, what happened to my airplane? Is the passenger cabin intact? We had a rapid depressurization."

Harm steeled himself. "You were struck by a surface-to-air missile, Captain. The body of the aircraft looks to be intact, but you're missing about a third of your left wing."

There was a brief silence. "Did you say missing?" the captain asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir. I don't see any trailing fuel, though. The separation looks to have happened right at the engine/pylon assembly." The inboard fuel tanks had most likely not ruptured.

"Holy crap." A second voice joined the captain's, probably the co-pilot.

"Are you stable?" Harm asked rather than let the two pilots dwell on the damage. "Do you still have control power?"

"Some, Commander," Andropolous answered. "Rudder and elevator are responsive, but we've got almost no lateral control."

Well, if you had to lose something, Harm thought, the wing surfaces were the least important. They could fly on rudder and elevator alone.

"We've got another problem, though, Commander," Andropolous continued. "This bird isn't designed to fly on only one engine for very long, and with all the extra drag it's even worse. We don't have enough power."

Harm glanced at his instruments as the captain spoke. They were flying at just under two hundred thirty knots, at approximately eight thousand feet of altitude, and sinking at a steady seventy feet per minute. He did some quick math and came to a chilling conclusion.

Andropolous's voice turned grim. "We're going to hit the water before we make it back to the States."

Harm bit his lip. "Any chance you can restart one of the other engines?"

"Already trying," Andropolous said, "but it doesn't look promising."

"Don't give up yet, Captain."

The captain sighed softly. "I've got more than four hundred souls on board, Commander. I won't give up until I draw my last breath, but I've got to tell you I'm pretty sure it's going to come to that."

Harm couldn't think of anything to say.

A moment later, he heard the co-pilot call the tower at Dulles International airport.

"Dulles Tower, this is United Airlines Flight 958, Heavy. We are declaring an emergency. I repeat, we are declaring an emergency." He went on, but Harm didn't hear him. The flight's identity echoed in his head, drowning out everything else.

Mac was onboard the crippled airliner.

#

The general panic and screaming had finally given way to strained silence as the passengers came to the conclusion they weren't going to die quite yet. Mac sat in an aisle seat, holding a piece of gauze against her bleeding hand. The terrorist—or whatever he was—had been rather forcibly subdued by a couple of brawny young men and was now trussed with plastic safety ties and lying unconscious on the floor in front of the cabin divider. A passenger whose eardrums had ruptured in the sudden depressurization had been sedated by one of the stewardesses. He was lying across four seats nearby, whimpering. Several other passengers had been injured in the descent, but those were mostly cuts and bruises, and one broken arm.

Mac glanced out the window, past the dangling oxygen masks that were no longer needed. Her current seat was over the wing, and she could see the damage clearly. She turned back to her injury. Whatever the man had used to destroy the window, one drop had eaten a dime-sized hole in the back of her hand. The wound ached fiercely, the blackened edges oozing blood. In the center, she could see the white of bone. The pain was enough to make her a little dizzy.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Mac looked up into the face of one of the airplane's stewards. He was a cheerful-looking blond man, maybe twenty-five years old. He grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I don't know your rank."

Mac pressed the gauze more firmly against her wound. "I'm a lieutenant colonel. My name is Sarah Mackenzie."

"You aren't in the Navy by chance, are you?"

Mac snorted. "Marines. Why?"

The steward glanced over his shoulder. "There are a couple of Navy planes out there. You can see them from the front." He looked back at Mac. "We were hoping you might know what's going on."

Curious, Mac stood and followed the man toward the nose of the plane. In the first ten rows or so, passengers were clustered around their windows, pointing and talking. She leaned over a couple with a young child in the seat between them to peer outside. A strange warmth filled her at the sight of the Tomcat flying alongside them. His wingman was visible a little farther out. She glanced at the steward.

"They're F-14s, most likely from the U.S.S. Patrick Henry," she told him. "They're probably here to escort us to U.S. territorial waters."

"Do you know what happened?"

"Are we going to die?'

The second question came from a girl of about ten. She stood in the aisle, looking up at Mac with a pleading expression. Mac sighed softly.

"No, honey. We're not going to die."

"How do you know?"

"I don't. But I believe." She glanced once more at the fighters that paced them. A certain pilot had taught her that. She turned her attention to the steward. "If it's all right, I should probably talk to the captain—let the crew know what happened back here."

He nodded. "I'll ask."

#

In JAG Ops, heads turned toward the television mounted above the bullpen as the news anchor broke the story of a United Airlines 747 that had been struck by a missile over the Atlantic and was now struggling to make it to a landing strip. But it wasn't until the report went on to say that some witnesses reported seeing the missile coming from an American military vessel that someone went to turn the volume up.

A moment later, Admiral A.J. Chegwidden walked out of his office. Unnoticed for the moment, he looked over his staff, noting their expressions of concern and outright horror at the news now being reported.

Petty Officer Coates was first to see him. "Admiral, you don't think the Navy really shot down a civilian airliner, do you?"

A few paces away, Bud turned. "The Navy wouldn't do something that stupid, Jen. It could have been any kind of surface-to-air missile. It was probably terrorists. Nobody knows how to keep planes safe from some guy with a Stinger." He glanced at A.J. "Right, Admiral?"

A.J. rocked back on his heels. "It's a little early to be drawing any kind of conclusion, Lieutenant." He turned to his new yeoman. "Petty Officer, get me Commander Rabb on the Patrick Henry. He can very well do some JAG business while he's out there."

"Aye, sir." Jen hurried to obey.

Harriet walked over to stand beside her husband, her expression full of concern. "Sir, Colonel Mackenzie is flying back today. You don't think—"

A.J. felt his stomach bottom out at the thought. It was too much like that day last year when he'd heard the news about a JAG being injured in Afghanistan. He'd tried so hard to convince himself it wasn't Bud, even though in his heart he'd known all along it was.

"I'm sure she's fine, Lieutenant," he said a little more sharply than he intended.

Harriet sucked in her breath. "Yes, sir."

Turning, A.J. quickly retraced his steps to his office. Having Rabb out on the carrier already would give them a jumpstart on the investigation, and this one would need to move fast. He ran a hand across his head as his unease coalesced.

#

"No visible damage to the tail surfaces," Tuna reported as he rejoined Harm near the nose of the 747. "If they had enough engine power, they'd probably make it." His voice was as solemn as Harm had ever heard. Both men knew the aircraft was doomed. If the captain could ditch it in the ocean without the fuselage breaking up, some of the passengers would probably survive. The Coast Guard was already on alert and moving to have ships ready for a sea rescue operation.

Harm refused to let himself think about Mac. She would sacrifice her life to help save others—she was a Marine, after all—and the idea that he would never see her again was a constant ache in his gut. But if he let the knowledge into his brain, he wouldn't be able to fly.

He watched as his altimeter scrolled through fifty five hundred feet. Their sink rate was up to eighty feet per minute.

"We're staying with them to the end, Tuna," he informed his wingman.

"Goes without saying, Hammer." Tuna's tone lightened minutely. "It's too bad they don't have a tailhook. You could give them a push, like you did me."

"Pushing you nearly busted out our canopy, Tuna," Skates informed him from the backseat. "And that plane weighs, what, half a million pounds more than you do?"

Harm blinked as an incredible idea popped into his brain. "Tuna, take my place. I'm going to drop back to take a look at something."

Skates heard the telltale note in his voice. "What crazy idea are you cooking up, Harm?"

"Hang on." He maneuvered them out of position, dropping back until they trailed the 747 by about a hundred yards. The slipstream coming off the huge aircraft buffeted them. Harm ignored it as he studied the damaged wing.

He toggled his radio. "Captain Andropolous?"

"Call me Andy," came the captain's response. "What's on your mind, Commander?"

"How much thrust do those engines of yours produce?"

Interest sharpened the captain's voice. "They're rated at 60,000 pounds each, though I'm not getting full power from my one remaining. Why?"

Harm glanced at Skates in the rearview mirror. "Because I'm sitting on a couple of perfectly good 16,000 pound static thrust turbofans, courtesy of General Electric. If I lent you a shoulder to lean on, do you think you could make it to land?"

The captain was silent for a moment, then, "That might be enough to do it," he answered thoughtfully. "These are incredibly tough old birds Boeing makes. But, this isn't like giving your buddy's car a push—You can't exactly plant your nose in my tail feathers, Commander."

"No, sir," Harm agreed. "I was thinking of the conveniently vacated spot where your left outboard engine used to be."

Skates' voice came over the cockpit mike. "No offense, but are you out of your mind, Hammer? If we so much as bump their wing, we'll all go down."

Harm flashed a grim smile. "I wasn't thinking of bumping the wing so much as becoming part of it."

Captain Andropolous spoke before Skates had a chance to respond. "All right, Commander. It sounds crazy, but I'll be the first to admit we're desperate. Tell me what you're thinking."

[Commercial Break]

1623 EDT
U.S.S. Patrick Henry
Atlantic Ocean

"Are you out of your mind, Commander?" Captain Toby Ingles stared out the carrier's forward windscreen as if he could somehow bridge the distance to Rabb's aircraft with his eyes. The man's audacity was never-ending.

"No, sir," Rabb answered calmly. "I don't like it, either, but I can't think of anything else that might give these people a chance to survive."

Ingles looked around the bridge in consternation. Both the XO and the CAG were there.

"Just a minute, Commander," he said into the radio, then cut the connection. He turned to his officers.

"Do you think he can do it?" he asked the CAG.

Captain Pike shrugged. "I've learned never to say Rabb can't do anything, Captain. The man must have an entire legion of guardian angels looking out for him."

"XO?"

The XO was new this cruise, and hadn't dealt with Harm before. He shook his head. "It's suicide, Captain. The Navy is already responsible for shooting that airliner. How much worse is it going to be if one of our Tomcats collides with it and sends them both down in flames?"

Ingles glanced over at the CAG. Their gazes locked for a moment. Toby snorted. "You know, if it were any other pilot up there, I wouldn't even be considering this." He shook his head ruefully. "And we're the ones who sent him back to JAG." The last was said in an undertone.

"Captain," the petty officer manning communications broke in, "There's an Admiral Chegwidden on the line. He's looking for Commander Rabb. What should I tell him?"

Ingles flashed the young man an annoyed look. "Tell him the Commander is busy doing something foolhardy and will call him back later, provided he survives," he snapped.

The petty officer gaped at him for a moment. "Uh... yes, sir." He turned back to his equipment.

Pike bit back a grin. Ingles refused to look at him as he got back on the radio. "Commander?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you really believe you can do this?"

There was a pause, but then, Rabb wasn't the kind to give glib answers when it was important. "I won't deny the risk, sir. The only way this will work is if I can thoroughly ground our structure against the 747's. Otherwise, we won't translate our thrust to them. I think the best bet is to impale our forward structure on what's left of their engine pylon. There's just enough clearance for my wing to tuck in under theirs without clipping the inboard engine."

"How much clearance do you project?"

He heard Rabb draw a deep breath. "Less than a foot, probably, between our wingtip and the engine nacelle. But there should be about five feet between the bottom of their wing and the top of ours."

"That brings an entirely new definition to the term 'formation flying', Commander." Ingles was a fighter pilot, and he understood the skill required. What Rabb was proposing was worthy of an exhibition team.

"I believe I can do it, skipper."

"What does your RIO say?"

"I'm with the commander, sir," Skates responded promptly. "If Hammer says he can do it, then I believe him." She paused. "We have to try, Captain."

Ingles stared into the distance, debating. Finally, he shook his head. "I can't believe I'm going to let you two destroy another one of my birds."

The comment brought chuckles from both pilot and RIO. "We'll do our best not to let you down, sir," Rabb said.

Ingles caught the double meaning in his words and sighed. "Good luck to you both." He cut the connection. "And God help you."

#

"How are we doing, Skates?" Harm asked as he lined up behind his target. Two metal beams protruded from the remains of the engine pylon, the main structural supports that had held the engine in place. Thirty feet beyond his wingtip, the side of the 747's fuselage loomed like a metal wall.

"Closure rate is twelve knots. Looks good." Beth's voice was all business. Both aviators were treating the coupling as some kind of midair refueling exercise and had fallen back on those well-known protocols as the methodology for what they were trying to accomplish.

"Andy?" Harm asked the United Airlines pilot. He was sweating profusely as he concentrated on staying centered despite the buffet coming off the 747's wing.

"We're ready when you are, Commander. I've informed the passengers of the situation, and everyone should be belted in by now."

"Then just hold her steady and wait for the big thump."

The pilot uttered a strained laugh. "Will do."

"Distance, Skates?"

"Twenty feet... eighteen..."

This close, the 747's wing seemed immense—a hulking silver sheet large enough to park his Tomcat on.

"Fourteen feet... ten... You're drifting left—"

Swearing softly, Harm fought the F-14. The shadow from the airliner's wing fell across him. His world narrowed, his awareness tunneling until there was nothing left except the control stick in his hand, the nose of his aircraft, and the beam hanging off the airliner's wing.

"Four feet—"

They hit a patch of rough air and the Tomcat bucked. Harm swore loudly this time as the underside of the 747's wing loomed terrifyingly close over his head. Correcting, he dropped back a few feet and tried to realign.

"Skates?" To his relief, his voice remained steady.

"Closure rate zero," she reported. Harm could hear her breath trembling. "Distance... twelve feet."

Harm inched the throttles forward.

"Eight feet... a little fast... six... three..."

Harm flinched as the protruding beam speared their forward structure just behind the nose. Metal screamed and the two aviators were thrown against the restraints as their aircraft plowed into the much larger mass of the 747. Warning lights lit up the cockpit.

Immediately, the feel of the Tomcat changed. Harm struggled to adapt as the cues he'd spent a lifetime learning became worthless. The entire airframe began vibrating, a nasty side-to-side motion that he mentally likened to being a dog toy in a terrier's mouth. On the up side, however, they were well and truly attached. Harm didn't feel any rolling motion at all.

"Congratulations, Commander," he told Skates after a moment. "We've just become the world's first full-size airborne wind tunnel model."

She chuckled, but stayed focused on business. "Looks like you punched it straight through the forward pressure bulkhead, sir. The radome's trashed so radar and targeting are gone, but no major flight control malfunction." She blew out her breath in a sigh. "Looks like we're good."

Harm toggled his radio. "How are you guys doing over there?" he asked the 747's crew.

"Lovely little buss you gave us," the co-pilot answered, a jaunty note in his voice.

"We're in good shape," Captain Andropolous added. "So let's try adding some power and see if we can't kill this sink rate."

"Roger," Harm agreed. "Adding power." He gently pushed the throttles forward. As the engine noise swelled, Harm kept a careful eye on the 747 structure surrounding him. He felt like he was sitting in a cave. Only his airspeed indicator and the little slice of ocean he could see rushing beneath them showed how untrue that was.

"Nose coming up," Andropolous reported after a few seconds. Harm could hear the desperate hope underlying his words.

Harm watched the spinning dial on his altimeter slow. He no longer had much control over his aircraft, save the constant minor correction necessary to keep them from bumping into the wing above them. That took a lot of attention and a deft touch, but it wasn't exactly flying.

"A little more, Commander."

Harm advanced the throttles further. The altimeter needle continued to slow. It came to a standstill at just under three thousand feet and then began an excruciatingly slow climb.

Cheers erupted in both cockpits.

#

"The captain can talk to you now, ma'am."

Mac looked up into the face of the steward. She nodded as his words penetrated and rose to her feet. The gauze bandage on her hand had been taped into place, but all the flight attendants had been able to offer her for the pain was Tylenol. She'd taken eight—a fairly common prescription dose—but they hadn't had time to really kick in yet.

She followed the steward up the stairs to the airplane's second story cabin, through First Class, and up to the cockpit door. The steward knocked and then exchanged some words with the crew before the door was unlocked from the inside. It swung open, and Mac found herself face to face with the co-pilot, a handsome blond man of about fifty in a United Airlines uniform.

"You must be Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie."

Mac nodded. "Yes."

"Carl St. James." He pointed to himself. "And that there is the captain, whose name is far too big a mouthful to bother with. You can call him Andy."

"Come in, Colonel," Andy said without taking his eyes off his instruments. "There's an engineering seat behind me that you can use." He touched his headset. "Commander, we've been cleared into Andrews, but we're going to have to make a couple of turns to line up with the runway."

Harm! Mac's insides clenched in apprehension as the co-pilot showed her how to fold down the engineering seat bolted to the wall behind the captain's chair. She had suspected Harm was the pilot out there under their wing—it was a crazy stunt worthy of him—but now she had confirmation.

As soon as she was belted into the five-point harness, the co-pilot locked the cockpit door and returned to his seat.

Mac decided not to mince words with the two pilots. "There was a saboteur on board. He used some kind of acid to destroy one of the windows in the passenger cabin."

"The cabin depressurization." The two men exchanged an indecipherable look. The captain raised an eyebrow, looking thoughtful. "Was that to bring us down to an altitude where a shoulder-launched rocket could reach us?"

"It was a shoulder-launched rocket?" Mac asked.

The captain shrugged. "I'm guessing. The Navy confirmed we were hit by a missile, but beyond that we don't know anything."

"This is starting to sound like an organized attack." The co-pilot glanced back at Mac. "What happened to the saboteur? Has he said anything?"

Mac shook her head, her gaze straying to the many red and amber lights decorating the panels. "He's still unconscious. A couple of young men helped me subdue him. They were a little... enthusiastic."

The captain shook his head ruefully. "Well, I'm not going to complain. Passengers are our first line of defense."

Mac stared silently out the windscreen for a long moment. "What happens now?"

"We try to land." The captain's voice was carefully neutral.

"Thanks to those two brave Yanks in that fighter out there," the co-pilot added. He shook his head and sighed. "It's a bloomin' shame."

Mac felt a stirring of alarm. "What is?"

The pilot—Andy—glanced over his shoulder at her. "This goes no further than the cockpit, Colonel," he warned and she nodded. "Then here it is: The chance that our landing gear is undamaged is very small. If shrapnel has even so much as slashed a couple of tires, the added pressure on the others will cause them to burst and we're going to have metal digging into the tarmac. The gear struts can't take that—they'll collapse. There are any number of possible scenarios, but most likely we're going to end up dropping about a hundred and fifty thousand pounds of aircraft on top of our friends out there." His expression was painfully grim. "We'll crush them."

For a moment, Mac couldn't breathe. "Do they—do they know that?" she finally asked.

The co-pilot shrugged. "They haven't said anything. There's nothing to be done about it, though—if they try to disengage, we're all dead." He flashed her a hooded glance. "It's probably best if they don't know."

Mac glared at the co-pilot as the bottom dropped out of her world. "Commander Rabb wouldn't try to withdraw to save his own life!"

Her exclamation earned her a pair of startled looks. "You know him?"

Mac nodded. "We—work together."

Andy glanced at her collar. "It's been a while since I was in the service, but isn't that a JAG insignia?"

"It is. The commander is also a JAG, but he keeps his flight status current."

"Are you telling me that's a legal weenie out there propping up my wing?"

Mac's expression firmed. "No, Captain. That's a highly decorated naval aviator who also happens to have a law degree."

"Easy, Colonel." The pilot didn't smile but his expression conveyed a silent apology. "Your commander just pulled off a rather impressive piece of precision flying. I'm sold."

Your commander. Mac swallowed hard against a swell of regret. "How long until we land?"

"We'll begin our approach in about fifteen minutes." He paused. "You're welcome to stay until then."

Mac debated with herself for a long moment. "Could I... talk... to him?" she finally asked.

The co-pilot handed her a headset without comment, though the look he shared with the pilot was telling. Mac ignored it as she settled the headset on her head, then nodded when she was ready.

"You're on," Carl told her.

Mac instinctively gripped the microphone boom. "Harm?"

"Hey, Mac." He didn't sound the least bit surprised to hear her voice. "Fancy meeting you here." She noted the strain in his voice, a tension that spoke loudly of how difficult his flying task was. Usually when he flew, Harm sounded like he was having the time of his life.

She sighed theatrically in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I leave you alone for a couple of days and look at the trouble you get into." To her mortification, tears welled in her eyes. She stared at the ceiling as she fought to keep her voice steady.

Harm didn't give any sign he could sense her distress. She could imagine his smile as he answered, "Well, you know me. Skates swears she's never going to fly with me again."

Mac squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of pain. "She never said any such thing," she managed.

Skates' laughter echoed over the channel. "Busted, Hammer."

"Hi, Skates," Mac told her.

"Hello, ma'am. Nice to see you again."

"You keeping him in line?"

Mac could hear the smile in her voice. "Always, ma'am."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." She bit her lip. "Listen, Harm—"

"Hang on, Mac. Skates, I'm getting a master caution light here."

"I see it." Skates was back to business. "I'm not getting any other warnings, though. I think the flight computers are starting to freak out."

Harm chuckled. "Is that a technical assessment, Commander?"

"We're not exactly acting like a normal F-14 any more, sir." She sounded a tad defensive.

"No, we're not, and I'm sure the flight computers are highly disturbed at what the accelerometers are telling them." He still sounded amused.

"Harm—" Mac jumped in, acutely aware of the time that was rapidly slipping away.

"Yeah, Mac?"

"Listen, I just wanted to say—I mean—"

Her nervousness must have shown through. Harm immediately turned solicitous. "Hey. Relax, Marine. Everything's going to be all right."

"You don't know that."

"Sure I do."

"Harm—"

"Listen, Mac. Go sit down. This is all going to be over in about thirty minutes. We can talk then."

"Wait—"

"Mac—"

"I love you, Harm." Mac's breath caught in shock at the words that had just come out of her mouth.

Dead silence answered her. The hiss from the open communication line seemed inordinately loud.

"O.k. Mac... What's going on?" Harm asked a moment later. His voice was cautious, tinged with suspicion.

Mac looked down at her hands. "The pilots think their landing gear is damaged," she admitted in a small voice. "They don't think it will hold up when we land."

She got another lengthy silence, then, "Captain?" Harm asked.

"I'm afraid so, Commander." The captain's voice was grim.

Harm heaved a sigh. "All right. I guess we'll deal with that when the time comes." He paused. "Mac?"

"I'm still here."

His tone softened. "For whatever it's worth... I love you, too."

Mac closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

"Rabb, out."

Moistening her lips, Mac pulled the headset from her head and handed it back to the co-pilot. "Thank you," she told him quietly.

He nodded, his expression sympathetic.

[Commercial Break]

1748 EDT
Inbound to Andrews Air Force Base

Harm tried not to listen in as Beth talked with her husband. At his request, a call had been put through to the CNO's office from Patuxent River NAS and patched through to them. It was all he could offer her—a chance to say goodbye.

"I should have realized the landing gear would be a problem," he said after Skates ended the call.

She met his gaze in the rearview mirror. "Would that have changed anything?" Two moist trails tracked down her face but her gaze and voice were clear.

He turned his attention back to his flying. "No, probably not." But it was hard to admit to himself that he was going to be responsible for killing another RIO.

At least this time I won't have to live through it.

He didn't shake off the black thought until the aircraft controllers at Andrews Air Force Base gave them final clearance for landing on runway One-Right.

"Here we go."

#

"Here we go." Andy glanced at his co-pilot. The runway stretched ahead of them, a tiny black ribbon that promised safe haven if they could just make it that far. With the commander's help they had managed the dicey process of getting the landing gear and flaps extended on both aircraft (save for the 747's left wing, on which nothing was operable). Somewhere in the back of his mind, Andy was aware of just how amazing this flying feat was. He and Harm had meshed astoundingly well, and the fighter pilot's engineering knowledge, as well as his ability to think of himself an extension of someone else's aircraft, had probably been the most important factors in their success so far.

Andy swept the instruments with his gaze. Five hundred feet of altitude and descending. Less than fifteen seconds to weight-on-wheels. Ahead, he could see a cluster of emergency lights flashing off to one side of the runway. Come on, baby, he urged the 747. Just a little farther.

They settled down into the ground effect—that surreal, weightless-feeling moment just before touchdown. Saying a silent prayer, Andy triggered the spoilers, dumping the lift from the 747's wings and dropping the airplane the last couple of feet onto the runway. The main landing gear touched down with a jolt. Andy started to lower the aircraft's nose, but then everything turned to chaos. He heard the snap as much as felt it. The 747 spilled sideways, flopping onto its belly as the landing gear gave way. The nose crashed down onto the tarmac a moment later. Metal shrieked and groaned as it was ripped apart. The aircraft slowly began to rotate about some point well behind the cockpit. Andy held on, praying desperately that they wouldn't tumble as the world spun past his windscreen.

Six seconds that felt like six years later, they came to a rest. For a moment, all he could do was stare at his co-pilot, uncertain whether he should believe his senses.

Carl's ashen face broke into a grin. "We're down."

The knowledge slowly sank in. Andy realized that his arms and shoulders ached fiercely. He forced his fingers to unlock from the yoke as the first wave of relief crashed over him. Wordlessly, he clapped Carl on the shoulder.

His co-pilot nodded. "We did it."

#

Mac existed in a dull gray state. Shock, some corner of her mind labeled it. The airplane had come to a stop after a crazy, terrifying slide. Somehow she had gotten to her feet and, with the help of one of the other passengers, had managed to take both herself and the still-unconscious saboteur down the emergency slide. She vaguely remembered turning her prisoner over to Air Force security, and the odd realization that she'd lost a shoe in the landing. Now she made her way around the nose of the 747, limping in her uneven footwear and brushing off an Air Force medic's repeated attempts to examine her for injuries.

She stopped short, the fog in her brain dissipating at her first sight of the crumpled Tomcat lying beneath the 747's left wing. The fighter looked like a child's toy that had been run over by the family car. Emergency crews swarmed across the jumbled pile of metal in their shiny, flame-retardant suits.

Mac broke into a run.

As she neared the wreckage of the F-14, an Air Force captain caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to a stop.

"You can't go any closer, ma'am."

Mac stared past the captain, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. "Did anyone survive?"

"Ma'am, I don't know."

"I have to get over there—" Frantic, Mac tried to pull away from him. "You have to let me go—"

"I can't do that, ma'am."

The simple statement, firm yet sympathetic, devastated her. Harm was only a few dozen yards away, most likely dead inside the twisted remains of the Tomcat he loved so much. A sob escaped her, quickly choked back.

"This way, ma'am. You can wait over here." The captain kept a hand around her arm as he steered her toward a nearby cluster of ambulances. Mac allowed herself to be handed off into the care of a couple of civilian EMTs. She sat on the bumper of one ambulance while the paramedic examined her injured hand, but other than obeying his occasional requests, she ignored him.

Around the wreck, emergency workers backed off to allow others, armed with blowtorches, metal saws and a good-sized crane, to move forward. They began cutting up and removing the 747's wing.

Eventually, someone brought Mac a cup of scalded coffee. She accepted it, briefly surprised that the one offering it was a man dressed in a suit rather than one of the many uniformed and rescue personnel milling about the area.

"Colonel Mackenzie?"

Mac nodded dully.

"Hi, my name is Donovan Mills. I'm with the NTSB. Captain Andropolous told me you have information about what happened aboard the plane." He paused, perhaps realizing that Mac's gaze had gone past him to the continuing activity around the fighter. He pressed on. "Would now be a good time to ask you some questions?"

Mac forced herself to focus on Mills. "Sure," she agreed tonelessly. No matter what she learned about Harm's fate, she would still have to debrief. It might be best to get it over with before she had to deal with the rest.

"Do you mind if I sit?"

Mac shook her head. Mills settled beside her on the ambulance's bumper and flipped open the PDA he was carrying. The action sparked her memory.

"The man who destroyed the window had a PDA—the same type as yours," she told Mills. "I saw him using it during the flight." She glanced over at the agent as he made a note. "I don't know if it will have any important information in it, but it might. He didn't expect to survive this."

Mills nodded. "We'll make sure we find it. Now, what first made you suspect something was wrong?" His voice took on the businesslike cast of a professional interviewer.

Mac recounted the events that had taken place in the passenger cabin and their timing, as marked by her internal clock. She had just finished when a shout went up from the crew working on the wing. She looked up as a huge wing section was levered off the wrecked Tomcat, swaying as the crane swung it aside. The section crashed to the tarmac a short ways away with a reverberating clang. Mac flinched at the sound, but couldn't tear her eyes away from the uncovered aircraft. The canopy was shattered, the cockpit partially collapsed, but she could clearly see two flight helmets in the midst of it all.

"Harm..." She came to her feet, her breath locked in her chest.

Rescue workers clambered up the side of the aircraft. Then, amazingly, Harm's distant figure reached up and pulled off its helmet, handing it to the nearest worker. A moment later, Skates did the same.

Mac's breath whooshed out of her as cheering broke out among the rescuers. She sank back onto her perch, her knees weak. They were alive. Her eyes drank in the sight of Harm gesturing from his seat as he talked with the paramedic beside him. Over the general hubbub, she caught the distant rise and fall of his voice, and then the distinctive sound of his laughter. She smiled in sweet relief.

Rising, she bid Donovan Mills an absent farewell and made her way toward the nearest uniformed figure. The Air Force sergeant looked her over in a mixture of curiosity and concern as he saluted.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

Mac nodded. Beyond him, Harm was being lifted from the Tomcat's remains. She watched as they set him on his feet, the last of her fears evaporating. Harm spent a few moments stretching out the kinks, his attention riveted to the wreckage as Skates was similarly pulled from the cockpit.

"Sergeant, what hospital will they take that air crew to?" She nodded toward Harm and Skates.

The sergeant glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. "Bethesda, I'd guess. Can you believe that, ma'am?" He seemed as awed as the rest at the sight of the two aviators alive and undamaged.

Mac smiled slowly, thinking of the last words Harm had spoken to her. "Right now, I'm ready to believe just about anything, sergeant."

He grinned amiably. "Yes, ma'am."

#

Mac spent an hour retrieving her purse from the downed 747—eventually calling on both her rank and her tenuous friendship with the flight crew to convince one of the investigators to release her wallet and ID to her. After procuring a car, she made her way to Bethesda where the two aviators had been taken to be checked out. A round of argument with the desk staff later, she was shown into a nondescript procedure room.

Harm sat on the exam table, his hospital gown hanging off one shoulder as a doctor carefully stitched up a gash across his shoulder blade. To her surprise, Admiral Chegwidden stood off to one side, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched.

Mac paused in the doorway as all three occupants of the room turned to look at her.

"Colonel," the Admiral greeted her. "Come in. I'm sure you want to verify for yourself that the commander is alive and well."

Mac nodded, her gaze straying back to her partner. He flashed her a tired smile. "Hey, Mac."

"Hi," she returned awkwardly, drifting into the room to stand next to the Admiral. What she could see of Harm's chest was mottled with bruises. An iodine smear on his arm showed where another small gash had been stitched up, and a scrape on his cheek had already scabbed over.

"You look pretty good for a guy who just got run over by a 747," she observed.

He grinned. "Thanks. I'm sure I'll be so stiff I can hardly move tomorrow, but in a few days I should be fine."

Mac could only shake her head. "How's Skates?"

"She's in X-ray. Broke a couple of fingers on her right hand." He straightened as the doctor tied off the last of the stitches. "Other than that, she's o.k." Only Mac, perhaps, knew him well enough to read the keen relief hidden behind his words.

"There, Commander." The doctor stood, setting his instruments aside. "You should be all set." He walked around the table as Harm slipped the other sleeve of the gown on. He winced at the motion, and Mac stepped in quickly to do the ties, earning a brief nod of thanks.

The doctor picked up his clipboard. "We'll keep you here overnight for observation. I haven't seen any signs of internal injury, but I don't want to take chances."

Harm nodded acquiescence, which gave Mac an idea of just how tired and sore he was.

"Good. I'll send someone in a few minutes to help you get settled in your room."

"Thanks, Doc," Harm told him.

The doctor chuckled. "Don't thank me, Commander. Thank whatever higher power was watching over you today." And with that, he left.

The three JAG officers looked at each other. Chegwidden was first to break the silence. "Colonel, what happened to your hand?"

Mac glanced down at the bandage. The pain had been reduced to a dull throbbing, which she'd pretty much forgotten about until the Admiral reminded her of it.

"Acid burn, sir."

He raised both eyebrows as Harm turned to stare.

"It's a long story," she told them both. She focused on her commanding officer. Now that she was certain Harm would be all right, other questions were crowding to the front of her mind. "Sir, do you know who tried to shoot us down?"

To her surprise, Harm and the Admiral exchanged troubled glances.

"The missiles came from the U.S.S. Vella Gulf," Harm said quietly.

Mac blinked as she absorbed his words. "Wait a minute—The Navy? One of our ships tried to shoot down a commercial airliner?"

Chegwidden crossed his arms. "Unfortunately, yes. And the sooner we find out why, the better for all concerned." He turned to Harm. "Get better fast, Commander. I suspect your expertise will be needed on this one."

Harm nodded solemnly. "Aye, sir."

To Be Continued...

[Cue credits]

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