Title: “Full Circle”

Author: AeroGirl

Rating: PG

Classification: JAG Story, Romance (H/M)

Spoilers: All

Summary: Written for the 2005 Virtual Season. As Harm prepares to end a 30-year Navy career, one last case draws his attention, and ties everything together.

Disclaimer: Once more, for good measure – characters belong to Bellisarius Productions.

Author’s Notes: Listen up; this is important. I want to make it abundantly clear that the chain of events described herein is NOT an actual mishap causal factor. I swiped details from a number of different places, most of them unrelated to the F/A-18, and crammed them all together. So please don’t go thinking that something like this can make a Hornet fall out of the sky. It can’t. That’s why they pay us engineers.

Additional ANs, Well, gang, this is it. It’s been an incredible five years. If you asked me, I’d do it all again tomorrow.

Full Circle

April 11, 2015

1427 EDT

USS Seahawk

Virginia Capes Operating Area

Aviation Mate Second Class Michael Ruglio paused under the wing of the waiting aircraft to adjust his helmet. Damn brain bucket made him sweat like crazy in this kind of sun. When the helmet was sitting more comfortably – not comfortable, mind you, but closer to it – he stepped up to the landing gear and inspected the aircraft handlers’ work.

The 22-year-old catapult supervisor was counting the minutes until the end of his duty shift. He’d promised Lisa that he’d call tonight; it was her birthday, and until a couple of weeks ago she’d been expecting him to actually be home for it this year. But they’d stepped up the exercise schedule, and so he was at sea for two weeks. They were only fifty miles off the Virginia coast, but it might as well have been the other side of the earth for all the good it did him today.

Four more birds to launch, and he’d be done. Mike confirmed that the nose gear of this F/A-18E Super Hornet was secured to the ‘cat’ shuttle, then stepped back to the safe area and signaled ‘go.’ The pilot snapped off a return salute, and the catapult sent his aircraft rocketing down the deck and into the air.

Mike knew plenty of guys who didn’t bother to watch the jets once they were off the deck and officially someone else’s problem. He wasn’t one of them. He’d picked this line of work for a reason; he still had a soft spot for anything that flew. Before the next Hornet could maneuver into position, he had maybe twenty seconds to watch his last customer depart the area.

So he had a front-row seat to observe as the Super Hornet briefly dipped below deck level before establishing a positive rate of climb … then staggered, rolled to wings-vertical, and sank out of sight altogether.

A hundred thoughts raced through Mike’s head, all coalescing into one primary mantra: “Oh, crap.”

Opening credits … in which Harm is wearing a black T-shirt, for no other reason than because that’s what I want to see.

Monday

June 8, 2015

0908 EDT

JAG Headquarters

Falls Church, VA

He stared at the craft, power and grace intertwined in its unassuming lines, with a distinct sense of awe. He’d seen it a hundred times, watched it take off and land a hundred times more from the small county airport near his home. Today, he would finally get his chance.

Joe, the local flight instructor, noticed him standing very still, and grinned. “Not gonna back out on me, are you?”

His head whipped around. “Are you kidding?”

“Didn’t think so. C’mon. She’s preflighted and ready to go. Next time I’ll show you how to do that part yourself, but for now, let’s go fly.”

Let’s go fly. If those three words weren’t the very definition of freedom, he didn’t know what was.

He climbed into the left seat and strapped himself in, Joe settling in beside him. The older man talked him through the startup procedures and let him try taxiing to the end of the runway, gently correcting him when the foot-pedal steering got away from him. He waved at his mom, observing with a brave, false smile from the tower building.

And suddenly they were lined up on the runway centerline, and Joe was pushing the throttle in, and from that point on, he knew only the sensation of air under his wings and the pull of the sky.

The buzz of the intercom drew Rear Admiral Harmon Rabb, Jr., out of the memory, and he smiled wistfully at the photos on his desk. Mac had framed a smaller version of the Tico picture, of him and his father, in a double frame with a picture of him and Ben sitting on Sarah’s wing. The picture was only a year old, and already Ben had changed so much. Time flies, or so the saying went – and wasn’t that an appropriate turn of phrase?

He reached over to toggle the intercom. “Yes, Gardner?”

“Sir, just a reminder of your conference call with General Harris at 0930,” his yeoman responded. “I had to move it up a half-hour to accommodate your 1100 lunch meeting at the Pentagon.”

“Ah, one last visit to the five-sided fun factory. Thank you, Petty Officer.”

There was a smile in Gardner’s voice. “Yes, sir.”

Harm leaned back in his chair and surveyed his office, trying to decide how he felt about the increasingly bare walls and growing stack of boxes in the corner. One more week. After thirty years in uniformed service, he had five days left. Time flies, all right. He’d been fifteen when he took that first flight he recalled so romantically – and thirty-six years had passed since that day. At that time he’d known nothing of the future beyond three simple facts: he wanted to fly; he wanted to serve in the Navy; and he wanted – no, needed – to find his father.

Now, retiring as a two-star admiral and the Judge Advocate General, with his fini flight scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, summing up his thoughts in a compact package was proving difficult. There was only one clear conclusion he’d found out of the whole tangled mess: Dad, I hope to God you can see me now.

The intercom buzzed again, and he lifted an eyebrow as he tapped the button. “Emma, if you’re thinking about trying to get all your interruptions in now so you can take off early or something, think again.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that a message came into your public email box that I think you might be interested in.”

Petty Officer Emma Gardner was a good aide, and she’d learned his command style early on. She often knew what his next order would be before he did, so if she thought he’d want to see this, she was probably right. “Come on in.”

The young woman stepped into his office and deposited a file folder on his desk before coming to attention. It was another facet of his style she’d learned early: he was more likely to fully read something if it were printed out in front of him and not on a computer screen. Harm waved a hand as he picked up the folder. “At ease. What have we got here?”

“Sir, a lieutenant from VF-602 out of NAS Oceana has requested your attention to his case.”

That was unusual. “This office does have oversight over all Navy cases, but the Atlantic Fleet has primary authority for Oceana.”

“No, sir – not Headquarters. He means you. Personally.”

That made him glance up. Like those of all officers, his email address was publicly available, but like most flag officers, he had his email filters set so that unsolicited mail went through his yeoman first. Receiving messages from unknown members of the fleet was rare but not unheard of. Such messages getting past Gardner was unheard of.

“And this lieutenant’s case merits special priority, in your opinion?”

Gardner’s resolve flickered for an instant, but she held her ground. “Admiral, I can’t accurately comment on his case, but his letter … it’s eloquent, respectful, and pretty impassioned. I know you have a limited amount of time in the office, sir, and if you decide that this is a waste of it, I sincerely apologize. I just thought …”

She was starting to fumble for words, which was out of character for her. Harm decided to throw her a line. “Gut instinct?” he suggested.

Gardner nodded, the dark blond bun at the nape of her neck bouncing in syncopated rhythm. “Yes, sir.”

For the dozenth time, Harm tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was even younger than Mattie. “Don’t ever lose that, Emma,” he said quietly.

She blinked, and a hint of a pleased smile crept into her eyes. “No, sir.”

“Thank you, Petty Officer. Dismissed.”

He opened the folder as she departed and scanned the printed message inside.

> Sir,

> I apologize in advance for stepping outside my reporting chain and taking up your time. I have done so because Norfolk NLSO has not responded to my inquiries, and because I have hope that you, as a fellow aviator, will see something familiar in my situation.

> Until a few weeks ago, I was an F/A-18 driver with VF-602, getting ready to deploy on the Seahawk to support Operation Enduring Freedom. While practicing high-tempo carrier operations, I was involved in a Class A launch mishap, which destroyed my aircraft and triggered an accident investigation board.

> My cockpit indicators were all within normal ranges at the time I pushed power to launch. However, immediately after departing the deck, the jet experienced a flight control malfunction which caused a 90-degree bank angle and resulting loss of lift. I initiated the ejection sequence just prior to hitting the water, but the horizontal trajectory and low altitude prevented my chute from opening fully. I have since been released from Portsmouth Medical, but have been reclassified as non-flight status due to the spinal injuries I received.

> I recognize that my back won’t let me fly again, sir, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t tear me up. But that isn’t my reason for writing. The accident investigation board had very little physical evidence to review because the Navy wasn’t able to recover all of my aircraft from the ocean. Even so, the board concluded that the cause of the mishap was pilot error. However, they did not recommend any disciplinary action against me, which may be why I have not been successful in getting the NLSO’s attention.

> Sir, there is very little in this world that I know to be an absolute truth, but this much I do know: I did not crash that jet.

> I’m sure you must see all kinds of blame-gamers from where you sit, but I would stake my commission on this. I love the Navy, and I will serve with pride wherever my new road takes me. I’m not asking this because I feel I’m being persecuted or because I can’t handle the black mark in my file. I’m asking because, yes, I want to be able to hold my head up high, but also because whatever mechanical problem occurred in my jet may happen in others. The next pilot may not be lucky enough to escape with a bad back and a revoked flight status, and if the worst were to happen, the knowledge that it could have been prevented would be too much to handle.

>Sir, I understand that your time is valuable, and I apologize if I’ve wasted it. I simply don’t know where else I can go at this point, having approached both the fleet JAGs and my own command with no results. I’ve heard so many instances of you going all-out to ensure that the truth comes to light, and I know you’d feel as sick as I would at the prospect of a fellow aviator paying the price for an incomplete investigation.

> Thank you again for your time.

> Very respectfully,

> LT Ryan Marshall

Harm stared at the letter for long minutes after he’d finished reading it. He could already hear all the reasons why he should put this aside and let the accident boards and fleet JAGs do their jobs. He’d certainly seen plenty of cases where the responsible parties were absolutely convinced of their own blamelessness right up until the moment they were proven wrong. And this wouldn’t set a good precedent for following the chain of command.

Still … what harm could it do to just look at the issue? His job didn’t come without a few perks, after all. And whatever precedent he might set would only have a week to run, anyway.

He tapped the intercom. “Gardner, get a hold of the Safety Office and have them send the mishap report from the April Class A on the Seahawk. Also, call the Norfolk NLSO and get their investigator’s report.”

“Already working on it, Admiral,” came the prompt response.

Harm shook his head; she definitely knew him way too well. “God help us all if you ever choose to use your psychic powers for evil rather than good, Petty Officer.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a grin, he turned his attention to the calendar alert on his computer screen, helpfully supplying him with the phone number for his 0930 conference call.

Commercial break …

Based on the surprise summer hit, “Dancing With the Stars,” here comes “Dancing With the JAGs!” We know Webb knows how to waltz, but can Bud keep from tripping over his own two feet? Can Harm overcome that stilted form he displayed at the NATO ball? It’s everything you love about JAG (or maybe not) – but with sequins! Airing live right after the NHL playoffs on ABC.

Part 2