| Subject: The Present Moment - Repost (12/16) |
Author:
mary48184
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Date Posted: 06:32:04 04/25/08 Fri
Chapter 12
Wednesday
April 30, 2002
0008 ZULU (1908 local)
North of Union Station
Washington, D.C
It’s amazing how quickly time flies when you’re preoccupied with other things. This morning, I admit to having been caught totally unawares when Admiral Chegwidden first came into the conference room and announced that the president had convened the first military tribunal in almost fifty years.
I hadn’t totally forgotten about Mustafah Atef, of course – after all, it was just over a month ago when Bud had mentioned military tribunals at his going-away party – but somehow I simply hadn’t expected it to come quite so soon on the heels of Bud’s deployment. Things played out just as I remembered. The admiral, hesitating to order one of his senior staff to defend the terrorist at the tribunal, gave each of us the opportunity to volunteer for the role before eventually deciding to do the job himself. Harm and I were ultimately assigned prosecutorial duties while Sturgis offered to sit second chair to the admiral as Atef’s defense counsel.
The only thing I didn’t remember from my previous life was Singer’s little tête-à-tête with Sturgis about sitting second chair to the admiral. That woman always had an angle. Still, no one deserves to be murdered in cold-blood and left for dead in the frosty weather of February in Washington. I actually did try warning her, when the admiral recently assigned me to sit second chair to her first (what a nightmare that turned out to be, even the second time around!). During one of our late-evening “strategizing” sessions – Singer would present her line of attack, I’d disagree, and she’d go with her idea anyway – I casually cautioned her against pursuing any kind of relationship with Commander Lindsey.
“Lindsey who?” was her response, accompanied by her characteristically smarmy arch-eyebrowed ‘I’m-faking-innocence-but-know-exactly-what-you’re-talking-about’ expression.
Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but it’s no wonder she met such an unseemly end.
My mind and thoughts abruptly return to the moment at hand: the tribunal. As before, after morning staff call Harm and I agreed to meet tonight to strategize over dinner and then carpool out to Andrews AFB for our transport to the USS Seahawk, where the tribunal is to be convened. I’d suggested carryout at my place, but he’d suggested instead that I come to his place so that he could cook. Why he would want to cook when we have to turn right around and leave is beyond me, but I agreed since Harm is a better cook than the chef at the Italian joint near my apartment, in spite of all his protests. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed spending time alone with Harm at his place; knowing in advance that he’s going to be serving up his famous grilled salmon is just a bonus.
True to form, he’s been playing the part of the gentleman since I walked in the door tonight: taking my bags, hanging up my coat, filling up my plate with a delicious looking salad and the salmon steak, which I’m pleased to see is done to perfection. One thing I can’t get over, though, is how much effort he’d put into this dinner, both in my previous life as well as this one. Now, as we sit down at the table, part of me is questioning once again why he would go to the trouble of lighting candles, keeping fresh flowers on the table and playing romantic music in the background when we’re supposed to be ‘working’. But the other part of me, the feminine part that relishes the opportunities we get to spend together as a couple, is enjoying his efforts tremendously. I can’t believe that I’d paid so little attention to the implications the first time around! Was I really so engrossed by the prospects of the tribunal that I’d missed all the obvious romantic overtures? At least this time there’s no question about how he feels, thank goodness; I can sit back and enjoy the rosy candlelight with pleasure.
For a few moments we go back and forth, like we did before, discussing the tactics that the admiral and Sturgis are likely to pursue. Every now and again I find myself startled by how almost everything Harm and I have talked about, every bit of dialogue, spills out nearly exactly the same as it did when we last had this discussion years ago. It’s all the same, right down to Harm being Harm and disagreeing with me. I think it’s in his genetic programming… not that I would have it any other way. It keeps me on my toes.
“Harm, there hasn’t been a military tribunal convened since World War II,” I point out, reaching for my fork as we sit down to dinner. “The tricky part about having one in this day and age is that no one’s ever determined whether the United States has the authority to put foreign nationals on trial for terrorist activities. Do we have the jurisdiction to try a man who was captured by US forces well outside of our country’s borders? That’s got to be their opening salvo.”
“The admiral’s not going to tell the judges that they’ve come all that way for nothing,” Harm counters as he unfolds his napkin. “He’d lose, and he knows it.”
“I think we should prepare for the possibility anyway.”
“Mac, there’s no way the admiral would use that argument as grounds for dismissal. I’m going to pass on the jurisdictional line of attack,” he persists. “My responsibility.”
You’re going to pass on… I can’t help but chuckle at his audacity… and the fact that this is turning into a giant case of déjà vu. “Um, excuse me, but… who made you first chair?”
His eyes widen ever so slightly as he realizes that I’m disputing his authority. What’s more, he knows I’ve got a point because he comes back with an argument that sounds exceedingly adolescent coming from a highly renowned naval litigator: “The admiral mentioned my name first.”
It doesn’t escape my attention that he’s gesturing to himself with a fully loaded fork. I wonder if he knows how close he is to either wearing his dinner or dropping that forkful of salad down the vee of his polo shirt.
“So?” I challenge with a flirtatious grin, enjoying seeing him squirm. If anything, I’m enjoying myself even more than I did in my previous life.
He looks at me for a long moment, as though contemplating the alternatives, before giving a little shrug. “All right, all right. I tell you what. We’ll flip for it,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans.
“Okay.” This whole flip-a-coin idea has definite possibilities, I think.
“You call it.”
A second later Harm flips the quarter into the air, both of us watching expectantly as it spins upwards in the darkness, hanging for a moment above our heads. Then, as it begins its downward fall, I make my choice. Last time we did this toss I chose heads – and lost – so this time I’m going to go with…
“Tails.” After all, there has to be some advantage to knowing the future. I can’t believe the outcome of the trial will be any different if I’m sitting first chair instead of Harm, but maybe this way I can at least save Bud the embarrassment of agreeing I should be the one to go interrogate the prisoners in-country. Harm really did give him such a hard time over that… well, according to what Jennifer eventually told me after the fact.
The coin lands on the floor between us, hitting the wood planks with a barely audible thump. Almost immediately we’re both kneeling down to see the results of the toss. And once again we both choose to ignore one of the most elementary laws of physics until it’s too late – two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time – because the next thing I know, I feel a sharp bonk where our heads collide. If we ever do this again, I’m going to have to find a way to get close without us crashing into one another.
“Oww.” I wince, lifting a hand to my temple. Beside me, I briefly see Harm doing the same.
“I’m sorry.” His face fills my vision as his hand moves to my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Ah, yeah, but…” Dropping my eyes to the coin, I can’t help but feel a surge of surprise and disappointment at seeing George Washington instead of a bald eagle. “…I’m second chair.” Damn.
That earns me a good-natured grin. “Ha ha. I’ll be gentle.”
“Don’t be gentle, be good.” After all, heaven forbid if we should lose and a known Al Qaeda leader walks away scot-free….
Then the secondary meaning of what I’ve just said hits home. Again. And apparently Harm heard it as well, because his gaze darkens ever so slightly as it drops briefly to my lips.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, voice lowering into that oh-so-sexy drawl. “I’m always good.”
Luckily for me, I know that’s not just his naval aviator ego talking… since crossing the line between friends and lovers, I’ve gotten a lot of firsthand experience in learning just how good he truly is. Considering how much time we’ve been spending together (outside of the bedroom notwithstanding, of course), it’s a wonder that I’m not pregnant yet. Despite our enthusiasm and simultaneous lack of birth control, however, every month I still seem to get my period right on schedule. Sometimes I still find myself worrying about my chances of conceiving, whether that eighty to eighty-five percent threshold Dr Marge gave me in November has already started to fall. But then I shove my fears under the rug and tell myself that it just gives us more incentive to practice…
Speaking of ‘practicing,’ there’s no reason why we have to rush through dinner, especially since we don’t have to be at Andrews for another three hours. It’s always fun to get him a little riled up. Besides, if memory serves, the transport is going to be running behind schedule anyway. And weren’t we aboard the Seahawk for nearly a week the last time around? Might as well take advantage of this opportunity while I can…
I flash a saucy smile.
“Oh, really?” Arching one eyebrow, I lean forward slightly, all the while maintaining direct eye contact. The reflection of flickering candlelight in his gaze is deliciously sensual, causing tiny sparks to ignite within me. My own voice drops. “Are you sure about that, Commander?”
“Are you questioning my abilities, Colonel?” One corner of that beautiful mouth turns up at the entendre.
It takes every ounce of my willpower fight off the urge to close the distance and kiss that smirk off his face.
“Not in so many words,” I murmur cheekily.
He moves a little closer, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his breath on my face. There’s a passionate fire in his eyes now that doesn’t have anything to do with the candles on the table. “So you are questioning my… abilities.”
“I wouldn’t go right to questioning them.”
The coin between us momentarily forgotten, his gaze stays locked on mine as he slides his hand down my right arm to my wrist, lifting my hand to his lips. “Oh yeah?” he whispers softly against the skin of my palm. A shiver works its way up my arm, goosebumps rising at the feel of his lips as they move to the underside of my wrist. “Then what would you say?”
“I…”
My reply trails off as his mouth moves lightly along my arm, lingering delicately in the crook of my elbow. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few months, it’s that his ministrations have an uncanny way of robbing me of my ability to form a coherent thought. Unfortunately, Harm knows this as well as I do.
“Yeah,” he murmurs as he reaches the hem of my sleeve, his other hand snaking stealthily around my waist. “That’s what I thought.”
With an internal shake, it’s with an embarrassing amount of difficulty that I order my mind to focus. “I wasn’t questioning them,” I rasp out, trying to keep a semblance of control while Harm’s lips move upwards and start going to work on my right ear lobe. Oh boy, and I thought his tongue on the inside of my arm felt good…
It takes a lot of willpower, but I force my eyes back open and my gaze upwards. Maybe if I concentrate on the wooden beams crossing the ceiling, I can keep myself from going down in the textbooks as the first human case of spontaneous combustion.
What was I saying?
Oh, yeah… “I was merely wondering if you shouldn’t make sure your… skills… are up to par before you’re entrusted with such a weighty responsibility.” I smile impishly. With my eyes trained upwards, my hands reach out blindly for his shoulders in an effort to stay upright.
He chuckles, a throaty rumble against the side of my neck. “I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you.”
Who said anything about being worried?
tbc
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