A Hard and Bitter Peace


~~~~~ 
0930 local time 
JAG Headquarters 

I don't even remember how I got here.

It's so ... odd. One minute, I was aboard the Seahawk, feeling flushed
and nearly liquid at the sight of Harmon Rabb standing not two feet
away from me, stripped down to his shorts; the next minute, I was
standing outside this door, steeling myself to the knowledge that that
one fleeting moment was all I'll ever have of him. 

I don't know how I got here, because I can't believe I actually
gathered the strength to walk away from him. 

"You better get going unless you want to join me in the shower," he'd
said.

It was a joke, but I was so damn close to calling his bluff. My hands
were almost aching with the need to touch him, to complete that touch
that had failed so miserably just a moment before when -- by accident
or design --he'd moved away from me just before my hand reached his
shoulder.

"Unless you want to join me in the shower ... "

That was the problem. I did want to. I wanted to be naked in his arms,
crushed against him in that tiny little shower stall, my back to the
bulkhead as he lifted me off my feet, the water and the soap easing
our way, letting me slide against him, down and down until he filled
me completely ... 

It was not to be. We were aboard an aircraft carrier, and when Harm
steps aboard a carrier, he becomes a different person, less the JAG
lawyer and more the aviator he once was -- strong, confident, even a
little cocky, making his way easily through the world of Tomcats and
Tomahawks and tailhooks. He knows how little margin for error there is
in the blue-water Navy and he does not bend or break the rules of that
world if he has a choice.

One of those rules, of course, is that when you're aboard ship, your
soul belongs to God but your ass belongs to the Navy. Said ass, being
Navy property, is unauthorized for use by one's shipmates. 

Even if there had been no other reason for Harm to keep his hands off
me, that one would have been enough.

No, it was just another one of his jokes, designed to break the
tension he'd created when he told me that he was a suspect in two
murders. I knew it by the way he was smiling; it was so painfully
normal, the perfect picture of his usual killer smile.

Oh, God. Poor choice of words. I didn't mean it that way. I've only
known Harm for a year, but I know he didn't kill Lt. Schonke or Lt.
Lamb. He's not capable of killing. 

Belay that: Of course he's capable of killing -- in combat, when it's
his duty to do so. He's a naval aviator, and that's part of his job.
But he wouldn't kill Diane, because he loved her, and he wouldn't kill
Lamb even if he believed Lamb had killed her. He'd hit him, all right,
but he wouldn't kill him.

He's not that kind of man.

He's a man of honor.

I guess I don't have his kind of honor. That's why I'm standing
outside Commander Krennick's door, remembering the last time I stood
here waiting to be admitted. It was about two weeks ago; I was waiting
because she was on the phone with someone.

A close friend, I'm sure.

And as I waited there, I heard what she said.

I had dismissed it as pure hyperbole, just a figure of speech -- but
when I looked at Harm this morning, when I realized how serious was
the threat he was facing, I knew, beyond all doubt, that she had been
completely serious.

Deadly serious.

I'd never known before what people meant when they talked about
breaking into a cold sweat.

I do now. 

~~~~~

I knocked on the door. Almost instantly, I heard that oh-so-smoky,
sultry voice, telling me to come in.

I walked in and immediately snapped to attention, my eyes fixed on the
view through Krennick's window. I said nothing. Neither did she; not
at first.

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard her chair creak. "At ease,
Lieutenant Austin," she said, as though it bored her to give so simple
an order.

I put my hands behind my back, moved my right foot into the precise
spot called for in that position. One great thing about Navy life: You
can do these things without thinking. For me, it became automatic
about two weeks into Officer Candidate School. Simple. Easy. Hear the
order, follow the order, move to the position, wait -- usually in
silence -- for the next order to be given.

It sounds awful to civilians, I guess, but to me, it often comes as a
blessed release from the necessity of thinking about such annoying
matters as what to do with your arms or your hands or your hat. When
you're nervous, it's good to have your mind free to deal with what's
really important -- such as what I would have to say to her when I
finally opened my mouth.

Technically, of course, one doesn't speak while "at ease." But this
wasn't a parade ground. Krennick knew why I was there, and she was
waiting for me to say what she knew I would.

I knew I would say it, too, because there was really no choice -- but I
wanted to live just a few minutes more in the world as it was, not as
it would be when the conversation was over. So instead of asking her
permission to speak, I just stood there, watching her scribble away on
a yellow legal pad as though she were working on some critically
important legal brief or another.

Brief, my ass. She was probably writing out a list of aphrodisiacs to
buy for Harm when he was released from the brig and restricted to
quarters.

Finally, she stopped scratching with her pen and looked up at me, and
her eyes were dark and narrow. I could see how she was savoring her
nasty little victory. 

"Can I help you with something, lieutenant, or are you content just to
watch me work?" she said, casually.

"Permission to speak freely, ma'am?" I said.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing toward a leather side chair.

"Thank you, ma'am, I'd prefer to remain standing," I said, not
shifting my position by a micrometer.

She watched me for a minute. "That wasn't a suggestion, lieutenant,"
she said, her voice growing just a little colder.

I could see that she was annoyed at having to make it an order. Good.
That put the ball back in my court. I would obey her orders, but I
would not yield one inch unless ordered. She was a good enough lawyer
to know that gave me a psychological advantage; she was also a vicious
enough schemer not to care, because she had me right by the short
hairs, and she knew it. She could afford to give a little ground in
this exercise.

"Aye, ma'am," I said, and I sat, much the way I was taught to sit in
OCS -- very nearly at a seated position of attention. I was not there
to fold at the first insult.

I sat, and I said nothing.

She was annoyed, but she still didn't blink.

"Unless you have something to say to me, lieutenant, I'd prefer you
returned to your duty station," Krennick said. God, how many of those
stinking Marlboros does she smoke in a day? Her voice comes out like
her throat's been sandpapered. 

I know why I was focusing on those details. I still didn't want to say
the words.

But I had to. I'd raised the stakes and she'd called. Time to show my
hand. 

"I wanted to talk to you about Commander Rabb, ma'am," I said, looking
her in the eye for the first time since I entered the room.

"Commander Rabb is not your concern," she said, pushing her chair
back, looping one arm casually over the back as she stared at me.

"He's my partner, ma'am," I said. "That makes him my concern."

"Really?" she said, smoothly. "I thought perhaps it was more than that
... or do I not remember your acknowledging a certain ... interest ..
in Commander Rabb during the time he was held prisoner in China?"

"You asked me if I'd thought about it, ma'am," I said, doing all I
could to keep my face impassive and my voice level. "I said I had. As
I recall, you said you'd thought about it, too. That makes us even in
my book."

A cold glitter sparkled suddenly in her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself,
Meg," she said, nastily, leaning forward. "We've never been anywhere
near even. You're a stripe and a half and 12 years' longevity short of
what you'd need to be halfway even with me."

"I realized that this morning, ma'am," I said, and I could hear my
voice start to quiver. "It took me a while -- but I figured it out.
I'm here to surrender."

"Surrender?" Krennick said, her voice smoother again. She leaned back
in her chair again. 

This woman was like a barnyard cat, playing with her prey, not ready
to kill but not about to let go. She was trying to give me false hopes
so the game could continue a while longer. But I was under no
illusions here. There was no opportunity for escape. Whatever happened
next, in that particular game, I was as good as dead.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, evenly. "Surrender."

~~~~~

We sparred verbally for a while after that, but I wasn't doing it in
hopes of winning any concessions. She was toying with me a while
longer, just for the sheer pleasure of it, but she had all the power
over me she'd ever need and we both knew it. All I wanted to do then
was to take away some of the power she had over him.

Oh, I asked for concessions -- one in particular.

"I want it to be at 1800 tomorrow," I said. "I need 36 hours."

"When you leave here," she said, flatly. "Otherwise, no deal."

"0600 tomorrow," I countered, knowing it was hopeless.

She looked at me for a long, assessing moment. I suppose she was
balancing the impossibility of getting this done without at least a
few hours' lead time versus the time it would take Harm, the best
lawyer in JAG, to get himself released from the brig.

"2400 tonight," she said finally. She'd done the math, and that was
what she came up with: He would be freed in the morning.

She was almost certainly correct.

I raised my eyes and looked at her for a moment.

"2400 aye, ma'am," I said.

~~~~~

I could barely walk as I left JAG HQ. My legs felt rubbery, as though
someone had hit me with a cattle prod. It was taking everything I had
to put one foot in front of the other, to glance quickly at the rank
insignia on each person I passed, to salute those who required
saluting and to return the salutes of others. I did not want to make a
mistake; someone would be sure to remember it later, and I could not
have anyone thinking that I was anything but perfectly content that
golden afternoon.

I made my way to my car, my fingers fumbling with the keys so badly
that it was all I could do to select the right one and slide it into
the lock.

For some reason that infuriated me, and I gave the key a savage twist
that would have broken it right off if the weather were colder.

I jerked the door open angrily and slid into the driver's seat,
slamming the keys into the ignition so hard that the keyring dug
painfully into my hand. It was as if those keys had become the
scapegoats for my anger and my grief, and perhaps it was just as well.
I had nowhere else to put the emotions that threatened to rip away my
every vestige of self-control.

I had to get home. I could not afford to let my thoughts drift while I
was driving. I could get myself killed.

Right then, that sounded like a less-painful alternative to going on
living.

~~~~~ 

1900 hours local time.
Meg's apartment 

Only five hours before H-Hour. I needed to keep going.

I just couldn't. I was so exhausted I couldn't lift my arms. When I
tried, the muscles trembled and shook, and my grip was unreliable at
best. I kept dropping things.

I didn't need Sigmund Freud to tell me why I was making such a hash of
this.

I lifted the tail of my shirt and wiped the sweat from my eyes. One
more big push and I could have it all ready to stow. There wasn't that
much to pack anyway; no Navy officer in her right mind accumulates a
lot of junk.

Anyone can be reassigned at a moment's notice, even a JAG officer. 

Too bad I wouldn't be one anymore.

I went to the sink, turned on the tap, twisting my head sideways so I
could drink right from the flowing water. The glasses were packed and
I didn't have paper cups, not even a leftover McDonald's cup. No junk.
Never.

My hair was getting wet as I gulped the water down, but I didn't care.
I didn't care about much of anything.

All I needed to do then was pack a few books -- just the expensive
ones, because the paperbacks were going in the trash, even the ones I
loved. You have to be stern with yourself about these things; you have
to be ready to let go of anything when you have to move on.

I dipped my hands in the water and smoothed them over the back of my
neck. The skin felt gritty and hot, and I know I smelled like skunk
cabbage. I ran my wet hands through my hair and headed to the living
room to start sorting out the books, kicking empty boxes out of my
way. I was too damn tired to pick them up.

After the living room was packed, there would be just one more room to
finish --the bedroom.

It wouldn't be a simple task. That room was decorated; much more so
than anywhere else in that apartment. I spent a lot of time and money
getting it just so: not too frilly, not too austere, not too
suggestive. I wanted it to be just right, perfect in every way,
relaxing and welcoming for the night that he finally came to my door
...

I don't know how many nights I lay there in my bed, my arms wrapped
around my pillow, imagining what it would be like to have my arms
around Harm instead. It was only rarely that I allowed myself to
imagine anything more graphic than that, because my desire for him was
so intense that when I did, when I let myself imagine that it was his
hands touching me instead of mine, I would come so hard that my teeth
hurt.

After a night like that, it was hard as hell to look him in the eye
the next day.

But I could let myself dream of falling asleep in his arms, of feeling
the mattress dip and shift under the weight of his body, of listening
in the night to the soft sound of his breathing, and of waking up next
to him, sharing a gentle kiss before we rose and got dressed for
another day of duty.

I'd always been so sure it would happen one day, but now I knew that
it never would. Krennick had made it quite clear that if Harm was to
go free, there was only one coin in which to pay the bond. Part of
that payment was to strip the walls bare, take down the curtains, roll
up the rugs and put them away, knowing he would never see them long
enough to appreciate them.

I looked at my watch. 1916 hours. Time to get going again.

~~~~~~ 

2311 hours local time 
Interstate 95 South 

I doubt I'll be able to drive much further than Newport News tonight.
At least I'll be away from the District, though, and that means Harm
will be safe. No Captain's Mast, no murder charges, no nothing. His
life and his career will go on. He'll still be a JAG lawyer; he'll
still be able to look for his father; he'll still have the chance,
every now and then, to fly the F-14.

He'll do it every chance he gets, too. Flying is his greatest passion.
He thrives on danger, on pushing the aircraft to a speed that only a
handful of humans can even imagine and even fewer will ever
experience. He savors every dizzying, nauseating maneuver.

I haven't flown with him very often, but I always loved it, every gut-
churning moment of it. I loved seeing him in his true element; I loved
the way he showed off for me. I take comfort in knowing that he'll
still be able to fly because I've done what Krennick wanted.

And knowing that, I can close the door on this part of my life --the
best part of my life -- and walk away from it forever. I can do it
even though I know that years from now, when he thinks back on this,
he will remember it as the time I let him down completely when he
needed me most.

Meg panicked and punched out, he'll think, and in thinking that he
will stop hurting -- if he ever really does hurt at my leaving him
this way.

I don't know how this matter will be resolved, but I know it will be
handled so as to make him believe that he got himself off the hook by
his own efforts. That won't be difficult; he is so completely free of
self-doubt. Whether Harm will ever do what Krennick wants, I don't
know. I doubt it; but so much can happen. 

No one has to tell him what she wants from him, of course; she's flat-
out told him that herself, on any number of occasions. She's been so
blatant about it, in fact, that if he weren't intrigued by the idea,
he'd have an excellent sexual-harassment case.

But he is intrigued; not ready to get horizontal yet, but intrigued,
perhaps challenged by Krennick's ballsy up-frontness, her rank, her
raw sexuality. He'd like to take up the challenge, see if he couldn't
get the better of her in the rack.

I don't know whether he could or not. I do know that I've never
presented him with a challenge anywhere near that interesting. With
me, he's already in control, permanently and legally in control, and
while I'm not shy about giving my opinion, I will always yield to him
in the end and he knows it.

That's as it should be -- he's my superior officer.

I would yield to him just as readily in bed. He knows that; he knows
the offer is on the table. But he won't take me up on it. He is, as I
mentioned, a man of honor. He won't do it because he can never be sure
that I am offering myself to him because I want to and not because I'm
conditioned by training and experience to submit to his wishes.

I could show him, if I ever got the chance, but I know now that I
never will.

Men can be so blind sometimes. They don't understand how women compete
with one another. It's almost never out in the open; it's contextual,
with points scored based on how humiliated the opponent feels. Women
gauge one another's feelings well enough so that there's seldom any
difficulty in totting up the score.

Harm, like most successful aviators, tunes out extraneous matters such
as subtexts and contexts; he considers them dangerous distractions.
No, he'll never know. And he wouldn't believe it if he did. There's
not a man on earth who would take what Krennick said literally. It's a
common enough way to phrase a burning desire.

"I'm serious, Brenda," I heard her say. "I'd kill to get that man in
bed." 

May Krennick have much joy in the encounter, if it ever happens. I'm
sure she will, mostly because know Harm well enough to believe that he
will be a skillful, considerate lover, even with her. She, of course,
is a spider, but spiders mate with as much enthusiasm as any other
even marginally sentient being. 

The male doesn't always survive the encounter, of course. 

But he will. I believe in his ability to survive; I believe it because
he believes it, because he means for me to believe it, too.

"What if you don't come back?" I asked him, just before I left him for
the last time.

"I'll come back," he said, with supreme confidence.

Aviators. They are so cocky, so damn sure of themselves. I'll bet in
those last seconds before his F-14 slammed into the deck, he was still
completely confident that he would pull it out.

He didn't. But he did survive. He'll survive this, too.

And somehow, so will I. 

~~~~~
Author's note: The title of this story comes from one of the more
famous passages of John F. Kennedy's inaugural address: "Let the word
go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the
torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans: born in this
century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace,
proud of our ancient heritage, and unwilling to witness or permit the
slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always
been committed, and to which we are committed today, at home and
around the world. Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or
ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship,
support any friend, oppose any foe, to assure the survival and the
success of liberty."

~~~~~